Can I Get a Witness?: Thirteen Peacemakers, Community-Builders, and Agitators for Faith and Justice

CAN I GET A WITNESS?

Thirteen Peacemakers, Community Builders,

and Agitators for Faith and Justice

Edited by

Charles Marsh, Shea Tuttle,

and Daniel P. Rhodes

WILLIAM B. EERDMANS PUBLISHING COMPANY

GRAND RAPIDS, MICHIGAN

Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.

4035 Park East Court SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546

www.eerdmans.com

© 2019 Wm. B. Eerdmans Publishing Co.

All rights reserved

Published 2019

25 24 23 22 21 20 191 2 3 4 5 6 7

ISBN 978-0-8028-7573-0

eISBN 978-1-4674-5263-2

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress.

For these thirteen witnesses,

and for the cloud of witnesses

too great to know, too numerous to name,

so broad as to occasion holy surprise and reforming delight.

May these stories honor you.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

CESAR CHAVEZ

HOWARD THURMAN

YURI KOCHIYAMA

HOWARD KESTER

ELLA BAKER

DOROTHY DAY

JOHN A. RYAN

FRANK WILLIAM STRINGFELLOW

MAHALIA JACKSON

LUCY RANDOLPH MASON

RICHARD TWISS

DANIEL BERRIGAN

MARY STELLA SIMPSON

Further Reading

Contributors

Notes

Index

Acknowledgments

This book represents a collaboration of theologians, writers, and editors over two successive years in Charlottesville and Chicago, who were seeking to retrieve and celebrate the tradition of Christian social progressives in the United States. The editors are grateful to each of the contributors for bringing this rich cast of characters to life and for answering the question Can I get a witness? with a resounding yes.

We owe huge thanks to Jessica Seibert, the project manager at the University of Virginia’s Project on Lived Theology. Her brilliant organizing made the meetings happen, and she continued to offer limitless support and smart editorial advice in the months since. Koonal Patel and Gosia Czelusniak, the excellent team at Loyola University Chicago’s Institute of Pastoral Studies, assisted Jessica in invaluable ways in preparation for our meeting at the Water Tower Campus.

Editor extraordinaire Lil Copan shepherded us through the drafting and first revision of the manuscript with her sharp eye and generous intelligence. We are grateful to David Bratt, Anita Eerdmans, Holly Knowles, Jeremy Cunningham, Leah Luyk, Alexander Bukovietski, and the whole Eerdmans team for their attentive and encouraging partnership. We are delighted this book landed in their exceedingly capable hands.

The Project on Lived Theology exists thanks to the generosity of the Lilly Endowment and theological vision of Jessicah Duckworth and Chris Coble. We are ever so grateful to count them among our cloud of witnesses.

Introduction

Charles Marsh and Shea Tuttle

When Dietrich Bonhoeffer came to Union Theological Seminary in Manhattan as a visiting student and postdoctoral fellow in the late summer of 1930, he was a straight-arrow scholar whose star was rising. His sights were set on a lifetime of academic accomplishments and the rich rewards of the guild. He didn’t think there was anything he could learn from the American Protestant churches who worshipped a god tailored for their middle-class tastes and preferences.

But when he left New York ten months later, he left with a dramatically transformed perspective on social engagement, faith, and historical responsibility. He began to put aside his professional ambitions and look for resources in the Christian (and increasingly in the Jewish) tradition that could inspire and sustain dissent and civil courage. A technical terminology that had distinguished his writings and teaching before 1930 began to fade, and in its place emerged a language more direct and expressive of lived faith.

In Tegel prison in 1944, incarcerated for his role in a plot to assassinate Hitler, Bonhoeffer recalled the first American visit as one of the decisive and transformative influences in his life. I don’t think I’ve ever changed very much, he wrote, except perhaps at the time of my first impressions abroad. . . . It was then that I turned from ‘the phraseological to the real.’ ¹ Something had happened in America, as Bonhoeffer’s best friend and biographer Eberhard Bethge later wrote.

Over the course of that transformative year in the United States, Bonhoeffer encountered the strange and unfamiliar world of radical Christianity, represented at the time by the Protestant social theology taught and practiced at Union Seminary; the American organizing tradition, flourishing in New York and in an ever expanding network of progressive Christian activism; and the African American church, where he said he finally heard the gospel of Jesus preached with power and conviction. Five months into the school year he told a friend that he had come in search of a cloud of witnesses.

The cloud of witnesses that he found comprised the largely forgotten tradition of a confessional left: activist theologians, Bible-wielding labor organizers, social gospel reformers, and African American preachers—which is to say, the cast of characters foregrounded in Can I Get a Witness? Bonhoeffer’s encounter with this tradition transformed his sense of vocation, enabled him to do theology closer to the ground, and set him on the difficult road that would ultimately lead to Flossenbürg concentration camp.

***

The stories of the church’s peacemakers, community builders, and inside agitators, those who refuse to remain spectators of the panorama of injustice,² can be difficult to hear—and to find. These people are like wild and crooked trees. They are gnarled and weathered, their very flesh bearing the marks of storms, persistent droughts, and long winters. They don’t care if they’re growing in inconvenient places; they grow where they are. They are unrepentantly unruly. They live in the freedom of Christ with open hearts and minds. These peculiar people aren’t good for church growth or the accumulation of political power. They don’t make anybody any money. Yet we are confident that their examples will outlast those of the multitudes scrambling to see who can bow down first to country, or party, or profit, or another reigning idol of the day.

It is a good time to remember the peculiar people, dissidents, misfits, and malcontents who sing strange and beautiful songs of God’s peaceable kingdom. Being peculiar has never been easy, but in this second decade of the twenty-first century, amid the violent convulsions and linguistic political confusions of Christian witness in the United States, the testimonies of dissidents take on new urgency. These are challenging days for those who affirm the integrity of the global, ecumenical church; read the Bible against the principalities and the powers; and dare to speak against the day.

Peculiarity is not a quality intended to highlight the feeling of specialness, as in the conceited notion that we are peculiar because we are God’s chosen ones. The stories of Scripture make clear that much is expected of those who call on or claim relationship with God. Being peculiar, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, means being a people who practice mercy and seek justice. Only the nation that defends the defenseless, establishes equity, and relieves the oppressed is chosen. This is the message of the prophets of the Hebrew Bible.

Many of the earliest writings on the identity of the people who call themselves followers of Christ convey bewilderment at the new moral habits of the Christian community. They live in the cities and countries of the empire but as sojourners; they bear their share in all things as citizens, and they endure all hardships as strangers. Yet they display a wonderful and confessedly striking method of life.³ They live in the tension and torque of being in the world but not of the world, refusing, as the earliest Christians did, to honor the emperor by offering a pinch of incense before his image.⁴

Living as strangers in a strange land, as the peculiar people in this volume vividly attest, is not about withdrawal from the world or resignation to injustices. It is rather about learning to act and to think, to read and to interpret, to organize and to vote in the new light springing from the teachings and life of Jesus. It means bearing witness to the authenticity of our faith and building hope in the practices we keep: showing hospitality to strangers and outcasts; affirming the unity of the created order; reclaiming the ideals of beauty, love, honesty, and truth; and embracing the preferential option for nonviolence. It means participating in the world in such a way as to affirm it as God’s good creation—and to labor to make it ever more so. It means living in the expectation of God’s ongoing advent among us to make all things new.

These things I have spoken to you, Jesus says in Saint John’s Gospel, that in Me you may have peace. In the world, you will have tribulation; but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world (16:33 NKJV).

***

Can I Get a Witness? tells the stories of thirteen peculiar people who worked to transform American culture based, at least in part, on their religious convictions. These narratives are not comprehensive, cradle-to-grave biographies, nor are they characterized by staid rehearsal of facts; rather, this collection strives for vibrant storytelling and research-enriched narrative to bring these figures to life. The chapters illumine aspects of the historical figures’ religious experience and conviction as well as the work they did in the world, all the while exploring how their convictions shaped their work and how their work refined their convictions. These narratives are written by authors chosen for their unique abilities to tell these very particular stories.

The notion of witness is not limited to a personal testimony or an altar call. As one of our authors says, witness is what we do. The thirteen religious figures in this book can be witnesses for our time only if we can see what they did: how they lived, what they gave, and whom they accompanied. These narratives offer readers the opportunity to peer into history and witness these witnesses’ lives.

So many longings, hopes, and struggles are wrapped up in this question—Can I get a witness?—and, for this reason, we ask it with fear and trembling. We entrust the work of faithful response to story because we believe in the power of story to illustrate complexity, to illumine truth, and to reach into minds and hearts. In the black church tradition, the question Can I get a witness? is asked in anticipation of an Amen! Our Amens are these stories: holy and hopeful.

Ultimately, the question Can I get a witness? is answered with a resounding yes. You can get a witness, and you can get witnesses writing about those witnesses: writers and subjects together creating not a single unison strain but a polyphony of voices—women and men; Catholics and Protestants; white, Latino/a, African, Asian, and Indian Americans; clergy and laity; gay and straight—all grounded in the cantus firmus of the incarnate Word.

The Church has an obligation not to join in the incantation of political slogans and in the concoction of pseudo-events, Thomas Merton wrote in a 1966 essay, but to cut clear through the deviousness and ambiguity of both slogans and events by her simplicity and her love.⁵ Biblical religion cuts through propaganda, deception, and idolatry with the double edge of heavenly discontent and disarming love. The good news in this book is that the spiritual vision that animated these thirteen witness—that inspired their moral imagination and civil courage—remains a vital source for the present age. May we accept that vision as gift and guide in the uncertain years ahead.

CESAR CHAVEZ

(1927–1993)

Cesar Chavez portrait, Forty Acres Headquarters, Delano, CA, 1969. Photo: Bob Fitch Photography Archive, Department of Special Collections, Stanford University Libraries.

IN THE UNION OF THE SPIRIT

Cesar Chavez and the Quest for Farmworker Justice

Daniel P. Rhodes

To all appearances, Cesar Estrada Chavez was a rather unimpressive figure. Diminutive in stature, he had a boyish face, a wide, faintly aquiline nose, chestnut skin, and thick onyx-colored hair often neatly parted low on the left side and combed back and to the right across his head. He was handsome but forgettable. That he would organize the first farmworker union in a struggle for justice that took on the industry of agribusiness scarcely seemed possible.

The differences could not be starker between Chavez and the heroes of popular Westerns playing during the time that he was organizing farmworkers in southern and central California. Next to a Roy Rogers or a John Wayne, he surely would have seemed unintimidating and even unremarkable. Compared to the great orators of the day—such as Malcolm X or Martin Luther King Jr.—he would have seemed prosaic. Only his eyes offered a clue: they were captivating and intense. He was hobbled by chronic back pain much of his life as a result of years spent working bent over in the fields, bone depletion, and one of his legs being slightly longer than the other, something that would be diagnosed later in his life. Yet this physical fragility and meekness was nearly eclipsed by the calm, fortified nature of his presence. One journalist biographer described him as a person of density who walks as lightly as a fox.¹ He had a sharp sense of humor, and though he was kind, he could also be acerbic. As a kid he had been a travieso (prankster), and this disposition served him well throughout his life.² Many photographs of Chavez capture his wry smile framed by a look of determination; he was a man pitted against the odds, and he seemed to enjoy it.

Chavez was a shrewd union and community organizer who, with gritty creativity, sustained a quest for justice among farmworkers. His aim first and foremost was to forge solidarity among migrant laborers. This goal grew out of his own personal and spiritual yearning to belong, and the farmworker movement he led was built on these relationships and connections. Rarely does solidarity take the shape of a life, but it did in the person of Cesar Chavez; it was the single objective that infused and consumed him.

His people recognized it. As Luis Valdez, the innovative founder of El Teatro Campesino, wrote, Here was Cesar burning with 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.³ In him and his fellow leaders, farmworkers found their own capacity to transform their plight through the formation of a union that could challenge the power of agribusiness.

Chavez always understood the movement to be about more than wages or contracts; it was a spiritual campaign. For him, the work of the union was woven inextricably into a fabric of religious significance. Jesus was with them, and in their struggle and sacrifices they were a part of his kingdom, his people. It was nearly sacramental—eucharistic.

This sacred quality of Chavez’s work registered for me at church one Sunday. As our priest made the sign of the cross over the eucharistic elements, she asked God to sanctify them to be the holy food and drink of new and unending life and to sanctify us to receive them as a new people. Then, just before we were to pray the Lord’s Prayer and receive the elements, she said, All this we ask through your Son, Jesus Christ. By him, and with him, and in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all honor and glory is yours, Almighty Father, now and forever. Amen. During this prayer of consecration, I caught a glimpse of how Chavez understood the union. Here, the very life of the Godhead gathers and joins humanity in the creation of a new people, a people in the union of the Spirit suffused with transformational grace, binding love, and hopeful endurance. Through much suffering and difficult labor, Chavez and his people were being gathered in a sanctified union for a society in need of transformation. Their search for justice was inscribed with God’s own life. Suffused with this calling, Chavez came to embody their spiritual quest for a new reality.

***

Prior to the 1965 grape strike where, as his mentor Fred Ross said, he walked into history, Cesar Chavez himself trod the destitute road of the migrant laborers he later began to organize.⁴ It was an experience that profoundly shaped him. The Chavezes were never wealthy, but when Cesar was a child the family resided on a farm near Yuma, Arizona, on the eastern side of the arid North Gila Valley in the foothills of the Laguna Mountains. This farm was a 160-acre plot that his grandparents carved out of the rocky Arizona countryside. The valley’s name, Gila, came from a Native American word meaning river that runs salty.⁵ The surrounding area was a makeshift arrangement of rough canals and fields planted with grasses or whatever crops could withstand the desert heat and brackish soil. Foreshadowing what was to come, Cesar’s parents, Librado and Juana, had relocated to the ranch in 1929 after their own small business venture fell into debt and was foreclosed. The young family took up residence in a large storage room attached by a breezeway to the main adobe house at the center of the compound built by his grandfather and namesake, Cesario, or Papa Chayo as they called him.

His grandfather had died by the time they moved to the homestead, but one of Cesar’s aunts and his elderly grandmother, Dorotea, affectionately called Mama Tella, still lived in the main house.⁶ More of Cesar’s aunts and uncles lived just up the adjacent canal. Here Cesar, with his older sister, Rita, and younger brother, Richard, enjoyed the relative security, stability, and community that he would always associate with home.

They were a tight-knit family and, as Cesar recalled, I had more happy moments as a child than unhappy moments.⁷ This fond and familiar life, however, soon came to an end. The county, likely influenced by a neighboring banker eager to acquire the ranch, took possession of the property in the late summer of 1937 when Cesar’s father could not make up the back taxes he owed. Though they were allowed to stay for another year while they appealed the seizure, they eventually lost the farm, which was auctioned to their banker neighbor for a mere $1,750, a total of less than half of the taxes they owed.

Intense sorrow must have consumed Chavez as his family packed into their Studebaker the following spring while a bulldozer leveled their fields and horse corral. When we left the farm, he recalled, our whole life was upset, turned upside down. . . . We had been uprooted.⁸ From that point on he carried with him an abiding homesickness. I bitterly missed the ranch, Cesar recollected. Maybe that is when the rebellion started. Some had been born into the migrant stream. But we had been on the land, and I knew a different way of life. We were poor, but we had liberty. The migrant is poor, and he has no freedom.⁹ The loss scarred him deeply.

Loss was not the only thing that shaped Chavez’s character as an organizer and his hope for the farmworkers. His devoutly Catholic family, especially the strong faith of his mother and grandmother, also deeply formed him. His grandmother, Mama Tella, was an orphan raised in a convent, where she learned to read and write both Latin and Spanish. She catechized Cesar and his sister, Rita, preparing them herself for First Communion. She taught them about the saints, and as Cesar stated, I remember her, she was always praying, just praying.¹⁰ Cesar’s primary apprenticeship in the faith, however, came by way of his mother, Juana. With no church near their home, she taught them their prayers, taking up where Cesar’s grandmother had left off. He recalled, As we didn’t have a church in the valley and it was very difficult to go to Yuma, it was my mother who taught us prayers. Throughout the Southwest and Mexico where there were no priests for a long time, the amazing thing was that people kept the faith. But they were oriented more toward relics and saints. My mother was very religious without being a fanatic, and she believed in saints as advocates, as lobbyists, to pray to God for her. Her patron saint was St. Eduvigis.¹¹

A Polish duchess, Eduvigis had given all her possessions to the poor when she converted to Christianity. As a boy, Chavez recalled his mother always reaching out to those in need in imitation of this saint, modeling for him the spirit of charity. Within their home, instruction in the faith often also took the form of his mother’s dichos (proverbs) or consejos (advice). These sermons, as Cesar related, were his first trainings in nonviolence, selflessness, honesty, and other virtues long before he would read St. Francis, Catholic social teaching, or Gandhi. She frequently wrapped these teachings in stories that included miracles and magical realism, opening young Chavez’s imagination to the possibility of holy surprises.¹² Deep spirituality shaped the Chavez home just as it would saturate his work with farmworkers later. As he stated, I don’t think that I could base my will to struggle on cold economics or on some political doctrine. While most people drawn toward liberalism or radicalism leave the church, I went the other way. I drew closer to the church the more I learned and understood.¹³ He grew in wisdom and stature under the influence of his mother’s religión casera (homespun religion), so characteristic of devout Mexican Catholics, and it permeated all of life.¹⁴ This faith formed the core and basis for a moral vision not only of individual piety but even more of human community and society.

Faith and family sustained Cesar even as both of these put him on a path of hardship. The Chavezes were well acquainted with suffering. One of Cesar’s younger sisters, Helena, died at eleven months old of dysentery, a condition likely engendered by the dilapidated state of their living quarters. His siblings and he suffered constant marginalization in school, where they were not allowed to speak Spanish. (Cesario, his given name, became the Anglicized Cesar.) But once the family was forced off their Arizona homestead, life took a more difficult turn as they experienced a new level of poverty and discrimination as a result of their dislocation. In his new schools, students taunted him for wearing the same gray V-neck T-shirt every day, and his teacher regularly insulted his Mexican heritage. He recalled, when I came to class, I was frightened. I didn’t know the lesson. I was given a seat, and the next morning I wasn’t sure if that was really my seat. I was so frightened I was afraid to even ask the teacher for permission to go to the restroom. I didn’t dare ask very often, as the kids laughed at my accent, the way I talked.¹⁵ He attended more than a dozen different schools before finishing the eighth grade, when he quit so he could work full time for the family in the fields.

Merchants in the new towns they passed through refused to serve them, and they faced segregated seating in movie theaters and restaurants.¹⁶ As new migrant workers, they also struggled to learn the system, often arriving too late to gain work or falling prey to con men and crooked managers. Working their way northwest through the Imperial Valley and the Central Valley, they finally reached San Jose and the impoverished and flood-prone eastside barrio of Sal Si Puedes, which means get out if you can. There, they moved into a resident’s vacant garage, the only place they could find to live. As they traversed the state working the fields, exploitation by labor contractors and growers was a constant. The family often inhabited barns, shacks, or labor camps, or slept under a tarp near ripening crops, inhabiting unfamiliar and often hostile places. Chavez became familiar with being an outcast.

He also became intimate with the oppression of working the fields, symbolized by el cortito—the short-handled hoe, the use of which required a bent, subjugated posture. Of the terrible jobs Chavez was forced to work, one of the worst was thinning lettuce. Laboring as fast as possible because pay was piece rate, or by the row or acre, los lechugueros (lettuce harvesters) had to work stooped over in a tireless rhythm of pulling and chopping. It was really inhuman, Chavez recounted. Every time I see lettuce, that’s the first thing I think of, some human being had to thin it. And it’s just like being nailed to a cross. You have to walk twisted as you’re stooped over, facing the row, and walking perpendicular to it. You are always trying to find the best position because you can’t walk completely sideways, it’s too difficult, and if you turn the other way, you can’t thin.¹⁷

Beyond the excruciating and humiliating labor, as Chavez knew from experience, the entire system was saturated with prejudice and injustice aimed at dehumanizing the workers. Farmworkers could not afford to purchase the very produce they harvested. They had no protections and no insurance. They were frequently exposed to poisonous pesticides. Growers pitted one ethnicity against another in order to solidify their dominance and curtail any resistance from the workers. Reflecting later on the impact of these experiences, Chavez relayed, There are vivid memories from my childhood—what we had to go through because of low wages and the conditions, basically because there was no union. I suppose if I wanted to be fair I could say that I’m trying to settle a personal score.¹⁸ The life of farm labor was difficult, but they survived and resisted its dehumanization as a family, only deepening their devotion to one another. In their loss and struggle, as Chavez learned, they found new fibers of solidarity and strength, building a sense of home among one another.

It’s only fitting that, years later, his small home in Sal Si Puedes was the place where Chavez heard his spiritual call to organize farmworkers. The calling came during a house meeting scheduled by Fred Ross, who had come north after being hired in 1946 by Saul Alinsky and his Chicago-based Industrial Areas Foundation to organize Mexican Americans in Los Angeles. A practice launched by Ross, a house meeting was an organizing tool for beginning to turn anger and seeming impotence into power and possibility through collective engagement. A tall, thin figure, refined, articulate, and tedious, Ross was also somewhat unorthodox. Years later, Ross’s eulogist would reiterate his philosophy of organizing with one of his favorite sayings: A good organizer is a social arsonist who goes around setting people on fire.¹⁹ He had been trying to organize in the area for more than five years by the time he met Chavez, but his efforts had borne little fruit.

It was the early summer of 1952 when the local priest, Fr. Donald McDonnell, along with the parish nurse, Alicia Hernandez, suggested the two meet. At that time, Chavez was working in a lumberyard when he wasn’t in the fields. Initially suspicious of the gringo outsider, Cesar and his brother, Richard, eventually acquiesced to meeting with Ross after Helen, Cesar’s wife, refused to continue to deflect Ross’s attempts to make contact. That evening of Monday, June 9, 1952, as Chavez recounted years later, He [Ross] changed my life.²⁰ Amid a rugged group of workers intentionally gathered by Chavez to intimidate him into leaving them alone, Ross made his pitch, suggesting that even the most powerless could change things if enough of them worked together.²¹ Unexpectedly, Chavez found himself ignited by Ross’s message, which converted him to organizing.

Still, Chavez was an unlikely leader. Rather meek in affect and not prone to grandstanding, he did not fit the typical stereotype of the head of a movement. Initially, he was even petrified of his own house meetings. He often circled the neighborhood several times before entering the house. Once inside, he would hide in the corner, only to finally pipe up when someone asked, Where’s the organizer?²² Nevertheless, he kept at it because he found life in building community. Chavez envisioned the apostle Paul as an organizer who, similarly, admitted to being no eloquent rhetorician or extraordinary personality (1 Cor. 1) but found strength in the power of the community-gathering spirit of the gospel. Like the apostle, Chavez went to the people, and from the grassroots began to build the connections essential for fashioning a new future.

The choice to organize farmworkers and to subject his family to the challenges they faced was not easy for Chavez. But it was a call he could not escape. For four years he contemplated the move. More than anything else, I wanted to help farm workers, he recalled. Only my financial security had me tied up and kept me from moving. There was my wife, Helen, and I knew it would be asking a lot of her to give up what we had. At the time he had a decent job with a regular paycheck, and the family had been able to put away some savings. They had eight children to care for. Helen and I discussed the problem from many angles, he recounted. There were the risks, the odds against success, and the desperate needs we saw daily around us. Helen, naturally, was very worried about our children. If I quit, who knows what would happen? Where would the money come from for food and clothes and housing? I could only point to my own childhood where, despite our struggles and bitter experiences, ours was a very close and happy family. I was sure our children could endure.²³

Finally, Cesar and Helen decided that they could not organize farmworkers the way they wanted without first liberating themselves. As Chavez stated, I realized that I couldn’t do what I felt must be done without first giving up one of the best jobs I’d ever had.²⁴ What made the decision so difficult was that Chavez was already working as a professional organizer on farmworker issues with the Oxnard-based Community Service Organization (CSO). But, as is so often the case with top-down approaches, he quickly realized that while he could achieve small changes this way, a larger co-creative effort to change the system itself was necessary. And he saw that the only way to do this was to commit fully to live with and among the people.

Chavez learned this lesson while working under Ross at the CSO, where he was constantly frustrated with leaders who became complacent and focused on their own comfort. Another source of frustration was the desire for immediate results, which meant work toward real, hard change was aborted. Venturing out on his own to organize differently, Chavez did not want to repeat those mistakes. Instead, he sought to build off of the tradition of mutualistas (the informal mutual assistance programs) that Mexican immigrants in the Southwest had been self-organizing for years. Consequently, he did not even call the new organization a union but the Farm Workers Association, and he initially focused on setting up cooperative service-provisions.²⁵

Organizing this way was a family enterprise, and as Helen and he had anticipated, it required sacrifice and dedication. Often the family went without food or other basic necessities. Helen juggled many responsibilities, picking crops while running a nascent credit union, administrating a co-op, and caring for their growing family. Together, they embodied the ethos and spirit of the organization.

Chavez’s method was simple and direct, resulting in a deep commitment from early members of the organization. One of these early members was Manuel Rivera, who sought Chavez’s help after his family was left destitute as a result of a dispute with a dishonest labor contractor. Chavez and Helen welcomed the Rivera family into their small home and loaned them one of their cars while working to help them get back on their feet and resolve the issue. Rivera never forgot this sacrifice and genuine charity. Even after he was struck by a truck while on a picket line years later and rendered lame, he remained stolid in his dedication to the movement and to Chavez.²⁶ Such incidents testify to the powerful character of Chavez’s grassroots style of leadership. Chavez’s gifts were not exactly recognizable on the surface, and neither was the potency of the movement he organized. But he was able to see his own story in others’ stories, and he saw in this connection the possibility of writing together a new one. Such a path was never straightforward, but it was the path of real change, for, as he cheerfully believed, God writes in exceedingly crooked lines.²⁷

Suffering alone under the cruel hand of agribusiness, farmworkers were left to a life of pain, misery, and despair. But suffering together, Chavez believed, they might begin to translate this pain, anger, and alienation into a powerful movement for change. As the Plan of Delano, an early summation of their cause, stated:

We have suffered, and we are not afraid to suffer in order to win our cause. We have suffered unnumbered ills and crimes in the name of the law of the land. Our men, women, and children have suffered not only the basic brutality of stoop labor, and the most obvious injustices of the system; they have also suffered the desperation of knowing that the system caters to the greed of callous men and not our needs. Now we will suffer for the purpose of ending the poverty, the misery, and the injustice, with the hope that our children will not be exploited as we have been. They have imposed hungers on us, and now we hunger for justice. We draw our strength from the very despair in which we have been forced to live. WE SHALL ENDURE.²⁸

The organizing movement, forged in a spirit of solidarity, constituted something of a new people borne in and through hardship and maltreatment. These bonds would form the base of all that was to come.

***

In the spring of 1962, Chavez left the CSO and struck out on his own, moving his family to the small central-California town of Delano, located at the southern end of the San Joaquin Valley. Here Chavez sought to establish a base for his union among the residential farmworker community.²⁹ It became the epicenter of a radical farmworker movement.

The bed of an ancient inland sea, the San Joaquin Valley stretches two hundred miles down the spine of central California and is some sixty miles wide. Set between the Sierra Nevada Mountains to the east and the coastal mountain range to the West, it was the heart of the agribusiness industry and would become the battlefield of La Causa (the movement). Massive irrigation projects rendered the fertile soil one of the most productive