Give the speech of your life, and smile more: a candidate's guide to conventions

I spent last weekend in Duluth at my fifth DFL state convention -- a newcomer compared to a guy I met who attended his first convention in 1952. But this time, I experienced the convention as few people do -- as a candidate for governor. (As most readers know by now, the convention did not turn out precisely as I would have liked, but that is a different story.)

I'd spent the last 16 months crisscrossing the state, meeting with DFLers at picnics and bean feeds, parades and dinners. I met with people one-on-one, in large and small groups. and spent hours on the telephone getting to know folks. And now here they all were, gathered in one big room for two days. A gigantic family reunion.

Throughout the weekend, I felt a profound sense of gratitude and responsibility. To be a candidate for statewide office is a unique experience. And I had started with essentially zero statewide name recognition and no statewide network of supporters. Yet by last weekend, hundreds of activists, delegates and volunteers from all across the state -- some of whom I'd known for years but most of whom I'd met only a handful of times -- had poured their hearts into the campaign and placed their trust in me and my vision for Minnesota's future. My thoughts all weekend swung from "Why would someone do that?" to "Wow -- this is how we change this state and its politics."

A candidate has a surprisingly narrow set of responsibilities during the convention. I had three: Talk to as many delegates as possible, persuade them to vote for me, and deliver a strong speech.

I spent most of Friday and Saturday on the former two efforts. Campaign volunteers delivered slips of paper listing a delegate's name, the county that delegate hailed from and the delegate's question or concern. I had great conversations with delegates who shared personal stories of illness or job loss and who offered brilliant ideas for reshaping our state. Some delegates surprised me with their support. Others were brutally honest about my shortcomings. (Biggest lesson learned -- I need to smile more.)

The convention was physically exhausting. Spending 14 hours on my feet in wing tips, moving back and forth across the convention hall, squatting down to talk to delegates and squeezing in between table and chairs crammed into the arena, left my legs aching and my feet bruised. By Saturday evening, my mind was also tiring. I found myself struggling to complete answers about the Polymet mine or school funding -- answers that had rolled off my tongue at mid-afternoon.

I also found myself surprisingly unaware of many of the convention activities. Indeed, the odd thing about being a candidate is that most convention details are decided by someone else. I missed the speeches of my opponents on Saturday morning because I spent the time pacing back and forth in the Duluth Curling Club men's locker room, going over my convention speech and listening to our convention theme song, "The Rising" by Bruce Springsteen, on my iPhone. In the end, like most things in life, my convention memories come down to moments: singing a karaoke version of the Monkees' "I'm a Believer" with my wife, Karen, at our Friday evening party and watching my middle son, Griffin, do a little dance during the instrumental break; standing in a small utility room, surrounded by a circle of a few dozen electricians, carpenters and pipefitters, as I made my case that I was the best candidate to win in November and get people back to work; not quite knowing what to do as I stood in the middle of the crowd while the first-ballot results were announced; watching one of my great young volunteers break down and sob when I thanked him for all his efforts.

But the moment I think I will remember most was walking to the podium to give my concession speech. The warmth I felt from the crowd as supporters and non-supporters rose to their feet and applauded was unforgettable. They rose and cheered for the efforts of my campaign team, for a state where it is not absurd for a little-known state representative to make a run for governor, and for a party that is more like a family than a machine.

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Paul Thissen, Minneapolis, is an attorney and a member of the Minnesota House of Representatives. He was a candidate for the DFL's gubernatorial endorsement last weekend in Duluth.

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