Essay A Floridian’s Time in Iowa

Loving an Iowan is easy, but opening one’s heart to the Hawkeye State and all its contradictions can be difficult— and hit close to home.

By ARIANA MARTINEZ

Iknew nothing about Iowa before I knew it was taking my partner away from me. The original plan was to break up at the end of the summer, before college; four years later, we’ve somehow made the long distance work.

The first time I visited Billy in Iowa was fall 2019. Since then, I’ve returned almost a dozen times, though all of these visits were mere glimpses. Ames and Des Moines were the only two cities I interacted with on trips that never lasted longer than a week, and Billy didn’t have a car, so we grew cozy in the college town.

That is, until this past April, when I could visit for three weeks. Coupled with a four-wheeled gift from his late grandmother Elinor, her camping hat still tucked into the map pocket, we knew we wanted to do some exploring so we’d no longer be tourists in his home.

I searched for general events happening in the state. Our first excursion was to the Hotel Chauncey in Iowa City to support FilmScene—I am nothing if not a dutiful film major—for a special showing of one of my favorite films, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Billy had never seen it before, and the opportunity to watch it in theaters was not to be missed, even if it required a two-hour drive.

The screening began with a lecture by the head of the University of Iowa Neuroscience Department, and ended with many tears and used tissues. It’s nice to be reminded to hold onto the person you love and be able to clutch their hand instead of a phone when you do.

Next up was Maifest in the Amana Colonies. On our Wine and Chocolate Walk, I admired a homeowner patiently tending to their beautiful garden in the superb heat, and was moved to tears by the fiddle- and flute-playing of local band Blame Not the Bard. Watching a mother casually jig while holding her son, I felt so content and joyful to be alive alongside a community of listeners and dancers.

As we stopped for gas to head back, sirens blared. A look of horror dawned on the faces of the family next to us; the daughter frantically handed her dog to someone else, the mother shrieked out the window toward Billy, “What do we do?” and Billy shrugged, “I don’t know.”

We found ourselves driving on the outskirts of a tornado, Elinor’s car rocking fearsomely and enduring hail pellets.

It stopped once we arrived at the Meskwaki settlement, the beautifully colored water tower reminding us we were halfway home. Our final detour was to Cumming’s Middlebrook Mercantile for a wine tasting featuring performances by the Des Moines Metro Opera. This was two days before my flight back home, and what’s more operatic than a lovers’ goodbye with wine?

While I was there, Big Wigs, the only gay bar in Ames, announced they would close at the end of May. Though I’d only gone twice, Billy and his friends frequently attended Bingo Night, and never again would we hear everybody’s favorite host, Coco, enthusiastically declare, “B11, legs to heaven!” It’s a devastating loss, certainly because of its significance to the queer community but also because it was a genuinely spirited spot in a city of bars filled with rustic wooden beams and not enough pink. It was then that a veil began to lift from my eyes.

We drove to Teehee’s Comedy Club in Des Moines, and multiple comics made jabs at my home state and governor. I am a born-and-raised Floridian, currently under the thumb of Ron DeSantis, and though I had taken two planes to arrive in Iowa, I was not nearly as distanced from this man as I wish I could have been.

In the past few months, DeSantis has sponsored and signed legislation harming communities I and those I love belong to. It’s incredibly disheartening to see similar legislation in Iowa; it shouldn’t come as too much of a shock, I suppose, as DeSantis once labeled Iowa “the Florida of the Midwest.” Iowa Gov. Kim Reynolds has similarly signed bills criminalizing transgender identity, including SF538 and SF482, which prevent the use of bathrooms that don’t correlate with your assigned sex and the gender transition of minors, respectively. Most recently, SF496 places Iowa and Florida K-6th teachers in the same boat: banned from discussing gender identity and sexuality in the classroom, using a child’s preferred pronouns without first consulting parents and carrying certain “inappropriate” books.

Retired teacher Don Parkhurst’s incredible piece in the Des Moines Sunday Register made a strong defense against the banning of literature he once taught in his curriculum, and astutely noted what these targeted books tend to depict: repressive societies, poverty or alienation, characters of color and corrupt institutions. The people who are meant to protect us fear the spaces and texts that validate and empower us. We are losing agency over our own identity and education.

The romance I once associated with Iowa was magical, but also youthful naivete, and those three weeks on the ground allowed me to reach a better understanding of a complex state that still holds promise and charm, but not unlike Florida, requires awareness and compassion to protect. I am reminded of the value of staying and fighting.

Whenever I fly into Iowa, I look out the window and notice how the land looks like a quilt, the product of a collective of hands, all stitched in devotion. I’m not sure if Billy will find work in Iowa once he graduates, if I’ll earn a Master’s in film at UI, if Iowa will ever become our longterm home. But for nearly four years, it has taken care of the one I love, and I’d like to do what I can to take care of it too, harvesting my experiences and honoring it the best way I know how.