Sal Si Puedes (Escape If You Can): Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution (24 page)

Like most racial friction, the origin of Filipino-Mexican
discord can be traced to economics. In the early history of
American California, the Indians inherited from the mission
farms were paid half of what other workers got, and their
protest against this treatment was a factor in the general
massacre that took place in the two years between 1850 and
1852, when the Indian population in California, already low,
was reduced from an estimated 85,000 to about 31,000 (the
remnants, mostly Digger Indians, continued to be exploited
on the farms, and contemporary descriptions of their
squalor and misery have been echoed for a century by the
few honest observers who have entered migrant labor
camps). This free-enterprise solution to the Indian problem
caused a temporary labor shortage, but the advantages of
the discriminatory pay scale in keeping labor groups at odds
with one another were already obvious, and the device has
been used effectively ever since. When the Filipinos arrived
in force in the 1920’s, they were paid even less than the
Mexicans, who were already in a very poor bargaining
position; most were wetbacks who could be and often were
deported before payday came around, or when they protested
too strenuously about anything. Traditionally, the
two groups have competed for available work—usually
stoop labor, because preference in the tree jobs is usually
given to the Anglos—and ever since, Mexicans have been
saying that Filipinos are lazy, while Filipinos claim that
Mexicans are dirty, or vice versa. Like the blacks and Puerto
Ricans of New York and Newark, they work at cross-purposes
against the common enemy.

Chavez speaks warmly of the Filipinos and worries constantly
that their quiet nature, which he admires, will deny
them a fair voice in Union affairs. But by making his people
aware of what they are doing, Chavez has brought the two
groups much closer together. With the Puerto Ricans, they
have a common heritage of Spanish domination and Catholicism,
and are loyal to one another on the picket lines
or in any crisis. Still, they are not yet the “brothers” of
Chavez’s dream.

“I hear about
la raza
more and more,” Chavez told me.
“Some people don’t look at it as racism, but when you say
la raza
, you are saying an anti-gringo thing, and our fear
is that it won’t stop there. Today it’s anti-gringo, tomorrow
it will be anti-Negro, and the day after it will be anti-Filipino,
anti-Puerto Rican. And then it will be anti-poor-Mexican,
and anti-darker-skinned-Mexican.

“In the beginning we had a lot of trouble with it in the
Union. We had a stupid guy who began to whip up
la raza
against the white volunteers, and even had some of the farm
workers and the pickets and the organizers hung up on
la raza
. So I took him on. These things have to be met
head-on. On discrimination, I don’t even give the members the
privilege of a vote, and I’m not ashamed of it. No. The
whole business of discrimination can’t exist here. So often
these days, the leaders are afraid, and even though they
feel strongly against racism, they will not speak out against
it. They’re like married people who stay together, saying,
‘It’s because of the kids’—that’s an awful thing, you know.
If the leadership is united, then it can say, ‘All right, if
you’re going to do things that way, then you’ll have to get
rid of us.’ You have to speak out immediately, the first time.

“Anyway, this guy was talking to people and saying he
didn’t like Filipinos taking over the Union. So a small group
came to me and said that a lot of people were very mad
because the Filipinos were coming in. And I really reacted.
I said a lot of people would be mad if Negroes came in
large numbers like that, and I said that they were going to
accept the Filipinos, if I had to shove them down their
throat.” Chavez paused as if surprised, years later, at his
own violence. “I told them, ‘That’s the way I feel.’ And so
they left. A couple of days later they said they wanted a
big meeting. And I said, ‘Okay, let’s have a big meeting.’
So at the big meeting they said they wanted to discuss discrimination;
in other words, they wanted to take a vote to
discriminate. And I said, ‘Over my dead body. There’ll be
no such vote taken here, and furthermore, before you get
rid of the Filipinos you’ll have to get rid of me.’ ‘No vote?’
they said, and I said, ‘It can’t be done. Those of you who
don’t like it, I suggest that
you
get out, because you’re not
doing anybody any good. Or even better,
I’ll
get out. And
I’ll join the Filipinos. And we’ll build a trade union, and
work well together.’ Well, I’d say ninety-five percent of the
audience stood up and applauded. And this small group felt
isolated.

“The employers, of course, have used this for years and
years—one group set against the other. I explained this to
the audience, and I told them that the Filipinos would be
a tremendous asset—new ideas, new people. That’s what a
union is. And about six months later I got hold of the people
who had been so against the Filipinos, and I said, ‘Listen,
I think we should get rid of those Filipinos.’ And they said,
‘Why?’” Chavez looked astounded, rolling his eyes; he
laughed.

“Then we had a case where one of the big growers came
out and started pushing one of the white volunteers around,
and one of the
la raza
guys, Marcos Muñoz, jumped up and
wanted to take on the grower. And I said, ‘Let him get
pushed around; he’s just a gringo anyway.’ And Marcos said,
‘I’m really offended.’ And I said, ‘I said that purposely, because
you
’ve been offending
me
: any time you say anything
about a human being just because he’s white, it offends
me.’ ‘Well,’ says Marcos, ‘I really feel badly to feel the way
I do, but I can’t help it.’ I said, ‘Well, then, if a grower
wants to run over one of those gringos on the picket line,
to hell with it; let it go.’ So he said, ‘Well, I can’t.’ I said,
‘Maybe you don’t really hate gringos, then; maybe you’re
just trying to make it up. Maybe you’re just trying to be a
big
macho
; maybe it’s a way of showing how brave you are.’
Then Dolores went after him, and Gilbert Padilla, and we
said, ‘When you go on the boycott, you know what’s going
to happen? There’s going to be a fight. And there aren’t
any Mexicans out there, so you’re going to find a lot of
gringos helping you. But if you don’t like ’em, you can
handle the whole fight yourself.’” Chavez shook his head.

“He learned. Marcos is running the Boston boycott
now; he’s one of our best young leaders. And he’s got a
hell of a lot of gringo friends there helping him. No, I don’t
like to see any man discriminating. But when a
Mexican
discriminates—
oo
.” He winced. “That
really
cuts me. As a
Mexican-American, I expect more of them than anybody
else; I love them, and I guess I’d like them to be perfect.”

More recently, Chavez has had to deal with resentment
against his so-called “inner circle,” which certain Union
officers feel is dominated by the Anglos. To this, Chavez
retorts that he knows who works hard and long and cheerfully,
and that these people, whatever their race, are the
ones he has to count on.

“The Teamsters never could understand how our farm
workers would go out on strike or work for the Union without
pay,” Chavez told the audience in Filipino Hall. “They
don’t understand what we’re trying to do, because it isn’t
part of their history. They just haven’t done what we have
done. Most unions haven’t.” Like his listeners, he seemed
dampened by the mention of the Teamsters, and then he
cried out, “People are getting sick of the growers pushing
us around; people are sick of poverty  .  .  .” But Chavez isn’t
good at rhetoric, in fact dislikes it, and once again his voice
trailed off, as if he knew that this was wishful thinking;
more than most, he is aware that people everywhere are
callous or indifferent to poverty, and always have been. It
is the paupers who get sick of poverty, if anything meaningful
is to be done.

“Then,” Chavez said, brightening, “we ordered twenty-five
thousand new bumper stickers today.” He grinned with
real enthusiasm, raising his hands to outline the sticker design:
“
BOYCOTT
, then the eagle in the middle, then
GRAPES
!
In a beautiful color! It’s going to pop your eyes out!” He
sighed in admiration, shaking his head; he looked extremely
tired. “So I think,” he concluded, “that it has been a very
good day.”

In response to a question, Chavez spoke briefly about
the Di Giorgio
HI-COLOR
crisis and concluded, “I want some
recommendations from you on what to do in this case.” One
after another, the workers stood up to state their opinions,
pitching their voices too softly or too loud in their struggle
to overcome their shyness. Chavez himself translated their
statements into Spanish or English: “I’m asked by a
sister  .  .  .”; “A brother suggests that we sue  .  .  .”

A man who moved that Di Giorgio be boycotted was
seconded by acclamation. Philip Vera Cruz, representing
the Filipinos, stood up and cried fiercely, “I think we should
fight him all the way! Thank you!” Mack Lyons, a laconic
young black man who is workers’ representative at Di
Giorgio’s Arvin ranch, spoke quickly and coldly in favor
of a confrontation, and by now the hall was so excited that
Chavez felt obliged to try to calm it. It was plain that he
was stunned by the prospect of a new fight with Di Giorgio.
Quietly he explained that a boycott would cancel out their
hard-won contract, that this should be avoided if possible.
“You must understand these things,” he pleaded. But the
workers were outraged by Di Giorgio’s betrayal, and Chavez,
who had reared this fighting spirit out of decades of
defeat and ignorance and apathy, and who believed above
all in participatory democracy, including the right of the
poor to make their own mistakes, did not feel he could
interfere. The vote to sue Di Giorgio was unanimous, and a
motion to boycott Di Giorgio’s S & W brand very nearly so.
It was agreed that the next day, Saturday, Chavez, Mrs.
Huerta, Jerry Cohen and Mack Lyons would meet with Di
Giorgio’s representatives. If no agreement was reached
over the weekend, both suit and boycott would be carried
out on Monday.

Hollow-eyed and worried, Chavez concluded the meeting
with some comments on a member’s request that an
armed guard be stationed at the Forty Acres to prevent
further damage to Union property: the member was referring
to the burning of the cross. “I have told you many
times,” Chavez said, “that people who are violent will not
be permitted to work in the strike. And so we are not going
to go armed. No one goes armed.” More quietly he said,
“I’ve been getting threats on my life every day for the last
six months, and I’m not armed, and I won’t permit anybody
with me to be armed.”

An old Filipino, angry, jumped to his feet. “We spent
our money there! Should we let them burn it?” The others
cheered, and Chavez gazed around the room.

“You can vote right now to arm yourselves—” Chavez
began, but before he could complete his threat of
resignation, a woman stood up and spoke in his behalf. Concluding,
she turned in a semicircle to plead with the brooding audience.
“The whole world supports Cesar,” she entreated,
“just
because
of his nonviolence!” A man stood up. “I offer
words from the Bible,” he said. “Justice of God cannot be
won by the sword. We must resist temptation to violence,
especially when victory is certain.”

The audience fell silent. Chavez, too, was silent. His
tired face reflected anything but the certainty of victory.
When it resumed, his voice came quietly, as if he had been
speaking all along and only now had become audible again.
“If you want a guard, and nobody wishes to guard it without
arms, then I will guard it myself.” He spoke very simply,
and he meant it. “If they burn it, we can build again. But
if a man is killed, who can revive him?”

“Here was Cesar,” Luis Valdez has written, “burning with
a patient fire, poor like us, dark like us, talking quietly,
moving people to talk about their problems, attacking the
little problems first and suggesting, always suggesting——never
more than that—solutions which seemed attainable.
We didn’t know it until we met him, but he was the
leader we had been waiting for.”

When the meeting was over, Chavez invited Mrs. Israel
and myself to accompany him to a farewell party being
given for a young lawyer who was moving to Los Angeles.
He felt badly that he had been away since our arrival, and
was extremely warm and gracious—a heroic effort, considering
how tired and tense he really was. Outside on the
steps, he permitted himself to become annoyed by the
presence of a beer can on the railing, but by the time we
were under way, down Glenwood Street, he was relaxed
again and was able to laugh as he described how this stretch
had looked before U.S. Highway 99 pierced the town. “The
chamber of commerce would like people to believe that
Delano is a sweet, simple American town where everybody
loved his neighbor until us troublemakers came, but it
was
always
a violent place; this whole stretch was gambling
and prostitution, and people were killing each other left
and right.”

From the party, in a small cantina on Garces Highway,
we went on to the Coffee Cup, on Main Street, to get something
to eat; Dolores Huerta and Jerry Cohen came with us.
Chavez likes the Coffee Cup and a Chinese restaurant, the
Pagoda, because in neither place do people stare at him.
Warmly he greeted Thelma, the waitress, asking if she
was working hard tonight. She said that she was, and he
sighed in commiseration. When Thelma went to fetch a
menu, he told us that at the time of the Sierra Vista elections
she was one of the few people on the east side of Delano
who would say hello to him, and he admired her for her
courage.