From left to right: Emerging leader Jordan Mix, Marlú Abarca, Keenan Crow, Gregory Neal, Matthea Little Smith and ally Jill Bjorklund Writers: Micaela Cashman and Jody Gifford Photographer: Duane Tinkey Recognition is a powerful thing. To “recognize” someone can mean to identify or acknowledge something previously known, but it can also mean to validate. Whether it’s waving to a friend across the street or using someone’s preferred pronouns, everyday acts of recognition help build community. At dsm, we believe recognition has the power to inform, inspire and strengthen our community. In honoring this year’s LGBTQ Legacy Leaders, we’re shining a light on something we’ve long known: These honorees have helped countless people feel seen, welcomed and empowered to live authentically. They have validated others, advocated for their rights, spoken out when nobody else could and stepped up in innumerable ways. Some have always called Iowa home. Others have made it their own. All share a deep commitment to helping their communities and our state become more compassionate and more just. We’re proud to recognize our 2026 LGBTQ Legacy Leaders in the following pages. Their stories remind us that recognition isn’t simply about celebrating what they’ve accomplished; it’s about honoring the paths they’ve forged, the lives they’ve changed and the future they’re helping create. We’ll honor them in person during our annual awards ceremony on Sept. 10 at the Krause Gateway Center. If you’re interested in celebrating with us, click here for details and tickets. Jordan Mix (they/them) Emerging Leader: Jordan Mix Jordan Mix, the education director at Iowa Safe Schools, has been leading statewide efforts to advance safety, belonging and equity for LGBTQ young people since 2020. The job has become more challenging over the years as Iowa’s political landscape has changed. In 2025, for example, the governor signed a bill to remove gender identity as a protected class under the Iowa Civil Rights Act. But challenges like this fuel Mix’s passion. “I believe in the goodness of people so deeply,” they said. “I’m driven by trying to make the world a little bit kinder.” A lifelong advocate for equal rights, Mix started their high school’s first gay/straight alliance in 2009 and was president of Drake University’s Rainbow Union, which helped shape the school’s transgender inclusion statement and helped establish the first all-gender restroom on campus. At Iowa Safe Schools, Mix designs and implements LGBTQ-inclusive curricula and trains students, educators and community stakeholders across Iowa. Mix also serves on the board of the Iowa Trans Mutual Aid Fund and helped it evolve into an independent nonprofit. Mix said the law that trimmed the Iowa Civil Rights Act created a “chilling effect” on their efforts to get curricula into schools as educators and administrators navigate concerns over protecting their staff. “Students are noticing,” Mix said. “It is a really tough time for a lot of LGBTQ youth in Iowa. But we’re aware of how tenacious our students are. They’re not willing to fade into the background.” Mix’s new approach to advocacy? Get creative. They’re working with individual educators throughout the state on plans to move forward. They’re focusing their energy at the community level and are seeing others starting to do the same. “Faith communities are going through training with us, public libraries want to offer safe gathering spaces, and therapists are talking to us about creating more places for LGBTQ youth to congregate,” they said. Mix also works with families, providing counseling and resources about gender identity, including “Breathe, Learn, Act,” a toolkit for parents of transgender youth. Mix curated it for MyKidIsGay.com, and it enables parents to engage with the content on their own terms, as an always-present, ever-ready support system to help families create affirming households. “Jordan gave us hope,” said Megan Jones, a licensed social worker and parent of an LGBTQ child. “As two cisgendered parents in a small, rural community, trans representation can be difficult to find. By simply being themselves and opening up their life to us, [Mix] gave us a vision of what is possible for our child as they grow into adulthood.” Even though negative perceptions about queer people still persist in the Midwest, Mix said they derive hope from watching students continue to show up, talk to their legislators and sit in on school board meetings to advocate for themselves. “My dream for the students we work with is that they are able to find themselves, trust themselves, believe in themselves and achieve the future they want for themselves,” Mix said. And they want them to be able to do that in Iowa. “Iowa is very much my home. I see so much beauty and potential in it,” Mix said. “I want our students to be able to see themselves here long-term. I believe in creating an Iowa that LGBTQ people feel is theirs, too.” — Micaela Cashman Distinctions “For Impact” Leader, named by the Community Foundation of Greater Des Moines, 2026 Board member, Iowa Trans Mutual Aid Fund Member, Iowa LGBTQ Chamber of Commerce Co-founder, Current Coffee Iowan of the Week, named by former U.S. Rep. Cindy Axne, 2022 “From creating spaces for queer youth … to educating communities in Iowa about the needs of transgender youth with clarity, patience and brilliance, Jordan’s specific work has continued to evolve over the past decade. But its core has remained the same: a deep commitment to equity, collaboration and sustained cultural change.” —  Jennifer Harvey, vice president for academic affairs at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary and former professor at Drake University Marlú Abarca (they/she) Marlú Abarca Marlú Abarca can sum up one of their goals in just a few words: “I want to be a menace to white supremacy everywhere.” The Los Angeles native was drawn to Grinnell College in 2010 because of its long history of student-led social justice movements and Iowa’s historic legacy as a leader in civil rights. Born to Mexican parents who are now U.S. citizens, Abarca never took for granted the right to vote. But they wanted to become civically engaged beyond just voting every few years. “You get to be part of grassroots movements here,” Abarca said. “It’s cool to meet candidates, ask questions and learn about their platforms in a way that wasn’t accessible to me in California.” Abarca stayed in Iowa after college, working as an AmeriCorps VISTA member and developing LGBTQ programming with the Des Moines Public Library. Later, they fought fraud against elderly people as a caseworker with the Senior Health Insurance Information Program. Outside of work, Abarca started the state’s first bilingual Girl Scout troop, ran for the Des Moines City Council, served as board president of Al Éxito, graduated from the Latina Leadership Initiative and has led the Iowa Queer Communities of Color Coalition. They’re also an accomplished artist and aspiring horror novelist. Abarca’s extensive community involvement is driven by a dedication to amplify voices in marginalized populations and a desire to leave Iowa better than they found it. Since state and federal governments have rolled back diversity, equity and inclusion programs and related funding, Abarca has focused on movements that highlight intersectionality. It’s work that comes with plenty of hardships and disappointments. “I get tired,” they said. “Every time I speak up, I’m terrified. Not that someone will become violent with me, but that I will be the only one. That loneliness is so painful. It messes with your hopefulness.” Abarca says their loneliness is compounded by the bystander effect, the tendency for people to assume someone else will step in and respond to a problem, and by a social climate in which LGBTQ issues tend to focus on white gay men. “It feels like I’m screaming into a void,” they said. “All the harmful, violent, somehow perfectly legal things happening around us — you’re thinking surely someone will do something about it. Nine times out of 10, no one says anything. I don’t hear my white queer peers talking about issues that don’t directly impact them. So if you don’t have a visual reminder, I can be your audible reminder that we have to prioritize and honor intersectionality.” So what can white people do to help? Abarca has a few ideas. “I need you to make your family members mad at Thanksgiving. I need you to talk to your racist uncle or your homophobic grandma and say something that makes them mad,” they said. “That’s how people grow: when you challenge their beliefs. That’s going to go further than me, as a person of color, screaming at them.” In 2021, Abarca turned their passion into a consulting business, Growing Iowa, which provides DEI training to nonprofits and small businesses. The goal is to challenge workplaces to be more accessible, reach new populations and meet people where they are with respect. The name comes from Abarca’s hope that their lessons will spread. “I want to know that I’m not alone, that there are other people planting seeds or watering the seeds that I’ve planted,” they said. They are currently working with One Iowa to translate training materials into multiple languages and said projects like that are what keep their hope alive. As Abarca looks to the future, they feel a new sense of momentum to build on the progress they’ve made so far. “This is a legacy award, and I turn 34 in a few weeks,” they said. “So many people don’t get to have their flowers while they’re alive. Feeling like you’re making a difference is really important for the movement. It’s helped keep me going.” — Micaela Cashman Distinctions Inductee, Iowa Latino Hall of Fame, 2022 Graduate, Latina Leadership Initiative, 2016 Member, Iowa Commission of Latino Affairs Mentor, One Iowa Leadership Institute “Marlú taught me how to budget by going through three months of my finances for free. They taught me how to put air in my tires one cold night after a karaoke event at Ritual Cafe. They taught me how to make tomato soup. They taught me how to dance. They remember details. They remember people even if it was for one event or one moment. Everywhere I’ve gone with Marlú, somebody knew them, somebody hugged them.” — Teri Underhill, musician and Abarca’s former mentee in the One Iowa Leadership Institute Keenan Crow (they/them) Keenan Crow Keenan Crow has served as the director of policy and advocacy for One Iowa and One Iowa Action for 13 years. During that tenure, the state’s LGBTQ political landscape has shifted from a peak of progress to what Crow describes as “the upside down.” As One Iowa’s first lobbyist and primary spokesperson, they navigate the gray areas of legislative policy and community building. Crow joined One Iowa as a community outreach coordinator in 2013, when Iowa was marking significant milestones for equality. The federal Defense of Marriage Act had just fallen, and Iowa was a leader in marriage equality and anti-discrimination protections under the Affordable Care Act. Crow recalled an “invigorating and exciting” time when progress felt unstoppable. “It really felt like the momentum was there, and there was nothing that could stop us,” they said. One of Crow’s proudest professional achievements was the decriminalization of HIV, which involved reforming a statute that criminalized nondisclosure regardless of transmissibility or precautions. This passed through a unanimous vote that Crow said represented a time when the legislative process benefited from genuine discussion and evidence. In recent years, Crow has witnessed a significant backslide in Iowa’s progress, including the removal of civil rights protections for transgender Iowans and the passage of a foster care bill Crow describes as “extremely damaging” to LGBTQ youth. Crow says the legislative process is broken, reducing the work of subcommittees to “checking a box” rather than seeking real feedback. “We are now legislating by meme, rather than actually consulting the research and evidence,” they said. “The process is just atrocious at this point. … People are doing some of these steps just so they can get to their goal, not in the interest of actually listening to anybody along the way.” Even so, Crow maintains their motivation by focusing on “thinking like a lobbyist.” This means moving away from macro-level problems and instead finding opportunities to build microlevel change in local spaces, such as workplaces and faith communities. As they put it, “What I’m typically trying to suss out is not necessarily a grand vision for the future, but ways that we can make some sort of positive improvement.” Crow’s personal identity has evolved alongside their professional responsibilities, too. Though they’ve been a leader in the community for over a decade, they were already several years into the role when they realized they were agender, meaning they don’t identify with any gender. “I had just kind of assumed that everybody was just pretending [to be male or female] in the same way that I was pretending.” Late-night philosophical conversations with transgender friends helped Crow realize that many people experience gender as a core part of who they are, while Crow simply did not. This realization wasn’t dramatic, they said, but it informed their leadership style to focus on authenticity. “I live in all the gray areas of life,” Crow said. “So I encourage others to seek out those gray areas and try to figure out why they don’t feel comfortable there.” Crow encourages the next generation of leaders to secure small wins to build momentum and community rather than being paralyzed by the sheer volume of work to be done. To stay motivated, Crow cultivates queer joy through several hobbies. Crow plays in the band Arias and runs a small home recording studio, helping other local queer and trans artists record their music. They enjoy backpacking and have also recently taken up woodworking. Ultimately, Crow sees the LGBTQ community as a bastion of “radical freedom.” They believe the community offers a unique space where variation and authenticity are celebrated rather than merely tolerated. This sense of freedom — to dress, talk and express oneself without judgment — is what Crow finds most inspiring. In a challenging political climate, Crow asserts that community is the only productive response. “The authoritarianism, the censorship … it is just what it is, the polar opposite of community,” Crow said. “The only way that we push back against that is by supporting one another and taking action collectively.” — Jody Gifford Distinctions Developer of the One Iowa Safe Zone program, which has trained thousands of Iowans in education, healthcare, government agencies and other sectors to reduce stigma against the LGBTQ community. First nonbinary person to moderate a presidential forum, 2019. Recipient of the Partner Award from the Interfaith Alliance of Iowa and the Impact Through Advocacy Award from the Iowa Environmental Council, both in 2023. “Keenan demonstrates exceptional public leadership, serves as a role model to others in the field and contributes to a more inclusive and equitable Iowa. Their work is not only impactful in the moment but also helps build a stronger, more resilient advocacy infrastructure for the future.” — Bethany Snyder, board chair, One Iowa Action Gregory Neal (he/him) Gregory Neal Gregory Neal knew he was gay by the age of 10. But growing up in a conservative Christian family in 1980s Texas meant he stayed in the closet — until his parents caught him with his boyfriend when he was 15. He was sent to conversion therapy, which he continued through high school. In the program, led by Exodus International, he was told in no uncertain terms that God hated gay people. But he didn’t believe it. “I deeply questioned the God that was being taught to me. I denied that God,” he said. “Part of my desire to study religion in college orbited around the sense that what I’d been told was a lie.” In Neal’s quest to refute what he’d been taught about God, the Bible and being gay, he found himself called to a ministry where he could speak out against what he calls “bigotries in Western Christian religious perspectives.” He chose the United Methodist Church, which was not an affirming denomination at the time but allowed gay clergy to serve if they remained celibate. Neal stayed closeted, ministering in Texas for 30 years at congregations that were conservative, progressive and everything in between. Then he fell in love. He came out and was accepted by his congregation and denominational superiors. But when he and his partner decided to get married, someone filed a complaint and Neal was suspended from the church. He had two options: transfer or face a trial. “It just so happened a church was available in Iowa,” he said. “The UMC denominational leadership was affirming, and it’s been wonderful to be myself and be engaged in ministry without having to look over my shoulder.” As senior pastor at Grace United Methodist Church on Cottage Grove Avenue, he preaches messages of tolerance, acceptance and love toward all. He leads spiritual retreats, revivals, classes and study seminars. He is the founding chair of the Iowa Conference’s LGBTQIA+ Full Inclusion Committee, an advocacy group that has built on denomination-wide efforts to remove bans against LGBTQ clergy and same-sex marriages. “There is such an understandable disconnect between LGTBQ people and religious communities,” he said. “Yet it is absolutely possible to be queer and Christian or queer and a person of belief, faith or spirituality. There’s nothing anywhere in any interpretation of the gospel of Jesus Christ that says one can’t be queer and Christian at the same time. That’s the message I proclaim and try to live.” Neal said the challenges he faces in his work today aren’t about being open and affirming. They’re about what’s happening at the State Capitol and the White House. “So many people are hurting and afraid,” he said. “I sit and listen to people who claim to be Christians saying the most noxious things I’ve ever heard. We cannot succumb to hate, but at the same time, I need to address those who are taking the faith that I have and claim to affirm the same God I worship, and yet they pervert the message. Christian nationalism is hideous, and I confront that daily.” Neal and Grace United Methodist Church have developed policies to help protect trans people’s information and identities. He encourages his congregation to attend protests and speak out against discriminatory legislation. “People of faith need to get into good trouble,” he said. “I hope people realize we have greater power than we realize. If only we will act, we’ll live up to our best ideals as a community.” Sharing his story is Neal’s way of speaking out. He’s a sought-after speaker, and his memoir, “Suspended Grace: A Queer Pastor’s Journey,” will be released Nov. 17. He said he hopes his work will help more churches become open and affirming. “I’m seeing a lot less fear of getting in trouble for speaking out and a lot more standing up and speaking out,” he said. “I see more Christians who are saying, ‘No, this exclusionary hate message is not what we believe. We will not allow you to speak it in our name. We will not allow the far right to co-opt our faith.’” — Micaela Cashman Distinctions Founding chair, Iowa Conference of the United Methodist Church’s LGBTQIA+ Full Inclusion Committee Participating minister, PrideFest’s annual ecumenical worship service Member, Des Moines Gay Men’s Chorus First United Methodist associate, Society of St. John the Evangelist “Each week from the pulpit, he passionately preaches messages of tolerance, acceptance and love toward all at a time when there is so much hate and divisiveness in society. He’s a smart guy. He’s courageous — a bold leader in a global denomination that until the past year or two forbade same-sex marriage and ousted outwardly gay or lesbian pastors.” — Dave Busiek, member of Grace United Methodist Church and former news director at KCCI-TV Matthea Little Smith (she/her) Matthea Little Smith Matthea Little Smith describes herself as a retired volunteer and contractor, but she defies easy categorization. She’s spent a lifetime advocating for those without a voice. Originally from Minneapolis, Smith moved to Des Moines 15 years ago to support her daughter, who is on the autism spectrum. Since then, Smith has become a fixture in the activist community, working with state and local chapters of the NAACP, National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) and Iowa Citizens for Community Involvement, to name just a few. Even before coming to Des Moines, Smith’s list of accomplishments was long. She managed the campaign for the first African American woman elected to the Minnesota House of Representatives, worked as the first director of African American outreach for NAMI Minnesota and served three times as a national delegate for Minnesota’s DFL Executive Committee. After Hurricane Katrina in 2005, she pioneered a first-of-its-kind program that combined disaster relief and social case management to help evacuees rebuild their lives in Minneapolis. The program successfully connected nearly 95% of participants to critical resources. But Smith doesn’t boast about her resume. In fact, she jokes that her role as the oldest of five siblings likely paved her path to becoming an advocate and leader. As she put it, “I’m the oldest. That’s why I’m bossy.” Still, she has employed her leadership skills to a staggering level of community involvement. At one point, she served on 14 different boards while raising eight children. “My poor babies,” she said. “I would bring blankets, and they would lie down in the back of the room while we were having conference committees, because sometimes those would go until 1 in the morning.” Smith’s personal journey is as remarkable as her public one. She didn’t come out as a lesbian until she was 38 years old. Working at a battered women’s shelter at the time, she sought advice from a friend about her identity and her fear of rejection. She vividly remembers the liberating advice she received. “My friend said, ‘Matthea, people hate you in the first place, so who cares?’” Smith recalled. “And I said, ‘You know what? You’re right. I’m too old to care.’ I don’t want to say bad words, but I don’t give a shit. I am what I am.” Her family life reflects this authenticity. Smith has two lesbian daughters and a gay son, an occurrence she jokingly attributes to genetics. Her parenting style is characterized by a blend of support and humor. When her youngest daughter, Sylvia — now a public defender and Harvard instructor — came out, Smith admitted to betting $50 on which parent her daughter would tell first. Rather than offering a sentimental speech, Matthea’s first reaction was down to earth: “Hey, I won the bet.” In Des Moines, Matthea focuses on supporting mental health and racial justice. She has been instrumental in efforts to end racial profiling and facilitates various support groups, including some for the LGBTQ community. She is known for her direct approach, contrasting herself with other leaders. “I’m kind of in your face,” she admitted. “I don’t think you would call me diplomatic. I’m just kind of out there.” Despite her personal confidence, she worries about Iowa’s current political climate, describing recent legislative changes and book bans as dangerous for the LGBTQ community. She advises the next generation of queer leaders to balance safety and confidence. “It’s smart to come out, [and] to not to come out sometimes, because it’s not always safe to do so,” she said. Ultimately, Smith’s life is defined by relationships. She remains active in The Girls Club, a group of lesbians who gather for dinners and holidays to ensure no one is isolated. Reflecting on her identity, she shared this powerful affirmation. “I love being queer, I really do,” she concluded. “Queer joy kind of defines who I am as a person.” — Jody Gifford Distinctions Volunteer of the Year, YMCA MLK Prayer Breakfast, 2024 Board member, Oakridge Neighborhood Volunteer, National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) in Iowa Member and mental health ministry leader, Corinthian Baptist Church Peer support specialist and Technology of Participation (ToP) facilitator, Institute of Cultural Affairs “Matthea did not just identify a gap, she bridged it. Her work has opened doors for meaningful conversations about mental health and LGBTQ identity in spaces where those conversations haven’t always been easy. She brings both professionalism and heart to every space she enters, and her calm presence and dry wit help encourage people to share more openly during group meetings.” — Ryan Crane, executive director, NAMI Iowa Jill Bjorklund (she/her) Ally: Jill Bjorklund Jill Bjorklund is many things to her community: a mother of three, a dedicated choir director at Southview Middle School in Ankeny and a beacon of hope for Iowa’s LGBTQ community. For her, advocacy is not a peripheral activity; it is a “personal, necessary and nonnegotiable” extension of her life as a parent and educator. Her journey illustrates the transformative power of a mother’s love into a statewide movement for inclusion. The catalyst for Bjorklund’s activism is her daughter, Lily, who transitioned at age 5. Although she did not initially know the word “transgender,” Lily consistently and repeatedly told her parents she was a girl. Bjorklund said Lily’s transition was a natural and gradual “revealing” of her true self, first marked by visual milestones that included wearing girly socks and experimenting with braids and bows while growing out her hair. A pivotal moment occurred when Lily first wore her favorite rainbow unicorn nightgown. “She put it on and pranced around the living room and shouted, ‘I’m free, I’m free, I’m free!’ in a way we couldn’t understand but just witnessed with our own eyes,” Bjorklund recalled. “We just followed her lead and did what she was comfortable with. It was just like any other thing in life when you watch a kid come into their identity.” Lily’s influence has extended into the halls of the State Capitol, where Bjorklund has spoken out against legislation that restricts gender-affirming care or tries to marginalize trans students. She has spoken publicly about the impact on her family being so visible, including the “dark cloud” of having to consider leaving Iowa to ensure her daughter’s safety and healthcare. Despite the personal toll, Bjorklund remains committed to stay in Iowa for the many families and children who do not have the resources to leave. “We made that calculated risk to be very out and public, and my daughter knows that even if she didn’t see the change, she was still speaking up for people who didn’t have a voice,” Bjorklund said. “We shouldn’t have to run and chase freedom elsewhere. Trans individuals shouldn’t have different rights when they cross a border.” Bjorklund’s advocacy is also deeply rooted in her professional life as an educator. As a teacher of eighth- and ninth-graders, she sees firsthand the challenges queer students face in schools. Her commitment to them faced a public trial in 2022 when the Ankeny Community School District disciplined her and two colleagues after a student-organized drag show. Rather than backing down, Bjorklund filed a federal lawsuit against the district, alleging violations of her First Amendment rights. The case is still active, serving as a testament, she said, to her refusal to be “gagged” for supporting her students’ authenticity. “I would never say it’s not worth it to show up for them,” she said. “If it means one more affirming voice, we’ll keep showing up. We’ll keep fighting.” Realizing there was also a lack of family-centered, affirming spaces in her suburban community, Bjorklund and her friend Jenn Clayton co-founded Ankeny Pride in 2022. What they initially worried might be only a small neighborhood gathering has flourished into a robust organization that hosts an annual festival with dozens of vendors, provides scholarships for LGBTQ students and offers year-round social programming. “For many in this community, Ankeny Pride is the only family they have,” Bjorklund said. “We thought it’d be like a little barbecue in the backyard, and no one would show up. But our town was overwhelmingly ready. People are just so happy you exist, they’re just so happy to have a safe space.” Central to Bjorklund’s resilience is her faith and a philosophy of “being the bridge.” She is an active member of a church that is “reconciling in Christ,” which she credits as her daughter’s first truly safe space outside of their home. She uses her background to navigate difficult conversations across ideological divides, seeking common ground without compromising her convictions. She believes that the courage to be oneself — “telling the truth when the whole world wants you to lie,” she said — is a lesson everyone can learn from trans youth. In her nomination to be an LGBTQ Legacy Leader, someone who works with Bjorklund through Iowa Safe Schools wrote that she “keeps going even when she is tired because she knows lives are at stake.” Through her leadership in and outside of the classroom, Bjorklund is building an Iowa where every child can safely be themselves. — Jody Gifford Distinctions Co-founder and president, Ankeny Pride Board member, Iowa Safe Schools Ally of the Year, Capital City Pride, 2025 “Open Book” speaker, CultureALL and Humanities Iowa “Jill has been a member of our board of directors since 2025, and her work reflects the same qualities that characterize her broader advocacy. She is practical, courageous, deeply empathetic and relentlessly committed to building a just Iowa for LGBTQ+ youth.” — Zach Rus, executive director, Iowa Safe Schools ...read more read less