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One morning last week I stood in the hallways of the State Capitol, outside the governor's office, and listened.  

I listened to a reading of 1,000 names, representing people on 

 who will lose their health care coverage in March. Gov. Tim  Pawlenty line-item vetoed the program to balance the budget at the end of the last legislative session. GAMC serves an average of 33,000 people a month, people who make less than $8,000 per year. Many experience homelessness or suffer from mental illness or chemical dependency. They are the sickest of the sick and the poorest of the poor.  

At 33 locations across the state, supporters gathered to hear the names of  people -- real people -- who will lose their coverage. In the hallway outside the governor's office, a small group of us spoke 1,000 names to honor their humanity in the face of this loss.  

In sweatshirts and in suits, we listened to each other read the names of family members, friends and neighbors whose coverage will end in March.  I heard two Ramirezes in the list. They share my name. They look like me. I don't know them, but they are my family.  

The event reminded me of a graduation ceremony. Many of us have sat uncomfortably through the reading of names of graduates and watched each one proudly walk across the stage to applause, receiving a handshake and a diploma. In that moment, they announce themselves to their friends and family as college graduates.  

This commencement lacked pomp and circumstance. It felt ominous -- marking a beginning and an end. It is the end of coverage for 33,000 people, and the end of an era when our state's values matched my own. For these people, it marks the beginning of untreated illnesses, struggle and pain.


There wasn't any pride in the occasion. There was an eerie silence, an absence of celebration, a lack of public recognition. No audience, no stage, no robes.  


In the halls of the Capitol our voices were drowned out by the ordinary business transactions happening around us: a light bulb being fixed, a tour being given, a file being dropped off. One man's footsteps momentarily overpowered the litany of names, recalling the governor's footprint on this state, overpowering the sickest and the poorest among us.  

It is an apt description for many of those served by GAMC. But they don't have a plaque in the hallways of the State Capitol. Instead they have us, our voices and our active commitment to restore GAMC and to care for one another.


Maureen Ramirez is a regent of the University of Minnesota and director of the 

. This article represents her personal views.

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The end of GAMC puts a multitude of sick and poor people outside the circle of the state's official compassion.

For 33,000 Minnesotans, poverty and illness are about to take a new toll

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