A Walk With Cesar, A March For Change

   I was born in 1959, a child of the 60’s, the oldest born into a family of migrant farm workers that would end up with 3 girls and 3 boys.  We travelled all over California, but mainly worked in the San Joaquin Valley, which is in the heart of California.  It was in the summer of 1972 that I would meet the man who would forever change the ideas of who I was, and who I could be. His name was Cesar Chavez.

   Migrant farm work was difficult back then.  As a child, one never had the chance to make lifelong friends, or have a school to call their own.  The constant moving from field to field, crops to crops, were filled with back breaking days of work that would often start hours before the sun would rise.  The living conditions ranged from raggedy tents, to converted railroad boxcars.  There were no lunch breaks, no bathroom facilities, and no protection from the locals who found great sport in terrorizing, beating and robbing the farmworkers on paydays.

   That began to change, as a growing number of workers began to band together under the leadership and guidance of a man named Cesar Chavez.  Mr. Chavez came from a humble background.  A farmworker like us, he would look at you with eyes, filled with fire, which sparkled and danced.  Although soft-spoken, he could hold a crowd in the palm of his hand with just a whisper or make the trees shake with his speeches of change.  Mr. Chavez spoke of a better way of life, better working conditions, wages, and the

treatment of the farmworkers.  We believed, and so we followed, but this did not come without a price.

   Field and farm owners banded together with the local sheriffs to try to break this movement for change.  Often the locals, along with the law officers, would resort to violence against the farmworkers.  I can still remember going to the fields to work, surrounded by an angry mob as they shouted, “You wet-backs better learn your place!”  At times, fire hoses were turned against those who protested, police dogs were pitted against us if we refused to do as directed, but still we gathered to work for change.  Mr. Chavez called us to use non-violent protests against those who used violence against us.  I saw activists dragged from fields where they were beaten with boards, ax-handles or bats, and if lucky, arrested and thrown into police cars where they were taken to jail.  I would also see activists who had been beaten, and thrown into pick-up trucks, only to be found dead at the side of a deserted road.  No arrests were made, no investigations started, no one brought to justice for the crime of murder, just a crumpled, beaten pile of cloth, flesh and blood.

   I was 12 years old when I got involved with the farmworkers movement.  I had been working the fields for about 6 years, going to school when I could, but for the most part, still a farm worker, a “spic” or “wet-back” as the locals called us.  It was then that I was recruited into a group of activists, the UFW, the United Farmworkers Union who travelled from camp to camp.  They travelled from farm to farm in a flatbed truck that they would use as a stage to hold rallies, do skits and protest the treatment of the migrant worker.  It was at one of these stops that we learned of a march to be held from Fresno, to Selma, the heart of the grape growing community.  We had a lot to do, signs to make, people to organize, and supplies to gather.  At times, we struggled with the pace, but a fellow activist would remind us, “If you want to succeed, you must first believe.”  Pointing up to Mr. Chavez, the activist whispered, “And he believes!”  This helped us to focus our energy and strength to complete our tasks.

   On the morning of the march, I was one of three young men called to carry the UFW banner at the front of the march.  I was proud, but scared, my mouth so dry that I couldn’t even spit.  All morning long cars, trucks, busses and even on horseback, the people gathered for the march.  Some carried banners or signs; others were wrapped in the Mexican flag.  A few people carried statues of the Virgin Mary, and a few, a picture of Cesar Chavez.  Although the mood was upbeat, one couldn’t help but to feel the tension in the air.  In the distance, we could see the farmers, field owners, the locals and the police as they shouted; shaking their fists into the air, but it was the sounds of the barking dogs that scared me most.  Would they attack us as they had in marches past?  Would they beat us, set their dogs on us, would some of us disappear?  These thoughts raced through my head as we assembled for the march.  Looking around me, I saw several marchers kneeling around a local priest who offered words of encouragement and prayers for the marchers. While watching the activities going on around me, I sensed someone standing between me and the sun that had been warming my back.  It was Mr. Chavez; he just stood there, looking at the surrounding activities.  Finally, he spoke, “Do not be afraid, but be careful.  Do not show fear, but be proud, and remember…if you let them stop you now, you will let them stop you for the rest of your lives.” 

    With these words, Cesar Chavez stepped out, and we followed right behind him. We were heading towards the angry mob that awaited us, unsure of the outcome, but willing to march for what we believed in.  As we got within range of the fire hoses, we waited for the blast of cold, icy water, but nothing happened.  We marched on, now within range of flying rocks, bottles or worse, and still nothing happened.  Finally, we were within a few yards of the angry mob, dogs lunging at their leashes, people yelling, and shaking their fists at us, surely now something would happen, but still nothing.  The mob moved into the road, shouting racial epitaphs, shaking their fists at us as we marched, but they did not attack.  Rounding a bend in the road, we found out why we were spared.  Standing on the tops of cars, trucks and vans were the local news stations busily filming the marchers, but more importantly, filming the mob that filled the road ahead of us.  Several reporters joined the ranks of the marchers, as stationary cameras continued to roll.  The angry crowd parted to let us through, like the sea that parted for the Israelites, and like they, we walked through to the other side. 

   We made the 20+ miles march without any further incidents. Where we had started with about 75 marchers, we had found that our ranks had swelled into hundreds.  People joined us as we marched through the small towns, farms, and schools where they had assembled. Like small streams, they joined us, until we became a marching river of change.  I don’t remember the speeches, the music or the skits we performed, but I do remember the pride that I felt, not only for myself, but also for my people.  I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but that march helped to shape me into who I am today.  When someone tells me it can’t be done, I find a way.  When someone tells me that I won’t succeed, I keep on working at it, until I get through it, and when someone tells me I won’t, I show them that I can.  Since that day, I have never let anyone stop me to achieve goals I have set for myself, for who better than I, can know, not only my limits, but my strengths?