Elesha Gayman is a Mom, educator, advocate, Iowan, and American who served in the Iowa House from 2007 through 2010. She has been speaking truth to power since age 14 and writing to change hearts and minds since 2025.

Can you recall a moment in your life when you changed your position on an issue or shifted an opinion you held?

I am not talking about changing your mind on whether to go out to dinner or stay in, but rather a fundamental shift in your beliefs. How did that happen? Was it a massive heart attack or near-death experience that you needed to survive to finally stop smoking or start exercising?

When I challenge myself with these questions, one thing is clear: I am more stubborn than I would like to admit. I don’t make decisions in haste and am very good at sitting on the fence until I get adequate information to formulate a position or opinion. In the Iowa legislature, we often referred to this as “keeping our powder dry.”

A LESSON FROM A RESEARCH PAPER

During my freshman year of college, I was accepted into a Statehouse Scholar program through my university. I would spend two weeks shadowing State Senator Pat Deluhery at the Iowa capitol and researching a piece of public policy working its way through the legislative chambers that session. The research was to culminate in a robust research paper on the policy area selected.

No shrinking violet, why not jump directly into the debate over the death penalty? There was no agenda to this project, and my conclusion—whatever it would be—was irrelevant in terms of right and wrong. The paper was about the process, not about the policy.

I wasn’t anticipating starting the project with one set of ideals and ending the semester with another set of ideals completely. Through interviews with legislators, lobbyists, and activists, in addition to supplemental academic research, I was able to go 180° from my original position.

My takeaway from that exercise in personal evolution taught me that I needed to look at facts and information on all sides of an issue completely before reaching a quick conclusion based on the emotion or surface of an issue. More importantly, it taught me that we are capable of change, even if change is not something we set out to do.

LESSONS FROM CAUCUSING IN THE IOWA HOUSE

In politics, internal change is something to be avoided if not openly punished. If you don’t believe me, Senator John Kerry would like a word. During Kerry’s 2004 bid for the White House, he was frequently taunted by accusations of flip-flopping so much so that there were even flip-flops made in his (dis)honor. The personal evolution of Kerry’s position in favor of the Iraq war to his eventual admonishment was seen as a weakness. Those in favor of the war saw a traitor. Those who opposed the war would refuse to forgive his lapse in moral judgement by not getting his anti-war stance right from the start.

Nearly a decade after my time as a statehouse scholar, I would find myself back at the state capitol, this time as a Democratic member of the Iowa House. From one caucus to the next, I would witness a master class in our capability to change.

If you have worked around a legislative body, you may be familiar with the term caucus—a political party’s private meeting to discuss issues, count votes, and strategize how legislation will make its way through the larger body. If you are in the majority party, your caucus controls the agenda. If you are in the minority party, your caucus controls the time. There is only one rule for caucus, and it is the same rule as Fight Club: you don’t talk about caucus. And just like Vegas, what happens in caucus, stays in caucus.

Fortunately, dear reader, I am long since retired, and some rules were made to be broken. Conversations in caucus are among the most frank, unfiltered, and enlightening you will ever participate in. They inform on issues but they also inform in individual character. There is no press, there are no constituents, there are no inhibitions—#nofilter.

Enter caucus ahead of a controversial vote, and you are likely to hear something you never would hear in any other venue: a political party vigorously debating themselves about the merits of a policy. This private display is what Jimmy Stewart could only dream of and what School House Rock would have you believe happens every day in the halls of Congress.

What the public eventually sees amounts to a scripted reality show. Legislators emerge from their caucuses united and assemble in their chambers to perform an oratory ballet with the opposition. The lines they recite are an improv exercise, but there will be no surprise outcome. The majority party will prevail. The minority party is defeated, left only with the satisfaction they didn’t make the majorities win any easier.

A unified caucus, particularly a unified majority caucus, is vital in obtaining strength, power, and progress. The slightest hint of dissension can pull back the curtain on the power charade, leaving the caucus weak, defeated, or stymied in gridlock. The whole vibe is mom and dad fighting in the other room away from the kids. The parents try to shield the children (i.e. public) from the ugliness.

Ninety-five percent of the time, participants emerge from caucus and continue the work of legislating, resolved to support the will of the caucus majority. The other five percent of the time, someone emerges from caucus defiant, ready to break with the party consensus. Occasionally, the dissension may cause a member to jump ship and abandon their party affiliation. Even more rarely, you may witness a legislator do a 180 on a policy shaped by their ideology.

THE AFTERMATH OF A LANDMARK IOWA SUPREME COURT RULING

During my four years in the legislature, I was fortunate to witness the latter happen in real time. I served in a solidly blue Iowa, and despite progressive policies flowing like water, the Democratic majority in the House was thin enough that nearly every bill required a substantial lift. That is to say, we were often sequestered for hours on end to hash out positions on policy before things would see the light of day or the House floor.

In April 2009, the Iowa Supreme Court made a landmark ruling. The decision in Varnum vs. Brien was not only significant for Iowa but for the whole country. In the unanimous opinion, the court affirmed a lower court ruling that declared the state’s “Defense of Marriage Act” unconstitutional. The ruling made Iowa the third state in the nation to legalize gay marriage. It wasn’t until 2015 that the U.S. Supreme Court made marriage equality the law of the land nationwide.

Immediately after the Varnum decision was dropped, public pressure mounted for us to file legislation to reverse the Iowa Supreme Court’s action. While we heard from some who supported the court’s opinion, the noise from the opposition was deafening. Hundreds descended on the capitol demanding a state constitutional amendment defining marriage as the union of one man and one woman. That would require legislative action.

The Varnum decision was released on a Friday. During a typical legislative week, we would have been at home in our districts. Unfortunately, it was April, and the 2009 legislative session was ramping up toward adjournment. So we were on hand for the fireworks.

Activists from the Westboro Baptist Church (designated a hate group by the Southern Poverty Law Center) were out in force. There were so many death threats that we needed the Iowa State Patrol to help us travel safely from the building to our cars. The capitol switchboard was jammed with calls from constituents, and our emails were flooded. If you listened to the rhetoric, you were likely well on your way to becoming a pillar of salt when the clock struck midnight. This was just a mild preview of what soon awaited us at home.

It was immediately clear we needed to quickly assemble our caucus and reach a consensus about what (if anything) we would do in response to the court ruling. Democrats controlled the Iowa House and Senate, but the 56-44 majority in the House was far more fickle than the Senate. The House also had the added pressure of having every member come up for reelection every two years, whereas members of the Senate served four-year terms.

THE FIRST CAUCUS AFTER VARNUM

Arriving that day in caucus, I don’t recall whether we fully understood the implications of the Iowa Supreme Court ruling or what this meant for Iowa. Immediately, we had to determine where our members were on the issue of marriage equality so we could strategize subsequent legislative actions.

The mood was that of exhaustion and annoyance. Many House members—myself included—lamented about the timing of the court’s decision and wondered what possible excuse they had for throwing this grenade into our laps within days of adjournment. Couldn’t they have waited a week or two to announce the decision? Co-equal branches of government can be finicky that way.

Very quickly, it became clear that a few options would be viable. First, we could do nothing and let the court’s decision stand, therefore ensuring marriage equality was the law of the land, or at least the law in Iowa. That sounds like the path of least resistance administratively. But in reality, it would be the hardest option to pursue. The marriage equality route would require our fragile caucus to hold a united front, unlike any we had previously presented.

The timing of this ruling, during the waning days of the session, meant that funnels, budgets, and amendments were flying around the capitol. If we did nothing as a legislative body, we would ensure the remaining days of the session would be filled with endless amendments, motions for germaneness, and emotionally charged debates over the sanctity of marriage.

The reality of our narrow majority was that we only had a few votes to lose. If we lost too many votes, not only did we risk reversing the court’s decision, we were risking the state’s budget bills awaiting final approval before adjournment. Basically, the whole session could implode, grinding everything to a standstill.

A second option was to respond to the court’s decision in kind with some type of legislative action. House Democrats never would have supported a full reversal of the court’s decision, but many ideas were floated as a way forward, including the concept of civil unions. We didn’t know whether an option existed that would satiate the detractors of the court’s ruling and not subsequently alienate or frankly piss off the LGBTQ+ base. We were on the scene of a five-alarm fire, and many were simply interested in minimizing the damage.

One other point is worth noting, as background to help understand what was about to unfold in our caucus. Although a good handful of House members were elated about the court’s decision, to my recollection, not a single person in that room had campaigned on the issue of marriage equality. Likely, we had all been surveyed on the topic or recorded a position somewhere. But the core issues of our campaigns were education, health care, and the economy—not same-sex marriage.

Most people in elected office are there for a personal reason—often a passionate reason—which propelled them into public service. For me, the issue was the intense pressure for young people to move out of state as they were crippled by student loan debt—a demographic I not only knew well but knew personally from experience. It is only logical for people to question whether it’s worth it to take controversial position that could cost them their seat in office. Are you willing to sacrifice everything for an issue you only mildly support? Will that issue be the hill you are willing to die on?

Our caucus convened with our 56 members. For what seemed like an eternity, we witnessed some of the most deeply passionate, personal, and prophetic appeals I would ever hear from my colleagues. I don’t think a single member of our caucus stayed silent. There were raised voices, there were tears, and there was absolute emotional and physical exhaustion.

SUPERMAN SPEAKS

When you are in a room full of gifted orators, it can be hard to capture the attention of the room or even be heard at all. A soft-spoken legislator rose and gave one of the most profound and emotional testimonies of the night. For privacy, we will call him Superman. He expressed his genuine fear in supporting marriage equality and the trepidation he had in facing his rural conservative, tight-knit community. He spoke of the potential costs to his business and relationships he would likely sacrifice. Ultimately, he shared his sincere fear of having to face his congregation and, ultimately, his creator, having supported an issue so at odds with his faith.

When Superman, normally a loyal and reliable team player, relinquished his time, there was a new clarity to the situation, but not in a good way. The clarity was that we were not going to come to a consensus that night. We left the caucus drained and apprehensive about the path forward.

If Superman of all people wasn’t onboard, what chance did we have to preserve the court’s progress? We were like parents in a relationship impasse, with children were full of fear, not knowing if someone was spending the night on the couch or if our family would never be the same.

The weekend at home offered no respite. Irate constituents greeted us in every corner of the state. From legislative forums needing security, to voicemails full of vile, and mailboxes beginning to fill with anonymous hate mail, there was simply nowhere you were not hunted. Opponents of the court’s ruling knew the legislative clock was winding down, and they didn’t waste an ounce of that urgency in applying every bit of pressure they could muster.

Despite the hordes of activists and protesters, it was almost a relief to return to the capitol, and the company of fellow legislators who could sympathize with the vitriol. We had put off the unpleasantness long enough. It was time for us to find a path forward on the issue of marriage equality. We resumed the caucus slightly more rested physically but significantly more drained emotionally. There was an air of unease, uncertainty as to how or if we would ever unite behind a position.

Quickly, Superman sought the floor. Given his previous impassioned testimony, I was immediately apprehensive and filled with dread. He rose and gave just as thoughtful and impassioned testimony as he did during the previous caucus. He spoke in his usual quiet way but detailed the horrors he had endured since we last met. Public confrontations, slurs hurled at him in the most unexpected places, and general hatred he received from people he didn’t even know.

I was certain this had hardened his resolve against marriage equality.

He continued to share that after much prayer and reflection, he was rising to inform the caucus he had changed his position. In so many words, he shared that the hatred directed at him after only a couple of days spurred him to consider the hate and discrimination that LGBTQ+ people face every day—hate they are unable to escape.

Superman’s core belief was that government exists to protect the people. As an elected official—an extension of said government—he was prepared to do his job to protect this targeted demographic, fully aware it might cost him his job.

Superman demonstrated an inspiring capacity for change. While it might be easy to be taken in by the historical significance of this story, sixteen years later I still find myself in awe of his courage and personal fortitude. He could have been a contender for John F. Kennedy’s Profiles in Courage, leadership amidst adversity.

LESSONS FROM SUPERMAN’S CAPACITY TO CHANGE

We can learn a great deal from Superman’s stunning and rapid pivot. First, no matter how heartfelt the pleas or how desperate the scenario painted by trusted allies, he was not moved. There is value in communicating our beliefs and positions on issues, but regardless of what we say or how we say it, there is no guarantee it will change hearts or minds. The impassioned pleas of his colleagues may have weighed on him, but they were not the tipping point.

Second, the hatred hurled in Superman’s direction by those desperately seeking his support did the exact opposite of what they intended to do. He would not be scared or threatened into compliance. Haters quickly turned someone who ideologically was with them into someone who was ideologically opposed to them. Hatred is not just unproductive, it is fundamentally counterproductive.

Finally, the caucus gave Superman space. In a time of urgency, panic even, it seems counterintuitive to allow for space. Outside of human social emotional responses, rarely do you find a pressing issue which is served well by more time and space. If your roof is leaking, giving it some more time is the most damaging option. It is not surprising that giving someone space isn’t our immediate instinct.

Space can refer to the physical confines of Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, even the physical distance from home and time spent away from the capitol. However, the kind of space where remarkable transformation can occur is so much more.

Superman found space in our caucus. Space to evolve his views. Space to be heard. Space to be met with grace. Ultimately, the space to find courage to change. When we walked out of that first caucus, we were not weakened by his temporary dissension. When we emerged, we were infinitely stronger because of it.

Our political divides today are even more fraught than they were after that landmark court decision in 2009. Cancel culture poisons the wells of civil discourse. We rarely have the grace for one’s differences, let alone the foresight to grant them space required to evolve.

Superman’s capacity for change was found in his lived experiences and his virtues as an individual. I am uncertain whether anyone can increase or decrease another individual’s capacity for change. However, I do know we absolutely are able to influence and support one another’s capability to change. Our actions, or lack thereof, play a significant role in determining what others are capable of achieving.

Every thought, every word, every action can assist or sabotage one another’s capability to change. Harnessing that power is a method known as conscious communicating.

Conscious communicating is not a new concept. A prayer dating to France in 1912 and often credited to the 13th century St. Francis of Assissi serves as a great illustration of what conscious communication looks like in practice.

A Prayer for Peace

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.
O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Conscious communicating does not come instinctively; it comes intentionally. It takes practice. It takes energy. It takes thought. It takes commitment to elevate the status quo. Conscious communication is hard but it is not impossible and most importantly it can be incredibly fruitful.

Superman’s capacity for change should remind us that regardless of our positions, we are all capable of tremendous transformations.

Every day grants us hundreds, if not thousands, of opportunities—big and small—to cultivate an environment where one is capable of change. Every communication we make in this world is a renewed opportunity to consciously shine light where there is darkness and prioritize our ability to understand over being understood. Will we use our interactions to pull people in or push them away?

If you seek to change the hearts and minds of those around you, how will your actions today ensure they will be capable of meaningful change tomorrow?