After seven years in Storm Lake High School, the tenure of two symbolic flags came to an end in May as language arts teacher Charlie Carter packed up the last of his belongings.
As his final day as a teacher in Iowa ended, he pulled the rainbow LGBTQ pride flag and its transgender pride companion off the wall, folding up the only signs of life left in the classroom.
Day in and day out, Carter had been that source of strength for LGBTQ students in the small northwest Iowa town, school staff said, taking their personal well-being as seriously as their final class presentations. Even in the last class group discussions, his first question was, “How are you feeling today?”
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After the last bell had rung, the lifelong Iowan acknowledged how he felt as he prepared to leave his job and the state — tired. Alongside burnout as a teacher, the political climate of Iowa was one of the biggest reasons he decided to leave the state this year with his husband.
“When we got married (in 2010), Iowa seemed like a safe place. Iowa had protections for queer people, marriage equality — it felt like a place we were welcome,” he said. “That’s changed a lot in the last two years.”
Near the dawn of codified civil rights protections for LGBT Iowans in 2007 and the legalization of marriage equality in 2009, they felt the law had their back, even if not everyone did. But now, as the Iowa Legislature has been ramping up the number of anti-LGBTQ bills being considered, their sense of safety and freedom has worn thin.
In 2022, Iowa introduced 19 anti-transgender bills alone to the Legislature — a number matched only by Tennessee. After one of those bills banning transgender girls from playing girls sports became law in March, the English teacher and published author started to see the writing on the wall.
This isn’t happening solely in Iowa. The number of anti-LGBTQ bills in various states nationwide jumped from 35 in 2019 to more 250 this year, according to One Iowa, an LGBTQ advocacy organization.
As LGBTQ advocates say passage has emboldened social conservatives to pursue more aggressive legislation, Carter worries about bills such as Senate File 80 eventually becoming law, too. The 2021 bill, which didn’t leave its subcommittee, would have required schools to notify parents of transgender or nonbinary students who ask to be addressed by their correct pronouns.
After Carter recalled that after he was outed by a relative at 16, he found solace from his abusive, homophobic father through his English teacher.
“It’s just horrifying. I don’t think that I could live with myself if I was forced to comply or work in a system where we are harming kids,” Carter said.
After legislators proposed censorship of books with LGBTQ themes and said teachers like him have a “sinister agenda,” he chose to leave before his voice was personally silenced. He’s not the only lifelong Iowan leaving a home state — a state once seen as a leader in LGBTQ rights — he said he no longer recognizes.
Rachel Dreier, a transgender electrician from Ankeny, made plans to leave in July after 40 years in Iowa — her entire life. As with the Carters, her family chose Washington state.
After socially transitioning to live as a woman over the past five years, she fully came out as transgender earlier this year. She immediately quit her union job because of the “abhorrent” environment in her field, where she said transphobia is inescapable.
There are plenty of practical reasons for her to leave the state.
Her health insurance won’t cover her medical transition and gender-related care, and isn’t required to by law as it is in states such as Washington. She avoids public restrooms “to the point where I become physically ill” because of the fear she will be accosted.
Her son going to school in the suburbs endures a high level of hostility from other students for having a transgender parent — and he’s the only one with an out trans parent.
But Dreier said the political environment in Iowa for transgender women, in particular, has been hard on her psyche, even as she withstands the daily pressures of life.
“My identity is used as a weapon by an entire political party. Always (hearing) over and over again about how people who are trans are predators, that we’re stains on society,” she said. “They really strip your dignity. When every headline about trans issues is directed toward you, it’s hard to not take that personally.”
Some LGBTQ Iowans continue to stay, though — at least for now.
Gus Raymond will be taking over the Gay Straight Alliance at Storm Lake High School for Carter. As a substance abuse counselor and mental health professional, he hopes to rebuild a sense of community in his new role as the director of prevention and intervention.
After starting his transition seven years ago, the transgender man’s gender identity became a matter of public knowledge splashed across local newspapers. After he came out, he saw a dramatic drop in counseling clients.
“It’s not my nature to advocate this loudly, but I can’t seem to shut myself up,” he said. “Lots of (LGBTQ) people are put in that position. Your choices are to stay hidden, quietly leave, or make a big old fuss and fight for it.”
With fears of legislation he sees as increasingly likely to become law in today’s political climate, he waits for his own children to graduate high school before leaving Iowa.
With no other dedicated resources for LGBTQ youth or adults in rural areas such as Storm Lake, he said the school’s Gay Straight Alliance is the last line of defense for queer youth. But resources like that, he fears, soon could be disallowed or banned from schools.
“At this rate, it feels like a possibility and perhaps on the agenda,” said Raymond, who served on the board of One Iowa Action, an arm of the LGBTQ advocacy organization. “Every (legislative) session feels like another round of trauma as we fight these bills and wait with bated breath to hear from committees what will make it through the funnel.”
That exhaustion is a substantial factor in the Wisconsin native’s desire eventually to leave.
As his final day as a teacher in Iowa ended, he pulled the rainbow LGBTQ pride flag and its transgender pride companion off the wall, folding up the only signs of life left in the classroom.
Day in and day out, Carter had been that source of strength for LGBTQ students in the small northwest Iowa town, school staff said, taking their personal well-being as seriously as their final class presentations. Even in the last class group discussions, his first question was, “How are you feeling today?”
Advertisement
After the last bell had rung, the lifelong Iowan acknowledged how he felt as he prepared to leave his job and the state — tired. Alongside burnout as a teacher, the political climate of Iowa was one of the biggest reasons he decided to leave the state this year with his husband.
“When we got married (in 2010), Iowa seemed like a safe place. Iowa had protections for queer people, marriage equality — it felt like a place we were welcome,” he said. “That’s changed a lot in the last two years.”
Near the dawn of codified civil rights protections for LGBT Iowans in 2007 and the legalization of marriage equality in 2009, they felt the law had their back, even if not everyone did. But now, as the Iowa Legislature has been ramping up the number of anti-LGBTQ bills being considered, their sense of safety and freedom has worn thin.
In 2022, Iowa introduced 19 anti-transgender bills alone to the Legislature — a number matched only by Tennessee. After one of those bills banning transgender girls from playing girls sports became law in March, the English teacher and published author started to see the writing on the wall.
This isn’t happening solely in Iowa. The number of anti-LGBTQ bills in various states nationwide jumped from 35 in 2019 to more 250 this year, according to One Iowa, an LGBTQ advocacy organization.
As LGBTQ advocates say passage has emboldened social conservatives to pursue more aggressive legislation, Carter worries about bills such as Senate File 80 eventually becoming law, too. The 2021 bill, which didn’t leave its subcommittee, would have required schools to notify parents of transgender or nonbinary students who ask to be addressed by their correct pronouns.
After Carter recalled that after he was outed by a relative at 16, he found solace from his abusive, homophobic father through his English teacher.
“It’s just horrifying. I don’t think that I could live with myself if I was forced to comply or work in a system where we are harming kids,” Carter said.
After legislators proposed censorship of books with LGBTQ themes and said teachers like him have a “sinister agenda,” he chose to leave before his voice was personally silenced. He’s not the only lifelong Iowan leaving a home state — a state once seen as a leader in LGBTQ rights — he said he no longer recognizes.
Rachel Dreier, a transgender electrician from Ankeny, made plans to leave in July after 40 years in Iowa — her entire life. As with the Carters, her family chose Washington state.
After socially transitioning to live as a woman over the past five years, she fully came out as transgender earlier this year. She immediately quit her union job because of the “abhorrent” environment in her field, where she said transphobia is inescapable.
There are plenty of practical reasons for her to leave the state.
Her health insurance won’t cover her medical transition and gender-related care, and isn’t required to by law as it is in states such as Washington. She avoids public restrooms “to the point where I become physically ill” because of the fear she will be accosted.
Her son going to school in the suburbs endures a high level of hostility from other students for having a transgender parent — and he’s the only one with an out trans parent.
But Dreier said the political environment in Iowa for transgender women, in particular, has been hard on her psyche, even as she withstands the daily pressures of life.
“My identity is used as a weapon by an entire political party. Always (hearing) over and over again about how people who are trans are predators, that we’re stains on society,” she said. “They really strip your dignity. When every headline about trans issues is directed toward you, it’s hard to not take that personally.”
Some LGBTQ Iowans continue to stay, though — at least for now.
Gus Raymond will be taking over the Gay Straight Alliance at Storm Lake High School for Carter. As a substance abuse counselor and mental health professional, he hopes to rebuild a sense of community in his new role as the director of prevention and intervention.
After starting his transition seven years ago, the transgender man’s gender identity became a matter of public knowledge splashed across local newspapers. After he came out, he saw a dramatic drop in counseling clients.
“It’s not my nature to advocate this loudly, but I can’t seem to shut myself up,” he said. “Lots of (LGBTQ) people are put in that position. Your choices are to stay hidden, quietly leave, or make a big old fuss and fight for it.”
With fears of legislation he sees as increasingly likely to become law in today’s political climate, he waits for his own children to graduate high school before leaving Iowa.
With no other dedicated resources for LGBTQ youth or adults in rural areas such as Storm Lake, he said the school’s Gay Straight Alliance is the last line of defense for queer youth. But resources like that, he fears, soon could be disallowed or banned from schools.
“At this rate, it feels like a possibility and perhaps on the agenda,” said Raymond, who served on the board of One Iowa Action, an arm of the LGBTQ advocacy organization. “Every (legislative) session feels like another round of trauma as we fight these bills and wait with bated breath to hear from committees what will make it through the funnel.”
That exhaustion is a substantial factor in the Wisconsin native’s desire eventually to leave.
Who’s leaving Iowa as anti-LGBTQ legislation continues
Amid an increasing volume of legislation LGBTQ Iowans say makes them feel targeted and unwelcome in their own state, concerns around the impacts of rhetoric in the Iowa Legislature extend beyond those in the rainbow communities.
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