In a rural county dominated by Trump, one caucus organizer’s hopes for a new candidate are quickly dashed
“I’ll let my conscience pick the one that I admire most,” said Becker, 71, “and the one who has the qualities that best serve God and country.”
Becker, a born-again Christian, was not just voting in the caucus. He was helping to run it as a representative on the Chickasaw County Republican Central Committee, in service of a greater matter than any single vote — the machinery of democracy. In demeanor and sensibility, he was the portrait of a Republican voter from another era, a happy warrior, a believer in process and rigor.
He visibly delighted in the work.
Thirty minutes before the voting started, Becker clicked his pen excitedly as he directed caucus-goers at The Pub at the Pinicon, the brick-and-mahogony restaurant in New Hampton where several precincts in rural northeast Iowa were hosting their caucuses at once. He had wondered if turnout would be tamped down by the below-zero temperatures making this the coldest caucus night in Iowa history, and now he was reassured people were still coming.
“C’mon in, folks,” Becker said excitedly to a group of six that arrived. “Do you need to sign in? You’re in the right spot!”
Behind him, a table held campaign merchandise issued by various candidates; “SAVE TRUMP. VOTE VIVEK” read one T-shirt that featured the former president’s mug shot.
The caucus would begin promptly at 7 p.m., and with 15 minutes to go, David Laudner, another organizer, was still looking for caucus-goers to get up and talk about any candidate other than Trump.
“If you are interested in speaking for one of the candidates, come up to the front of the room,” Laudner told the crowd as more people arrived. “We don’t need any additional speakers for Trump.”
The former president loomed large over the Iowa election. Polling had shown him the clear favorite to win, and competitors like DeSantis and Ramaswamy and former U.N. ambassador Nikki Haley were largely seen as vying for second place. Trump’s ascent in national politics in 2016 had taken root in places like Chickasaw County, where the electorate had once supported Barack Obama with 60 percent of the vote. Trump flipped the largely rural county of 12,000 people, and by 2020 his support grew to 65 percent — cementing one of the biggest county-level political swings in the nation over the last decade. If Trump’s lead was large enough again Monday night in Chickasaw, it would deflate already tenuous claims by other candidates that they could capture the Republican nomination.
The chaos that swirled around the former president — 91 felony charges in four different criminal cases, efforts to overturn the 2020 election — had actually strengthened some voters’ views that he was being unfairly sabotaged by “deep state” forces.
The fact was, many voters liked Trump, and they liked the blunt way he talked about topics like immigration, including recent comments that undocumented immigrants were “poisoning the blood of our country.”
“We’ve got to get those people out of here,” said Katy Abbas, 72, as she pulled up a floral mask over her nose to avoid catching any illnesses. “Biden said they should be able to vote! They’re getting social security, and they’re bleeding this country dry.”
Brian Laures, 52, said he had been star-struck meeting the former president at an event in Mason City earlier in the month. Laures was enlisted as a caucus captain by the Trump campaign to recruit pledges to show up to vote for Trump on Election Day. He had contacted more than 50 people, he said, and passed out dozens of yard signs.
“The aura that man carries around is tremendous. He has absolute confidence,” he said. “I loved what he did with our country. You know, closing up our border, getting Black people working, lowest unemployment, everybody was working.”
“Is there anybody here who wants to speak on behalf of governor DeSantis or Nikki Haley?” Laudner was asking again as dozens of people filed into the banquet hall in the back of the restaurant, sounding a bit more desperate. “Governor DeSantis? Miss Haley? Anyone want to speak on behalf of those people?”
Behind him, one man walked by with a hat adorned with antiquated script.
“We The People,” it read, “are pissed off.”
Now it was 7 p.m. and about 160 people were seated together in neat rows of chairs, reciting the pledge of allegiance. They finished, and a man walked into the center of the room. His name was Anthony Harris, and he was a pastor at a local nondenominational church who had come up in the southern Baptist tradition.
“Hey everybody, if you would, if you’re able to, go ahead and keep standing while I say a prayer,” said Harris, who also referenced his service in the Army. “Let’s go to our heavenly father as we pray and seek discernment and affirmation through Him and Him alone as we select the man who will end up being our next president.”
Amen, everyone responded.
The representative speaking on behalf of Trump was up next.
It was Laures, the caucus captain.
“President Trump achieved more in four years than any president in modern history,” Laures told the room. “He built the greatest economy on record with no inflation, he stood up to China, ended NAFTA, delivered $28 billion to American farmers, and kept his promise to fight for Iowa ethanol. He gave us nearly 300 judges and three great Supreme Court justices, and did more for life than any president in history. He defended Christians from persecution.”
The representative for Ramaswamy stood up next — it was Harris.
“Some of you already are sitting saying, ‘this guy just opened us in prayer yet he’s gonna come up and promote a man who doesn’t even practice, can you believe it?’ ” he said, eliciting giggles, speaking to Ramaswamy’s Hindu faith. “Somebody point out to me what our constitution says. That this is the land of freedom of what?”
“Religion,” the group said.
“Religion,” Harris affirmed. “And a land with freedom of what? Speech.”
“There was a smart businessman that took office a while back that was taken advantage of in my opinion and been made a mockery of, his name was President Donald Trump, right?” Harris told them. “Well there’s another businessman who’s ready to grab hold of this nation and do things that Trump did and started to start but is going to do greater things if given the opportunity.”
Becker listened carefully.
“Do you care about what your kids learn in school? Well then, maybe you stop allowing people who have never worked in the education field to make decisions about what our kids are going to be told and thought,” Harris continued. “How about the fact that we have so many different options when it comes to gender and things like that? Is that what our nation needs? We don’t need confusion, we’ve had enough of it under president what’s-his-name.”
There were no speakers to deliver remarks on behalf of DeSantis or Haley, and so now Becker led the group of 52 voters to the back library on the far end of the pub, and then he led them through the little-known parliamentary business also conducted at caucuses. This part might seem banal to some, but to Becker, who began to volunteer for the party in 2020, this was the essential machinery that kept democracy churning, upon which the legitimacy of an election rested. The Chickasaw County Republican Central Committee, Becker saw clearly, were the foot soldiers at the grassroots that powered the party from the local level in this rural pub all the way to Washington.
Did any new participants want to attend the county conventions?
Did any new members want to join the county’s Republican central committee.
Uncomfortable silence filled the room, though Becker kept the process moving with cheer. Like a majority of Republican voters, he believed the 2020 election had been rigged as Trump insisted, despite no evidence of widespread fraud, and he found purpose in working to keep the 2024 election fair.
At last, the moment everyone had come for: “Now we’re here to do some real business. We’re going to conduct the presidential poll,” Becker told them. “We’re Republicans, so we only vote once! We are going to hand out these paper ballots, and we are going to count them in front of you.”
“You can’t send more in tomorrow! I think the other party is accepting them until Super Tuesday or something,” Becker said as caucus goers marked their preferences on paper ballots that would be carefully preserved for inspection in case of irregularities.
At the front of the room, Becker filled out his own ballot discretely — for Ramaswamy. He had helped make calls for DeSantis but in this moment he knew with certainty who he was called to support. In Ramaswamy, he saw something beyond politics. He saw humanity, and to Becker that was still something that mattered beyond raw power.
He knew that he would almost certainly be outvoted.
The counting took only a few minutes, and the results were in, just 45 minutes after the caucuses had begun.
The eventual nominee, Becker had already concluded, would be “the one that God wants.”
Yes, he believed that Trump had “lived a life that was questionable.” But he also believed that every person had the potential for redemption.
Perhaps Trump been redeemed by delivering his base of evangelical voters big victories on restricting abortion access.
But who was he to decide who had been redeemed?
Taking a risk on conscience was easier in a caucus than in a general election, when the binary of power scrambled such feelings. In November, Becker would support Trump almost without a doubt. He could never support a Democrat who advocated for abortion rights. It was that simple.
For now, as voters filtered out of the room, Becker carefully looked over the documents that would certify the election.
Becker signed the papers, putting Trump was one step closer to the White House.