The Crusades of Cesar Chavez

by Miriam Pawel

  Chavez’s incarceration quickly exposed a national audience to the ugly fissures that split Salinas. As in so many communities that revolved around agriculture, the farm worker movement posed both an economic threat and a challenge to the social order. Mexican farmworkers were suddenly visible, empowered, and making demands on a system whose Anglo leaders had relegated them to the lowest possible status. Farmworkers wanted not only better working conditions and pay; they wanted health care, education for their children, dignity, and respect. As Chavez had declared on the Today show: “These workers are all brown and black workers27 and they want our union. They don’t want to be led by white men who don’t understand their needs.”

  On Chavez’s third night in jail, Robert F. Kennedy’s widow, Ethel, arrived for a visit and rally. Hundreds of angry Salinas residents turned out to protest, waving American flags and signs that read carpet bagger and kennedy go home. Ethel Kennedy marched28 in a candlelight procession down Alisal Street to the shrine across the street from the jail, where thousands of farmworkers gathered to celebrate mass. They sang “De Colores,” the movement’s unofficial anthem, to drown out the rhythmic chants from the crowd: “Reds go home, reds go home.”

  Kennedy placed a candle on the altar and climbed on the flatbed truck, adorned with a Mexican flag, a huelga flag, and four American flags, one at each corner. The Rev. James McEntee celebrated mass, lit only by the spotlights from a dozen television cameras. “We are here today to seek justice for the campesino,” the priest prayed, and the crowd across the street booed loudly. “We are here to seek justice for all mankind. We are here to ask prayers, the help of God, for our leader Cesar Chavez.” The farmworkers’ applause drowned out the protests, and workers lined up to take communion at the base of the truck.

  Kennedy held a candle and smiled grimly as she walked toward the jail, accompanied by Huerta and Olympic decathlon champion Rafer Johnson. The farmworkers sang “Bendito Sea Dios,” a Mexican hymn, and the chants along her path changed to “Ethel go home, Ethel go home.” Boos echoed off the concrete walls of the courthouse as she entered the jail around 7:15 p.m. After a ten-minute visit, she left through a back door to avoid the gauntlet of protesters. Cohen visited Chavez later and reported that he was pleased by the account of the scene outside. “He’s going to be in there as long as it takes,” Cohen said. “He’s feeling fine. He’s perfectly happy in there and he thinks he can continue.” When reporters pressed Cohen on how soon the courts might spring his client, the lawyer could barely stifle a grin. Chavez wanted to stay right where he was.

  With Chavez in the national news, the boycotters went to work. A quote of dubious origin, attributed to Chavez as he was taken to jail, became the new mantra: “Boycott Antle, boycott Dow, boycott the hell out of them!” Jessica Govea worked as a boycott coordinator and sent daily updates to cities around the United States. A Dow executive sat on the Antle board, and years earlier Dow had produced cellophane wrappers for the Antle lettuce; that was enough for the boycotters to invoke the much-maligned company as they urged consumers to avoid Bud Antle lettuce.

  Chavez’s willingness to endure imprisonment on their behalf moved even workers who had been cautious about the movement. Chava Bustamante worked in the lettuce fields, hating every minute. Their father had taken Chava and his older brother Mario to a union meeting when Chavez first came to Salinas. The other two had been enthusiastic converts, but Chava had been skeptical. Seeing Chavez in jail won him over. “Our hearts at this moment are heavy and full of sadness to see the injustice that has been done to you by a judge who does not understand the cause of the workers,” read a December 8 petition signed by dozens of farmworkers. “We know that no matter how many obstacles they try to put in your path, they will not be able to find a way of stopping your fight for justice and respect for all of us, we who have suffered so much in the camps of exploitation. Cesar, we want you to know in these moments of suffering, our hearts are with you, and that our faith is so great, we are firm in our conviction that you will triumph once again for the good of the workers. We are with you till the end.”29

  Letters to Chavez30 poured into jail and the union office from celebrities, friends, and strangers. Good wishes arrived from U.S. Reps. Phil Burton and Edward Roybal, old CSO friends, the Rev. Ralph Abernathy, the Sisters of St. Joseph, and housewives in Kalamazoo, Michigan. “Dear Cesar, you don’t know us but we feel like you are one of our oldest and dearest friends,” began one missive.

  Carder emerged from his daily visits with messages and requests for books. Chavez also passed along small favors for inmates he had befriended. A few days after he was jailed, Chavez handed Carder a note from another prisoner: “Mr. Chavez, would it be possible for one of your friends to get me just one hearing aid battery?31 I am without any funds. It would cost .52c and give me hearing for 10 days.” Carder bought the battery and kept the note.

  On the second Saturday, eighty-nine people visited the jailed leader. On the third Saturday, supporters found out Coretta Scott King was in San Francisco and invited her to Salinas. “I expressed to him the fact that my husband had great admiration32 for him, and he said that my husband had been an example for him and to all of his people,” King said after her jailhouse visit.

  King joined union leaders for dinner at nearby Rosita’s Armory Cafe, their favorite hangout. They returned for an evening rally at the parking lot shrine, where workers maintained a constant vigil even as temperatures dropped to near freezing. In a black fur coat and leather gloves, King stood on the flatbed truck as she addressed the large crowd. “For more than 30 years farmworkers were thought to be unorganizable and so powerless they could not demand and achieve security and dignity,” King said, as Huerta translated into Spanish. “But Cesar Chavez challenged the tyrants, organized the working poor, and became a threat. So they jailed him.” She paused for the long and loud applause. “But as my husband often said, you cannot keep truth in jail. Truth and justice leap barriers and in their own way reach the conscience of people.”

  “Cesar Chavez is not an accident. He is a genius of his people, and their union, the farmworkers union, is a hero union . . . You are demanding your place in the halls of men. You are saying, there are no lowly people, there are only people who are forced down.”

  Helen wrote Cesar33 regularly. She fretted about his back pains and whether his clothes kept him warm. She passed on news: so many people took out loans before Christmas that the credit union was broke; the cold, wet weather had stranded two of their children overnight in Los Angeles when snow closed the Grapevine pass, which connected the city with the San Joaquin Valley; and his “poochies,” Boycott and Huelga, missed him. She wrote wistfully about their brief visits, cut short to make time for dozens of others waiting to see Chavez. “You know Honey when Sat. approaches I am all excited and glad to go see you but when I have to leave you behind it’s really hard,” she wrote. “I sure wish I could visit with you in the morning and afternoon after all it’s only once a week. Well I guess this is part of the sacrifices.”

  Helen’s last letter was dated December 22:

  The kids are out of school for two weeks, Christmas vacation. I don’t know what else to tell you about here, you probably know more of what’s happening than we do. People in other places know more about what is happening then us. But that has always happened here. Well my love, hope you are fine and your back isn’t giving you much trouble. Marion [Moses] told me that you were having some pain. Take care and we are praying so that you will be home soon. The kids all send their love, your poochies too. And me as always.

  The next day, the California Supreme Court voted 6–1 to dissolve key parts of the injunction and ordered Chavez released from jail. The crowd outside the Salinas jail swelled in anticipation. At 7:30 p.m. Marshall Ganz announced that the sheriff would not free Chavez without a copy of the order. At 10:10 two union volunteers arrived from San Francisco and hand-delivered the high court’s ruling. Chavez emerged from the jail fifteen m
inutes later, in the same clothes he had worn ten days earlier but with considerably longer hair. “Jails are made for men who fight for their rights. My spirit was never in jail,”34 Chavez told the crowd. “They can jail us, but never the cause. I’m well and fit, and I was treated very kindly by the deputy sheriffs . . . I made a lot of friends inside.” He said the jail was badly lit, cold, damp, and leaky—much like a labor camp. He expressed gratitude for the visits of Kennedy and King and the outpouring of well-wishers. “But no matter how much support you have outside, a jail is still a jail.”

  Christmas Eve was only a few hours away. “It will soon be 2,000 years ago that the prince of peace was born and brought to this world the message that blessed are those who struggle for justice,” Chavez said. “It seems to me that those words say, if you are fighting for justice, he’ll be with you. I’m happy to be with you.”

  “And us with you,” the crowd responded. Chavez drove home to spend Christmas in Delano.

  Chapter 20

  Nuestra Señora Reina de La Paz

  We’ll organize workers in this movement as long as we’re willing to sacrifice. The moment we stop sacrificing, we stop organizing. I guarantee it . . . We’re not going to do it by paying wages.

  Far from the Salinas picket lines and the Delano vineyards, Chavez was fashioning an isolated compound in the foothills of the Tehachapi Mountains into the improbable heart of the farm worker movement and a special sanctuary for its leader.

  The detailed blueprints for a walled-in oasis at Forty Acres in Delano had long ago been scrapped, replaced by utilitarian plans. The grape contracts increased traffic to the headquarters exponentially. Hundreds of workers sought jobs, argued over seniority, and filed grievances. The medical clinic averaged seventy visits1 a day. From around the world, farmworkers and dignitaries showed up seeking an audience with Chavez. He wanted a more remote setting, free from daily demands, where he might experiment with ideas about education and communal living.

  In a conversation during his 1968 fast, Chavez had discussed his ideas about an educational center with Ed Lewis, a wealthy Hollywood movie producer. Chavez was interested in cooperatives, and he questioned Lewis2 about Israeli kibbutzim. Lewis offered to help finance a purchase if Chavez found a suitable retreat. Two years later, LeRoy Chatfield saw a flyer advertising a county auction for an abandoned tuberculosis sanatorium thirty miles east of Bakersfield. He called Lewis. The producer toured the 180-acre parcel with Richard Chavez disguised as a chauffeur, so that the carpenter could secretly get a firsthand look at the property. Lewis bought the parcel3 from Kern County on April 3, 1970, for $208,350. No one knew he was fronting for the farmworkers union, and an uproar ensued when the news broke.

  Chavez named the complex with care.4 He wanted a moniker with religious meaning that also conveyed his aspirations for a peaceful movement. He christened the site Nuestra Señora Reina de la Paz, or Our Lady Queen of Peace. The property quickly became known simply as La Paz.

  Chavez envisioned a retreat center for workers, staff, and above all himself. To begin the process of transforming La Paz, he turned to Kathy Lynch, the former Berkeley student, and her husband, Lupe Murguia, a farmworker on the payroll of the Migrant Ministry. The Murguias happily became the first residents of La Paz. Lupe learned to operate the boiler, plumbing, and sewage treatment plant, while Kathy figured out how to furnish the accommodations. The property contained a half dozen small houses, two large hospital buildings, and assorted smaller structures. Richard Chavez, an experienced carpenter, worked on the dilapidated buildings. Kathy compiled lists of items5 they needed and circulated requests among supporters: 240 sheets, 60 mattresses and covers, 100 blankets, 400 towels, 200 pillows, commercial washer and dryer, commercial heater, commercial floor buffer, D-6 tractor, jeep, chain saw, large coffeemaker, white latex and enamel paint.

  Chavez wanted to bring farmworkers to La Paz for intensive three-day retreats modeled on the religious cursillo. Literally a “short course,” the cursillo was a strict, immersion program for lay Catholics based on a movement that had originated in Spain and become popular in the United States. Chavez met with Hartmire to sketch out ideas for farmworker retreats. As always, Chavez had big plans,6 and his enthusiasm was infectious. The sessions should be inspirational and fun, Chavez explained, with time set aside to learn movement songs and to act out skits. Activities should involve the whole family, especially children. He wanted to videotape the role-playing and show the videos at night. “Information must be presented in such a way that it comes to life,” he told Hartmire. Lessons should be short on theory and long on examples. He wanted equipment for simultaneous translation, like at the United Nations. He estimated the educational program would cost $5,000 a month.

  “Educated” had been a pejorative word for Chavez since his days in the CSO. Now he wanted to redefine and transform education into a force that suited his purpose. He wanted to rip up the CSO equation—educated equals middle class—and turn education into an appreciation of sacrifice. “In other words, instead of being all that competitive, instead of being all that worried about the new house, the new car, the new clothes and all those things, to sort of talk to them about the other things that are important,” he explained to a group of students. “Things like concern for people who suffer. Concern for people who are discriminated against. Concern for social justice. These kind of things that are really important in life. And not the other stuff. So we call that education:7 learn how to be people.”

  He was unsure where to start. He rejected education programs run by other unions. He knew what he did not want to teach: reading, writing, Robert’s Rules of Order. Then, from the militant lechugueros in Salinas, Chavez found inspiration.

  A group of active union members at Interharvest had missed work to attend a UFW rally in Sacramento, and the company had fired one of the leaders for the unexcused three-day absence. The workers responded with la tortuga (the turtle), a slowdown. They worked so slowly they cut production to 20 percent of normal. They were willing to sacrifice earnings to establish a principle: the union contract meant something more than a set of rules and regulations. The union meant power, and the contract meant they would no longer be treated like second-class citizens. Frustrated company officials complained and filed grievances, but finally gave in to the workers’ demands. Chavez was thrilled. He vowed to replicate the model he called “Ranch Nation,” which would teach the value and power of sacrifice.

  “If the workers are not liberated,8 they don’t have the power, they’re not equipped to learn,” Chavez said. “They don’t understand what the hell you’re talking about because everything you deal with in the movement is about power: either retaining or making it or employing it or using it wisely or rationing it or duplicating it.” If they did not succeed in teaching workers to subvert the contracts, he concluded, “first of all they don’t deserve a union, and we don’t deserve to be leading it.”

  Chavez planned to use La Paz for mainstream education—English and Spanish classes, and lessons in contract enforcement, negotiation, and grievances. But he made clear that sort of practical knowledge was secondary: “The idea that we’re turned on to mostly is the idea of having workers come here and talk to them about the important things, the important qualities9 that people must have really to have a long life and to be happy.”

  Though public attention was focused on Chavez’s goal of signing labor contracts, he talked openly about his sweeping ambition to extend the movement far beyond farmworkers. The vision especially resonated with religious audiences. “There are hundreds of thousands of rural poor people in our country who need the dignity and security of an organization of their own. We intend to reach them,” he told two hundred religious leaders in Delano. “Our goal is a national union of the poor10 dedicated to world peace and to serving the needs of all men who suffer.”

  Chavez had thought long and hard about how to avoid a repetition of his CSO experience, where he empowered poor people who m
oved into the middle class and abandoned their efforts to help those less fortunate. He was convinced the solution lay in the power of sacrifice. When he thought and read about qualities of great leaders, he saw sacrifice. He observed the way people responded to his own actions. “When people sacrifice,11 you force others to sacrifice. It’s a very powerful weapon,” Chavez said. “Somebody stops eating for ten days or for a week and people just come. They just want to be part of that. Somebody goes to jail, people just want to help him. You don’t buy that with money.”

  He grappled with how to instill sacrifice as a value in the union’s staff, as well as its members. Each posed different hurdles. How could he counsel workers not to ask for more money when they saw their employers reaping profits and looked to the union to even the imbalance? “It’s a very difficult question,”12 Chavez said. The staff must set an example, he explained. “Then the workers who are in leadership positions may begin to get the idea of self-sacrifice. Then we will really have something. Like everything else, it has to begin in your own life and in those people who have given their lives to build the union.”

  Chavez believed the commitment to the voluntary life of poverty had propelled the movement to its success. Now he saw danger signs. Staff members who had accepted the subsistence lifestyle during the grape strike asked whether the union should start paying salaries now that the contracts generated significant income from dues. Staff still received $5 a week plus room and board. Some had asked for an increase. “I’m very worried,” Chavez said in October 1971 to a group of religious leaders visiting La Paz. He singled out for criticism the farmworkers on the union staff. Under the grape contracts, they could earn as much as $3.50 an hour during the harvest season. The lettuce workers earned more. “So if you want to make that kind of money,” Chavez said, “we tell the workers, ‘You go back. That’s where the money’s going to be. Not here.’”