A month ago, my best friend, Alex, called on Monday, August 10 at 11:12 in the morning on his drive from Cedar Rapids to Carrol, Iowa, like he always does when he’s commuting on work trips. Nothing was out of the norm. I was switching between our conversations about nothing and everything to yelling at dogs to stop chewing on each others’ butts to pouring myself another cup of inspiration water, or tea as normal people call it. Little did we know, Alex was driving directly into a devastating natural disaster.
Through the phone, I could hear the rain and winds beat against the windows of his car. The sounds worsened as he muttered, “Holy shit. Everything is green.” Growing up in the Midwest, “green” means one thing: tornado. Except this time it wasn’t just a tornado. The phrase “I’m going to find an overpass” was the only thing Alex said for minutes. We sat in silence, I on the couch, him driving through a catastrophic storm a thousand miles away. I hung up under the guise of giving him room to concentrate, but, in the vain of complete honesty, my anxiety and lack of control couldn’t handle the helplessness of both our situations. He never found an overpass, and stopping is more dangerous than moving forward. He called as he drove past my hometown to report he was alive and Ames was dark.
Derecho.
The only reason I know about the derecho and devastation in Iowa or even what a derecho is is because I was on the phone with Alex while it happened and I’m from Iowa. I spent 23 years waiting to leave and six years being very proud to be from there. I have friends and family all over Iowa. I know people whose lives were ravaged by a storm that has received almost no media coverage outside the region. I have had to rely on Facebook updates and local news sources for any information. National coverage has been all but nonexistent.
There was no warning about the derecho. Even climatologists were surprised by the devastation that sweeped the Midwest. It began in the early hours in South Dakota; by 8:00 am, the storm crossed from Nebraska into Iowa. Iowa was going through a severe drought, so a forecast of rain was welcomed by the predominantly agricultural state, but the storm grew angrier. By the time it reached Carroll, it was no longer just a storm but an unstable force raging across the Heartland. By the time it reached Des Moines, wind speeds were over 80 mph. It reached its pinnacle in the Cedar Rapids area with wind speeds of 120 mph and higher. Iowa experienced the worst damage, but the derecho traveled 770 miles from South Dakota to Ohio over a fourteen hour period.
Cedar Rapids, where Alex lives and a mere twenty minutes away from our alma mater, was one of the worst hit areas. I had a plane ticket to Cedar Rapids for the 13th. Three days after the storm. As I looked out the window over the familiar patchwork of Iowa, I could see silos crumpled like pop cans (or soda cans for non-Midwesterners), crops felled as if Paul Bunyan had gone on a jaunt, trees broken like twigs, and homes spread across roads. The derecho didn’t destroy everything. Like a tornado, a field would be decimated but the one next to it was fine; a silo destroyed but the home stood tall; everything was gone or everything was fine. From the sky it was remarkable, but it couldn’t compare to the view from the ground.
Alex picked me up. Streets were completely blocked by trees. Power lines were down. Houses were dark. People were sitting in lawn chairs in their front yards with nothing else to do. We made our way through the hallways and into his apartment by the light of our cellphones. He lives adjacent to Coe College, and after three days without, he was one of the lucky ones, and had his power turned on. Some would end up going weeks without power.
It was emotionally devastating to walk the streets of Cedar Rapids. Trees poked their way into living rooms. Windows cluttered streets. Roofs shattered across yards. Cars were tacoed under limbs and debris. Houses buckled under hundred year old trees. Power lines frayed on sidewalks. Lamps snapped in half. Orange flyers clung to doors condemning homes, signalling another family was homeless. It was everything I could do to stay the tears. Yet laughter, voices, music floated in the air. Amidst destruction lived hope and community. Families and friends congregated on porches and in yards to escape the stagnant humidity building in the homes from the lack of air conditioning.
I wandered the streets with my camera. Taking it all in. What was touched, what remained, and the in between. People started calling to me, inviting me into their yards. Everyone saw the camera with hope in their eyes that someone was there to document what had happened to them. I said I was a writer, from Ames and Mount Vernon, living in Houston. I’m not the writer they were hoping for, but I want to tell their stories.
Lisa* ran off the front porch of what was her beautiful blue Victorian home, waving me over. “Ma’am! Are you telling our story?” Her mother sat on the porch swing as Lisa’s three young children played with toys. Her husband was baking potatoes in a fire pit they’d moved to the front yard so they had a better view of the debris clearing. Lisa’s nephew came around from the backyard with her phone, which had been charging in the car. “Oh, don’t you worry about my house. We have some water damage and lost some windows and a few trees, but we’ll be fine.” Carpet, from what seemed like the entire house, was rolled up in the driveway; boxes full of broken glass and window frames sat next to the carpet; plastic rustled in every visible window hole; a hundred year old maple lay across their house with the side porch crushed beneath it and roots still intact. “Do you have a minute? I want to show you the people who have really been affected. This is over on Eldridge behind the Mall that way.” She pulled up a video on her phone to show me apartments collapsed on top of each other, furniture strewn every which way, and the sobbing of a man in the background. “These folks lost everything. They need help. We need someone to pay attention to this, so they can get the help they need.” She squeezed my arm and thanked me for caring when I asked how they were doing, “We’re blessed. It could’ve been much worse, but God watched over us.”
An older woman and her granddaughter sat on the ground staring up at an undamaged tree, “Minnie Mouse! We have grapes for you!” Ever the animal lover, my interest was piqued. Mary beckoned me over and patted the ground beside her, “If you’re covering the storm, don’t forget to talk about the animals. They didn’t have a house to take cover in like we did.” Sitting in a crook of the tree sat a squirrel. Emily, the granddaughter handed me a grape, “Minnie Mouse’s tree fell down. I tried to fix her nest, but she didn’t want it back.” Minnie Mouse and Gretchen are two of the squirrels who frequently visit Mary’s porch for bird seed and other snacks. Gretchen had been hanging around for six years, but Minnie Mouse was only two years old. They were so used to Mary and Emily that these two squirrels used to sit on their laps eating grapes, their favorite fruit but apples were okay too. Gretchen only disappeared during the storm, but it took Minnie Mouse five days to make her way back to Mary’s front porch. Neither were ready to be touched yet. Mary wanted me to tell you, “The storm changed them.” I don’t think Gretchen and Minnie Mouse were the only ones changed by the derecho, though.
Rod and Phil drove down from Wisconsin to help clean up their mom’s yard, but they weren’t the only ones. Cousins and grandchildren filled the yard. Everyone had a job, and no one sat idle, except for Doris. Doris’ home was intact, but there was damage to the siding and roof with a few cracked windows. Every single one of the many trees surrounding the Victorian home had fallen victim to the derecho. Gazing at an enormous pile of freshly chopped wood, Doris couldn’t help but say with a smile, “It’s such a blessing none of the trees hit the house! I’ll have lots of firewood this winter, at least. My poor grandkids lost their house in the country, so they’ll be staying with me for the foreseeable future.” The grandkids piped up, “But you let us have cookies for breakfast. Mom doesn’t do that.” Rod asked if I had heard about the storm in Houston, “It’s a shame this isn’t getting any coverage. How can people care about a place and the people if they never see it?”
In the evenings along First Avenue, cookouts were everywhere, accompanied by signs saying something to the gist of: “Free Food! Everyone Welcome.” Barbershops, churches, businesses, and families set up BBQs offering food to the hungry. In an area without power and a lack of food storage, people depended on these moments of community perseverance. There wasn’t a sad face in sight. People congregated with joy as they connected over food and a shared sense of surviving something remarkable.
This is the Iowa I grew up in. This is the Iowa I am proud to be from. I talked to people who were clearing their neighbors’ yards even though theirs was condemned next door. Those in the worst of circumstances never dwelled on their own problems, instead they wanted me to know about those who had it worse. Every single person I spoke with uttered the word “blessed.” They were blessed; they had fared so well. These people, in the heart of the destruction, saw blessings. They used the devastation, in the midst of a pandemic, to gather and help and find the good in the derecho. No one drew attention to their own heartbreak and struggles, they wanted me to tell the stories of the people who lost more. These are the people I grew up around. The ones who give when they don’t have much themselves. The ones who stay when they don’t have a reason to. The ones who find a reason to laugh and dance when no one would blame them for crying. This is Iowa. It is the Heartland.
Of the 35.7 million acres of land in Iowa, over 26 million acres are devoted to crops. A total of 85% of all land in the state is used for agricultural purposes with over 88,000 individually owned farms. Iowa is the largest producer of corn, eggs (18 chickens per person in the state), red meat, and hogs (seven piggies per person! for a total of 30% of all hogs in the country) in the US. It is the second largest producer of soybeans in the US. They’re also in the top five producers of goat’s milk, oats, turkey, and dairy. Iowa has the largest grain storage capacity in the country, 3.6 billion bushels to be exact. 39% of all corn production goes toward ethanol. Iowa is the leading producer of ethanol: 4.23 billion gallons of ethanol, in 2019 alone, are produced in the state’s 42 corn ethanol plants and two cellulosic plants. Iowa falls to second place in cash receipts for a total of $27.4 billion in 2018. It is the second in agricultural exports and is responsible for over $10.6 billion dollars in exportation revenues. The derecho affects every single one of these, which in turn affects the country and the world. The fall in revenue will have an impact on the local, national, and global economies. There could be food shortages for those who enjoy pork, beef, eggs, dairy, corn, and a whole bunch of other things. Not to mention the dent in ethanol production, which affects a whole long list of things. More than 57 million bushels of grain storage were destroyed, which will cost upwards of $300 million to clear and replace. 35% or more of the corn crop was destroyed, and the remaining crops may have a difficult time being harvested and stored. The derecho didn’t just destroy homes and lives in Iowa, it will have a major impact on the national and international economy over the following months and years as the state rebuilds. But you know, it’s just a fly over state that only garners attention during elections and is thought of as a backwater-hicksville. (Also false.)
Governor Kim Reynolds requested $82.7 million to repair or replace the 8,237 destroyed homes. She also requested $100 million for private repair utilities and $3.77 billion to cover agricultural damage. Trump, ever helpful, approved $45 million. This leaves farmers, homeowners, and practically everyone else hurting. The lack of federal aid could force small farmers to sell, some of whom have worked the land for generations.
Currently, a month later, the Iowa Department of Human Services website states that the only households eligible for federal aid must fall 200% under the poverty line and submit their paperwork by September 21, 2020. The maximum amount these households are eligible to receive is $5,000. 200% UNDER the federal poverty line. Even if a person or family meets that qualification, they might get $5,000. So if they don’t have insurance, they’re shit outta luck. The people who qualify for “aid” are the people who are having to decide between food and medication, rent and food, food and shoes, so on and so forth; there is no way they are able to afford insurance. As someone who has been that poor, insurance is prayer. Actual insurance is a luxury. At the end of the day, when a person has lost everything, $5,000 doesn’t cover much. It might be just enough to cover food and a deposit on a place to live.
With the cost of damages in Iowa still rising and totalling over $4 billion, Iowans are feeling left behind and forgotten by their government, country, and media coverage.
Nine days after the derecho demolished Iowa, I flew out of Cedar Rapids’ Eastern Iowa Airport. After boarding the plane, we were delayed. Looking out the window, I and the other passengers on the plane watched Donald Trump and his entourage exit Air Force One. He was there for a tour of Iowa to see the destruction himself and lend his full support to the people. He never even left the airport. He got off his plane, showed his face for a press conference, and flew away with less than two hours on the ground.
Four days after getting back to Houston, I was at a socially distanced going away party, when someone asked if I had fun on my trip. My response was, “Fun, no. Disaster zones are never fun.” A quick conversation about why I called Iowa a disaster zone, Were there riots? Is it because they’re so conservative? Once that was cleared up, I was met with a Wow, I didn’t hear about the storm in Ohio. As friends were struggling to cook meals over open fires in cities and towns throughout Iowa, people on the side of the country were learning about the storm two weeks later in Ohio, the great potato state.
*All names have been changed.
