The Fourth of July in Iowa smells like sunscreen, sidewalk candy, and war funding.

"Mariel, come here," Luigi said, already holding a shot glass.
He’s my step-father-in-law, technically. But there’s nothing “step” about him.
We are kindred spirits.
We both love the movie Waterworld.
Sort of cements things.
 

I walked over to the kitchen counter. He held up a chilled shot glass, already poured.
He offered.
I took.
That man knows me.
 

He was wearing a shirt covered in cheeseburgers and tiny American flags—half ironic,

half sincere. He stands for the anthem but hates what’s become of it. Not MAGA. Not Republican. Just a man who still believes in something, even if the rest of us are less sure what.

 

"Are you excited?" I asked my kids.
"Yeah," Stone said, with zero enthusiasm.
Geez.
Thomas is different.
Excited? He looks like he’s about to bite the Fourth of July in half and spit the bones into the sun.

Behind him, Stone doesn’t even blink.
Thomas performs. Stone endures.
"I’m excited to put on sunscreen," Stone volunteered.
Understandable.
A few weeks ago, they didn’t have enough sunscreen on, in the pool.
My fault entirely.
They got red.
Hixenbaughs are long faced, pale people.
Sunscreen is a gift from the gods. We were their target audience.
 

Aaron and my mother-in-law, Gloria already went to set up our parade seats.
They said people were already sitting at 9:15 for a 10:30 parade.
Not necessary.
It's Iowa, people aren’t going to move your shit.
 

"Stop it!" Aaron yelled.
Stone kicked Thomas off the chair.
"We were just playing," Stone tried.
"Yeah, who can dislocate the other person’s shoulder the fastest?"
The face of a man who’s already done the math, already clocked the urgent care co-pay, already knows he can’t stop the chaos, but at least he knows he tried.

 

The kitchen light hummed.
This is how nations fall: slowly, hilariously, in Crocs.
 

My husband reached for sunscreen.
 

"Did you know the Declaration was signed today in history?" Luigi asked playfully.
Hilarious.
They were selling bicentennial memorabilia two years before the 200th.
Plates. Posters. Hats.
You couldn’t swing a stick in ‘74 without hitting something stamped with 1776.
America knew how to sell itself back then.
We’re closing in on 250, and there’s nothing.
No stickers. No t-shirts. No quarter-millennium commemorative anything.
No traveling Liberty Bell.
 

The fireworks-over-food bill is 870 pages long. It funds missiles, tax shelters, and something called the Trump Accounts.

It does not fund memory.
It does not fund celebration.
It does not give a single shit that the country is turning 250.
Maybe we’re not proud enough to print the mugs this time.
Or maybe all the factories closed.
 

Three kids under one umbrella, sweating and shifting like a pile of puppies no one had the heart to separate. Thomas, my niece and nephew, Pepper, and Charlie—stacked on the grass like heat wasn’t real and boundaries were optional.

"I am Batman," Thomas said, solemnly.
Then again, more urgent:
"Let me be the Batman."
And then Pepper asked, "Who are we?"
Thomas didn’t hesitate. "Bat people."
 

Stone wore a Cubs cap from 1984.
One hundred percent wool. The year his father was born.
About ten minutes into the parade, he started to sweat through history.
Aaron noticed. Didn’t say anything. Just handed Stone his own hat and took the wool one in return.

They traded without a word.

Aaron wore it, pulled low and stubborn like he was fine, like this was a reasonable decision, like fatherhood didn’t itch.

The man gave up his own hat so Stone wouldn’t melt, and now he looked like a dad cosplaying as his own childhood.

That’s fatherhood, I think.

Letting your kid stay cool while you roast in your own birth year.

 

Across the street, an old woman had an Iowa Hawkeyes umbrella.

It made me weirdly happy. I don’t even care about football, really. Aaron’s an Iowa State fan. I married into it. But I grew up surrounded by black and gold, and something about Hawkeye gear just calms my brain.

When I was maybe eight, I went to an Iowa–Iowa State game with my dad. The place was packed. Everyone was screaming.

And I remember looking across the field at the people in red and thinking, how can there be so many evil people in the world.

Not because I was told to hate Iowa State.

Not because anyone said the word evil.

Just because I knew Iowa was better.

And that was enough.

Children's minds are wild like that.

They don’t need proof. Just color and volume.

 

It’s not that different from how people get raised into MAGA.

You grow up surrounded by one flag, one version of the story, and eventually you stop wondering if there’s a story at all.

You just know who the enemy is.

Even if it’s a kid across the stadium wearing red.

 

I have a good man.

He listens. He holds space. He walks beside me.

But I might have to renew my passport just to vote. That’s real. Under missile-rich, memory-poor legislation—thanks to the SAVE Act language—if your name on your ID doesn’t match your birth certificate, they can reject your registration.

Even if you have a Real ID. Even if you’re holding the right envelope. Even if you’ve voted here for years.

Doesn’t matter that every single line on my father’s side, was in America before 1800.
Doesn’t matter that I’m a direct descendant of Stephen Hopkins from the fucking Mayflower.
He signed the Mayflower Compact. I still might need a matching passport to cast a ballot.

 

Trump’s family?

Not so much.

His grandfather, Friedrich Trump, didn’t show up until 1885, arriving from Bavaria looking for a better life.

That’s 200 years later than mine.

The punch isn’t pedigree. It's this:

I might have to renew my passport just to vote because of my name.

Despite centuries of roots.

Despite lineage that helped build this place.

 

What the fuck.

 

Six men—the color-bearers of the VFW or American Legion, I couldn't tell—marched up the street in crisp white shirts and dark slacks, clip clopping in step. Five held flags: the American flag front and center, flanked by what looked like the Iowa state flag, an American Legion banner, the POW/MIA flag, and another service flag I don't recognize.

They moved together with tight, practiced precision—shoulders squared, heads forward, eyes locked ahead, all of them in that measured, ceremonial pace you learn at drill. A breeze tugged at the flags, making them snap like canvas sails.

It was ritual, not emotion.

But the six men kept walking, flags held steady, shoulders unflinching. They carried something older than pride. It was duty. And it moved down the street in silent rhythm.

I sat and watched their backs.

Thought about how this year’s federal circus act throws $150 billion at defense—jets, bombs, surveillance—but cuts food stamps for veterans who’ve already served.

Takes their VA jobs, guts their support systems, then wraps it all in a flag and dares anyone to sit.

Those men in uniform?

They carried duty like it was still theirs.

But the country they served already traded their benefits for missiles and tax breaks.

 

I didn’t want to stand.

Not because I don’t see them—

but because the bill they wrote in their name doesn’t see them at all.

 

The 34th Army Band of the Iowa National Guard marched up in full desert camo.

Three tubas swayed in rhythm, brass section tight in front of them.

At the front, a man led with a silver baton—arm high, posture locked, like the whole thing depended on him getting it right.

Schools under pressure often slash music and arts first. That means fewer band classes, no instruments, no rehearsal space.

No music programs = no young musicians to fill those military band ranks later.

The government says: We’ll pay you to play at parades.

But the same bill says: We’re not investing in the schools that teach kids how to play.

And so we’ll end up clapping for bands… after we refused to fund the next generation of musicians.

Who will pick up the trumpets?

Who will carry the tradition?

Not our public schools.

Proud to march but bankrupting the pipelines.

 

Mayor of Waukee, Iowa, Courtney Clarke’s name was on the side of the yellow truck.

A group of teens followed behind, tossing candy with more style than aim.

One kid in a red shirt and unruly curls shouted "Rimshot!" when his Tootsie Roll hit the candy bucket dead center.

He didn’t wait for applause. Just kept walking.

Legend behavior.

First female mayor of Waukee.

A Democrat.

In a city that leans Republican.

But it’s changing.

 

Dallas County flipped in 2024.

Sarah Trone Garriott held her Iowa Senate seat by twenty-four votes.

Brutal race. Almost didn’t make it.

Republican challenger Mark Hanson called for a recount.

Sarah called it, though.

When asked, she told KCCI:

"I entirely expect my opponent to ask for a recount… But I don't anticipate it changing the results."

And she was right.

She announced in May she’s running for Iowa’s third congressional district—a seat long held by Republicans.

She’s not afraid of red districts.

Now, it’s held by Republican Zach Nunn.

 

Nunn loves to say in his ads that he’s a sixth-generation Iowan.

Me too, bitch.

Fuck off.

 

I’m rooting for Trone Garriott.

Way to go, ladies.

 

Nearby, my trio of future voters—Thomas, Pepper, Charlie—stood at attention, plastic bags in hand, witnessing it all without learned gratitude yet.

Charlie pointed across the road and screamed ‘Firetruck!’ like he was the one who summoned it.

Right foot up, bag swinging, joy loud and unfiltered.

Just certainty that the parade was giving him exactly what he wanted, exactly when he wanted it.

Three kids. One street. One line they weren’t supposed to cross.

And of course the youngest always gets closest.

The oldest watches.

From his blue chair.

In his father’s hat.

 

Waukee Warrior Tattoo Studio rolled through next.

Big black SUV, stars and stripes waving off the back, towing a U-Haul trailer dressed up with red canopies and a whole lot of attitude.

Ms. Middle of the Map Pinup 2025 stood front and center—Amberly, according to the sign—grinning, waving, red lipstick, striped skirt, victory curls rolled tight like a vintage grenade.

She looked anchored.

Like if the trailer detached mid-route, she’d keep going anyway.

 

WayPoint Resources drove by in a white van with "compassionate care" printed on the side.

Food. Clothing. Healthcare.

Guidance and hope, their website says.

Like a landmark on a map for people who feel lost.

I believe them.

But how long can they help anyone, when the line’s about to triple?

When the Big Beautiful Bill cuts SNAP and Medicaid, and families fall straight into their arms?

How do you map hope, when the government keeps moving the coordinates?

 

Military surplus transport rolled by, banner on the side: Iowa’s Premier Gun Shop.

Of course it was full of kids.

Flag bandanas, American flag crop tops, juice pouches.

A blonde woman in the front seat held a baby on her lap, smiling like they were headed to a picnic and not hauling a Second Amendment billboard.

 

Cool. Cool. Cool.

Cool, cool, cool, cool, cool.

 

Gloria told me I did a good job that day. She knows I hate crowds. That I need quiet. That woman knows me.

And still, I show up. I stand in the heat. I sit in the grass. I tell my kids the truth.

Because I believe in showing up.

Because love is messy. Country is messier. But none of it gets better if we stop watching the damn parade.