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Happy Wednesday and welcome to Cornhole Champions, where we throw bags at the state’s biggest stories. I’m Zachary Oren Smith, and we are in truly unprecedented times.
Our history is lousy with examples of some people having civil rights and protections enshrined in law and others being left out. Black Americans were enslaved until slavery was abolished in the United States on December 18, 1865. Women received property rights gradually over the 19th and 20th centuries. Same sex couples only gained the right to marry one another in 2015.
The momentum can seem unidirectional, an arc bending towards justice. But we know better in Iowa.
This week, a new law threw gender identity out of the Iowa Civil Rights Act, and with it, protections for employment, wages, public accommodations, housing, education, and credit practices. It amended state law to say “separate accommodations are not inherently unequal” — echoing language from 1896 when the US Supreme Court said Homer Plessy was required to move to a “coloreds-only” car.
As I got to writing about the new law and its impact on my family, my neighbors, and my community, I was stuck on an interaction I had over the weekend.
I met Cornhole reader Quentin and his dog Bear. I had just wolfed down a breakfast sandwich when Quentin said he was looking to 2026 with some optimism. He told me that looking around the state — at the voices that were building up, at the work people are doing here — made him feel like something big was possible.
The political current of this state is already dragging us to 2026. This current can hurtle us to the next disaster. Or it can be our momentum. Showing up to knock doors. Building connections within our community. Volunteering for the people whom you value and who value you. There’s no loss or victory in this state that will make that not matter.
Me? I’m with Quentin. I live here because I want to live here. I’m optimistic because I want to be optimistic. And I’m excited to be in this fight with you. That’s what drives me to put my shoulder to the wheel. And I hope to see you there.
Also, Bear is a VERY good boy.
In this week’s featured article, I walk you through the new law and what you need to know about it. And you’ll hear from some transgender Iowans about where this leaves them.
But first…
Big Billionaire Bailout - Senate Republicans barely had the votes to pass President Donald Trump’s tax bill. The so-called "One Big Beautiful Bill" had three Republicans defect, requiring Vice President JD Vance to cast a tiebreaking vote. The House is expected to vote on final passage as early as Wednesday. The 940-page legislation cuts Medicaid and CHIP by about $1 trillion, slashes renewable energy tax credits, and adds an estimated $3 trillion to the national debt over the next decade. For Iowa specifically, an estimated 86,000 Iowans would lose Medicaid coverage, rural hospitals face funding cuts that could force service reductions or closures, and energy costs could rise 10% by 2034 as wind energy incentives disappear. Even US Sen. Chuck Grassley, called "the father of the modern wind industry," warned the changes could "kill future wind projects" in Iowa. That didn’t stop him from rubber-stamping it.
Trump's Fair Return - Speaking of Trump, he’s back in Iowa this week, speaking at the State Fairgrounds on July 3 to kick off America's 250th anniversary celebration. You’ll remember Trump’s grand promise of a "Great American State Fair" that would run year-long starting Memorial Day 2025? Well, add it to the wall built by Mexico. Instead, we get a one-night stand with the America250 commission. That doesn’t make it unimportant. Trump is returning to the crucible that he won by 30 percentage points, launching his third campaign for president. Will Trump give a nod to his favorite Iowa governor candidate? I’ll be watching.
Water you thinking - Central Iowa officials are fighting two battles right now: the ongoing nitrate crisis requiring lawn watering bans and wild rumors that drinking water isn't safe. Here's what's real: nitrate levels in the Des Moines and Raccoon rivers are sitting at 14.39 and 14.04 mg/L—well above the EPA's 10 mg/L safety limit. But the treated water coming out of your tap? That's testing at 8.11 and 8.09 mg/L, meaning it’s safe. Water Works director Tami Madsen had to go public to squash misinformation spreading on social media.
And now, how we made Iowa a harder place to live…
(LGBTQ advocates rally at the Iowa Capitol to protest a bill that would legalize discrimination against trans Iowans. The bill failed. Photo by Avery Staker/Starting Line)
Iowa becomes first state to cut transgender civil rights protections
Iowa becomes first state to cut transgender civil rights protections.
Iowa made history Tuesday as the first state to actively remove a previously protected class from its civil rights law, targeting transgender residents through a combination of legislative actions that eliminate workplace, housing, and healthcare protections.
During its consideration, hundreds of protesters gathered at the Iowa Capitol to oppose the legislation. Civil rights organizations like One Iowa condemned the measures as discriminatory.
The bill went into effect on July 1, just one day after LGBTQ Pride Month ended.
The law, Senate File 418, removes gender identity protections from the Iowa Civil Rights Act entirely—protections adopted in 2007. It was passed during a breakneck period in the early 2025 session, where Iowa Republicans managed to introduce and pass it all within a week: faster and before any other bill in the session.
In addition to altering the Civil Rights Act, it strategically redefines core legal terms, limiting “gender” to mean only “female or male sex” based on reproductive systems and declaring that “separate accommodations are not inherently unequal.” It prohibits changing sex designations on birth certificates following gender-affirming medical treatment. It also imposes restrictions on so-called “gender theory” in schools, which it defines as concepts related to gender identity.
“The legislature’s decision to remove this protection and the Iowa Governor’s decision to sign that discriminatory bill into law was cruel. That is because they did so specifically to allow discrimination—including by the state of Iowa itself—against transgender people, a very small minority of people in Iowa,” ACLU of Iowa Legal Director Rita Bettis Austen wrote in a statement.
The legislation works alongside House File 1049, which prohibits Iowa Medicaid from covering gender-affirming medical treatments. The Iowa Supreme Court unanimously ruled in 2019 that denying Medicaid coverage for gender-affirming care violated state civil rights protections, but the new laws eliminate the legal foundation for such challenges. Republican lawmakers defended the restrictions as protecting taxpayer funds.
Iowa ranks fourth nationally in out-migration of college-educated residents. And while large employers were quiet about the passage of the bill this year, previous attempts to go after LGBTQ rights in the states had solicited warnings that the legislation makes attracting skilled workers more difficult. Cross-border healthcare activity represents additional economic losses as Iowans seek services elsewhere.
The laws position Iowa as one of only 11 states explicitly excluding transgender healthcare from Medicaid, while being the only state to remove established civil rights protections. Legal challenges are expected, but face higher hurdles without state civil rights law as a foundation.
The legislation affects approximately 8,000-15,000 transgender Iowans directly while establishing precedents that could impact civil rights protections for all residents, fundamentally altering Iowa’s approach to inclusion and economic competitiveness in a changing national landscape.
We wanted to hear from trans Iowans and you responded…
The legal changes impact a small minority in the state, who continue to find themselves targeted by lawmakers, despite making up less than 1% of the state’s population. Iowa Starting Line collected a few stories from trans Iowans living here. Iowans who wonder whether they’ll stay in a state that has targeted them with legislation. These are their stories.
Ysandril Morrigan of Pleasant Hill is married with a 12-year-old daughter. She moved to Iowa from the Washington, DC, area in 2012, pre-transition, to what she assumed would be a progressive state; at that time, same-sex marriage was legal here, but not nationwide.
“The stereotype was: Move to the Midwest, raise a family, have a nice, calm, relaxing life where you feel supported,” she said. “And then 2018, I came out as me, and then 2019, we saw when … [Gov.] Reynolds took over. Everything just started going right down the drain, and ever since then, it’s like watching some sort of twisted nightmare.”
When the Iowa Legislature passed a law (later struck down in the courts) outlawing those on Medicaid from getting gender confirmation surgery—something Morrigan was in the process of—it spurred her into advocacy, which hasn’t stopped.
“It just keeps getting worse, and it’s confusing as all hell,” she said. “We’re less than 1% of the population. Why are we so horrible? Why are we so targeted when all we wanna do is exist and pee? … We’re swimming in a sea of blood, and that sea of blood wants to consume us.”
To keep herself from drowning, Morrigan says it’s important to be informed: Look for reliable sources of information, including from the queer community and organizations in the state, and take action for yourself and others.
“The biggest thing these oligarchs and these fascists want to do is scare the fuck out of you,” she said. “They want to make you scared and paralyzed and powerless. Do not let them. … There’s always a way to get to where you need to be.”
Maliah Kome, 28, was born and raised in Burlington, lived in Marshalltown, and recently moved with their partner to Des Moines. They said they’ve “always known” they felt different, but were finally able to consider whether they were nonbinary—neither fully female nor male—in adulthood. Gender confirmation surgery was key to that.
“Life after has just been incredible. I can look in the mirror and be like, ‘That is me,'” Kome said. “My family and my partner, after the fact, have said, ‘It just suits you. You look more comfortable.'”
But Kome’s triumph is happening as trans Iowans and Americans at large are seeing their rights being eroded.
“I remember Iowa being one of the pioneers when it came to legalizing gay marriage,” Kome said. “Seeing the complete 180, being the first state to remove us from civil rights protections … I’m just very disheartened and completely without words to explain how horrible it is.”
Kome said they’ve worked through their grief around it and thrown themselves into advocacy. And while they say they’re ready to stay and fight, they understand why others choose to leave.
“My friends who are ‘more visibly transgender,’ I’ve been really worried about,” Kome said, noting a few have moved to the coasts or Minnesota. “They just don’t feel safe anymore, and I understand that. … My partner and I have had to have discussions around what is the point at which we say, ‘OK, we need to leave Iowa?’ And that could be rapidly approaching at this point.”
Jess Bierling, 50, is easy to find on the race course with her big unicorn horn handband and even bigger smile. And hanging by her side, Izzy.
“ Izzy brings a smile to other people,” Bierling said gesturing to a stuffed unicorn.
In her rainbow skirt and “Here to stay” shirt, you can find Bierling braving Ironman Triathlons: a grueling test of endurance consisting of a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bicycle ride, and a marathon (26.2 miles). She says Izzy’s part of how she manages the races. Seeing Izzy brings something out of the other athletes.
“So I have someone to talk to and just get me through those tough moments so I can just reach down and just, and you feel a soft friend,” she said. It’s part of her process for running. And finding comfort in tough times is becoming increasingly important in the state.
Bierling moved to Iowa to go to Drake University, and she stuck around, enjoying the growth and affordability of the city during the 90s. In 2010, she began her transition and has remained here ever since. But these days, she’s getting used to going to the Capitol every year.
“It’s unsettling to say the least,” she said. “ That is not the Iowa that I know. That’s not the city or state that I know. And it’s disappointing that the Legislature and Governor believe that’s what’s making life better for Iowans. Because I can tell you, it’s not.”
Aria Huizenga (she/her), a South Dakota native, moved to Iowa pre-transition after a Twitter poll suggested it was a good place to live. A lifelong musician, she found a vibrant community through the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus.
It was with the chorus that Huizenga first started experimenting with her pronouns and gender.
“When I first joined the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus was the first time I used anything other than he/him on my application,” she said. “I cried at the thought that I didn’t have to fit into this box that I really didn’t enjoy.”
Before then, she said life was gray and muted. She met several trans folks through the chorus who showed her how life could be more colorful, taking her shopping and helping her learn how to do hair and makeup.
Now, she says her life is much more vibrant. She does drag as Tessa Tura, competing in local pageants and performing at community events.
“All of this came here in Iowa. Would I have been trans in South Dakota? Yes, but would it have been this fun, this safe, the space that I had? Not a chance in hell,” she said.
Aria became the Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus’ main recruiter, and eventually used her role to develop the choir’s all-trans ensemble, Transcendent. It’s one of 12 in the whole country, and Aria believes it’s the second largest.
Leaders of LGBTQ+ choruses around the country have reached out to her about working with and developing their own trans ensembles, including Palm Springs, New York City, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.
She has taken her love of transness and music to a national stage, the latter of which entirely grew in Iowa. Her identity is forever linked to this state, and she said a legislature can’t take that away.
“I don’t want to leave,” she said. “This is where I became who I am. This is where I want to help everyone else be able to find out who they are.”
Amie Rivers and Avery Staker contributed reporting to this article.
Question for you
This week I'm thinking about belonging—who gets to feel at home in their community, and what happens when that changes.
Have you ever felt like your community was changing in ways that made you question whether you still belonged? Whether that's because of new policies, shifting demographics, or maybe just that a friend left and the place felt different. How did you navigate it? How should you have navigated it? Did you fight to change it? Did you adapt? Did you leave?
Write me back with your thoughts. I might feature your response in next week's edition.
Answer from you
Last week, I asked about working in professions where you feel like you're fighting the system just to do your job. Your responses hit deep:
Sarah from Cedar Rapids: "I've been teaching for 15 years, and I'm done. Not with kids—with trying to educate kids while politicians use schools as political footballs. Every year, it's a new mandate, a new restriction, a new way to make my job harder. I went into teaching to help kids learn. Now I spend half my time on compliance and the other half explaining to parents why I can't fix their kid's reading level with the resources I have."
ZOS: Sarah, your frustration is shared by so many educators right now. Teaching has always been challenging work, but when the system actively works against—calls you sinister—instead of supporting you, that's when we lose a lot of good people. I hope Iowa figures out that driving you away hurts the very kids we claim to care about.
Mike: "I’ve been in law enforcement for 8 years. People expect miracles from us. Mental health calls, domestic disputes, and drug problems. We have to be counselors, social workers, and peacekeepers all at once. Then they wonder why we're burned out or why good officers leave for better-funded departments."
ZOS: Mike, this gets to something I think about a lot: we ask our local institutions to solve problems that are way bigger than any single department can handle. The mental health crisis, addiction, poverty: you can’t beat cop your way out of these. Yet, who do we call? Until we are serious about building community organs that can address these problems and their causes, we’ll continue to drag you and your coworkers into every call. The cops I know want to help people. And depending on them for every last thing just isn’t it.
To everyone who writes in each week, thanks. You make this newsletter a blast to write.
Before you go
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Cornhole Champions is a weekly podcast powered by Iowa Starting Line with music by Avery Mossman and show art by Desirée Tapia. We are a proud member of the Iowa Writers Collaborative.
Your friendly neighborhood reporter,
Zachary Oren Smith
Political correspondent
Iowa Starting Line
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