The Lament of an Ex-pat Iowan

My passport says that I was born in “Iowa, USA.” I am, therefore, an ex-pat Iowan, native of this town—Waukon, Iowa. When I was a kid, Waukon was a bustling county seat—lots of businesses, a first-run movie house, even a J.C. Penney’s. The churches were well-attended and the local farmers (like my grandparents) felt that their lives were “getting better” (indoor plumbing and telephones for the house, artificial insemination for the cows). Now, the town looks pretty tired, despite its single modern traffic light. Pretty empty. A few basic stores, but the pizza place burned down, alas. The schools are good, but once graduated, the kids move to Cedar Rapids or Des Moines or Minneapolis. Among many, then, there’s a sense that the “best” is in the past. (This is not necessarily true: the remaining population is pretty comfortably middle-class). But I understand the feeling of loss and (even) resentment—against, well, nobody in particular but everything in general—against the way things have changed. Trump and the MAGA crowd have tapped into this nostalgic hopelessness with promises of miraculous resurrection. Ultimately, of course, no messiah is going to bring Penney’s back to Main Street or crowds back to the First Presbyterian Church. Spilt milk can be wiped up, but not rebottled. Still, Trump (and nostalgia) won last night in Iowa—bigly. As an ex-pat Iowan, I am very sad. 😞