Natural Disaster – …on the B.L.

Houston, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, On the Town

Musings in a Storm; Hurricane Beryl

July 15, 2024July 15, 2024 RaeAnna

One Week Later…

On Sunday, July 7, 2024, I started taking pictures as the bands of Hurricane Beryl started to sweep over Houston. Alone in my house, I went to bed wondering what condition my world would be in when I woke. The power went out while I was on the phone with my fiancée (who lives in Australia) at seven in the morning on Monday, July 8, 2024. She went to bed for the night, and my weather watch began. Two hours later, I lost cell reception and internet. As an avid read, writer, picture taker with literally nothing to do, I decided to document the storm. I’ve been through my fair share of hurricanes, storms, tornados, and derechos at this point in my life. But, for the first time, I was bored during it.

I spent Sunday night and Monday taking pictures. The following pieces I wrote over three days in a notebook; then transcribed on my tablet in a note that I, later, turned into a .doc, which is now my first post in months. Each piece stands alone; though there are likely themes to be found. Some bring levity, and some are quite dark. They’re all very much me. The photos separate piece from piece. So, enjoy.

Open front door of Pearl Bar onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin. — Pearl Bar’s front door opens onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.

Laying, clothed in very little, with the windows open: I’m hot. The kind of hot that feels like it’ll never get better. The kind of hot that makes air heavy in the lungs. If this isn’t nostalgic, it would be misery.
Laying on a sheet-covered couch—because cotton is cooler than brushed velvet—my underwear and bra stick to me. I’m glistening with sweat. I’ve read three-quarters of one of the best novels I’ve ever consumed. I realize: I’d be working if it weren’t for Hurricane Beryl shutting down the fourth largest city in the United States. A category one. No internet. No power. No communication with the outside world. It took a natural disaster for me to have my first real day off since the day after I put my dog to sleep… three months ago. There’s literally nothing to be done but pick up sticks and read. And I’m not about to go pick up sticks.
Laying on the couch, the only breeze I can feel is the hot breath from the dogs who love me so much they can’t find another spot to lay except my lap in all 3,000 square feet of this damn house. My day was spent reading and writing, the old-fashioned way. I love days like these. Ones where I lay by an open window, reading, drinking tea, and listening to nature. Today, doing just that, Instead of the birds, beach, breeze, city, leaves, I’d normally find lulling, I’m currently being serenaded by my much too nice neighbors’ generator. I hate them. But they’re too nice to hate, even in this heat.

A friend walking her dog as the storm started to roll in Sunday, July 7, 2024.

I have so many unanswered questions. | Does my mother believe in heaven? | What is the worst lie I’ve ever told? | Why do fascia confuse scientists so much? | Does Beau resent me for rescuing Tessa and the Puppies? | Why didn’t he protect me? | What will I regret when I lay dying? | Will she still think I’m beautiful in 50 years when she walks into our room after brushing her teeth to find me reading on the same side of the bed I’ve slept in for the majority of our lives? | Why did that question make me cry? | How did performing on stage go from being my whole life to a place I haven’t been in a decade? | Does he know he’s the villain in my story? | Why do I like Peach Rings but peaches not so much? | Do my dogs know how much I love them? | There are happy-sad people and sad-happy people and sad-sad people, but are there happy-happy people? | What’s even the point? | Why do I think I’m interesting enough to be a writer? | Can she remember the smell of the space between my shoulder blades the way I remember her? | When we leave the house, do our pets think we’re going for pupcups and dog walks and pet stores and beach adventures because that’s all they do with us? | Do they feel abandoned? | Am I capable of writing a book? | When does it get better?

As I drive through my neighborhood, there is a ton of damage. Trees felled. Roofs in streets. Families raking yards. Neighbors calling on each other. Hands being lended. Bayous overflowing.

The general post-natural disaster mahem and comradery.

Beau’s head hangs out the passenger window. Soaking up the breeze as much as the sun. She’s always loved a car ride. I drive slowly as much out of safety as curiosity.

As we slowly creep down the street, the decimation of homes, trees, and fences allows us a public viewing into private moments. On the main road, a backyard fence lays half across the sidewalk, half across the street. A multi-generational Asian family sits around a table on their back patio. Mom, dad, and grandma stare with a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Martini in every hand. All the while, their ten[ish?] year-old son flits around the backyard with the joy of a kid in a world devoid of technology.

Using the dictionaries I loved so much in college to look up the gender of a noun. #old #nerd

Sometimes, I feel like Pyoter, my robot vacuum—named because a) I like men who clean b) I can yell at a man when it fucks up c) I speak Russian d) it just felt right—who is currently sat, wheels run-up a dog toy, in the corner where the hearth meets the wall.

Pyotr does a great job. A real go-getter. He’s aged, but his battery isn’t suffering. With the right care, he does as well as he ever did. His years show in the collection of dust and scuffs. He’s reliable and beloved. But he’s stuck. He’s not out of battery. He’s not full either. Nor is he empty. He’s kind of in the middle phase of vaccing the floors: where enough progress has been made, it seems like things could be done. Nowhere near perfect, but definitely above the expectation people have when I tell them, “I have five dogs.” Pyotr has the capability to do a great job, not just the average state my floors exist in now.

But he’s stuck.

I’m sitting on the couch engrossed in a book about a rich, lesbian writer who’s suffering from severe depression, childhood trauma, depersonalization, derealization, some delusions, and can’t finish her novel—that’s actually a memoir—which has put her in a trust funded [see what I did there] psychiatrists’ office not to feel and do better but to write again. Same. But I’m too poor for a psychiatrist to help me finish my damn book. Also the protagonist(antagonist?) is younger and further in her book than me. Fuck her. Now, I’m realizing, I am genuinely jealous of a genuinely ill and equally fictional woman. Then, again, I’m also (mostly undiagnosed) mentally ill. I mentioned I’m too poor for a psychiatrist? yes. This tracks.

Anyway.

I promise these two are related as to why, sometimes, I feel like Pyotr.

He’s stuck.

I’m stuck.

He needs me to get up, move him, push the button so he can be unstoppable. The problem therein lies: I won’t get up.

My brain is home to: CPTSD, childhood trauma, rape, violence, audhd, stripping, and more. At 33, like my floors, I’m doing better than you’d assume. To the outside world, I’m doing great. But I have so much energy. My mind is only getting more interesting. I know there’s potential. Somewhere. What’s been done is good enough; it really is.

It’s not good enough for me.

I’m wheels up on my own metaphorical dog toy. Therefore, I have no—completely devoid of metaphor here—no ability to stand up and press Pyotr’s button so he can go do great things for my mental health through dog glitter confiscation.

Which is a symptom of my own being stuck.

I need a me to come in and unstick me, so I can unstick Pyotr. So, he can finish the floors. So, I can finish my bestselling book. So, I can afford my wife’s dream job of being a rockstar. Then, I’ll be unstoppable. And maybe, but probably not, have a little more money. (I plan on my wife’s first tour eating up the $37 advance I get from that “bestseller.”)

But, I’m going to go back to reading.

I know I dated men for so, so, so many reasons. It’s something I’ve written about loads. Thought about far more. Why did I spend a whole lot of years dating a gender I have literally zero attraction to? There’s a bit to it I hate and don’t admit to often. But it’s also true and part of it.

Dating men is inherently traumatic. (For all women, yes. They are our natural predators. I’d choose the bear, but no one is asking me.) But for me. As a gay woman with years of sexual Trauma with a capital t. Sex, every single consensual time, was traumatic. Some more. Some less. I was walking a tightrope above a flowing lava river of memories I am deeply afraid of and equally curious about. I have an entire lived-life that I don’t really remember so well. It’s there. But not. I know I can. But do I want to?

With the right circumstances, those memories come back. Do I want them? Nope. Do I need them? Healing is a long, painful journey. I quickly realized… The easiest way to remember the memories living in my body and not so much my mind was sex with men. With the force of a freight train going down a hill with no brakes or conductor, every new rememberance would chug right over my mental health.

To be clear, this was all done consensually and unconsciously. It took me a long time to figure out what I was doing. Eventually, sex with men didn’t bring back memories. I think I’d collected all the Trauma I could the old fashioned way.

I took all the puzzle pieces and put them together. My puzzle was definitely found at a rummage sale because pieces are missing. I have enough of them to have a really clear understanding of who I am and where I come from. Then I took the time to heal. Like really heal. I’m not healed. Clearly. But I’m better.

Then I came out. Not because I hadn’t known I was gay before. But I needed to reTraumatize myself over and over and over again to uncover the hardest truths I needed to know so I could get to a place where I wasn’t so actively trying to die.

Too many years into an already full life. I’m out, I’m proud, I’m a functional calamity. At 33, I’m really fucking happily engaged to the most incredible woman. And I think… deep down, I might actively want to live.

The anxious ones were kept in their safe spaces.

With generators and chainsaws and bugs and children and dogs and sirens and storms, the world has never seemed louder. More intrusive. More in my space.

So, I put in earplugs to drown out the noise. I try to find sleep laying on the couch with all the windows open in a breezeless night in July. There’s still a ringing. A haunting that won’t go away. It’s louder in my brain than any of the aforementioned noises could ever be loud in real life.

I wish this were just tinnitus. But no.

Not new, but particularly jarring tonight. As a little girl, I used to think of it as an alarm sounding. That voice my mom told me about. It told me when I was doing something wrong. When I was being bad. It didn’t take me long to learn: that alarm never relented.

So, it didn’t take long to know: I was just bad. Most of the time, I still believe it. That I deserved it all. Every malintent, violence, shame.

But some days, more than there used to be, I think: maybe it’s all the alarms I didn’t listen to, warning me of all the people I believed.

Sometimes, it hurts being alone in my own head.

So, I take the earplugs out. Letting the sound of crickets and generators drown out the alarms I didn’t know how to listen to.

A lot of sniffing and following me around the house.

Stuck in a house with no electricity, no air conditioning, no reception, no internet, and no help at the height of southern Texas summer is a lot like camping. Except terrible.

If I tell you it was a first. I’m probably lying to you.

When I think about the unedited version of my whole life. The one common thread has been lying. Changing the narrative of my history. Sometimes, as it’s happening.

I tell firsts as if they’re not really seconds or thirds of fiftieths because they are more palatable. Cleaner. Easy.

Because, the thing is, the first time… well, that’s the first time I’ll write about.

But

To friends who know me, there’s the first time I talk about like it was a passing thing because looking at the threads that wove my Trauma, it hardly even feels like it matters.

Then

There’s the first time that felt like the first time. Only three people have seen that pain.

However

There’s the first time that was the real first time. I’ve never spoken it out loud. To even think of it pulls all the air that ever was from my lungs. Even writing—admitting to it here—scares me so much. I want to run. I want to hide. There is pain I so instinctively don’t want to be true that if I never speak it, never share it, maybe it’s not. But lately, in traffic, on walks, alone, in the moments where my mind wanders… I keep being led there. I’ve had to stop writing three times so my eyes could see the spelling errors I’ll edit out through tears sometime between me writing and you reading this. If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t edit this one out. This is hard. This is brave. This feels like dying.

Telling firsts which weren’t actually firsts, I’m lying to you. I’m not lying to myself. I was there. I know the truth. I always have. I just wish I didn’t. So I tell the firsts I’m comfortable with. Because I’m better. But I’m not fucking healed.

My love for you is a very well tended garden.

It’s an allegory I like because I like gardens. Not a perfect one since I don’t like gardening. In this figurative garden, I have no problems being a figurative gardener. Although, my darling dearest, the literal garden is your literal responsibility.

When a garden is planted, watered, tended, weeded, watered, tended, weeded, planted, so on and so forth, it will grow and thrive. New things will come. Some things will wither. Sometimes, it doesn’t *seem* to be doing so well because of winter or drought or too much rain or not enough sun, but a very well tended garden always survives, coming back stronger and more beautiful each time because the soil keeps getting richer. It is always growing and changing because it was never not well tended.

My love for you is that. A bit simplistic, but you get the idea.

Ludicrous! Not the rapper. The idea!!!!

The idea! at one point in time… a very, much too long point in time in my life, I thought it was important to carry a small suitcase on my shoulder everywhere I went.

They’re known as purses.

Highly helpful for the ladyfolk in a world where the ladyfolk are legally not allowed functional pockets [if pockets at all—depending on your state and county legislation]. Not really, but that’s how it feels shopping.

Anyway. I carried a large purse because I deemed it necessary to carry every single item anyone could need in events ranging from a wedding to a natural disaster. True fact. The pouch-thing I carried inside my purse was so well stocked with all sorts of odds and ends, it really did come in handy at both weddings (two friends) and a natural disaster (hurricane Florence). It was hefty! Lifting the damn thing, which sits utterly-and-quite-suddenly-forsaken, dusty, and on the top shelf in my entryway, put down never to be picked up again until… now, when it feels like something between training for an Iron Man and giving up completely.

I had purses—yes plural—big enough to carry the well-stocked pouch-thing, wallet, phone, a tiny tripod, book, pen, tablet, all my friends’ things, and a brush every single time I left the house.

It is baffling to me.

I don’t even brush my hair anymore.

I don’t like my body.

I don’t think I see what other people see.

All I see is endurance. Not the long-distance running kind. The servived kind.

I look at my body and see every flaw. Every dimple. Every stretch mark. Every varicose vein. Every lump. Every wrinkle. Every sag. Every scar. I’m vain. Sure. But…

I see pain. I see a body I didn’t think belonged to me, had control over, a right to. I see a body that I think of as not me. What happens and happened to this body… that’s not me. It’s just a body. Because if they did that to my body and I am my body, they did that to me. And they knew me. And they still did it. Then looked me in the eye and called it love.

I don’t want to look at my body and see that.

I don’t.

But, I take beautiful pictures of my body in beautiful places. They call the place beautiful. They call the body beautiful. But I just want to keep a record. I want proof. I want to know that I was there. I did it. This body did enough to get to those places.

But also…

I hope one day I look back on all the pictures I’ve taken in beautiful clothes in beautiful places with beautiful people and think, maybe, ‘I was beautiful once.’ I guess, that’s how I’ve always—well, not always—known to not give up yet. That’s hope, an emotion I’m rarely accused of. I haven’t lost it. So, maybe, one day, I will look back at all the art I made with eyes that somehow found enough self-love (it hurt me far more to write than for you to read) to think: ‘As much as I hated it every singe time, I deserved to be called beautiful.’

But I guess that’s healing from being treated like an ugly thing for so very long.

Life is an exhausting to do list.

Experiences, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, Travel

Derecho: Iowa’s $4 Billion Storm No One Talks About

September 10, 2020September 10, 2020 RaeAnna

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.