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Chicano Politics and Society in the Late Twentieth Century

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Chicano Politics
and Society
in the Late Twentieth Century

e d i t e d b y D av i d M o n t e j a n o

University of Texas Press, Austin

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Copyright © 1999 by the University of Texas Press

All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
First edition, 1999

Requests for permission to reproduce material from this work

should be sent to Permissions, University of Texas Press,
P.O. Box 7819, Austin, TX 78713-7819.


 The paper used in this publication meets the minimum
requirements of American National Standard for Information
Sciences —Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials,
ansi z39.48-1984.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Chicano politics and society in the late twentieth century / edited by

David Montejano. — 1st ed.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
isbn 0-292-75214-8 (alk. paper).—isbn 0-292-75215-6 (pbk. :
alk. paper)
1. Mexican Americans —Politics and government. 2. Mexican
Americans —History —20th century. 3. Mexican Americans — Social
conditions. I. Montejano, David, 1948 – .
e184.m5c447 1999
973.046872 —dc21 98-15617
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Pa’ Willie (1944 –1988) y César (1927–1993),

dos luminares del movimiento
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Contents

Preface and Acknowledgments ix

Introduction: On the Question of Inclusion

David Montejano xi

Part One: Community Studies

One: Personality and Style in San Antonio Politics:
Henry Cisneros and Bernardo Eureste, 1975 –1985
Rodolfo Rosales 3
Two: Harold Washington and the Rise of Latino Electoral
Politics in Chicago, 1982 –1987
Teresa Córdova 31
Three: Gendered Citizenship: Mexican American Women and
Grassroots Activism in East Los Angeles, 1986 –1992
Mary Pardo 58

Part Two: Institutional Studies

Four: The Struggle Within: The California Agricultural Labor
Relations Board, 1975 –1990
Margarita Arce Decierdo 83
Five: Protest and Affirmative Action in the 1980s: The Case
of the University of New Mexico
Phillip B. Gonzales 108
Six: In Search of National Power: Chicanos Working the
System on Immigration Reform, 1976 –1986
Christine Marie Sierra 131
Seven: Chicano Politics and U.S. Policy in Central America,
1979 –1990
Antonio González 154
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viii / Contents

Part Three: General Studies

Eight: Politics and Chicano Culture: Luis Valdez and El Teatro
Campesino, 1964 –1990
Roy Eric Xavier 175
Nine: Where Have All the Nationalists Gone?: Change
and Persistence in Radical Political Attitudes among
Chicanos, 1976 –1986
Martín Sánchez Jankowski 201

Conclusion: On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations in the

United States
David Montejano 234

About the Authors 259

Index 261
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Preface and
Acknowledgments

ne of the most striking aspects of public mainstream commen-

O taries at the end of the twentieth century is the alarmist, dramatic

tone of much discussion about Mexicans in the United States.
The commentators, many of them East Coast based, seem to forget that a
significant Mexican American population (some fourteen million U.S. citi-
zens) exists and that these people understand the discussion going on around
them. A more cynical possibility is that the commentators know these facts
but believe that Mexican Americans are irrelevant to the discussion. The fol-
lowing studies establish their relevancy and in the process add a much needed
voice to the discussion about Mexicans in the United States.
Not surprisingly, this voice speaks from a different perspective. The ten
authors in this volume are all engaged in one way or another in a critical as-
sessment of what can loosely be called the “politics of inclusion” that resulted
from the civil rights movement of the 1970s. In this sense, these studies rep-
resent a collective postmovement assessment; “What went wrong? What
went right? Where are we now?” are the questions that underlie much of
the following discussion. The collective result is a wide-ranging portrayal of
the complex situation of Mexican Americans as the twenty-first century
begins.
An editing project such as this one requires considerable perseverance and
institutional support. Among the several individuals and institutions that de-
serve thanks for their moral and logistical assistance are José Rivera, Tobías
Durán, Rosemarie Romero, and Frances Rico of the Southwest Hispanic Re-
search Institute and the Center for Regional Studies at the University of New
Mexico; Robert Scott of the Center for Advanced Study in the Behavioral
Sciences at Stanford University; and Verónica García-Contreras, Patricia Mar-
tínez, Sarah Guzmán, and Maribel Rodríguez of the Center for Mexican Amer-
ican Studies at the University of Texas at Austin. The Center for Advanced
Study in the Behavioral Sciences, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and
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x / Preface and Acknowledgments

the University Research Institute of the University of Texas at Austin pro-

vided generous support for sabbatical leave. Carlos Vélez-Ibáñez, now at the
University of California, Riverside, and Luis Fraga of Stanford University were
gracious critics. Finally, to the contributors who endured countless rewrites
and pointed questions, many embraces and thanks: por fin cumplimos.
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Introduction

On the Question
of Inclusion

D av i d M o n t e j a n o

s we approach the end of the twentieth century, the national media

A has begun to issue the inevitable, introspective analyses of Ameri-

can politics and society. In light of a number of prominent racial-
ized events — the Los Angeles riots of 1992, the anti-immigrant campaigns of
1994 –1995, the O.J. Simpson trial of the same years, the Million Man March
of 1995, the anti – affirmative action initiatives of 1995 –1997, to name just a
few — the dominant tone of these media analyses has been a somber and anx-
ious one. It reflects the anxiety of a nation obsessed with race, as one noted
sociologist put it: “we think race, act race, march race, tabulate race, celebrate
race, fear race.” The prophecy of W. E. B. Du Bois, made in 1903, that the
problem of the twentieth century would be that of the “color line,” may hold
up well for another century. On the eve of the twenty-first century, the most
active fault lines in U.S. society remain race and ethnic divisions.1
Not surprisingly, many of these national commentaries, noting the rapid
increase in the U.S. Latino population, have elaborated a common theme
around the notion of the “browning of America.” Two disturbing lines of rea-
soning have characterized much of the public discussion. On the one hand,
some journalists and politicians talk in alarming tones about the possibility of
an “ethnic disintegration” of American society. An April 1990 issue of Time
put the matter bluntly: “What will the U.S. be like when whites are no longer
the majority?” 2 Whose history, values, language, and identity will count? One
commentator in the conservative National Interest warned his audience that
the Latino “value system” has been “the principal obstacle to human progress
throughout Hispanic America.” Latino barrios, by reinforcing these values,
thus pose a special danger: “Poor enclave communities not only make it
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xii / David Montejano

easier for homeland values and language to persist, but they also possess the
potential, particularly during bad economic times, for resentment-driven vi-
olence, such as the rioting in the Mount Pleasant district of Washington, D.C.
in the spring of 1991 or the devastating April –May 1992 Los Angeles riots.
One-third of those apprehended in Los Angeles for looting were illegal His-
panic immigrants.” 3
Such anxiety about Latinos is evident among liberal commentators as well.
In the 1990s, the moderate magazine Atlantic Monthly has treated its readers
to several ominous special reports on the U.S.-Mexican border, concluding in
1992 that “no one knows the consequences of Mexican immigration: it is a
movement of the largest scale, immensely complicated, around which various
arguments can easily be constructed . . . [but] these newcomers may indeed be
the ones we cannot accommodate.” One 1996 article, penned by Stanford his-
torian David Kennedy, starkly warns of “the reconquista,” of the possibility
“that in the next generation or so we will see a kind of Chicano Quebec take
shape in the American Southwest.” 4 In short, conservatives and liberals alike
have created a melodramatic, public discourse about threats to America from
a growing Latino presence.
The second line of reasoning in this national discussion displays a right-
eous anger about the political “activism” of the U.S.-Mexican population. Na-
tionally syndicated columnist Georgie Ann Geyer, for example, took a swipe
in December 1992 at the “Hispanic advocacy movement,” organizations that
have consistently pushed for increased immigration, bilingual education,
Spanish-language ballots, and “other such issues,” by gushing about a “really
surprising” poll of Hispanic Americans. The survey showed that Latinos ac-
tively want to reduce immigration, that they believe people living in this
country should speak English, and that “the diverse and patriotic real His-
panic American community wants to adhere to the broader interests of the
common good and of responsible Americanism rather than to the interests of
professional spokespersons.” Geyer, who in the 1980s believed that the South-
west was on the verge of becoming another “Lebanon,” was plainly relieved
by this finding — that Latinos are not so different, after all.5
Such reasoning — that Latinos are “not so different”—has led several con-
servative analysts to argue that Hispanics are guilty of “opportunism”— of
abusing racial entitlements and preferences intended exclusively for African
Americans. Political scientist Peter Skerry, for example, has argued that Mexi-
can Americans are essentially immigrants who define themselves as a minority
group only because their self-interested political leadership has been “seduced”
by affirmative action “remedies” such as the Voting Rights Act. According to
Skerry, Hispanics simply have no claim to such policies and remedies: “What-
ever the merits of affirmative action for black Americans, it makes little sense
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On the Question of Inclusion / xiii

to extend its benefits to those whose claims on the nation’s conscience are far
less cogent —and who come here expecting no special help.” Skerry con-
cludes that if we do not withdraw benefits from Hispanics, “we acquiesce in
the rewriting of the social compact this nation has had with immigrants since
its founding.” 6 Ironically, Skerry does a considerable amount of rewriting of
history and politics to carry out his polemical argument. In Skerry’s treat-
ment, the United States has no history of nation building worth exploring.
Rather, the nation is assumed to have had a fixed space in which non –English
speakers have been by definition immigrants.
Regardless of which line of reasoning is pursued, whether warning of eth-
nic disintegration or opportunism, these worrisome commentaries generally
attempt no serious historical grounding. Skerry and others are free to portray
Mexican and Asian Americans as “new” or “undeserving minorities” locked
in a battle with African Americans for limited government resources. Or, as
a rather naive article in the New York Times Magazine put it, “the new mi-
norities’ affirmative-action claims for fairness can’t help but come at the ex-
pense of blacks.” 7 The provocative, divisive nature of this neoconservative ar-
gument is hardly concealed. With the rise of racial tensions, even liberals take
up the argument.
In a troubling Atlantic Monthly assessment of the 1992 Los Angeles riot,
for example, Jack Miles warns of an emerging struggle between Latinos and
Blacks “for the bottom rung.” Because white employers fear or disdain blacks
and trust Latinos, Miles argues, there is widespread preferential hiring of
Latinos for menial jobs —“the largest affirmative-action program in the nation,
and one paid for, in effect, by blacks.” But, reasons Miles, if the Mexican bor-
der were sealed off, a desperately needed safety valve for Mexico would be
eliminated, and this “could foster the rise in that country of a terrorist move-
ment like Peru’s Shining Path.” 8 The horns of Miles’s dilemma now become
clear: regardless of which minority wins the battle for the “bottom rung,”
violence will probably result. Not once in his pessimistic analysis does Miles
question his base assumption that the “bottom rung” should be a preserve for
African or Mexican Americans.
Without much exaggeration, one could say that such unabashed specula-
tion in the national media and academia displays symptoms of manic depres-
sion. Bouts of hysteria may be followed by reassurances or resignation, only to
have the cycle repeat itself, sometimes within the same commentary. The delu-
sion of the analysts lies in their unspoken belief that the race question refers
to “those people”—Mexicans, Blacks, Asians —while they, naturally, speak for
the “national” interest. Speaking for the “nation” disguises the “whiteness”—
the race consciousness — of their perspective: their words are presumed to be
part not of a racialized discourse but of an objective, transcendent American
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xiv / David Montejano

discourse. And so they speak “for the common good,” composing a “national”
discourse that manifests a profound ignorance and fear of Latinos and Blacks.
Jack Miles’s “browns vs. blacks” analysis, for example, was based on his long
familiarity with the Mexican family that worked as domestics in the Miles res-
idence. Out of such whimsical, anecdotal material have come alarming argu-
ments with severe political implications.
These much publicized reactions and perspectives on the “browning of
America” form the stark backdrop for the following collection of case studies.
Needless to say, the general perspective of these studies is thoroughly different
from that of the national print media I have just reviewed. The focus of the
following essays is not on disintegration but on inclusion, not on opportunism
but on activism to secure respect and equality.
By “inclusion” I refer to a basic recognition of Mexican Americans as a le-
gitimate U.S. citizenry. Inclusion refers, in the most specific sense, to the ex-
tension and exercise of first-class citizenship. At the most general, it may refer
to a broadening of the political culture and meanings associated with “Ameri-
canness.” Defined generally in this manner, each of the following studies ex-
plores some aspect of inclusion; this is the common thread that makes the vol-
ume a collective whole.
The ten original contributions in this volume all take their departure
point with the “Chicano movement,” an integral part of the U.S. civil rights
movement of the sixties and seventies. The concern in most of the case stud-
ies is to understand the type of “institutionalization” or “accommodation” that
has characterized Chicano politics since the mid seventies. They describe vari-
ous efforts to secure political influence and the contradictory results appar-
ently achieved. In a sense, these studies represent a collective assessment of
“postmovement” politics in the Mexican American community. What was
achieved? What was lost? Where are we headed?
In answering such questions, the following studies provide a suggestive re-
view of events and tendencies from the mid seventies through the early nine-
ties. Rodolfo Rosales looks at San Antonio politics and the young Mayor Henry
Cisneros to understand the unexpected consequences of single-member dis-
tricts, at the time regarded as an important civil rights victory. Teresa Córdova,
in her study of Chicago politics, describes the rise and fall of a progressive
Black-Latino coalition under the brief tenure of Mayor Harold Washington.
Mary Pardo’s description of the “Mothers of East Los Angeles,” a church-based
community organization, outlines the manner in which activism and citizen-
ship is “gendered.” The bittersweet results of the creation of a state agricul-
tural labor-relations agency, a goal long sought by California farmworkers, are
analyzed in Margarita Decierdo’s article. Phillip Gonzales’s account of affirma-
tive action politics at the University of New Mexico suggests the limits of
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On the Question of Inclusion / xv

“ethnic advocacy” as one moves up the institutional ladder. Both Christine

Sierra and Antonio González, through their respective studies of immigration
reform and Central American policy, provide insights into the unprecedented
way in which “Hispanic” concerns and pressures have begun to influence na-
tional policy making. Eric Xavier suggests the problematic making of an Ameri-
can dream in the artistic and political evolution of Luis Valdez’s work from farm-
worker theater to Hollywood production. And Martín Sánchez Jankowski,
using survey data from three major cities, documents similar ambitions and
dilemmas in the attitudes of former nationalists. Finally, in order to demon-
strate that “inclusion” is a contingent and reversible circumstance, I use the
forecasts of demographers and economists to outline a possible exclusionary
future for Anglo-Mexican relations.
Together these studies suggest the increasing breadth and complexity of
Chicano politics and society in the late twentieth century. Geographically
the volume points to the importance of “Hispanic” politics in the Southwest
as well as in Chicago wards and in the congressional halls of Washington, D.C.,
with ramifications in Mexico and Central America. The volume discusses
“nontraditional” politics stemming from gender identity, environmental issues,
theater production, labor organizing, and university policy making, along with
the more traditional politics revolving around state and city government, the
Congressional Hispanic Caucus, and various advocacy organizations.
What gives these various studies a sense of unity, as noted before, is the
question of inclusion. In spite of different approaches and interests, the fol-
lowing studies clearly demonstrate that whatever political inclusion has taken
place, it has been a partial one, uneven and full of contradictions. They sug-
gest as well that inclusion be seen not as a permanent circumstance but rather
as a contingent and negotiable one.
How can one speak of “inclusion” in light of the current backlash against
immigrants, civil rights, voting rights, affirmative action, bilingual education?
This question of inclusion draws its meaning from a historical as well as a
present-day context. In other words, in order to understand this orientation,
some basic background in history is necessary; then the individual studies can
be properly introduced.

A History of Nation Building

The notion of inclusion suggests that we have witnessed a qualitative trans-

formation of race relations from some pattern or history of exclusion and con-
trol. In the case of the Chicano or Mexican American experience, any histori-
cal assessment must recognize its nineteenth-century origins in the Mexican
War and the annexation of the northern half of Mexico. It must deal candidly
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xvi / David Montejano

with the sentiments and structures of exclusion that were triggered by conflict
and war. The fear about “Mexicanization” or “Latinization” can be traced back
to such roots, as exemplified by a warning given at the 1845 Texas Constitu-
tional Convention about allowing Mexicans the right to vote: “Silently they
will come moving in; they will come back in thousands . . . and what will be
the consequence? Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty thousand may come in here,
and vanquish you at the ballot box though you are invincible in arms. This is
no idle dream; no bugbear; it is the truth.” 9 More than a century and a half later,
such sentiment still strikes a responsive chord in the American imagination.
What is important to note is the sharp reorientation that a frank
nineteenth-century history introduces. Most pundits and scholars who com-
ment on the worrisome immigration situation assume that the nation has had
preformed, fixed boundaries into which poured immigrants who eventually
melted into an American stock. There is no examination of the nation-
building experience itself, a national experience that involved Indian wars,
plantation slavery, wars with Mexico and Spain, and expansion to California
and eventually to Puerto Rico, Hawaii, and the Philippines. Such failures of
historical memory are critical, for only in this way can one ignore the manner
in which nation building and conquests of “people of color”— reds, blacks,
browns, and yellows —have fused race consciousness (“whiteness”) and na-
tional identity (“Americanness”) and profoundly shaped national politics.10
Immigration, of course, was and is a basic element of the American expe-
rience, but twentieth-century immigrants stepped into a world shaped by a
past. The massive waves of European and Mexican immigrants of this century
assimilated the cultural lore and political lessons of the nineteenth century,
even as they put in place a contemporary modern economy. Assimilation oc-
curred, but along ethnic-racial lines. Thus, for most of the twentieth-century
Southwest, “American” generally meant “white,” an identity that melted var-
ious European groups (German, Irish, Polish, Italian, Jewish) into one, while
“Mexican” likewise referred to race and not to citizenship.
In short, the Mexican in the twentieth-century United States was seen as
“another” race problem and handled in much the same way as the African
American was, through segregationist policies and institutions. Indeed, in
spite of their very different experiences in the nineteenth century, the paral-
lels between African American and Mexican American experiences in the
20th century are extensive: exclusion or segregation for much of the first half
of the twentieth century, as regional and local Anglo elites extended Jim
Crow policies designed explicitly for Blacks to cover Mexicans, and a twenty-
five-year period of change, 1950 –1975, as these racial policies came under at-
tack from various social movements demanding (among other things) first-
class citizenship.11
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On the Question of Inclusion / xvii

The Chicano Movement

The question of inclusion also suggests a different kind of politics, a “normal”

or routinized institutional politics that stands in contrast to the “politics of
protest” that took place roughly between 1965 and 1975.12 In the sixties, frus-
trated with the remaining segregationist limits and inspired by the Black civil
rights movement, a general mobilization of the Mexican American commu-
nity took place. The specific catalysts were the farm worker strikes in Cali-
fornia and Texas in 1965 –1966, which set off diverse organizing energies that
quickly reverberated throughout the Southwest and later through the Mid-
west. These strikes ignited a broad civil rights mobilization among all classes
of the Mexican American community —businessmen, professionals, college
and high school students, factory workers, even the street youth. Unlike the
assimilationist character of the earlier protests of the 1950s, these protests be-
gan to articulate a unifying nationalist vision that in its more militant guises
was separatist. The activists took the pejorative lower-class label of Chicano
and Chicana and transformed it into a powerful political identity.
Generally speaking, the Chicano movement scored few direct successes —
winning a few rural county and town governments in Texas, fueling a land-
grant reclamation movement in New Mexico, securing labor rights for farm-
workers in California, and opening up universities throughout the region to
Chicano youth.13 The Chicano movement, nonetheless, set the stage for con-
siderable political reform, both nationally and locally, and made the moder-
ate established organizations more acceptable. It left its imprint in the cre-
ation of new advocacy organizations — the Mexican American Legal Defense
and Educational Fund (MALDEF), the Southwest Voter Registration and
Education Project (SVREP), the National Council of La Raza (NCLR), for
example — that would carry out and monitor the mandated dismantling of
segregationist practices and institutions. Ironically, then, the Chicano move-
ment reformed the “system”— not in the sweeping manner that movement
rhetoric demanded —but sufficiently to move Chicanos off the streets and
into the waiting rooms of the “house of power.”
This pressure from below, of unprecedented intensity and geographic
scope, laid the basis for a politics of inclusion. One can arguably peg 1975, the
year the Voting Rights Act was extended to “language minorities,” as a defin-
ing moment. In the same year the passage of the California Agricultural Labor
Relations Act signaled the extension of labor rights to farmworkers, thus also
bringing some closure to the events that had started the movement in 1965.
By the mid 1970s, the militant nationalist energy throughout the Southwest
had dissipated, having been channeled on the one hand into cultural projects,
community organizing, and nonpartisan political activities, and on the other
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xviii / David Montejano

into traditional partisan activities and business ventures. Generally speaking,

the “Chicano generation” witnessed an uneven transition from segregation
and powerlessness to integration and electoral influence, from the “politics of
recognition” to the “politics of institutionalized power,” as Christine Sierra
describes it.14
Such basic change in American society led William J. Wilson to charac-
terize the post-1975 period as one of the “declining significance of race.” 15 This
was somewhat an overstatement, for race continues to carry considerable sig-
nificance. Nonetheless, as Wilson noted, the political and social context in
which the fact of race is debated and negotiated has changed dramatically.
Race relations at the end of the twentieth century are markedly different from
those at mid century or even in the seventies. Indeed, in the case of Mexican
Americans, the uneasiness evident in the national commentaries suggests
that the feared “browning” has already taken place.

Mexican Americans in
the Late Twentieth Century

Numbering some fourteen million in 1990, the Mexican American popula-

tion will grow to comprise near majorities throughout the Southwest, espe-
cially in the key states of Texas and California, within the next generation.
Everyday features of Southwestern life— food, music, and art are among the
most obvious — underscore the Mexican influence. Indeed, Time magazine
declared in a special July 1988 issue that “Hispanic culture” had broken “out
of the barrio.” 16
On university campuses in the region, the controversy over multicul-
turalism, while far from over, suggests that “Anglo conformity,” the long-
reigning cultural paradigm for the United States, is under siege as we enter the
twenty-first century. In fact, the universities generally lag behind the elemen-
tary schools, where the reality of multicultural student bodies has influenced
the curriculum for some time.
In the world of commerce, the consumer market of the Mexican Ameri-
can population has an estimated value of one hundred billion dollars and has
gained the attention of major market promoters. Conservative projections es-
timate that by the year 2000 Mexican Americans will own 320,000 business
firms with annual business revenues of twenty billion dollars. And while there
may be disagreement over trade agreements between the United States and
Mexico, no one disputes that Mexican Americans will become an increas-
ingly important intermediary in such binational commerce.17
Nowhere is this influence more evident than in the political arena. Cur-
rently Mexican Americans play key political roles in all Southwestern states
i
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On the Question of Inclusion / xix

and in several urban areas outside the region, in stark contrast with the pat-
tern of exclusion for much of the twentieth century. The growth in Mexican
American political participation in the Southwest has been dramatic: between
1976 and 1988 the number of registered voters doubled to more than three
million, while the number of Latino elected officials likewise doubled to more
than three thousand. In the past two decades, the watershed elections of
Henry Cisneros as mayor of San Antonio, of Federico Peña as mayor of
Denver, and of Gloria Molina as county supervisor of Los Angeles County, as
well as the gubernatorial elections of Jerry Apodaca and Toney Anaya in New
Mexico, signified not just an exponential increase in political representation
but a qualitatively different level of representation for the Mexican American
community.
At the state level, the makeup of the 1996 –1997 Texas legislature easily
demonstrated the significance of Mexican American influence: of the 150
House members, nearly one-fifth belonged to the Mexican American caucus;
of the 31 senators, almost one-fourth were caucus members. In California, in
spite of an anti-Latino climate (or perhaps because of it), Mexican Americans
in 1996 gained thirteen seats in the eighty-member state assembly, making
Cruz Bustamante the first Latino speaker of the lower house.18
At the national level, the mostly Democratic Congressional Hispanic Cau-
cus, numbering in the 1990s about a dozen members, had become increasingly
effective in using the mechanics of “power brokering” not only to block detri-
mental legislation but, more importantly, to secure beneficial legislation.
Despite the staunch Democratic Party affiliation of most Mexican Americans,
the national Republican party has tried to make inroads with appeals to “fam-
ily values” and business development; the result has been a sporadic competi-
tion between the Republican and Democratic parties for the Mexican Ameri-
can vote. Former President George Bush’s appointment of Lauro Cavazos as
secretary of education and Manuel Lujan as secretary of the interior, a serious
bid to enlist Mexican Americans to the Republican fold, signaled national
recognition of the Mexican American presence. The Democratic Party re-
sponse was seen in President Clinton’s cabinet appointments of Henry Cisne-
ros as secretary of housing and urban development and Federico Peña as sec-
retary of transportation for his first term, and the appointments of Peña as
secretary of energy and Congressman Bill Richardson of New Mexico as UN
ambassador for his second. These appointments suggest that Latino represen-
tation at the highest national level may have become institutionalized in par-
tisan politics.19
In short, the “browning of America” proclaimed in the end-of-the-century
accounts of journalists and pundits ironically suggests some measure of politi-
cal inclusion. The friendlier commentaries describe Mexican Americans as
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xx / David Montejano

“patriotic” and “real Hispanic Americans” and “worthy” (or “expecting no spe-
cial help”)—attempting, apparently, to soften the realization of an increasing
Mexican presence in U.S. society.
The following studies look at the same reality with a different lens. Hope-
fully, they may begin to moderate the tenor and language dominating the cur-
rent national discussion. At the minimum, they should demonstrate that
voices on the other side of the American racial-ethnic divide are carrying on
a very different discussion.

Organization of the Volume

The articles in this book are grouped into three sections: community studies,
institutional studies, and general studies.

Community Studies
In this section are grouped three studies that deal with the politics of specific
urban communities, namely, San Antonio, Chicago, and Los Angeles.
Rodolfo Rosales, in his study of San Antonio politics in the 1980s, ob-
serves a curious result of the shift from at-large to single-member districts. As
expected, single-member districts resulted in more ethnic representation on
the city council, but they also promoted individualistic or “personal agenda”
politics in place of the previous practice of collective or “organizational
agenda” politics (which had been necessary for successful at-large campaigns).
Presenting Mayor Henry Cisneros and Councilman Bernardo Eureste as ex-
amples of personal-agenda politicians, Rosales describes how community po-
litical influence remains elusive. Because the Chicano community has not
forged a broad-based organizational agenda, the political field has once again
been left to organized business interests.
Teresa Córdova’s contribution takes us beyond the Southwest to the com-
plex ethnic politics of Chicago during the mid eighties, a time when the old
Daley political machine appeared to be unraveling. Córdova describes the rise
of a progressive Black-Latino coalition with Harold Washington’s mayoral
victory in 1983. This coalition was unable to consolidate its power, however,
until the special aldermanic elections in 1986, when four pro-Washington
candidates — two Blacks, one Mexican American, one Puerto Rican —were
elected. Shortly after the sudden death of Washington the following year, the
coalition broke apart over the question of a successor. In 1989, with support
from some former coalition members (including future Congressman Luis
Gutiérrez), Richard M. Daley, son of the former machine mayor, was elected
mayor of Chicago. Thus did the Daley Machine become resurrected, though
with a decidedly increased Black-Latino presence.
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On the Question of Inclusion / xxi

The third contribution to this collection is Mary Pardo’s study of the largest
protest to emerge from East Los Angeles in the eighties. A grassroots protest
movement, led by the church-based Mothers of East Los Angeles (MELA),
was catalyzed by a State of California decision to locate a new prison in East
Los Angeles. Pardo focuses on the developing political consciousness of the
generally middle-aged, low-income women of MELA. Through their involve-
ment they transformed their identities, especially of “motherhood,” into a ba-
sis for militant opposition to projects that adversely affect the quality of life in
their community. Pardo’s study is a provocative account of the politicization
of hundreds of working-class Mexican American women.

Institutional Studies
This section includes four studies that focus on the politics and policies of
government agencies.
At the state level, we have Margarita Decierdo’s assessment of California’s
Agricultural Labor Relations Board (ALRB) from 1975 through 1990, which
touches on the unexpected consequences of a perceived victory. At the time
of its creation in 1975, the ALRB was seen as the culmination of a ten-year
struggle by the United Farm Workers, led by César Chávez, to secure union
recognition and wage contracts with intransigent growers. From the outset,
however, the new state agency faced serious obstacles in implementing the le-
gal mediating framework intended to resolve the labor conflict. Indeed, the
conflict itself was “imported” into the agency, with staff dividing itself into
pro-grower, pro-farmworker, and neutral factions. The election of Republican
Governor Deukmejian and subsequent pro-grower control of the ALRB led to
a general purging of “pro-farmworker” staff. Thus the ALRB in the eighties,
Decierdo concludes, ends up, ironically, being used as a mechanism to control
farmworker union activities.
Phillip Gonzales grounds his analysis of university politics in a contentious
dispute over affirmative action policy at the University of New Mexico in the
mid 1980s. The determination of two influential Hispanic regents (one of
them an ex-governor of the state) to pursue affirmative action alienated the
university president and a large fraction of the Anglo faculty, who essentially
countered by labeling the regents as ethnic politicians concerned with pa-
tronage. The ensuing public outcry against the regents’ “meddling” led to the
passage of a constitutional admendment adding two new seats to the Board of
Regents, a move to undermine the Hispanic majority. Gonzales argues that
this case illustrates the limits to ethnic advocacy as one moves up the institu-
tional ladder, where “universalistic” goals are expected.
At the national level, Christine Sierra reviews a ten-year period (1976 –
1986) of Chicano efforts to influence immigration reform to understand how
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xxii / David Montejano

the Congressional Hispanic Caucus and a Latino lobby in Washington engage

in the politics of compromise, often at the expense of the Chicano community.
The Caucus and the advocacy lobby proved successful in blocking the Simpson-
Mazzoli bill until the coalition fell apart over the question of legislative strat-
egy. Some members of Congress and advocacy organizations felt that they
needed to shed their obstructionist role and engage in “realistic politics” if
they were to save the amnesty program. Sierra notes that while Chicano politi-
cians and activists have demonstrated their ability to influence national policy
making, they are now subject to pressure to moderate their demands and be
pragmatic.
In similar fashion, Antonio González outlines the Chicano advocacy or-
ganizations’ unprecedented consensus in the late eighties in opposing U.S.
Central American policy, especially regarding the support of the Nicaraguan
“contras.” This coordinated opposition, led in particular by Willie Velásquez
and the Southwest Voter Registration Education Project (SVREP), pressured
the Congressional Hispanic Caucus to work to reverse Reagan administration
policy, with success finally coming in 1988. For González, this suggests not
only a qualitative advance for Chicano politics but also a historic possibility
of moderating the Monroe Doctrine that has justified U.S. hegemony in the
Western Hemisphere.

General Studies
As noted earlier, an underlying theme that unifies these various studies is a
concern with understanding what happened after the movement. Two con-
tributions provide explicit overviews of the transition from movement poli-
tics to institutionalized politics, but each does it in a distinctive way.
Eric Xavier begins his intriguing study of El Teatro Campesino and its
founder, Luis Valdez, in the mid sixties and takes us through the late eighties.
Xavier explores the relationship between the politics and culture of the
Chicano movement by reviewing the evolution of El Teatro Campesino, from
farmworker theater performed on flatbed trucks to the “American plays”
staged and filmed in Los Angeles. Xavier interprets the change in specific dra-
matic styles according to the changing fortunes of the Chicano movement.
Xavier thus provides us a case study of how one Chicano cultural form has be-
come “integrated” into American society, with theatrical and movie success
as the evidence. It is a curious integration, however, for Valdez’s contempo-
rary efforts to write “American plays” for a broad audience have been seen in
Hollywood primarily as an opening into the Hispanic market.
From another vantage point, Martín Sánchez Jankowski employs a unique
data set —a longitudinal survey of youth in San Antonio, Albuquerque, and
Los Angeles — to find out what happened to the nationalists he first inter-
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On the Question of Inclusion / xxiii

viewed in 1976. Reinterviewing them in 1986, Sánchez Jankowski discovers

that the “cultural nationalists” of the mid seventies have abandoned their po-
sition, whereas the “political nationalists” remain as committed as before. In
this candid analysis of youth who have gone different political ways, Sánchez
Jankowski notes that lower-class nationalists of the seventies generally re-
main the most radical, whereas many middle-class nationalists have turned to
Republican party politics. Sánchez Jankowksi concludes that nationalism can
reassert itself if inequality between Chicanos and Anglos worsens.
The volume concludes with my speculative study of the possible futures
for Chicano-Anglo relations in the twenty-first century. The “politics of in-
clusion,” I argue, basically reflects a certain understanding or convergence of
interests between the prominent class groups of the Chicano and Anglo com-
munities; specifically, the Chicano middle class, which wants political entry
and opportunities, and the Anglo business elite, which wants support for its
pro-development plans, have accommodated one another. Against this set-
ting, I explore the implications of two much discussed projections: that the
United States has already begun an economic decline within the world sys-
tem and that ethnic demographic growth (or “browning”) portends potential
class polarization along ethnic lines. In summary, I argue that the convergence
of these two projections poses serious challenges to the pro-development ac-
commodation that makes for political inclusion.

On the Politics of Inclusion

What general points about political inclusion can be teased out from these
wide-ranging studies? Three basic points appear to stand out.
The first is that inclusion, although referring to involvement in institu-
tionalized problem-solving politics, is accompanied if not maintained by a
politics of protest. All the community and institutional studies in this volume
mention such mobilization. Protest politics catalyzed or underscored the var-
ious campaigns for voting rights (Rosales & Córdova), quality of life (Pardo),
labor rights (Decierdo), affirmative action (Gonzales), immigration policy
(Sierra), Central American policy (González), and cultural expression (Xa-
vier). Put another way, political inclusion signifies the assertion of community
autonomy or influence in the policy-making process. The degree or extent of
inclusion is the result of negotiation and, sometimes, of conflict.
A second general point, closely related to the first, deals with the distinct
perspective — that “un-American agenda” most feared by conservative com-
mentators — that Mexican Americans are introducing in American public
policy. Inclusion signifies access and participation in policy- and decision-
making agencies. Such participation necessarily entails the advocacy of a
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xxiv / David Montejano

definite position on such questions as affirmative action, labor relations, bilin-

gual education, immigration, foreign policy toward Latin America, multicul-
turalism, and so on. Most of the studies in this volume describe an unprece-
dented political situation that promised a “historic” introduction of a Chicano
perspective. A critical ingredient was the development of an organizational
infrastructure that could at times effectively express such a perspective.
This leads to a related third point about pragmatic politics: that this dis-
tinct ethnic perspective is moderated, compromised, or contained by partici-
pation in institutionalized politics. Indeed, the institutional limits that mod-
erate or contain ethnic issues comprise the core of most of the studies; it is the
most developed theme in the volume. These various studies demonstrate
rather evident advances in access and representation within institutionalized
politics, but these advances all prove to be fleeting or ambiguous. In San
Antonio single-member districts end up encouraging individualistic or per-
sonal agendas rather than community-wide organizational ones. In Chicago
the insurgent Washington mayoralty turns out to be a temporary lapse from
Daley machine rule. In California, the much heralded Agricultural Labor
Relations Board becomes transformed into a regulating agency of farmworker
labor activity. In New Mexico the Hispanic regents of the flagship university
are basically censured for their “ethnic politics.” At the national level, the
Simpson-Mazzolli immigration bill finally passes with the compromised sup-
port of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus, while the U.S. policy of support-
ing the Nicaraguan “contras,” although finally overturned, reveals sharp dif-
ferences within the Hispanic Caucus.
What these studies suggest, then, is that participation in institutionalized
politics, while providing routinized access to decision making, at the same
time sets limits on political behavior, promotes compromise at the possible
expense of the “community,” and may even undermine community organiza-
tional effectiveness. Such are the contradictions of inclusion.

A Final Word

A word might be said about the organization of this volume. There was no con-
ference or shared intellectual discussion to pull together ideas, smooth over
differences, or reconcile disagreements; all papers were written independently
of each other, not in concert with some overall design. The various studies
employ very different approaches: demographic analysis, survey analysis,
participant observation, interviews, life histories, and straightforward library
research. Evident also are differences in ethnic identification preferred by the
authors — Chicano, Mexican American, Mexican, Hispano, Latino; these
were left as the author chose.
v
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On the Question of Inclusion / xxv

There is no claim, of course, that this volume offers a thorough considera-

tion of contemporary Chicano politics and society. Beyond Pardo’s insightful
discussion of the changing consciousness and identity of women activists, there
is no treatment of gender or gendered politics. There is no theory of the “state,”
although Decierdo’s provocative argument — that the state does not stand
above the fray but reflects the class conflict occurring around it — points the
way for further analysis. There is no sustained comparison with African Ameri-
cans, although Córdova’s description of Chicago politics is suggestive. Nor are
all the compelling issues that point to the limits, unevenness, and uncertain-
ties of inclusion — poverty and crime, school finance and school dropout rates,
language policy and multiculturalism, foreign policy with a restive Mexico,
for example —discussed in this volume. Nonetheless, these studies take an
important first step. Taken together as a whole, they provide a panoramic view
of post-movement politics and suggest directions for more research.

Notes
1. Todd Gitlin, “Racial Obsession Taking a Toll,” Austin American-Statesman, December 12,
1995; special issue on “California Fault Lines,” Nation, Sept. 18, 1995; Mike Davis, “In L.A.,
Burning All Illusions,” Nation, June 1, 1992, pp. 743–746; W. E. B. Du Bois, “To the Nations of
the World,” address to the Pan-African Conference, London, 1900.
2. “What Will the U.S. Be Like When Whites Are No Longer the Majority?” Time, April 9,
1990.
3. Lawrence E. Harrison, “America and Its Immigrants,” National Interest (Summer, 1992),
p. 45.
4. William Langewiesche, “The Border,” Atlantic Monthly, May 1992, p.65; David M. Ken-
nedy, “Can We Still Afford to Be a Nation of Immigrants?” Atlantic Monthly, November 1996,
pp. 52 – 68.
5. Georgie Anne Geyer, “Poll Shows Gulf Between Hispanics, Their ‘Spokesmen,’” El Paso
Times, Dec. 27, 1992; also “States Conduct Own Foreign Policy,” Houston Post, Nov. 10, 1983.
6. Peter Skerry, “Borders and Quotas: Immigration and the Affirmative Action State,” Public
Interest no. 96 (Summer 1989), pp. 86 –102. For a full elaboration, see Skerry, Mexican Americans:
The Ambivalent Minority (New York: Free Press, 1993).
7. William H. Frey and Jonathan Tilove, “Immigrants In, Native Whites Out,” New York Times
Magazine, August 20, 1995, pp. 44 – 45.
8. Jack Miles, “Blacks versus Browns: The Struggle for the Bottom Rung,” Atlantic Monthly,
October 1992, pp. 52 –55, 68.
9. Quoted in Paul S. Taylor, An American-Mexican Frontier: Nueces County, Texas (New York:
Russell & Russell, 1971), p. 232.
10. See David R. Roediger, The Wages of Whiteness: Race and the Making of the American Work-
ing Class (New York: Verso, 1991); Reginald Horsman, Race and Manifest Destiny: The Origins of
American Racial Anglo-Saxonism (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1981); Ronald T. Takaki,
Iron Cages: Race and Culture in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1979);
Tomas Almaguer, Racial Fault Lines: The Historical Origins of White Supremacy in California (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1994).
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xxvi / David Montejano

11. See Manning Marable, Race, Reform, and Rebellion: The Second Reconstruction in Black
America, 1945–1990, rev. 2nd ed. ( Jackson: University Press of Mississippi, 1991).
12. Protest activity, of course, antedated the sixties. There had occurred an earlier veteran-
inspired civil rights movement in the late 1940s and early 1950s. This was the height of the
“Mexican American Generation,” a political generation that emphasized its American identity
and progress toward assimilation. See Mario T. García, Mexican Americans: Leadership, Ideology,
and Identity, 1930 –1960 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989).
13. See David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836 –1986 (Austin:
University of Texas, 1987).
14. Such recent entry into institutionalized politics signifies an ongoing learning experience.
When the Congressional Hispanic Caucus proved successful in pushing for passage of the Voting
Rights Language Assistance Act in August 1992, over the objections of Republicans and “English-
first” advocacy groups, the event was hailed as the first time that Hispanic leaders had played the
Washington influence game “as insiders” to score major legislation. See “Breaking the Beltway Bar-
rier: Can Lobbyists Win the War for Washington Clout?” Hispanic Business, April 1993, pp. 16 –22.
15. William J. Wilson, The Declining Significance of Race: Blacks and Changing American In-
stitutions (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978).
16. Bureau of the Census, The Hispanic Population in the United States: March 1991, Current
Population Reports, Series P-20, No. 455. Washington, D.C.: U.S. GPO, 1991; special issue of
Time, “Magnifico! Hispanic Culture Breaks Out of the Barrio,” July 11, 1988.
17. See “The Hispanic Market: A Tremendous $200-Billion Marketing Opportunity For All!,”
Telemarketing, November 1992; “30 Million by the year 2000: Annual Hispanic Market Issue,”
Hispanic Business, December 1991. For different views on NAFTA, see “Opening the Door to
Mexico’s Riches,” Hispanic Business, January 1993, and Southwest Voter Research Institute, “The
Impact of the North American Free Trade Agreement on Latino Workers in California and South
Texas,” Latin American Project Paper 2 (September 1992); “Talking Free Trade,” Texas Observer,
April 9, 1993, p.4.
18. See, for example, Southwest Voter Registration Education Project, Latino Vote Reporter,
vols. 1–2 (1996 –1997); “Polanco’s Efforts Bear Fruit with Latino’s Rise in Assembly,” Los Angeles
Times, December 26, 1996; “Latino Turnout a Breakthrough Election: Group’s Heavy Ballot-
ing Could Signal a Historic Pivot Point for Political Relations in L.A.,” Los Angeles Times,
April 10, 1997.
19. See “Breaking the Beltway Barrier: Can Lobbyists Win the War for Washington Clout?”
Hispanic Business, April 1993; “What Clinton Will Do for Hispanics,” Hispanic Magazine, Jan./
Feb. 1993; “Clinton Administration’s Number of Hispanic Appointments Graded at C and
‘Unacceptable’ by NHLA and NCLR Respectively,” National Hispanic Reporter, May 1993;
“Hispanics Organizing as Republican Entity,” Austin American-Statesman, July 1, 1995.

i
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Part One
Community Studies
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01-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 3

One

Personality and Style in

San Antonio Politics
Henry Cisneros and Bernardo Eureste, 1975–1985

Rodolfo Rosales

n 1977 independent political representation for the Chicano community

I finally arrived as San Antonio changed from an at-large system of repre-

sentation to single-member districts, making it possible for the various sec-
tors to elect their choice of representation to city council. The impact of this
change for the Chicano community is obvious.1 In the area of employment,
San Antonio boasts the first Chicano city manager in a major city, along with
a sizable number of Chicanas and Chicanos in upper-level city administration
positions. In the area of allocational services, such as streets, drainage, libraries,
and other primary services, the impact of single-member districts is quite sig-
nificant — the streets in the westside, southside, and eastside are finally paved,
lighted, and equipped with drainage.
However, the broader backdrop for this analysis is an urban market econ-
omy in competition for limited resources and investments in a regional econ-
omy that is moving rapidly to a more competitive global economy. Given its
limited resources, San Antonio still finds itself in the face of these larger mar-
ket forces, as have many other cities, limited in terms of what it can and can-
not do. The social ills that San Antonio, especially its Chicano community, has
suffered throughout this century are still painfully and pervasively present. One
could argue that San Antonio is essentially imprisoned by the structure of a
political economy that forces it to turn most of its attention to economic de-
velopment as opposed to the various social and economic issues that face the
community.
In this larger context, then, did the change in the structure of political
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4 / Rodolfo Rosales

representation create political inclusion for the Chicano community, or did it

create an illusion, simply setting the stage for individualistic politicians to
serve as brokers for the business community? Stated in another manner, can
politicians in this system be held accountable to the needs of the community?
The other side of the question is: Can the community electorally advance an
agenda that is geared to its social and economic needs in a political system that
is geared to economic development? To address these questions, this essay fo-
cuses on how two of the most prominent Chicano politicians whose careers
were created by these structural changes shaped and fashioned their political
agendas in the relatively more open political environment created by single-
member districts.

Structure and Agency:

The Question of Empowerment

While it is obvious that humans are not simply robots determined by the struc-
tures and rules around them, how do we come to an understanding of the in-
teraction between the structures which, after all, were created by human action
(agency), and the determinacy that these structures in turn impart on human
behavior? 2
In this context, Paul Peterson, in City Limits, argues that while cities are
equipped to provide allocational services, their only realistic and therefore le-
gitimate function outside the routine allocation of services is economic devel-
opment.3 In essence, the overall interest of a city is economic development.
Cities are not structured or set up to address, for all practical purposes, social
issues, which he defines as redistributional services. Redistributional services
are for the most part the function of the state and national government. From
this functional perspective of the city, then, the most legitimate agenda in city
politics ends up being that of growth and expansion, and the major actors end
up being the business community and its various allies. As a consequence, effi-
ciency, rather than equity or equality, is at the heart of city politics. Political
conflicts brought about by the demands of the community thus are seen as
problems in the management of local government. In other words, Peterson
depoliticizes the entire process through his narrow and overstructural defini-
tion of the function of a city as the “director” of development.
Michael Peter Smith, on the other hand, argues that beyond the influence
of market forces and political structures, sociopolitical forces are at work in
determining the shape and welfare of any particular city.4 His focus is on the
conflicts over space and politics that have shaped the urban political environ-
ment. Smith provides an approach by which one can then look at how com-
munities win and lose in the struggle over space, quality of life issues, and
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 5

ultimately the kind of political agenda that a city shapes for its constituents.
The particular policy direction of a city is the outcome of political conflicts
and not solely the consequence of political and economic structures.
Another very important approach to city politics and the status of com-
munities is Manual Castells’s classic study, The City and the Grassroots.5 Cas-
tells’s study, which is a cross-time and cross-cultural analysis of how commu-
nities define and confront the issues facing them, concludes that communities
in today’s global economy end up cutting out their particular spaces within
their urban experiences as they adjust to their environment. His is both a pes-
simistic as well as an optimistic conclusion. It is pessimistic because he finds
that these various communities across culture and across time submit to an
overwhelming global political economy by covering their heads and end up
concerning themselves solely with their own backs. It is optimistic, on the
other hand, because he brings out the agency side of humanity — people’s
struggle to overcome odds that are sometimes beyond their control.
All three of these approaches concerning the influence of the larger forces
and structures on what cities and communities can do have played some part
in bringing us to our particular study. To address this question of structure and
agency in contemporary San Antonio, we use a comparative profile method
to present an analysis of modern San Antonio as it finally opened up the po-
litical system that had been closed to the Chicano community for most of this
century. In this analysis we do not pretend to come to any concrete generaliz-
able conclusions about Chicanos, urban politics, and political power. While I
do look at larger forces, my premise is that the understanding of how commu-
nities cope with political and institutional structures can only develop from
the kind of particularistic case study that this essay represents.

Parameters of the Study

This essay arises out of a larger study of how the Chicano community mobilized
to bring about changes in a political system that had excluded them through-
out this century.6 Beginning in 1951, when it successfully changed the city
charter in order to set up a council-manager form of government based on an
at-large, nonpartisan electoral system, the business community masterminded
a politics of growth and expansion that excluded most of the social and eco-
nomic issues facing the Chicano community.7 By the early 1970s, the domi-
nance of the business leaders was successfully challenged electorally as well as
legally by the Chicano community, ending with the change to single-member
districts.
This is not to say that the dominance of the business community and its
agenda was not challenged prior to the 1970s. During the 1950s and 1960s,
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6 / Rodolfo Rosales

politics was almost completely dominated by two organizational agendas rep-

resenting two diverse politics. The business non-partisan slating group, the
Good Government League (GGL), represented the politics of growth and ex-
pansion. The Bexar County Democratic Coalition, a coalition of liberal Chi-
canos, Anglos, Blacks, and labor, on the other hand, represented a politics that
focused on the social and economic needs of the community. With only one
exception, no politician could afford to be independent.8
The notion of “organizational agenda” politics was an important concept
for understanding the political reality of mid-century San Antonio. I employed
the notion of “organizational agenda” politics to depict a political process in
which the GGL dominated at the exclusion of the various sectors of the San
Antonio community. The political reality that this style of politics reflected
was one in which the Chicano community had to mobilize its resources in al-
liance with various other excluded sectors in their struggle for political inclu-
sion. The notion of “personal agenda” politics, on the other hand, was useful
in depicting a political process that had finally opened up to the various sec-
tors of San Antonio, including the Chicano community. This kind of politics
reflected a political process in which organizational agendas no longer played
the dominant role that they had played in the past politics of exclusion.
Politicians were now left to their own resources and organizations to define
the politics and issues that they would pursue.9
In the 1950s and 1960s the two organizational agendas mentioned above
dominated politics in terms of not only who ran for office but also who defined
the kinds of issues addressed. While personal agendas certainly existed in that
time, even the most maverick or independent individual required the support
of or dovetailed into one or the other of the larger organizational agendas.
Thus, organizational politics even defined the kinds of political conflicts that
ensued.
From the 1970s, when single-member districts arrived on the scene, to the
present, the personal agendas of politicians took the forefront. Our argument is
not that organizational agendas do not exist today or that personal agendas did
not exist in the 1950s and 1960s. Rather, we argue that the more open politi-
cal process after 1977 made the pursuance of individual interests a very real pos-
sibility, changing the mode of political activity. Further, the argument is not
that there were no existing organizations that influenced individual politi-
cians. Indeed, the business community still maintains a very powerful presence
through its lobbying and electioneering. As well, community organizations,
such Communities Organized for Public Services (COPS), have had a tremen-
dous impact on the politicians representing the areas where this organization
is based. However, a formal process in which politicians are wedded to a par-
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 7

ticular agenda does not exist. Politicians in this more open environment are
free to negotiate with various interests.
The political profile approach that we utilize in this study was very useful
in both presenting a more personal account of two well-known political figures
in San Antonio as well as in teasing out in more detail the particular manner
by which both ultimately were products of a process that adapted the new mode
of politics to its broader agenda of growth and expansion. What we set out to
do in this study, then, is bring into relief through a profile of these two actors
the particular political reality of the Chicano community in a changing po-
litical system. These profiles allows us to analyze how personal agendas in all
their diversity ultimately reflect a political reality that is tied to the logic of
the ever looming market economy.
We begin with a brief discussion of the process that led to single-member
districts. Next we provide a discussion of Henry Cisneros and his remarkably
astute climb to political legitimacy for all of San Antonio. Then we compare
this profile to Bernardo Eureste’s seemingly more radical style so as to bring
out how, ultimately, despite their different styles and different agendas, they
both are products of the same process. We end with a brief discussion of how
social and political forces and conflicts shape the particular patterns of city
politics in the context of personal agenda politics.

A Political Environment in Flux

In 1973 the GGL lost a majority of the city council seats for the first time since
they had gained control of the city council in 1955, with the “new Northside
money” gaining a majority of the seats. After those elections, different groups
in the business community tried to reorganize but to no avail. In November
of 1974 San Antonio voters approved a city charter amendment to elect the
mayor directly instead of allowing the city council to select the mayor from
among its own members as it had done since 1953.10
The San Antonio city council elections of 1975 were the first in this cen-
tury in which there was not a dominant group in a position to successfully cap-
ture a majority of the council seats. Those elections presented the first seem-
ingly pluralistic political environment in San Antonio. The competing views
and interests that had been set loose in the 1973 elections now represented a
framework of personal-agenda politics as opposed to the organizational agenda
politics that had dominated the San Antonio political scene since 1951.
More importantly, Chicano political activists, caught in the rising expec-
tations of an open, pluralistic political environment, were intensely mobiliz-
ing forces against the still intact at-large system of electing city council mem-
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8 / Rodolfo Rosales

bers. For the Chicano activists the goal of single-member districts was the one
structural method by which to insure parity in representation for all citizens
in San Antonio. Even with the 1950s municipal reform ushering in San An-
tonio as a modern Sunbelt city, the Chicano community had yet to gain in-
dependent political access to government. The overwhelming majority of city
council members elected in the at-large system came from the more affluent
Anglo northside of San Antonio, with token representation coming from the
other sectors of the city.11
There were at least two important factors that ultimately ensured the in-
stitutional change to the present single-member district system. The first of
these was the demise of the municipal at-large elections, which began with a
1971 Texas court ruling that ordered the state to change the legislative rep-
resentation system from a multimember (county at-large) system of represen-
tation to single-member districts.12
Another major factor was the 1972 city council decision to annex various
far-northside affluent, Anglo-dominant precincts into the city. The annexa-
tion was a double-edged sword for the Chicano community. In the first place,
it was part of the overall growth and expansion goals of the “new money” busi-
ness community. The inclusion of these communities would add, in the eyes
of the Chicano community, to the neglect of public services for the Chicano
communities. In the second place, this new annexation would have a nega-
tive impact on Chicano voting power. The at-large system of representation
effectively disenfranchised a large sector of voters in the city of San Antonio.
Reinforcing this was the fact that in the 1971 elections, a barrio slate of four
candidates, two Chicanas and two Chicanos, won overwhelmingly in the bar-
rio precincts, only to ultimately lose in the at-large voting.13 Finally, the 1972
annexation provided the means by which to bring the U.S. Justice Department
into the picture, making the issue of representation a legal matter. In 1976 the
Justice Department objected to the annexations on the grounds that the pro-
portion of Anglos to Mexican Americans in the annexed territory (approxi-
mately 3:1 Anglo) diluted the majority status of the Mexican American popu-
lation in the city. The Justice Department indicated that “unless the city
altered its method of electing council members to provide more equitable rep-
resentation of language and racial minorities, the nine precincts added in
1972 would have to be deannexed.” 14
The city council elections of 1975 represented a threshold of various sorts.
The direct election of the mayor, while insignificant in terms of formal power,
represented a tenacious hold by the GGL when mayoral candidate Lila Cock-
rell (a GGL council member since 1965) won the election handily. The elec-
tion of Cockrell was a first for women in San Antonio mayoral politics. In ad-
dition, while most of the GGL candidates lost, Henry G. Cisneros was the
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 9

only other GGL candidate elected as a council member. More significantly,

the 1975 city council was forced to address the issue of single-member districts.
The ensuing debate and final vote by city council to present a single-member
district plan to the voters represented the threshold for a young politician who
would rise to political prominence unmatched by any other young contempo-
rary Chicano politician in the United States. Emerging out of this critical
point in San Antonio’s history was an articulate, smooth, Harvard- and MIT-
educated young man who could represent the common man, especially the
Chicano, in San Antonio as well as propose technically advanced ideas that
were well received by a media and a public ready to see San Antonio take its
place as a major U.S. city.

A Rising Star

The issue of single-member districts would finally be confronted by the San

Antonio city council in the fall of 1976. In October of that year the city coun-
cil was forced to decide whether to de-annex or to develop a plan of electing
city council representation that would satisfy the section of the Voting Rights
Act requiring a more equitable representation of language and racial minori-
ties. The immediate reaction by some city council members was to take the
Justice Department to court in order to bar its order. When this proposal was
taken up by the city council, the vote was split down the middle, with the
young first-term council member Henry Cisneros providing the deciding vote
against going to court.
Cisneros eventually joined in the campaign for a “10-1” plan that would
provide for ten single-member districts with the mayor running at large. The
campaign was successful, and in 1977 the at-large system of electing city coun-
cil officials was changed by the electorate to single-member district repre-
sentation. This effort on the part of Cisneros showed an independence that
brought him great popularity in the Chicano community.
Cisneros proved to be a meticulous and astute politician in choosing the
steps to take in order to fulfill his personal political goals. As early as 1977,
Cisneros was touted by the media as mayoral material. But he was careful to
avoid running for mayor until Mayor Cockrell was out of the picture and he
was able to secure the backing of some of the most prominent names in San
Antonio business and political circles. As Rick Casey, a journalist for the
Express News, put it: “Whether it’s selling out or coalition building, it is noth-
ing new to Cisneros. He owes his status to a large extent to two individuals and
a political organization: To himself for seven years of single-minded work to-
ward becoming mayor, to Mayor Cockrell for leading the city through a diffi-
cult transition and then resigning at the height of her power and to COPS for
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10 / Rodolfo Rosales

picking a fight that led to a public consensus of extraordinary intensity.” 15 His

“single-mindedness” and cautious, meticulous method were the key character-
istics of a young man who had to satisfy two radically different sectors in San
Antonio: those who wielded the political and economic capital he needed and
those whose enthusiastic support would become a cornerstone of his meteoric
rise to political prominence. Ironically, in spite of his cautious approach, these
diametrically opposed sectors of the community would bring him to the brink
of a disastrous conflict several times, endangering his relationship with those
economic and political forces critical for his political future.
But Cisneros seemed to be gifted in the art of compromise. For example,
from his first term in office, Cisneros consistently opposed development over
the Edwards underground aquifer. The Edwards underground aquifer is an un-
derground pure water source that provides water not only for the San Antonio
metropolitan area but for eleven counties. Part of the limestone recharge zone
which purifies the underground lake lies underneath northern San Antonio,
where most of the development was taking place. Cisneros’s support of a com-
prehensive master plan to regulate expansion set him directly in conflict with
various powerful developers and their representatives on the city council.16
Further, development over the aquifer brought forces together that ordi-
narily would not have worked together. The Aquifer Protection Association
(APA), a liberal environmentalist group, allied itself with COPS, an aggres-
sive community action organization in the Chicano west and southwest sides
of San Antonio, in protesting any development over the aquifer. In August of
1975, the city council unanimously adopted a resolution which closely con-
trolled development over San Antonio’s sole water source. But at the same
time, the city council approved, by a 5 to 4 vote, a zoning variance for a shop-
ping mall over the recharge zone. Cisneros took the side of the APA and COPS
and led the opposition against the mall on the basis that it threatened the
purity of San Antonio’s water source.
By February of 1976, APA and COPS successfully brought a referendum
on the city council’s business zoning over the aquifer to the voters. With
57,000 votes cast, a referendum overturning the council’s decision passed. But
the city council, by a vote of 6 to 3, with one absent, voted against the ban on
the zoning over the aquifer. Again Cisneros voted for the ban. APA and COPS
eyed a possible “recall of councilmen” after the vote.17
This, of course, brought excellent publicity for then council member
Henry Cisneros as a protector of the community’s sole source of water. Con-
sidering Cisneros’s mayoral ambitions and his own admitted propensity to
avoid conflict, this highly risky episode instead brought him greater visibility
and further enhanced his reputation as a new kind of Chicano politician who
could stand on his own two feet. The young Cisneros was developing an image
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 11

of himself as a populist — one who knew about and cared for the problems of
the community.
Cisneros’s astuteness in using the media and picking the right issues was
again apparent in a conflict over a proposed 30-percent hike by the City Water
Board. As the City Water Board’s general manager Robert Van Dyke was ex-
plaining the changes in the City Water Board’s master plan, Cisneros decided
to bring back into discussion the proposed hike: “They [CWB] want this [sup-
plement] approved and we want something changed on the rate hike.” Van
Dyke retorted that “it makes no difference to us if you adopt this or not.” He
stated that the presentation was merely a courtesy so that the city could up-
date its overall master plan which it must maintain current to continue se-
curing federal funds. He went on to explain that the supplements to the mas-
ter plan were basically engineering studies that outlined what the utility must
do to serve the fast-growing areas of the city’s northwest and northeast.18
The significance of this last encounter was that Cisneros took a highly vis-
ible position against an institution that had consistently subsidized developers
of subdivisions in the northwest and northeast white middle-class neighbor-
hoods by providing water hookups at the expense of the rate payers at large.
Cisneros had taken a populist position against an institution that was seen as
serving the interest of particular groups without any accountability to the
public it was supposed to serve.
Cisneros also raised critical questions as to the viability of governmental
structures and institutions and their relationship to people.19 On several oc-
casions he made it a point to visit with the common person in his or her own
environment. In June of 1975 he collected and emptied garbage cans for about
four hours to learn first-hand the problems of the sanitation department. He
also walked a beat with a policeman and aided ambulance attendants in giv-
ing first aid. Finally, in a visit with a family in a public housing unit, he dramat-
ically stated, “These are really private enterprise people . . . they want to work
and to better themselves. Their problems are ones that the city can no longer
ignore.” 20
At the same time, Cisneros, who enjoyed the resources and visibility of
the GGL establishment while not being confined directly to its agenda, was
building an image that went beyond San Antonio politics. In 1981 San An-
tonio elected Henry G. Cisneros as the first Chicano mayor of a major city in
the United States. In 1983 he was reelected with 93 percent of the vote. In
the presidential elections of 1984 he was among the few considered as a vice-
presidential candidate by Mondale, although publicly he emphasized that he
still had too many goals to accomplish as mayor. In 1985 he was also consid-
ered as a potential gubernatorial candidate for the 1986 state elections, again
responding that he was not available.21
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12 / Rodolfo Rosales

Cisneros was able to craft a personal-agenda politics based on an image of

a young leader with sleeves rolled up and coat over the shoulder —flashbacks
of another young mayor ( John Lindsay of New York City)—who was able to
bring various distinct and sometimes conflicting interests together in a mar-
riage that would ultimately bring the city into national prominence.22 Here
was a young leader who could place San Antonio on the map.

District Politics and the Molding of a Mayor

Henry Cisneros’s first two terms (1975 –1979) as a city council member were
characterized by the astute maneuvering of a young politician with a personal
agenda that promised to gain wide support in not only the Chicano commu-
nity but the broader San Antonio community as well. While Cisneros was seen
challenging certain policy matters tied to the priorities of the business class,
he was careful at the same time to ally himself with those same groups in em-
phasizing growth.
Even in the issues that put him seemingly on a collision course with the
economically more powerful business community, the context of these con-
flicts was always carefully articulated so as to separate them from any radical
tinge. Thus, Cisneros stood for protection of water, not opposition to growth
and expansion; for support of public housing but as an expression of faith in
the free enterprise system. Cisneros molded a political agenda that cast him
at once as a leader concerned with issues that affected the community and as a
leader who was committed to building San Antonio as a great “center of profit”
in the scramble for business investment throughout the Sunbelt.
The advent of single-member districts in 1977 and the resulting election
of independent Chicano candidates, however, brought onto the scene new
actors who presented to Cisneros his greatest challenge. These new actors not
only expressed an indifference to the business community’s objective of growth
and expansion but were actually antagonistic to northside Anglo dominance
of city politics.
An important consequence of this new political environment was the op-
portunity for any member of the city council to engage in debate over any
item on the council agenda. Thus, this new kind of politics constituted more
than merely a change in form. It reflected the lack of organizational direction
and order provided by the GGL for two decades. With the entrance of inde-
pendently elected council members came the possibility of routine conflict
over public policy rarely seen before in city councils under the dominance of
the GGL.
Indeed, some of Cisneros’s friends were concerned that “the outspoken
anger” exhibited by newly elected council members Rudy Ortiz (District 6)
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 13

and Bernardo Eureste (District 5) would “stir ugly sentiments among the city’s
Anglos.” 23 After the first single-member district elections in April of 1977,
both were vocal in joining Cisneros in his challenges to what had been here-
tofore routine policy matters concerning rate hikes, expansion, bond issues,
and even the relationship of institutions such as the city water board and the
city public service board to the city council’s governance. In fact, Cisneros’s
populist position seemed to erode alongside these two angry challengers.
In the summer of 1978, 300 Chicano garbage collectors were fired by the
city manager, Tom Huebner, for illegally going out on strike. This occurred
over the public objections of Ortiz and Eureste, with Cisneros supporting the
city manager’s action. Ironically, while the entrance of political actors not well
rehearsed by the dominant political machine of the GGL seemed to under-
mine Cisneros’s “star trajectory,” it would also prove to be the molding that
ultimately shaped Cisneros as the most acceptable Chicano politician for not
only the Chicano community but also for the more affluent Anglo northside.
On the surface at least, San Antonio city politics had finally introduced a
pluralistic politics that allowed an important sector of San Antonio formally to
participate in the policy-making process in an independent manner. But then
in 1979, Rudy Ortiz was narrowly defeated by Bob Thompson in District 6, an
area almost evenly divided between Anglos and Chicanos and between middle-
class and working- and lower-class communities. This election signaled the
beginning of a process which was to be dominated by the contrasting styles of
two significant Chicano leaders, Henry Cisneros and Bernardo Eureste. One
represented the repressed interests of the Chicano barrios, and the other rep-
resented the equally repressed aspirations of the Chicano community for a
Chicano as mayor, as leader of San Antonio. An intense conflict developed
after this election, as Cisneros and Eureste not only fought over the approach
to issues but over the kinds of issues that should be raised before the city coun-
cil. For the next eight years, this distinct political relationship, especially af-
ter Cisneros was elected mayor, determined a political climate that allowed
Cisneros to expand his electoral support to the most conservative and histori-
cally anti-Chicano sectors in San Antonio.
Eureste, a product of southside San Antonio and educated at the Univer-
sity of Michigan, was at the time of his election a professor at Our Lady of the
Lake University. Eureste served four consecutive two-year terms (1977–1985)
on the city council. His district represented the most densely populated, poor-
est district to be found in the south and west sides of San Antonio. This dis-
trict also was overwhelmingly Chicano. Perhaps because of the combination
of his barrio background, earlier Chicano activism, and social work education,
Eureste brought to the city council a political activism never before seen in
the formal setting of city council politics.
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14 / Rodolfo Rosales

During his tenure not only did Eureste consistently and loudly pit his dis-
trict’s needs against those of the more affluent Anglo middle-class districts,
but he also extended this debate into the arena of class by challenging his col-
leagues in policy matters that concerned growth and expansion, the historic
priorities of the business class. Further, in his first term Eureste quickly gained
the reputation as a hothead, but a hothead who could “reason at breakneck
speed and back opponents into a corner during his frequent periods of verbal
jousting” and was known “to storm out of a council meeting only to return and
fire another salvo at his colleagues over something they have long since
forgotten.” 24
It is evident that Eureste was aware of what he wanted to accomplish and
what he had to do to reach his goals. With barely a month into his first term,
the newspapers reported that Eureste had prompted a city staff briefing on the
controls that could be exercised over city public service and the city water
board: “He wants CPS under full city control, better drainage for his district,
street improvement, parks, libraries, better housing and more social services
for the entire city, but particularly in his district.” 25 At his first council session,
he flatly told CWB general manager Robert Van Dyke he didn’t like the way
the water board was run, adding that the council should make changes if the
utility didn’t follow directions.
Some of the major issues that sent shock waves through San Antonio in
Eureste’s first term, and in which he played loud and major roles, were the Ed-
wards Aquifer moratorium (a council resolution that placed a moratorium on
construction over the aquifer recharge zone), a bond drainage election (which
pitted the business sector against the south and west side communities), Cen-
tral District funding (grants to develop the central city), and the garbage col-
lectors’ strike mentioned above. By 1978 Eureste had clearly defined himself,
with considerable help from the media, as the “Champion of the Underdog.” 26
In 1981 he found a hidden million dollars in the city budget. He then suc-
cessfully channeled a large part of it to Chicano arts as opposed to the tradi-
tional middle-class arts, such as the symphony and the museum. In that same
year, he organized weekly community street demonstrations protesting the
police-shooting death of Mexican national Hector Santiescoy, who was shot
several times while hiding, unarmed, under a house. In 1982 Eureste organized
barrio activists around the issue of public housing, advocating the construc-
tion of public housing units in the well-to-do northside middle- and upper-
middle-class communities. Needless to say, this action created a controversy
that polarized the entire community along class lines.
Throughout his four terms as city council member, Eureste would gain the
reputation as a zealot for lost causes, even at the expense of alienating or
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 15

embarrassing his fellow colleagues. In one city council session he was escorted
out of the council chambers by the police because of his inflexibility on a par-
ticular issue. Eureste, in fact, in his seemingly endless energy, took on almost
every institution that interfaced with his constituency, including the media
when their editorials seemed to him too harsh or unfair. Responding to an edi-
torial in the San Antonio Light, Eureste dramatically retorted: “Do you think
that you have made me weaker in this attack? I do not think so. I have only
become more determined to speak out for what is right. The voices of oppres-
sion, as I have seen in this editorial and others that you have written, cannot
silence the protests of those who have been victimized by this oppression. I
would rather die fighting for these causes than to be silenced by the faceless
pen of your editorials.” 27
Throughout most of this period, most political observers, including the
media, generally explained Eureste’s militant explosions over issues concern-
ing his district as long overdue compensation for the neglect of these areas of
San Antonio. While certainly many of the issues Eureste raised polarized the
San Antonio electorate, because of the single member district structure of pol-
itics, the polarization had little or no impact on his reelection bids in his pre-
dominantly Mexican American district. In fact, polls showed Eureste to have
broad support among many middle-class Chicanos and white liberals across
the city in the issues he raised, despite an abrasive style that offended many
of them.28
In the electoral arena, Eureste was seen as a politician to be dealt with as
his support in his reelection bids climbed from 63 percent in 1977 to 68 per-
cent in 1979 to an overwhelming 81 percent in 1981. His growing electoral
support in each subsequent election brought him attention from many aspir-
ing state office seekers “anxious to stake their claim to a portion of the rapidly
expanding Mexican-American vote.” Among Eureste’s political trophies was
a successful Democratic primary campaign for Senator Ted Kennedy in the
Twenty-First Senatorial District “in spite of overwhelming Carter odds.” 29
Through Cisneros’s first term as mayor, 1981–1983, Eureste continued to
gain prominence among significant Chicano organizations such as the Mexi-
can American Democrats, the League of United Latin American Citizens
(LULAC), and GI Forum. Indeed, Eureste gained regional prominence as a
Chicano leader and spokesman on the various issues confronting the Chicano
community throughout South Texas.30 However, the trajectories of these two
prominent Chicano political careers pointed in different directions. Cisneros
was seen by most political observers as heading for at least state prominence
if not national prominence, while Eureste was seen in more ethnic terms —as
“The Champion of the Underdog.” Eureste’s politics, in contrast to Cisneros’s
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16 / Rodolfo Rosales

politics of bringing distinct and conflicting interests together, was a process of

exposing the status quo. In his own words: “I do not believe in hurting any-
one physically, but you have to get attention if you want things done. If you
expose a situation, you flush out the opposition. If something is wrong, you can-
not let it take care of itself. You have to bring it into the open.” 31
The bottom line is that Eureste was a force to be contended with, perhaps
“the most complicated politician to come out of San Antonio city govern-
ment in 50 years.” He took it upon himself to use his position to address issues
at such a rapid pace that not even his most avid and die-hard supporters had
an opportunity to keep up with, much less have an input into, his strategy.
From issue to issue the lines seemed to be redrawn in terms of supporters and
opposition.32
Eureste, thus, made Cisneros even more legitimate as the serious kind of
Chicano who could go beyond what white middle-class America considered
the “private-regarding” nature of ethnic politics, a political leader who could
provide the kind of leadership that would enhance the entire community and
allow San Antonio to grow in national prominence as a shining “Sunbelt city.”
It can be argued that Eureste’s militancy offered the mayor an alter ego.

The Undoing of a Militant

Eureste’s meteoric rise to political prominence in San Antonio politics was cer-
tainly not a smooth, well-planned process that one can easily analyze. In one of
many interviews of Eureste by the local media, the writer portrayed Eureste’s
citywide image in the subtitle of the article as an enigma: “Is Councilman
Eureste a Racist, a Hero, a Future Congressman — Or All Three of These?” A
description that attests to, and perhaps best characterizes, this meteoric rise is
the portrayal of Eureste in the local media as “Bandit or Savior?” By his third
term in office, Eureste had created such a controversy by mixing ethnic issues
with class issues that he had alienated a large sector of the northside Anglo pop-
ulation. More importantly, he had become a menace to developers and busi-
nesspeople in their efforts to continue in their otherwise uninterrupted pur-
suit of city policies that enhanced their profit-making growth and expansion.
Aside from the fact that District 5 was predominantly Chicano and lower
and working class, a powerful and active Alinsky-type organization also dom-
inated his district. COPS, organized throughout the Roman Catholic parishes
of District 5, was in full support of Eureste’s defiance of the business commu-
nity’s priorities of growth at the expense of the poor south and west sides of
San Antonio. The group’s power was such in San Antonio politics that the
business community made no effort to run a candidate against Eureste for his
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 17

first three terms. Indeed, many of Eureste’s campaign contributions came from
the business community.
However, toward the end of his third term, in February of 1983, an inci-
dent occurred in a local park that brought humiliation and personal tragedy
into Eureste’s life. Eureste was mugged in the early morning hours in Bracken-
ridge Park while in a compromising situation with his young female aide. This
alone would have been a serious indiscretion for a married politician. But when
Eureste seemingly abandoned the young woman to the muggers as he searched
for police, “both Hispanic macho and South Texas Anglo morality let loose a
flood of outrage.” It was easily the worst moment in an already controversial
political career, and it was made worse by the fact that Eureste faced a primary
election in only a few months.33
Eureste recovered from the incident by apologizing to his constituency
and by charging that the police department had set up the mugging. Whether
the charges had any truth or not was never proven. The point is that this made
Eureste a victim and thus helped him maintain just enough support in his dis-
trict to win in a runoff election.
Nonetheless, the park incident can be seen as the threshold of defeat for
Eureste, who had seemed up to now indomitable in his district. His charges
against the police department alienated Mayor Cisneros, who withdrew his en-
dorsement for Eureste’s bid: “This prince of destruction, this prince of nega-
tivism, is not going to be the downfall of our city as long as I can stand up to
him,” Cisneros said. The mayor’s outburst appeared to herald a serious rift in
a significant political alliance and a fight for control of the city council ma-
jority after the April 2 municipal elections.34
By the filing deadline of March 2, 1983, six opponents had filed against Eu-
reste for the council seat in District 5. That race proved to be the hottest San
Antonio had witnessed in at least twenty years. The main challenger was Jesse
Valdez, an urban planner who had big money from the northside. Valdez suc-
ceeded in gaining a runoff election against Eureste. The runoff was intense,
dirty, and the center of attention of the city, with Eureste staying in character
by calling his opponent “a homosexual” controlled by northside developers.35
After the park incident and his reelection victory over Valdez in the 1983
elections, Eureste seemed safe enough from outside interference in his seem-
ingly impregnable district. Cisneros and Eureste mended fences and vowed to
work together. Eureste now had a tenuous truce with the mayor but continued
to create a growing army of enemies. Eureste took on a political fight with the
district attorney that would come back to haunt him in his last reelection bid.
Eureste accused District Attorney Sam Milsap of being a Nazi for his efforts to
crack down on DWI cases, charging that ethnic groups were facing the brunt
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18 / Rodolfo Rosales

of the arrests. This fight would continue through Eureste’s last two years on the
city council. In August of 1983 he escaped a libel suit by San Antonio police
when a district judge ruled that Eureste’s charges “that local police were killers”
were privileged comments presented during a city council session.36
Then, in the summer of 1984, Eureste attacked the Guadalupe Cultural
Arts Center, which he had originally helped establish. As reported in the local
media, the new executive director of the Guadalupe Center did not see him-
self in a position to have to take any of Eureste’s directives. Eureste had tried
to intervene on behalf of a fledgling Chicano theater group when it complained
that the Guadalupe had not allowed it access to the theater. Eureste was also
upset that the brother of one of the southside politicos was on the Guadalupe
staff; the council member suspected that foes from a southside power base were
moving into his territory at the Guadalupe. The board scheduled several meet-
ings to appease Eureste, but he wouldn’t budge: “He announced that he was
the only one who played politics in his district and that he would throw the
Guadalupe out of the West Side if he had to.” Shortly afterward, Eureste, the
council’s most left-wing member, charged publicly that the Guadalupe was “rife
with communists. They had gone to Cuba. They had met with Castro and
smoked his cigars. It was a disgrace to the people of District 5.” 37
While the Guadalupe group was not seen as influential in electoral poli-
tics, Eureste’s estrangement from it symbolized an eroding base of support in
his district. In this incident Eureste incurred the wrath of Willie Velásquez, the
director of the influential Southwest Voter Registration and Education Proj-
ect (SVREP). Apparently the feud between Eureste and Velásquez had begun
in a conflict over whom the Chicano community should support in the U.S.
presidential primaries. Eureste, who had started out supporting Walter Mon-
dale, switched sides when the Mondale machinery overlooked him in plan-
ning its strategy in Bexar County. Thus, when Eureste came out supporting the
Rev. Jesse Jackson, an apparent feud began with Velásquez.38
When Eureste attacked the Guadalupe group, whose board of directors in-
cluded some of Velásquez’s close associates, Velásquez became a member of the
board to fight what he saw as campaign fund-raising pressures being applied by
Eureste. Accusing Eureste of “strong-arm” tactics, Velásquez said that the city
council member had launched his political attack on the Guadalupe Cultural
Arts Center “because center employees refused to meet his political fund-
raising goals.” 39
The irony was that Eureste had by this time managed to alienate many of
those who had benefited from his style of politics and his barrio strategy. Still,
most observers felt that Eureste had a tight grip on his district. His squabbles
with the Guadalupe center, the southside politicos, Willie Velásquez, and the
district attorney seemed to energize Eureste and increase his strength in Dis-
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 19

trict 5. But he was soon due for another test of this strength in the elections
of 1985.

Sea World and the Flood in District 5

In the first few months of 1985, San Antonio politics experienced some of its
most wrenching and exasperating moments before the biggest economic in-
vestment in the area was concretized. In its wake, political careers were ended,
land speculators were left hanging with devalued property, local residents lost
a chance in a lifetime to sell their property at an extremely high profit, and a
most unique political relationship was severed forever. Indeed, a political era
ended.
The straw that seemed to break the camel’s back in Eureste’s fifth reelection
bid came in the midst of an episode that capped his whole political career.
Eureste’s last grand public antiestablishment bid proved his undoing. Perhaps
if this incident had occurred at any other time, it might have boosted his po-
litical credibility in his district and with his other supporters across the city to
the highest level. Instead, it only opened unhealed critical wounds in his po-
litical profile; it became the thread that unraveled his imperial wardrobe.
In January of 1985, Sea World Enterprises, Inc., announced, to the surprise
of most, its intention of establishing a marine-animal theme park in San An-
tonio. The mayor and his supporters considered this his greatest coup. The ar-
rival of Sea World promised to place San Antonio on top of the nation’s list of
vacation “hot spots,” attracting more investment opportunities to San An-
tonio. The business section of a local newspaper gave full-page coverage to the
Sea World announcement, including a large picture of the mayor and William
Jovanovich, chairman of Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc., the parent company
of Sea World, embracing joyously over the agreement.40
In the midst of this, Eureste charged that certain land speculators had
gained inside information from the deal months earlier. Despite denials by of-
ficials, Richard Klitch, a real estate broker, revealed that the Sea World an-
nouncement, although not made public until January, had been common
knowledge in the real estate community for months: “That area where Sea
World is has been hotter than a rock for the past three months.” The references
to suspicious “insider” information kept coming up: “At the City Hall this
week, there was euphoria about Sea World coming to town and bringing a
giant influx of other investments. But already there is intrigue behind the glossy
official smiles,” according to one newspaper account.41
Throughout the next months, while the media trivialized what they called
“political intrigue,” problems kept cropping up. First there was the conflict
with a local garbage company located near the Sea World site, then there was
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20 / Rodolfo Rosales

a question of the legality of the city’s method of financing the deal, and finally,
“from way out there in left field charged Councilman Bernardo Eureste, scream-
ing to the top of his lungs about completely unsubstantiated charges of inside
land deals and possible federal grand jury investigations.” Eureste managed to
capsize the euphoric rapture that Cisneros had brought to San Antonio by fo-
cusing all the headlines on his charges. As one byline put it: “The combina-
tion of having a dump for a neighbor and a crackpot councilman for an en-
emy was apparently more than Sea World executives could bear.” 42
Eureste’s actions, apparently more than any other element in the complex
deal, forced Sea World to back off of its original plans. More significantly, Eu-
reste had embarrassed the mayor about the way the deal had been made. Even
though Sea World had publicly promised that it would still move to San An-
tonio, the secrecy of the whole process became a paramount issue facing the
mayor. The stage was set for a final showdown in the elections of 1985, with
the media coverage focusing on Eureste as one who was about to chase away
the biggest investment in San Antonio ever.
The city council elections of 1985 witnessed the emergence of an anti-
Eureste “alliance” made up of several different sectors. The elections were anti-
climactic: Eureste was crushed, receiving only 30 percent of the district vote.
He was crushed by a barrage from the media; by an opposition candidate who
had formerly been an ally of his and who had much grassroots support; by in-
dictments brought by the district attorney, whom Eureste had antagonized
throughout his last term; by most of the other enemies he had created by his
actions on the various issues he had raised.43 Finally, he was crushed by a mayor
who publicly made it a point to let the voters of District 5 know that Eureste
was no longer a viable representative. Cisneros, in the meantime, was reelected
mayor with 72 percent of the at-large city vote.

The Aftermath

After Eureste’s demise, Cisneros was able successfully to defeat a northside

voters’ association challenge in a referendum to cap city spending. In the next
four years the city under his leadership was also able to quietly attract other
major investments in San Antonio’s economy, such as a $15 million donation
by Dallas billionaire Ross Perot for a biotechnology research park, announce-
ment of plans to construct a semiconductor plant, a major golf tournament
called the “crown jewel of golf,” a planned visit by the Pope from Rome, the
Alamo Grand Prix, a major sports dome (the Alamodome) in the downtown
area, another theme park (Fiesta Texas) in the northside of San Antonio, and
plans to hold an Olympic Sports Festival in 1991. Indeed, the council was
touted by Cisneros as one that was hard working and farsighted in its views of
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 21

the needs of San Antonio. The media went so far as to characterize the coun-
cil as a “me too Henry” council; ironically, they lamented the absence of Eu-
reste’s ability to poignantly bring out issues in relief.44
This apparent consensus, however, eventually began to bulge at the seams,
especially after Cisneros decided not to seek reelection in 1989. Walter Mar-
tínez was busy mobilizing his district —indeed, the Chicano community in
general — over cultural issues such as the showing of the movie The Alamo
(because of its denigrating and insensitive portrayal of the Mexican role in
that beclouded historical event); a city referendum to add fluoride to the wa-
ter supply, publicly supported by Cisneros, was defeated; and in 1990, the vot-
ers of San Antonio voted to limit city council members to two terms. Most
critically, a referendum endorsed by outgoing Mayor Cisneros to construct a
southside drinking water reservoir, the Applewhite Reservoir, was defeated.
The reservoir was seen as a project that would allow continued growth on the
northside recharge zone over San Antonio’s sole water source.45
Although a business-backed candidate for mayor, Nelson Wolf, won the
1990 election against Applewhite opponent María Antonietta Berriozabal, the
first Chicana mayoral candidate in San Antonio’s history, his margin of victory
was a mere 3 percent of the vote. A crisis in the growth and expansion plans of
the business community was evident. In 1994, in a second referendum on the
Applewhite Reservoir, a grassroots coalition led by community activists with
only a $12,000 campaign budget defeated the business community’s million-
dollar campaign supported vigorously by Governor Ann Richards. The mar-
gin of victory was 10 percent. In spite of this victory, community activists were
not able to come up with a viable mayoral candidate for the city elections of
1995, perhaps because their coalition was too fragile to go beyond the com-
munity struggle over water. Politics in San Antonio at this point remains
unpredictable. The major point, though, is that consensus was celebrated
too soon.46

The Legacy of Personal Agenda Politics

What did single-member districts bring about for the Chicano community?
To be sure, Chicano demands on political institutions played a major role in
the broadening of representation in San Antonio. Electoral reform has cre-
ated greater direct representation for the Chicano community. Most political
observers agree that single-member districts made a Cisneros and an Eureste
possible. It is clear, however, that Cisneros could have drafted a strategy to
reach his goal of being mayor of San Antonio without single-member districts.
Indeed, the election of Cisneros as mayor of San Antonio can be seen as a re-
sult of an individual’s own personal agenda. In fact, many political observers
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22 / Rodolfo Rosales

argue that Cisneros will be the last Chicano mayor elected in San Antonio for
quite a while.47
Aside from Eureste’s politics’ enhancing Cisneros’s image as an acceptable
and sensible Chicano politician for the Anglo northside, what was the nature
of the change that single-member districts brought to San Antonio politics?
There are several facets to this complex question. These facets are rooted in
the historical experience of San Antonio, especially in the rise of Chicano
middle-class politics after World War II.
After World War II the rising expectations of Chicanos produced a broad
and sophisticated infrastructure of Chicano organizations that allowed the
Chicano community greater political resources to address the problem of po-
litical exclusion. Out of this complex process the Chicano community artic-
ulated diverse strategies in their struggle to gain political inclusion. There
were those who proposed assimilation, those who proposed confrontation,
and those who proposed separation.48 These movements historically were all
part of an effort to achieve greater access and participation in the political
arena. The one major institutional result was the implementation of single-
member districts, which enhanced independent political representation for
the various excluded communities of San Antonio.
As this study shows, the legacy of this struggle for inclusion can be seen in
the kinds of politics coming out of single-member districts. While neither
Cisneros nor Eureste was guided by an organizational agenda, their political
popularity as well visibility can be seen to be tied to that legacy. Cisneros’s
broad popularity reflects the need to deal with the deep cultural nationalist
feelings in the Chicano community, even if done from an assimilationist po-
sition. Certainly, Eureste’s politics reflected a strong cultural nationalist posi-
tion, but they also reflected the class concerns of the coalition politics of the
1950s and the 1960s.
The irony in this is that while the change to single-member districts was
brought about directly by intense Chicano organizational activity, single-
member districts now tend to undermine the basis by which the Chicano
community built political organizational agendas in the first place. The politi-
cal environment now tends to be fragmented not only along district lines but
within those districts as well. Citywide organizational agendas are now a thing
of the past.
Another important facet of this question is the economic context of San
Antonio as a Sunbelt city. After World War II San Antonio entered the race
for capital investment at the national level. San Antonio went through an in-
tense municipal reform movement in setting the stage to attract the business
fleeing from the frostbelt as well as the developing high-tech industries. From
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 23

a broad economic perspective, if San Antonio did not prove to be a “center

of profit,” then it could fail to attract these most lucrative investments. A
most important consequence, aside from the cheap-labor nature of these new
investments, was that the business community’s concerns with growth and ex-
pansion continued to be priorities for city council policy making, whether in
view of personal agendas or in that of organizational ones.
In this context, the lack of organizational agendas in contemporary San
Antonio politics seemed to give the definite advantage to the highly organized
business sector. While the business community lost direct control of the deci-
sion-making process in city hall with the demise of the powerful pro-business
Good Government League, its ability to lobby and also to finance political
campaigns has maintained its access to the decision-making process. The for-
mula for this access has been a simple majority on the city council, along with
its dominant role in electing the mayor. Indeed, the business community was
content with what it considered Eureste’s rantings and ravings as long as he
did not enter directly into its business prerogatives. Eureste’s downfall, while
not discounting his erratic behavior, has to be analyzed in the context of the
city as a “center of profit.” His questioning of the decision-making process in
the Sea World controversy proved to be too threatening to business interests.
The needs of a growing city, then, historically have favored the needs of
the business community. While not absolute, the structure of the game (or as
Katznelson would say, the “rules of the game”) is paramount in the determi-
nation of political outcomes.49 Certainly, Cisneros’s election can be seen as a
turning point for Chicano politics in Texas and the Southwest. But that mayor,
or any other mayor, depends on his or her viability as mayor on the growth and
expansion of San Antonio — on maintaining San Antonio as a viable “center
of profit.” This above all has been the overriding factor in creating the indi-
vidualistic politician, best represented by Henry Cisneros, who is ultimately
accountable only to her or his own personal agenda —and, of course, to his or
her ties to particular sectors of interest —and only indirectly to the community.
But perhaps the most critical point is that because of the lack of organiza-
tional agendas, the community’s participation and ability to voice its concerns
have been at best fragmented and at worst muted. On the other hand, instead
of allowing the business community to continue with its plans of growth and ex-
pansion with little or no opposition, this inability to participate has created for
the business community its greatest enemy —community activists who need
not worry about incumbency nor campaign funds. The end result has been, as
mentioned above, a crisis in governance, with neither the community able to
muster the resources to gain control of the governmental institutions nor the
business community able to govern in a legitimate and acceptable fashion.
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24 / Rodolfo Rosales

Conclusion

I began this study with very important questions. First, can the Chicano com-
munity define its political interest collectively in the face of a powerful business
community whose market logic of growth and expansion overshadows any
concerns for social issues? Secondly, and more importantly, can it mobilize to
safeguard that interest in a political environment that, today at least, is struc-
tured to benefit business rather than community interests? Finally, can there be
a coalition of interests across ethnic and class lines with the aim of defining and
defending the community interests of San Antonio (the quality-of-life issues,
i.e., the use values) in the face of market forces that buttress the domination
of the business community in its relentless drive to turn all urban elements
(water, services, development — urbanization in general) into moments of
exchange value —into private profit?
In answer to the third question, it is obvious, with the latest electoral de-
feats of the various business community initiatives at the hands of a mixed
ethnic as well as gender coalition, that the community can organize around
quality-of-life issues. The major question is whether this kind of coalition can
move beyond the particular issues in building a political agenda aimed at gov-
ernance and not simply at vetoing offensive initiatives seen as working against
the community welfare.
The possibility of that perhaps lies in whether the Chicano community
can identify its interests. An important indication that that possibility exists
is found in the election returns of the second Applewhite referendum. In look-
ing at the predominant Anglo northside city council districts (8, 9, and 10),
one finds that the election returns were evenly divided over the referendum,
with not more than a hundred votes one way or the other. But when one looks
at the Chicano districts and the one Black city council district, one finds that
the returns were overwhelmingly against the referendum, with one district as
high as two thousand votes and three others with as high as a thousand votes
against the referendum.50 The significance of these outcomes is that the Apple-
white project was seen as working directly against the community interests of
the southside and westside districts in particular, and the communities in those
districts defied the stereotypic image of apathy in their communities and
pounded their votes home.
This becomes even more significant when one recalls that all of the Chi-
cano public officials, city and state, as well as the one Black city council mem-
ber, came out vigorously in favor of the referendum. Apparently, these com-
munities wanted to hear about quality-of-life issues and not about growth and
expansion. The indication is that the Chicano community does have an
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 25

organizational infrastructure that can begin that definition of its interests even
in the face of powerful business forces and their allies.
Whether the Chicano community can then begin to organize and defend
its defined interests is of course the one question that can only be answered
through the continuing historical process. As Manual Castells concluded in
his study of urban social movements, while the broader and more universal as-
pects of capitalism and its development tend to be out of any particular com-
munity’s control, particular communities do recognize their political parame-
ters and do act on them. In other words, they do make a difference locally.51
San Antonio’s political elite had better pay attention to a simple principle
called political inclusion.

Notes
1. J. L. Polinard, Robert D. Wrinkle, Tomás Longoria, and Norman E. Binder, Electoral Struc-
ture and Urban Policy: The Impact on Mexican American Communities (Armonk, N.Y.: M. E. Sharpe,
1994).
2. The question of structure and agency addresses the role of humans in the making of his-
tory. In a very general way, if the environment brings about the circumstances in which humans
then act out their politics, is it a one-way street? Obviously not, but how then does the analysis
capture human agency, especially through political change? The focus in this study is on the
changing political behavior of politicians as the environment was freed from the powerful orga-
nizational constraints of the GGL or BCDC. The major question that arises in the more inde-
pendent contemporary environment of single-member districts is couched in terms of account-
ability: Whom are these political leaders accountable to, now that there is no visible agenda? In
an interview with historian Rodolfo Acuña in San Antonio, April 16 and 19, 1986, Acuña ar-
gued that the single-member district plan in San Antonio had actually produced brokers for the
business class. His argument is based on the premise that without organizational constraints, the
individual politician then becomes vulnerable to the larger forces found in the urban market
economy that envelops city politics. In other words, without organizational agendas and the dis-
cipline to maintain them, the more powerful urban economic elites have a more powerful influ-
ence on individual politicians. However, as this study will show, while Acuña may perhaps be cor-
rect, the political behavior of individual politicians is not necessarily as predictable as one would
assume given Acuña’s argument.
3. Paul E. Peterson, City Limits (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981). Peterson seems
to be echoing the ideological claims of the Municipal Reform Movement and its insistence that
the city was not a place for democracy and its notions of equity or equality but rather the core of
the city was based on the rights of property and its need to develop in an efficient manner.
4. Michael Peter Smith, City, State & Market: The Political Economy of Urban Society (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1992).
5. Manual Castells, The City and the Grassroots: A Cross-Cultural Theory of Urban Social Move-
ments (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983).
6. Rodolfo Rosales, The Illusion of Inclusion: The Political Mobilization of the Chicano Commu-
nity in San Antonio, Texas: 1951–1991 (Austin: University of Texas Press, forthcoming).
7. Luther L. Sanders, “Nonpartisanism: Its Use as a Campaign Appeal in San Antonio, Texas,
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26 / Rodolfo Rosales

1961–1971,” M.A. thesis, St. Mary’s University, May 12, 1974, pp. 49 –55. Sanders goes into de-
tail in tracing the coming to power of the municipal reform – minded business community and its
ultimate successful domination of city politics through structural reform. This structural change
profoundly affected the role of the Chicano community in urban politics in San Antonio.
8. Henry B. González was the only independent to gain a seat in city council in the 1950s. In
1953 and then again in 1955, he ran unopposed. In 1956 he became the first Chicano state sena-
tor from Bexar County, thus ending his city council career. In 1961 he was elected congressperson
from the twentieth congressional district. Throughout the 1950s Mr. González was by virtue of
his politics very close with the coalition leaders. After 1965 he broke with them, and the gap be-
tween the coalition leaders and later the Raza Unida leaders from Bexar County widened.
9. Ibid. Sanders points out that the GGL, by controlling the nominating process, was able to
exclude those who would not adhere to its growth and expansion agenda at the exclusion of all
other issues. Rodolfo Rosales, interview with Rudy Esquivel, December 18, 1985. Esquivel points
out that the difference between coalition politics and single-member politics was one of ac-
countability. He pointed out that under coalition politics, one didn’t have to worry about raising
funds or running a campaign, but the catch was that the coalition then could exert discipline on
its particular candidates to remain consistent with its social agenda. However, in single-member
district politics, one had to raise one’s own funds and run one’s own campaign; therefore, agen-
das became personal. He preferred the latter, even though he had to organize his own campaign
financing and his campaign strategy. Organizational efforts did surface during this latter period
but in the form of nonpartisan community organizations, such as Communities Organized for
Public Service (COPS); the Mexican American Unity Council (MAUC), a community devel-
opment nonprofit organization; and the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund
(MALDEF), a nonprofit legal advocate for the Chicano community; as well as the older GI Forum
and LULAC. Precisely because of their nonpartisan nature they were disconnected from the most
accessible political infrastructure available, the Democratic party precinct network, and thus
were fragmented at best and muted at worst in the political arena.
10. “Direct Vote for Mayor Plan Wins,” San Antonio Express/News, November 6, 1974. The
first challenge to this at-large system, which took the form of a city amendment presented to the
voters in the fall of 1974, failed. This failure, however, further strengthened the argument com-
ing from the Chicano community that the 1972 annexations had diluted their voting power.
11. Charles Cotrell et al., “Conflict and Change in the Political Culture of San Antonio in
the 1970s,” in John Booth, Richard Harris, and Bill Johnson, eds., The Politics of San Antonio: Com-
munity, Power, and Progress (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1984), pp. 75 – 94. Indeed,
Cotrell et al. argue that the political rules in place after World War II, such as the poll tax, the long
residence requirement, and annual registration, maintained and perpetuated political exclusion
even after the municipal reforms were implemented. The legacy of these rules, which were gen-
erally eliminated by the early 1970s, however, affected political participation years after their
elimination.
12. Rodolfo Rosales, interview with Joe Bernal, San Antonio, January 28, 1985. State senator
Joe Bernal, a liberal local coalition member, was a plaintiff in the court case that established
single-member districts for state legislative positions. Ironically, this led to his political defeat in
the 1972 state elections and his subsequent retirement from public office.
13. Rosie Castro and Gloria Barrera were fielded as candidates in the 1971 city council elec-
tions as part of the Committee for Barrio Betterment, which was connected to the Raza Unida
movement in Texas. While not successful, their candidacy proved to be the threshold for Chi-
cana candidates in contemporary San Antonio.
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Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 27

14. Cotrell et al., “Conflict and Change.” The San Antonio annexations were subject to re-
view by the Justice Department even though they had taken place prior to the extension of the
Voting Rights Act to Texas in 1975. In an interview with Gloria Cabrera, one of the Chicana can-
didates in the 1971 elections, she pointed out that one of the main reasons that she ran for city
council was to establish proof that the at-large electoral system did effectively disenfranchise the
Chicano barrios. In fact, the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF)
effectively used the data from this election to bring the Justice Department into the picture.
15. “The Seductive Henry C.,” San Antonio Express/News, February 15, 1981. Indications of
Cisneros’s “single mindedness” go back to an unpublished paper he wrote at MIT in which he de-
scribes a new minority voting trend and the kinds of strategies that would be needed to success-
fully gain electoral power in San Antonio. Henry Cisneros, “A New Minority Voting Trend —
Its Causes And Impact: San Antonio, Texas,” unpublished paper presented at George Washington
University as a graduate student, spring 1970. Indeed, a profile of Cisneros will show that his po-
litical orientation goes back to the Committee for Community Progress, an informal arm of the
GGL in the westside barrios during the 1960s and early 1970s. Rubén Munguía, Cisneros’s ma-
ternal uncle, even though he denies ever being part of the GGL, was as a candidate for public
office supported by the GGL various times.
16. Sidney Plotkin, “Democratic Change in the Urban Political Economy: San Antonio’s Ed-
wards Aquifer Controversy,” in Booth et al., The Politics of San Antonio, pp. 157–175.
17. “Groups Eye Recall of Councilmen,” San Antonio Express/News, February 14, 1975;
“Council Okays Aquifer Protection Plan,” ibid., July 18, 1975.
18. “San Antonio Revises Budget,” San Antonio Light, July 24, 1975; “Council Studies CPS
Controls,” San Antonio Express, August 22, 1975. In another incident Cisneros got into conflict
with the Northside Chamber of Commerce president. When the chamber president compli-
mented the council on its decision to build the mall over the aquifer, he noted that the council’s
decision permitted orderly growth and progress to continue in spite of attempts by certain pres-
sure groups to use the Edwards Aquifer issue as a tool to redirect the city’s growth. Cisneros re-
sponded by asking if Slaughter (chamber president) meant that any council member who voted
against the mall was an opponent of growth in San Antonio. See “A Compliment Stirs Argu-
ment,” San Antonio Express/News, November 7, 1975.
19. “Cisneros Fiscal Health Plan Is Valuable City Planning,” San Antonio Express/News,
June 7, 1976; “Fiscal Notes Necessary,” San Antonio Light, February 20, 1977; “Cisneros Raps City
Garage Criticisms,” San Antonio Express/News, August 30, 1975; “Cisneros Angered By Firing,”
San Antonio Light, June 17, 1975; “Councilman Loses Bid,” ibid., June 25, 1975; San Antonio
Express/News, November 2, 1976.
20. “In The Bag,” San Antonio Express/News, June 1, 1975; “Cisneros Walks to Gumshoe Beat,”
San Antonio Light, November 6, 1975; “Cisneros Learns Poor’s Problems,” San Antonio Express,
March 26, 1978. In another incident, Cisneros publicly criticized the state Public Utilities Com-
mission for its favorable review of proposed rate hikes presented by the telephone company. See
“Let PUC Know Stand — Cisneros,” San Antonio Express/News, September 12, 1976.
21. “Cisneros Won’t Take Envoy Post,” San Antonio Light, October 19, 1979. Even before he
gained national prominence as mayor he was courted by President Carter in 1979 to take a na-
tional position; but his response was: “My first priority is building San Antonio right now.”
22. Ironically, the water issue would be Cisneros’s greatest nemesis toward the end of his tenure
as mayor, as it created the greatest gap between his role in creating greater economic activity in
San Antonio and his role in meeting the needs of not only the Chicano community but of the
community as a whole. While Mayor Cisneros crafted an ingenious plan to establish an infra-
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28 / Rodolfo Rosales

structure for growth and expansion, this infrastructure would ultimately clash with the perceived
needs of the community. In other words, the inevitable conflict between exchange value needs of
the entrenched developers and bankers on the one hand and the use value needs of the commu-
nity on the other ultimately created a contradiction that not even the smooth and articulate
Henry C. Cisneros could resolve. For an incisive theoretical discussion of the contradictions un-
derlying urban social movements, see Castells, The City and the Grassroots.
23. San Antonio Monthly, October 1977.
24. “What Makes Bennie Run?” San Antonio Light, May 2, 1982. “Some —including him-
self —view him as the voice of the Hispanic in South Texas. Others see Bernardo Eureste as a
bumbling, arrogant, uneducated ethnic bent on destroying the gringo.”
25. “Eureste to Practice as He Preaches,” ibid., May 15, 1977.
26. “Bernardo Eureste: He’s a Champion of the ‘Underdog,’” ibid., November 5, 1978; “Eu-
reste Has Caused Controversy Since 1977,” San Antonio Express/News, February 20, 1985.
27. “Bernardo Eureste Answers Editorial by Light,” San Antonio Light, July 19, 1982.
28. “Bernardo Eureste: Bandit or Savior?” San Antonio Express/News San Antonio Style, Sep-
tember 13, 1981.
29. “Eureste Has Caused Controversy.”
30. “Eureste’s Traveling Activism Show Stirs Hornet’s Nest,” San Antonio Light, January 29,
1983; “Eureste Creates Backwash in Corpus Christi,” San Antonio Express/News, January 30,
1983.
31. “Bernardo Eureste: Bandit or Savior?”
32. Indeed, while Chicano art advocates were outside City Hall serenading him for his heroic
finding of a million dollars in the budget, local public employee labor organizers from the Na-
tional Association of Government Employees were in his office chastising him for taking money
from the “sweat of sanitation workers.” At the same time, those same labor leaders were march-
ing with him in demonstrations, helping him with his reelection campaigns, and working with
him in barrio-oriented issues. Perhaps the “most complicated politician” is in reference to Maury
Maverich, Sr., congressperson in the 1930s and mayor in 1939.
33. Anna Marie Peña and Tom Bell, “Staying Power,” San Antonio Monthly, March 1984,
pp. 58 – 64.
34. “Bennie Blasts Cisneros for Lack of Leadership,” San Antonio Light, March 18, 1983;
Deborah Weser, “Cisneros Lashes Back At Eureste,” San Antonio Light, February 23, 1983; “Park
Incident Plays Key Dist. 5 Role,” San Antonio Light, March 23, 1983.
35. Pena and Bell, “Staying Power”; “Eureste Has Caused Controversy.”
36. “Eureste: Don’t Jail DWI Cases,” San Antonio Light, January 20, 1983; “Eureste Claims
Hispanics Singled Out in DWI Arrests,” San Antonio Express, January 14, 1983; “Eureste Has
Caused Controversy.”
37. “What Makes Bennie Run?”
38. “Eureste Shifts Support to Jackson Campaign,” San Antonio Express/News, January 7,
1984. Despite his many feuds, Eureste supported and successfully brought the Reverend Jesse
Jackson to the Guadalupe Theater for a rousing political rally during the primary elections of 1984.
Thus, Eureste continued to maintain a degree of political credibility despite his seemingly erratic
behavior.
39. Bill Hendricks, “Eureste ‘Hit List’ Target Claimed,” San Antonio Express/News, Febru-
ary 18, 1985.
40. David Hawkins, “City Deal with Sea World Follows Whirlwind Courtship,” San Antonio
Light, January 13, 1985; “Sea World Eyeing City,” San Antonio Light, January 8, 1985; David Haw-
kins, “City Manager Lists the People Who Helped Sea World Project,” San Antonio Light, Febru-
01-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 29

Personality & Style in San Antonio Politics / 29

ary 1, 1985; Ralph Bivens and Dale Rankin, “Sea World Boosts Area Prices,” San Antonio Express/
News, January 11, 1985.
41. David Hawkins, “Sea World Puts Webb’s Campaign on the Rise,” San Antonio Light, Janu-
ary 13, 1985; David Hawkins, “Sea World Deal Names Sought,” San Antonio Light, January 30,
1985; “Eureste Asks for Details about Sea World Talks,” San Antonio Express, January 30, 1985;
Dale Rankin, “Land Buy Tip Denied,” San Antonio Express/News, February 20, 1985.
42. Jan Jarboe, “San Antonio Wastes Its 3 Wishes,” San Antonio Express/News, February 24,
1985; David Hawkins, “Sea World Faces Second Controversy,” San Antonio Light, January 23, 1985.
43. “Eureste Calls Millsap Racist; Vows to Continue Fighting,” San Antonio Light, March 28,
1985; “Martínez in Fight for His Life: Hopes District 5 Voters Have Had Fill of Eureste’s Flam-
boyance,” San Antonio Light, February 24, 1985.
44. “Council Sings Praises of Eureste, Alderete,” San Antonio Express/News, April 26, 1985;
“2 Outgoing Members Praised by Council,” San Antonio Light, April 26, 1985; Roger Beynon,
“The Plan,” San Antonio Monthly, February, 1983; Carol Cirulli, “Splashing Up San Antonio’s
Marketing Effort,” San Antonio Light, March 8, 1987; Charles Boisseau, “Perot Donates $15 Mil-
lion,” San Antonio Light, March 11, 1987; Charles Boisseau, “Semiconductor Plant Under Way,”
San Antonio Light, March 5, 1987.
45. “Berriozabal, Wolf Face Runoff as Cockrell Upset: Applewhite Gets Stop Work Notice,”
San Antonio Express/News, May 5, 1991.
46. “Voters: ‘No Means No,’ City Leaders Slapped with Stunning Defeat on Applewhite,”
San Antonio Express/News, August 14, 1994; “City Leaders Agree It’s Time to Lay Applewhite To
Rest,” San Antonio Express, August 15, 1994. The coalition was led mainly by women activists from
both the Chicano and Anglo community, including Chicanas María Antonietta Berriozabal;
Judith Sanders-Castro, legal counsel for the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education
Fund (MALDEF); Rosa Rosales, the state director of the League of United Latin American
Citizens (LULAC); and Angie García, the San Antonio LULAC district director as well as so-
called water activists from the northside, Kay Turner and Carol and Kirk Patterson, with only two
public officials vigorously taking their side — State Representatives Karen Conley, the only Black
state representative in Bexar County, and Ciro Rodríguez, the Chicano representative from the
southside. The entire present city council, including the Chicano councilpersons from the south-
side and westside districts, with the exception of one city councilperson from district seven, Bob
Ross, as well as almost all of the other Chicano public officials from the southside and westside,
supported the business community’s efforts to continue the Applewhite.
47. Tom Baylis, “Leadership Change in San Antonio,” and Tucker Gibson, “Mayoralty Poli-
tics in San Antonio, 1955 –79” in Booth et al., Politics of San Antonio. Baylis argues that the fu-
ture does not bode well for another Chicano mayor in San Antonio. His analysis is based on the
assumption that Cisneros was an exception and that after his departure ethnic politics will dom-
inate, eliminating the possibility of another Chicano mayor.
48. Since 1951, when municipal reform was accomplished in San Antonio, a significant sec-
tor of the Chicano middle class took the political position that it was far better to be on the in-
side where appointments to boards and commissions were decided and policy decisions were
made. Thus, their approach to politics was to learn the system well and to participate in it as it
was. They were not for political change. Almost immediately, a sector of that middle class devel-
oped in the early 1950s who rejected the assimilationist approach began organizing an indepen-
dent political base. This movement ultimately formed the basis for the Bexar County Democratic
Coalition (mentioned at the beginning of this chapter). Their approach was that assimilation
would not be in their interest since assimilation meant being co-opted into the business commu-
nity’s agenda of growth and expansion at the expense of the community. Finally, in the Chicano
01-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 30

30 / Rodolfo Rosales

movement, one found a complex movement in which separation as a goal was always a part be-
cause of its rejection of the racist political environment, especially the Democratic Party. Here
one also found a politics of confrontation.
49. Ira Katznelson, City Trenches: Urban Politics and the Patterning of Class in the United States
(New York: Pantheon, 1981).
50. “Voters: ‘No Means No,’ City Leaders Slapped with Stunning Defeat on Applewhite,”
San Antonio Express/News, August 14, 1994.
51. Castells, The City and the Grassroots.
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 31

Tw o

Harold Washington
and the Rise of Latino
Electoral Politics
in Chicago, 1982–1987

Te r e s a C ó r d o va

n the 1980s in Chicago, Latino activists turned their attention to the

I electoral arena as a means of obtaining civil rights and gaining empower-

ment for their communities. Neighborhood services and opportunities
were being denied through machine control of city hall. Believing that they
had the numbers to do something about it, Latinos joined Blacks to “reform”
the electoral process by breaking down a patronage system they characterized
as “plantation” and “hacienda” politics. The mobilization that ensued was cen-
tered around the charismatic leadership of Harold Washington and involved
the coalescence of Blacks, Latinos, and progressive whites. This paper chron-
icles and characterizes the rise of Latinos in electoral politics in Chicago dur-
ing their struggle for “fair representation.” The first step for Blacks and Latinos
was to define their relationship to Chicago’s infamous “Machine.”
The rise of political power of Blacks and Latinos in Chicago in the 1980s
required the shifting of power away from an entrenched political Machine.
The Chicago “Machine” had been one of the strongest, most tightly organized
examples of a local power elite, but internal power struggles, the death of
Richard Daley, and an inability to agree upon a single successor left the Ma-
chine vulnerable to the emergence of political power outside the “regular”
Democratic party.
Blacks had been a reliable component of the Machine. They moved, how-
ever, to break the chains of what many had labeled “plantation politics” and
used their large numbers to defeat the forces they had previously been instru-
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 32

32 / Teresa C órdova

mental in electing. They chose one of their own to vie for mayor, and in 1983
they were successful in bringing Harold Washington to City Hall. “Progres-
sive” Latinos and whites, who were opposed to Machine neglect of their com-
munities, joined the efforts to elect the first Black mayor of Chicago. The pri-
mary and general elections epitomized the racial divisions within the city and
highlighted the refusal of the Machine to be easily defeated.
While Washington’s success shook the foundations of a patronage system,
he was limited in his reform by a city council majority of Machine warlords.
The forces of “the Vrdolyak 29” (named for politician Edward Vrdolyak) pre-
vented the passing of Washington-backed ordinances, appointments, and Ma-
chine dismantling. Until Mayor Washington could win the support of at least
twenty-five of the fifty aldermen (in which case he could cast the tie-breaking
vote), Black-Latino progressive political power could not be fully realized in
Chicago.
Finally, three years after a successful coalition brought Harold Washington
to power, the same coalition of Blacks, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, and progres-
sive whites took four aldermanic seats from the Machine and handed them to
Mayor Washington. In early 1986, special elections took place in seven alder-
manic wards due to a successful legal challenge against Machine gerrymander-
ing. The Washington forces were successful in two of the three predominantly
Black wards, one of the two predominantly Mexican wards, and one of the
two predominantly Puerto Rican wards. The results of the 1986 special elec-
tion gave Washington the twenty-five aldermanic votes he needed to deny the
“Vrdolyak 29” their edge.
The successful wresting of power through the 1986 elections was signifi-
cant for four reasons. One, it contributed to the further deterioration of the
political Machine. Two, it made possible the implementation of alternative
policies toward a redistribution of resources. Three, it ushered in an era of un-
precedented electoral participation by Latinos. Four, it signified the contin-
ued rise of a Black-Latino coalition and its progressive agenda.
A council majority enabled Washington to move quickly on committee
chairships, ordinances, and financial programs. By early 1987 the preoccupa-
tion again turned toward elections. After fierce mayoral and aldermanic races,
Washington was reinaugurated to a second term and to an even greater edge
on the council.
Suddenly, the dream ended with the shocking news that Washington had
suffered a heart attack in his City Hall office. He was pronounced dead within
three very long hours. While the city mourned, the politicians maneuvered.
The Machine moved in fast, the Washington bloc fell apart, and new forces
emerged —all within days of Washington’s death.
Chicago had lost a great leader. The significance of Harold Washington to
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 33

electoral politics and to the dream of a “progressive” coalition cannot be ex-

aggerated. Despite the loss, certain net gains remain. Harold Washington had
challenged both a tightly organized political Machine and the people of a
tightly segregated city. In Washington’s words, it would no longer be “business
as usual.”
For Latinos, Harold Washington was the spark that ignited electoral par-
ticipation that continues today. The purpose of this essay is to trace the devel-
opment of Latino electoral participation during the era of Harold Washing-
ton, showing the importance of this historical moment for Latino electoral
involvement in the city of Chicago.

Chicago’s Political Machine

To the political observer, Chicago’s most interesting aspect is the endurance

of a political Machine that began with Mayor Anton Cermak in 1931 and was
in its heyday during the twenty years of the Richard J. Daley reign. Despite in-
ternal struggles and challenges by reformists, it is still in operation today, re-
maining the “last of the great big-city Machines.” 1 Richard M. Daley became
chair of the Cook County Democratic Party in 1953 and mayor two years later.
Using his control of the two top positions and his skills as an astute politician,
Daley consolidated his power. From 1955 to 1976, Daley was “the boss.”
Historically, Machines have been built with the support of low-income,
uneducated, immigrant groups who were in need of the services and protec-
tion that a patronage system could provide.2 Daley’s Machine was even wider
in its appeal, reaching across ethnic lines and including downtown business
interests. His organized and highly centralized Machine was comprised of a
cadre of loyalists whose overriding concern was the organization itself. The
Cook County Democratic Party was the organization, and the ward commit-
tee members were its most influential members.
Ward precinct captains provided access to City Hall. Through him (ward
Captains were almost exclusively male) one had streets repaired, lights re-
placed, garbage cleaned, and stop signs added. One could get one’s kid into
school, bail a relative out of jail, or clear up a bureaucratic mess. It was all part
of the benefits of political paternalism. It provided the security of “being taken
care of.” In return, one offered the precinct captain loyalty best exhibited
through one’s vote.

After Daley

After Daley’s death on December 20, 1976, control of the Democratic Party
was up for grabs. Daley had left no directive for a successor for either the mayor
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 34

34 / Teresa C órdova

or chair of the party. According to Milton Rakove, the ward committee mem-
bers did not want another Daley who “had kept them all under his control,
had strengthened the city government and the bureaucracy at their expense,
and had forced them to bow to his concept of the public interest and the good
of the city. They wanted a milieu in which they would have more power, free
from the centralized control Daley had exercised.” 3
As part of the overall strategy to limit the power of any single successor,
Machine leaders sought two different individuals for mayor and party chair.
Michael Bilandic was selected as Machine candidate for mayor, and George
Dunne was selected as chair of the Democratic Party. Through these choices,
several interests were maintained. Influential committee men were guaranteed
power and patronage, city bureaucrats were allowed to continue as before, and
banking and labor interests experienced no major shake-ups. Bilandic became
acting mayor and then was elected in 1977. The Machine, it seemed, would
survive intact.
Anti-Machine sentiments, however, were growing. White ethnics from
the northwest side were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with southside
control. Lakefront liberals were emerging as a block vote, and an increasingly
discontented and growing Black population was thinking more about auton-
omy than compliance with Machine politicians.
In 1979 Blacks, Lakefront liberals, and Northwest white ethnics united
behind Jane Byrne, a mayoral candidate the Machine had not considered a se-
rious threat.4 The electorate was especially aroused when Bilandic failed to pro-
vide the city services necessary to deal with one of the worst snow storms in
Chicago’s history. The 1979 winter was followed immediately by a primary in
which Jane Byrne won the Democratic Party nomination for mayor of Chicago.
Byrne appealed to those interested in reform as well as those who felt the
current “regulars” had deserted Daley’s agenda. After assuming office, she at-
tacked ward committee members and replaced city bureaucrats. While she later
developed ties with some key politicians she had previously called a “cabal of
evil men,” she did far more damage in her replacement of nearly every depart-
ment head. According to Rakove, what Byrne did was to disrupt and bring
down the party – government – private interest group system that Daley had
created in Chicago.5
This might have worked for Byrne if she had replaced one system with an-
other comprehensive plan. Instead, her tactics served to alienate her from the
banking, business, and labor communities and the remaining lower-level bu-
reaucrats. Nonetheless, her agreeable relationship with some ward politicians
might have carried her to a reelection bid, but the political arena of Chicago
was about to be transformed.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 35

Blacks and the Machine

Blacks have often been pivotal in elections in which their vote made a differ-
ence in the factional, religious, ethnic politics of Chicago. As early as 1915,
Black voters were decisive in giving the edge to “Big Bill Thompson,” the Re-
publican mayor who created an earlier version of “the Machine.” Based on pa-
tronage, Blacks were courted for their vote and in return received jobs —as
porters, cooks, janitors, and errand and messenger boys. A token Black elite
developed.6
After World War II, Blacks became even more pivotal as they grew in pop-
ulation due to immigration from the Deep South. Their relationship to the
Democratic Machine had been characterized as “plantation politics,” where
white and Black politicians controlled and “delivered” their Black wards in ex-
change for a few patronage favors. Despite their indispensability, the concerns
of Black communities were subordinate to the needs of the Machine itself.7
The maintenance of a biracial coalition required the avoidance of con-
troversial issues such as race and discrimination. “Thus, the white leaders of
the Democratic Machine, by establishing the terms and limits of the political
expression, denied autonomy to the city’s Black community. Blacks became
separate and unequal partners in the Machine’s coalition — subjects, not citi-
zens, of their city.” 8 Richard Daley believed that segregated housing projects,
a few patronage jobs, and token appointments were sufficient reward to his
Black “subjects.” Better educated and economically comfortable “white eth-
nic” forces supported this relationship and viewed the Machine as “defenders
of their values and interests, as the last hope for continued white control.” 9

The Rise of Black Independence

In 1940, Blacks comprised 8.1 percent (277,000) of Chicago’s population; in

1960, 22.8 percent (812,000); and in 1980, 39.5 percent (1,187,000). As demo-
graphics and priorities changed, the Blacks of Chicago sought political in-
fluence beyond the paternalism of the Machine. Low Black voter turnout in-
dicated a Black electorate that was increasingly dissatisfied with Machine
control. Between 1967 and 1971 support for Machine candidates in Black
wards fell by 7 percentage points, and it had dropped another 13 percent by
1975.10 In the early 1970s, Blacks ousted Ed Hanrahan as state’s attorney be-
cause he was seen as being responsible for the killing of Fred Hampton, a Black
Panther. Black dissatisfaction and emerging independence were intensified by
continued Machine exploitation and neglect, and by the civil rights and Black
nationalist movements.
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 36

36 / Teresa C órdova

Black voters expressed their break from the Machine when they helped
elect Jane Byrne. They were again key in the 1983 election when they displayed
not only their dissatisfaction with Jane Byrne’s policies toward them but also
their desire and ability to put forward their own candidate.
Harold Washington was not an ordinary Chicago politician. His early po-
litical career was shaped by his father’s successful politics, which were loyal to
the Machine. However, as Washington rose through party ranks, he soon de-
veloped an inclination for independence. Machine priorities and strategies
were not to his liking. Instead, in the Illinois General Assembly and later in
Congress, he sought policies to protect and better Black neighborhoods and
sponsored legislation to create equality.11 Washington took a leadership role
in amending federal voting rights legislation from requiring “proof of intent”
of discrimination to “proof of effect.” The change was significant in that it al-
lowed Blacks and Latinos to gain fair representation in city redistricting.

Latinos and the Machine

As is the case for nearly all aspects of Latino life in Chicago, there is little
written information about Latino electoral participation. Available accounts
depict a two-tiered leadership structure, with the lower tier comprised of lead-
ers of grassroots community organizations and a higher tier of “reputational”
leaders who operated as “brokers” between the community and the “lower
rungs of the dominant system.” The latter were Machine affiliates who derived
their power through the Democratic Party. While a few individuals profited
from the Machine-based positioning, mobility within that system was deter-
mined by party bosses rather than grassroots sentiment. Community organi-
zation leaders were essentially “excluded from effective brokerage positions.” 12
The Latino electorate voted Democratic throughout the Daley years, but
as in the case of African American voters, they became increasingly indepen-
dent. At the same time that there were “Amigos for Daley” operating in some
parts of town, there were others making moves to separate from the patronage
fold. One well-known account of precinct politics describes efforts by Mex-
icans to assert power at the ward level in two steel mill communities of South
Chicago.13
The two neighborhoods had a history of territorial rivalries but were united
in the late 1960s by union leaders to form the Tenth Ward Spanish Speaking
Democratic Organization. When Ed Vrdolyak became the ward committee
member, he stripped them of the few patronage jobs they had, but later Tenth
Ward coalition politics led him to attempt to co-opt the leaders. As the most
influential Chicano union activist noted,
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 37

Vrdolyak said he’d make me president of the Tenth Ward Demo-

cratic Organization if I would agree to disband the Spanish Speaking
Democrats. We would have something like it, but it would have to
be completely inside the regular organization. There was no way we
could go for that deal. Here he fires our guys, a few lousy jobs, noth-
ing like Ward superintendent or stationary engineer, you know, and
he expects us to turn around and join his organization like that. We
couldn’t have looked our people in the eye. We had to tell him we
weren’t ready for that.14

The group had fought hard for its autonomy and was not willing to return to
the fold of the “regulars.” Instead, they continued to organize at the precinct
level and to pose opposition to Vrdolyak and his forces by running their own
candidates.
Most likely because of this opposition, the “regulars” juggled the results of
a census count to ensure districts most favorable to themselves. For the 1970 re-
districting, Vrdolyak and Machine regulars gerrymandered the two Mexican
neighborhoods, splitting them into separate districts, leaving only Irondale in
the Tenth Ward. In doing this, the regulars engineered the demise of the com-
munity organization and contained the effort of Mexicans in Chicago to build
their own autonomous political efforts. Not until the 1980s would Mexican
opposition to the Machine resurface in any significant way. In the meantime,
Latino electoral power was limited by an inability to obtain ward majorities.
Demographics and successful court challenges would soon change this.

The Rise of a Latino Independence Movement

The success of some Latinos within the Machine did not translate into well-
serviced Latino communities. Or so thought the young Mexican activists of
the Near West Side and the Puerto Ricans on the north side who were begin-
ning to define themselves separately from the Machine. Indeed, these young
activists believed that the Machine relationship with their communities was
one of neglect, and they believed that Latinos had the numbers to do some-
thing about it.
Political activism was not new to Latino communities. They had their la-
bor organizers and community-based organizers. The Puerto Rican community
had independistas, and Mexicans had protectors of immigrant rights. Many
had been protesters of the 1960s and 1970s —fighting “outside the system.”
What was new was that these activists turned their attention to electoral poli-
tics. Now these Latinos from Centro de Acción Autónoma (CASA), Brown
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 38

38 / Teresa C órdova

Berets, and Puerto Rican independence organizations were working “within

the system.” Their fervor and commitment remained strong as they formed or-
ganizations, registered voters, and influenced candidates.
The activists engaged in the world of electoral campaigns and voter solic-
itation with the “realization that the Machine used the political realm to deny
services to the community.” Everything from garbage collection to education
was denied through the Machine, and so the major task was to beat the “reg-
ulars” at the polls. “The electoral process was the avenue to change the sys-
tem —if it could be changed.” 15
In the early 1980s, Mexican activists formed the Independent Political Or-
ganization (IPO) of the Near West Side. Prominent leaders within the group,
especially Rudy Lozano, rallied the electoral cause, claiming that Latinos had
the numbers to make a difference. Political statistician David Cantor backed
him up, supplying figures and the concept of a Latino belt that ran through
the First, Twenty-Second, and Twenty-Fifth Wards.
Voter apathy had to be tackled as did the belief that “the only way to get
things was through the Machine.” The activists made it their goal to enfran-
chise the community, to create a sense of empowerment, a sense that “this is our
neighborhood and we have a right to say something about it.” They believed
that if they could convince people that their vote could make a difference, then
they could open up the doors for reform politics. They intended to build an
organization that could generate a voting bloc.
Once organized, it became easier to run candidates and endorse others. By
doing this, they were opposing Machine heavies of the First, Twenty-Fifth, and
Twenty-Second Wards such as Fred Roti, Vito Marzullo, and Frank Stemberk,
respectively. They knew they would not win immediately, but their vision was
long term. The Near West Side IPO “created” a candidate of its own to run in
1982 for state representative of the Twentieth District.
The members of the Near West Side IPO, such as Rudy Lozano, Jesús Gar-
cía, Lidia Bracamonte, Linda Coronado, Arturo Vásquez, Carlos Arango, Juan
Velásquez, and many others, formed the basis for a solid organization. Through
their efforts Soliz obtained 33 percent of the vote and demonstrated the polit-
ical power that was being gathered by the Chicano and Chicana activists.16
These same activists already had a history of forming alliances with Blacks in
surrounding neighborhoods, including leaders like Danny Davis and Art Tur-
ner from the West Side.
On the north side of town, many Puerto Ricans had been familiar with pa-
tronage politics. Here, too, young activists sought another way of doing poli-
tics. Individuals such as “Cha Cha” Jiménez and Reverend Jorge Morales were
among those who were forming their own movement at the same time that
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 39

they were responding to Rudy Lozano’s moves to use his citywide contacts to
build alliances across Latino groups. Lozano was also instrumental in bringing
the Latino independents together with the Black and white progressives who
were working to elect Chicago’s first Black mayor.

The Election of Harold Washington

Black politicians in the post-Daley era were, with few exceptions, controlled
by the Machine. Black voters, on the other hand, were voting less and itch-
ing more for autonomy and a candidate of their own.17 Harold Washington at-
tempted to be that candidate and ran in the 1977 Democratic primary for
mayor. A divided and controlled Black leadership did not, for the most part,
support Washington, with Black voter turnout of only 27.4 percent of those
eligible to vote. Though Washington lost the election, he set the stage for a
more significant challenge that was to follow.
The Black community “came alive” to actualize its civil rights at the ballot
box. Mobilization for voter registration and participation swept the Black com-
munity and was primarily prompted by grassroots forces including churches and
community organizations. The campaign was successful and resulted in a jump
in participation to 73 percent of the Black voting-age population by the 1983
general election — the highest Black voter turnout in the history of Chicago.18
Washington reluctantly submitted to the efforts to draft him for the 1983
mayoral race. His contenders were mayor Jane Byrne, who had alienated the
Black community through her lack of appointments of Blacks to key positions,
and Richard Daley, the son of the late mayor. The three-way primary race and
the ensuing general election against the Republican candidate, Bernard Epton,
were the most expensive, the hottest, and the most unpredictable of Chicago’s
mayoral elections. They were also campaigns in which race and racism were
contentious and significant factors.
The importance of the internal struggle of white Machine leaders and the
split in the white vote between Byrne and Daley facilitated Washington’s vic-
tory. Lakefront liberals also supported the anti-Machine efforts of Harold
Washington. But it was primarily a mobilized Black community that was the
force behind the historic election of a Black mayor in the city of Chicago.
Latino support, nonetheless, played a key role in the Washington coalition.

Latino Support for Harold Washington

In December of 1982 the IPO of the Near West Side endorsed Harold Wash-
ington for mayor. It also ran its own candidates in the Twenty-Second and
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40 / Teresa C órdova

Twenty-Fifth wards for the 1983 aldermanic races. In the Twenty-Second

Ward (Little Village), Rudy Lozano took on Frank Stemberk, and in the
Twenty-Fifth (Pilsen), Juan Velásquez challenged Vito Marzullo. While nei-
ther challenger was successful, Rudy Lozano came within seventeen votes of
forcing a runoff. Rather than challenge the legitimacy of a suspect outcome,
the candidates decided instead to see their vision as long term.19
IPO endorsement for Harold Washington translated into campaigning for
him in local wards. In a different part of town, Puerto Ricans also heavily can-
vased their wards (26th, 31st) to obtain support for Washington. These efforts
in the north side became the basis of the organization from which Luis Gu-
tiérrez ran for committeeperson in 1984 against Dan Rowstenkowski.
The “progressive” Latinos put their years of organizing and their newfound
electoral skills to the task of turning out the votes for Harold Washington.
According to Board of Elections figures, in the primary on February 22, 1983,
the Near West Side IPO pulled in 24 percent of the Twenty-Fifth Ward votes
and 20 percent of Twenty-Second Ward votes for Harold Washington. In the
Twenty-Sixth and Thirty-First wards, 9 percent and 17 percent of the votes
respectively were cast for Washington.20
The general election in April which pitted Washington against Repub-
lican Bernard Epton more poignantly suggests the importance of the Latino
vote for Washington. Of the 48,230 vote difference between Washington and
Epton, 27,915 of those were cast by Washington supporters of the four wards
where Latinos have the highest populations. Put differently, the Midwest
Voters Registration Project conducted an exit poll on election day and found
80 percent of Chicago’s Latinos voting for Washington for an estimated total
of 51,000 votes.21
The relationship formed in 1982 –1983 between Washington and “pro-
gressive” Latinos grew stronger throughout Washington’s time in City Hall.
Washington brought some of these “progressive” Latinos into his administra-
tion as deputy commissioners of city departments, and he created the Mayor’s
Advisory Commission on Latino Affairs.22 Meanwhile, further efforts were
made to advance “progressive” Latinos into the electoral realm.
In the Twenty-Second Ward the IPO again challenged the Machine by
putting Jesús García, deputy commissioner of water, against heavyweight
Frank Stemberk for the position of ward committee member, the ward orga-
nization’s chief authority. The successful 1984 bid placed García on the Com-
mittee of the Democratic Party and right in the midst of maneuvering within
Machine hierarchy. The ability of the Latino activists to successfully place
García points to the effectiveness of the organizers. It was a signal of the in-
creasing importance that Latino progressives would play in advancing Wash-
ington’s reform agenda.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 41

Washington and the Vrdolyak 29

Washington’s pledge was to reform the patronage system and to open the po-
litical process. He desired a more efficient bureaucracy, neighborhood develop-
ment, and a redistribution of resources. However, when Washington won as
chief executive of City Hall, he did not win the support of the City Council.
The chair of the Democratic Party and alderman of the Tenth Ward repre-
sented the interests of the Machine as it existed (even with its divisions). Ed-
ward Vrdolyak and the twenty-eight aldermen who supported him became
known as the Vrdolyak 29 —and the thorn in Washington’s side. The ability
to make commission appointments, to staff committee chairships, and to pri-
oritize the budget were all limited by the inability of Washington to obtain a
council majority on crucial issues. When accused of doing little to change the
direction of the City, Washington pointed to the paralysis caused by the “coun-
cil wars.” It was precisely this situation that made the 1986 special aldermanic
elections so critical from the point of view of both Harold Washington and
Edward Vrdolyak. The successful legal battle for fair representation made these
elections possible.

The Legal Battle for “Fair Representation”

The issue leading to the 1986 elections was one of fair representation. In the
1981 redistricting that followed the census count, the city council approved
the mappings produced by the Council Subcommittee on Redistricting and
the commissioner of the Department of Planning. Generally speaking, the
guidelines for apportionment accord with the ability of a given incumbent to
retain reelection capacity. The maneuvering is called gerrymandering, and it
is as old as apportionment itself.
In November 1981 a new map of aldermanic districts obtained city coun-
cil approval. The plan was challenged in summer 1982, when lawyers repre-
senting Blacks and Latinos filed complaints of voting rights violations.23 The
plaintiffs alleged violations of Section 2 of the Voting Rights Act and its 1982
amendment, the Fourteenth and Fifteenth amendments, various federal civil
rights statutes, and several Illinois constitutional and statutory provisions.
The case was heard in Federal District court in late 1982. After the Dis-
trict Court denied most of the claims, an appeal was filed in the Seventh Cir-
cuit Court of Appeals. That court accepted the plaintiffs’ claim that violations
of the Fourteenth Amendment had occurred and that intention to discrimi-
nate could be found. The higher court upheld claims of minority vote dilution
through packing, fracturing, and boundary manipulation. Moreover, the
higher court called for a majority in nineteen Black wards and for the creation
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42 / Teresa C órdova

of four Hispanic wards, with 65 percent deemed the effective guideline to en-
sure “fair representation.” The Supreme Court refused to hear the defendants’
appeal and returned the case to District Court for reconsideration on the ba-
sis of the Appeals Court’s declarations. The final map that satisfied the guide-
lines of the Appeals Court closely resembled the proposed plaintiffs’ map.
If gerrymandering disenfranchised South Chicago Chicanos in the 1960s,
then what was different about the 1980s? The court case against Machine
maneuvering of political wards was possible for a number of reasons. First,
between 1960 and 1980, the population of Latinos in Chicago grew from
110,000 to 423,000, or from 3.1 percent of the population to 14.1 percent of
the population.24 A demographic base made for increased presence and par-
ticipation. Further, the existence of alert and committed Latino professionals
meant that there were individuals who had the skills to pursue complicated
legal technicalities. Finally, the alliance with Black attorneys increased the ef-
fectiveness of the court challenge. The successful redistricting lawsuit con-
tributed to an awakened interest in the ballot box as an expression of civil
rights.
As a result of the successful court challenge, seven wards were reshaped
and not only corrected minority voting dilution, but also altered the jurisdic-
tion of long-standing Machine aldermen. In the revised Twenty-Fifth ward
map, the Mexican community of Pilsen was politically strengthened because
Machine Alderman Vito Marzullo was mapped out of his district. Similarly, in
the Twenty-Second Ward, where the 57-percent Mexican majority jumped to
71.7 percent, Alderman Frank Stemberk chose not to run for reelection. In
the Twenty-Sixth Ward, Alderman Michael Nardulli was moved into a ward
where successful challenge of the incumbent would be unlikely. The fourth
Latino ward, the Thirty-First, already had Chicago’s only Latino Alderman,
Miguel Santiago. The situation in the three Black wards posed similar chal-
lenges to Machine incumbents. The remapping did not guarantee a shift in
city council balance of power, but the chances were good that at least four of
the seven seats could be gained by a Washington supporter, thus making the
balance 25-25, with Washington able to cast the tie-breaking vote. The
Machine affiliates would not let this happen without a concerted fight. The
electoral fervor, however, would mark a new era for Latinos in Chicago.

The 1986 Special Elections

“Louie! Louie! Louie! Louie!” The walls and the halls of Humboldt Civic Cen-
ter reverberated from the clapping, the stomping, and the screams for Louie.
The big halls, the hallways, and the stairwells were filled with the supporters
of Luis Gutiérrez, Puerto Rican candidate for alderman of the Twenty-Sixth
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 43

Ward. They were campaign soldiers who had walked the precincts, knocked on
doors, answered telephones, raised money, and circulated posters. They were
workers in factories, social service agencies, cultural centers, schools, grocery
stores, and city offices. They were primarily Puerto Rican residents of neigh-
borhoods known as West Town and Humboldt Park. They were excited, they
were elated, and they were convinced that their candidate would win.
Who would be the next alderman of the Twenty-Sixth Ward? Would it be
the Washington-backed fiery orator, or would it be the candidate supported by
the regular Democratic Party? The fierce exchanges throughout the campaign
between Luis Gutiérrez and Manuel (Manny) Torres point to the importance
of this race from the point of view of the people of the 26th Ward. The in-
volvement signaled a belief that the outcome of this electoral battle would
make a difference for the future of the neighborhood. Roads with potholes, al-
leys with garbage, and blocks with vacant lots were only part of the problem.
Unemployment, gang violence, high drop-out rates, and decaying commer-
cial districts plagued the community. These were the problems people needed
solved, and these were the problems each candidate swore to address.
Across town in the Twenty-Second Ward (Little Village), Jesús García,
ward committeeperson, had the support of Harold Washington and of the IPO.
“Chuy” was described by his campaign manager as a strong leader “who has the
ability to work in an organization and the ability to have strong people around
him.” His grassroots organization was sound. García faced several opponents
in the 1986 elections, including Machine-backed Guadalupe García, a loyal
worker in Stembert’s ward organization.25
In the Twenty-Fifth Ward (Pilsen), Washington people backed Juan Ve-
lásquez, deputy commissioner in the Department of Streets and Sanitation,
against Juan Soliz. Soliz and Velásquez had been on the same political side a
few years earlier, but Soliz made a break from the “Progressive” Latinos and
aligned himself with Ed Vrdolyak. According to many, Soliz developed re-
sentments against Washington when Washington did not bring him into the
administration as deputy mayor. Others say that Soliz emerged from the 1984
legislative race with debts that Ed Vrdolyak helped him pay. According to So-
liz, he began criticizing Washington because he felt his record of Latino ap-
pointments was weak. In response to questions about his alliance with the
“Regulars” he replied, “Since regular democrats couldn’t beat me, they sup-
ported me. I had to go with the people that supported me.” The Machine forces
did support Soliz in the heated battle against Juan Velásquez and two others.26
In the Thirty-First Ward (Humboldt Park), three Puerto Ricans ran for al-
derman. The incumbent was Miguel Santiago, whose position epitomized the
Latino version of “plantation politics.” According to Gary Rivlin, “the only
difference between him [Santiago] and the plantation politicians who pre-
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44 / Teresa C órdova

ceded him was his race.” He was a faithful Machine soldier who was made by
the Machine and in whose interests he served, even at the expense of the com-
munity. Santiago’s predecessor in the Thirty-First Ward, Joseph Martínez, had
been appointed by Jane Byrne and then “dumped” in 1983 when caught in
crossfire between Byrne and Ward boss Edward Nedza.27 Santiago was chosen
to represent the regular democrats on the city council. In 1986, Santiago would
rely on Machine backing to wage his reelection bid against contenders Ben-
jamin Rosado, a Streets and Sanitation Department employee, and Migdalia
Collazo, the Washington-backed candidate.
In all four wards, Latino interest in electoral politics was heightened.
Nearly everyone had a position and a favorite candidate. A particularly close
race was predicted in the Twenty-Sixth Ward, where the battle between Luis
Gutiérrez and Manuel Torres was a battle between Washington and the Ma-
chine. With such high stakes, the emotions ran high; battle lines were drawn
and residents of the ward were forced to take sides. Verbal arguments in restau-
rants, bus stops, and neighborhood streets were indicative of the heightened
importance of electoral politics. To wear a campaign button or to canvass a
precinct was to take the risk of verbal or physical assault. Candidates were slan-
dered, threatened, and run down by cars, and youth gangs were employed to
carry forward a Chicago tradition of voter harassment. The community was
alive with enthusiasm and antagonism.
The Twenty-Sixth Ward race was also the race the media found most in-
teresting, particularly as the drama unfolded. One must ask why the Machine
cared so much about this ward. The Chicago Sun Times thought the question
important and headlined an article “Why Gutiérrez Scares Eddie.” In the words
of Vernon Jarrett, “Politicians like Vrodlyak, ex-Mayor Jane Byrne and State’s
Attorney Richard M. Daley view people like Gutiérrez as a threat to their po-
litical domination. . . . The Machine crowd cannot tolerate a Hispanic, or any
intelligent minority spokesman, who can inspire his people, yet is not for sale.
They shudder at the thought of Gutiérrez standing in the City Council inspir-
ing other Hispanics to register and vote.” 28
Election day arrived. The fervor and the intensity were pervasive through-
out the Twenty-Sixth Ward, the other six wards, and the entire city. In the
Twenty-Second Ward, Jesús García was elected with an overwhelming major-
ity. For years, his work had reflected his commitment, and many viewed his
election with enthusiasm and hope. In the Thirty-First Ward, the Machine’s
Miguel Santiago remained seated, but contender Migdalia Collazo rallied a siz-
able chunk of the vote, a signal, perhaps, that next time she could win. Juan
Soliz was elected in the Twenty-Fifth Ward, winning so easily that a runoff
was not necessary. So far, of the three Latino aldermanic races, two would be
part of the Vrdolyak forces and one would join with Washington’s side.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 45

In the three Black wards, one would join the Washington bloc, and an-
other would join the Vrdolyak forces. A third race required a runoff, but all
predictions pointed to an easy victory for the Washington-backed candidate.
And what of the Twenty-Sixth Ward in West Town?
On election night, as campaign workers anxiously crowded around televi-
sion sets in campaign headquarters, the votes started coming in. Torres, Gu-
tiérrez, Torres, Gutiérrez —it was close. By the end of the night, Gutiérrez had
more votes and it appeared that he had won. Still, the Board of Elections did
not declare him winner. The Machine had an ace in its pocket. Mysteriously,
uncounted write-in votes appeared for the third candidate, Jim Blasinski. There
were just enough write-in votes to deny Gutiérrez a sufficient majority for vic-
tory (50 percent  1) and to, therefore, require a runoff. Where did these bal-
lots come from? Would Gutiérrez be declared victor, or would he have to face
a runoff election against Torres? Torres’s lawyers filed a suit with the Cook
County Circuit Court requesting that the write-in votes for a third candidate
count. Their request was granted and the runoff election was scheduled for
April 29, when the eyes of Chicago would turn toward the Twenty-Sixth Ward.
Workers for Gutiérrez, however, knew the Machine had been up to its
“old tricks,” doing what it could to “steal” the election. The new campaign slo-
gan became “reelect Gutíerrez.” People from the Independent Political Orga-
nizations and the campaign headquarters mobilized, and supporters from all
over the city poured in to “reelect” Luis Gutiérrez. Machine forces from the
nearby wards of Nardulli, Nedza, and Gabinski also entered the Twenty-Sixth
Ward for the battle.
The hottest campaign issue came over accusations of “control” by one fac-
tion or the other. Torres called Gutiérrez a “City Hall puppet,” while Gutiérrez
focused on Torres’s Machine connections. Gutiérrez’s campaign literature de-
scribed him as a “long time community leader” who worked on bringing hous-
ing to the community, getting streets and sidewalks repaired, and increasing
minority hiring and “led the successful fight for the remap of this Ward.” At
the same time he described the Machine as giving “our communities 20 years
of neglect” and hand-picking a candidate “so they can maintain their control
of our community.”
In the runoff election the Machine became the target of more than Luis Gu-
tiérrez. The two major newspapers, the Chicago Tribune and the Chicago Sun
Times, endorsed Gutiérrez. The Tribune said that the Twenty-Sixth Ward con-
test resembled “a gang rumble more than an election.” Behind the personal
feuding between Mr. Gutiérrez and County Commissioner Manuel Torres was
“a struggle for power involving Chicago’s leading political heavies. Their ma-
neuvering left the election a mess.” Most everyone would agree that the fight
was intense and fierce. Many others would say it was “dirty.” 29
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46 / Teresa C órdova

The stakes were high. The council balance still placed Vrdolyak with the
edge. The runoff election included a race in the Fifteenth Ward between
Washington supporter Marlene Carter and incumbent Frank Brady, whose re-
districted ward now was 75 percent Black. A united Black vote would likely
give Carter the seat. With the pro-Washington victories of Jesús García, and in
two of the three Black wards, the count was 25-24 in favor of Vrdolyak. This
left the Twenty-Sixth Ward outcome as the deciding point on who would gain
control of the council. If Gutiérrez won the election, the count would be 25-
25; it would be a new administration for Harold Washington.
No day was so exciting as election day itself. This time around, the orga-
nization for election day was tighter, smoother, and very serious. Poll watch-
ers were trained to detect fraud —even the most subtle —inside the polling
place. Runners used the information from the inside to get out their counts.
This time state attorney officials were part of the surveillance team to keep an
eye on the action. Emotions ran high while votes were challenged and judges
were scrutinized.
Each candidate was confident of victory. At the end of the day, as indi-
vidual precinct votes were tallied, the word spread among campaign workers
that Louie was winning. The workers converged in Humboldt Park Civic
Center, knowing, feeling that they had won. The months of dedication, strate-
gizing, and plain hard work gave way to smiles, laughter, and gritos. “Gana-
mos! Ganamos!” Gutiérrez received 53.2 percent of the votes (7,429) com-
pared with Torres’s 46.9 percent (6,549). These special aldermanic elections
were pivotal in Chicago political history, in the rise of political power of La-
tinos, and in the further coalition building among “progressive” whites, Blacks,
and Latinos.

Latino Representation in City Hall

Latinos now had four representatives in City Hall. Given the tightness of the
25-25 power balance, a Latino “bloc” was conceivable. Variation among the
four, however, was noticeable, suggesting that Latino unity was not automatic.
Juan Soliz issued several public appeals calling for the aldermen to form the
bloc as a way to obtain benefits for the community. “They’ll have to come to
us. . . . Everyone recognizes that we can be stronger as a bloc. . . . Except maybe
García and Gutiérrez, because they are on a leash. They have to depend on
the mayor for everything.” 30
Both Jesús García and Luis Gutiérrez rejected the Soliz appeals and in-
stead identified Soliz as a Machine affiliate who “has joined forces that have
sought to deny the Hispanic community representation.” Each said they would
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 47

work to form a “Latino agenda” but that they wouldn’t form a “bloc for the
sake of forming a bloc.” “Our natural allies now in the council are the black
community and those who agree on a progressive reform agenda.” 31 Though
the four aldermen might have been able to agree on the “Latino agenda”— on
the common problems in the four wards — they would not agree on how to
solve those problems or with whom to affiliate in order to do so.
While Miguel Santiago clearly remained as a relic of “hacienda politics,”
Juan Soliz was divorcing himself from Machine affiliation and claiming him-
self to be an “independent.” García and Gutiérrez had arisen from grassroots or-
ganizing and were now two of Washington’s twenty-five. They often appeared
together on the same platform and were part of a “progressive” or “reform”
agenda.
For the Washington administration “reform” meant the breakup of the pa-
tronage system. He sought changes in awarding of city contracts, neighbor-
hood improvement (for example, streets, sewers, and sidewalks), the opening
of the political process beyond the “regulars,” an opening of jobs to include
minorities, and record keeping of city hall activities. After Gutiérrez’s victory
in the April 29 runoff election, Washington moved swiftly to obtain confirma-
tion for fifty-one positions on boards and commissions. For example, through
his allies in the City Council, he ousted Machine leaders from heads of the
Park District and the board of the Chicago Transit Authority. Both of these
positions controlled large numbers of patronage jobs.
García and Gutiérrez moved quickly to direct money to their communities.
Neighborhood improvement projects, sewer projects, establishment of block
groups, curbs and gutters, street resurfacing, health centers, new refuse collec-
tion systems, and advisory committees were part of their strategies to develop
Little Village and West Town. Meanwhile, Latino residents of these wards,
and of Chicago, sensed that they were part of something big.

The 1987 Elections

In the following primary election of February 22, 1987, Washington went head
to head with former mayor Jane Byrne and won with 53.4 percent of the vote.
In the general election on April 7, 1987, he faced Republican Don Haider and
Edward Vrdolyak from the newly formed Solidarity Party. The general elec-
tion placed Washington ahead with 53.3 percent (600,290) of the vote, com-
pared with 4.2 percent (47,652) for Haider and 41.6 percent (468,493) for
Vrdolyak.32
Both battles were fierce, and though race was a major factor, it did not
equal the intensity of the 1983 elections. Washington received the near total
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48 / Teresa C órdova

support of the Black community. The white vote was not so united. The can-
didacy of several whites not only split the vote but also heightened the divi-
sion among Machine warlords, many of whom voted non-Democratic rather
than support the candidacy of a Black reform mayor.
The Latino vote was courted in the primary by Byrne and Washington.
Byrne had already built a base of Latino support from the previous elections,
and this time she tried especially hard to impress them with occasional use of
Spanish phrases. Part of her campaign strategy was to challenge Harold Wash-
ington to a debate —in Spanish. She lost favor, however, after a slip in which
she referred to Puerto Ricans as “illegal aliens.” In response, Latinos were say-
ing, “We are not aliens, we are human beings for Washington.”
Latino support for Washington remained high for the 1987 primary and
general elections. For example, in the four wards with the highest concentra-
tion of Latinos, Washington carried 24,617 and 27,305 votes in the primary
and general elections, respectively. This is in contrast to 8,597 and 27,905 for
the 1983 elections. Washington carried Luis Gutiérrez’s ward (26th) and drew
a little more than half the votes of Jesús García’s ward (22nd). Machine
strength in the Twenty-Fifth and Thirty-First wards delivered the majority
votes to Byrne. According to Chicago Tribune estimates, citywide, 53.4 per-
cent of the Latino vote went to Washington and 46.1 percent for Byrne in the
primary. In the general election, 62.3 percent of the Latino votes supported
Washington, versus 34.6 percent for Vrdolyak and 3.1 percent for Republican
Don Haider.33
The outcomes of the aldermanic races were again crucial for the Washing-
ton administration. According to the Chicago Sun Times, the key races were
being waged in the four Latino wards and six Lakefront wards.34 The four La-
tino wards were the same ones where special elections were held the previous
year. Washington supporters Jesús García and Luis Gutiérrez won reelection
easily in the Twenty-Second and Twenty-Sixth wards, with each obtaining
over 40 percentage points more than his closest opponent.35 In the Thirty-
First and Twenty-Fifth Wards, a runoff election was necessary. The Machine
lost in both. Machine incumbent Miguel Santiago of the Thirty-First Ward
lost to attorney Raymond Figueroa. In the Twenty-Fifth, incumbent Juan So-
liz, running as an independent, managed to defeat both Machine and Wash-
ington organizers.
The outcome of the aldermanic races left Washington with control of the
council. Washington was able, for example, to lead a 40-9 council steamroll
over the floor leader and Machine warlord, Edward Burke, and replace him by
Black alderman Timothy Evans. The Chicago Sun Times headlines read, “It’s
Harold’s Council Now.”
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 49

Harold’s Death
and the Ensuing Political Battles

Despite the optimism and apparent unity, the “Washington bloc” fell apart al-
most immediately upon the tragic news that Washington had suffered a fatal
heart attack on Wednesday, November 25, 1987, the day before Thanksgiving.
While the city mourned, politicians scrambled to see which alderman could
muster the needed twenty-six votes to become acting mayor. Vrdolyak and
Burke forces met; Jesse Jackson returned home from the Middle East to exert
a mediating influence; Blacks behind Eugene Sawyer met secretly with white
ethnics who realized that they did not have the votes to elect one of their own;
while a growing sentiment emerged among the Black community that the
one most likely to carry forward the legacy of Washington was finance chair
Timothy Evans.
Evans became the candidate of “the people,” and Sawyer became the man
that had cut deals with the “enemy.” The battle lines were clear the night of
Washington’s burial during a memorial service held at the University of Illi-
nois at Chicago Pavilion. The crowd was told of the ongoing political activi-
ties and was further aroused by Vernon Jarrett, close friend of Harold Wash-
ington and columnist for the Chicago Sun Times. In an emotionally charged
tirade inspired by Frederick Douglass, Jarrett described the Sawyer forces as
Uncle Toms who had “ceased to be men and women” and had sold their people
into slavery. His speech of wrath was followed by Jesse Jackson’s call to arms —
for people to do what they had to do to ensure that the Washington legacy be
carried forward. The following day the Sawyer aldermen were bombarded
with phone calls, threats, and picketing. That evening thousands of Washing-
ton supporters who now backed Evans turned out at City Hall in the hopes
that they could stop the aldermen from voting. Finally, by 4:00 a.m., when
most of the crowd had fizzled, Eugene Sawyer received the necessary votes to
make him acting mayor of Chicago. Blacks were stunned that their unity had
not survived Washington’s death.
Latino aldermen, however, had announced before that they would vote as
a bloc, and they did.36 García, Gutiérrez, Figueroa, and even Soliz all cast their
votes for Timothy Evans, the candidate they believed would carry on the re-
form of Washington. Such a united vote placed hopes in the Latino commu-
nity that Latinos in city council might be finally united. The pledge was one
thing; the ensuing reality was another.
By 1989, when a special mayoral election was held to decide Washington’s
successor, the Washington coalition had not regrouped, and divisions were
deep in the Black, Latino, and Lakefront liberal communities. Acting Mayor
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50 / Teresa C órdova

Sawyer faced several challengers, including Richard M. Daley, son of the Ma-
chine mayor; Danny Davis, longtime Black activist and politician; and Timo-
thy Evans. For progressive Latinos, the most devastating blow was brought by
Luis Gutiérrez’s declaration of support for Richard Daley. The alderman of the
Twenty-Sixth Ward had been put into place by a grassroots movement that
believed his oratory. Progressive leaders of the ward organization were com-
mitted to an agenda that they believed Louie shared. Their devastation was
deep, leading to disillusionment and disappointment.
Daley won the primary and general elections and regained his father’s seat
as mayor of Chicago. According to the Board of Elections figures and Midwest
Voters Registration Project, Daley won the Democratic primary with the sup-
port of two-thirds of Latino voters (as compared to the 53 percent they gave
Washington in 1987). In the Twenty-Sixth Ward, 72 percent (6,782) of the
voters went with Daley.

The Legacy of Harold Washington

At the funeral of Harold Washington, Jesús García received a standing ova-

tion after offering a rap-style eulogy. The eulogy expressed the sentiment of
many Latinos:
You came to our community
help build the spirit of unity
The seeds that we then sowed
became the fruit that victory bestowed
You walked through our barrios,
our neighborhoods, and touched our hearts.

And now that you’ve gone, we

the people vow to stay strong.
The unity of our coalition is a
tribute to the Washington tradition.
Today, today in ’87, we know
that you’re in heaven.
Adiós amigo. Adiós.
Although some insiders caution about glorifying him, Harold Washington
changed politics for Latinos in Chicago. Insiders were clear about the limita-
tions of his administration and the extent to which he adequately addressed
the needs of Latinos.37 Nonetheless, he was an inspiration to encourage grass-
roots activists to continue their search for solutions to their communities’
problems through electoral politics. Washington supported Latinos to gain
political office and expand their representation in city hall.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 51

Representation in city hall meant increased dollars into the neighborhood

and improvements of everything from garbage collection to sidewalks. Block
grants, community development projects, and contract awards were directed to
communities that had previously faced disrepair and neglect. The placement
of Latinos in city hall also meant the creation of a middle-level broker class
and the upward mobility of highly paid city hall workers.
Latino activists were convinced of the necessity of coalitions, particularly
among themselves and with African American communities. Washington be-
came the conduit for those coalitions. He promoted the understanding that
Blacks and Latinos had problems in common and needed to form alliances to
solve them. The structural conditions that each of the groups faced became
the basis for coalitions whereby a charismatic leader was important in bridging
the various groups. The nearly immediate breakup of the coalition following
his death suggests how important Washington was to its existence.
Latino women and men became part of a reform movement that challenged
“business as usual” in Chicago. They contributed to the deterioration of the
Machine stronghold in city politics. Several longtime Machine “heavies” were
forced out of office due to reapportionment that created Latino ward majori-
ties. Latinos defeated Machine aldermen at a time when the balance of num-
bers was critical for Washington to exercise real legislative leadership, greater
control over the budget, and broader and fairer access to jobs once completely
controlled by the machine. Legal battles over “fair representation” were a nec-
essary component of opening the doors to electoral participation.
After Washington’s death several questions emerged. To what extent was
the Machine destroyed and replaced by progressive politics? Certainly, the
democratic process was opened, but just how far? Now that politics were
opened to Blacks and Latinos, would it be “business as usual”? How would
Latinos fit into the political scene? 38 While fully answering these questions
may be beyond the scope of this chapter, this chronicle of electoral emergence
offers insights for viewing the political participation of Latinos.

Beyond Washington

Jesús García and Luis Gutiérrez were two young political activists who found
themselves swept into office by an electoral movement of Blacks and Latinos
in Chicago. A view of each of their political careers illuminates the path of
Latino electoral participation in the City of Chicago.
After Washington’s death, Jesús García maintained the vision of the early
days — the enfranchisement of the community. In his ward, each of the pre-
cincts organized block clubs, and out of these ranks emerged neighborhood
leaders. The Twenty-Second IPO continued to host an annual conference as a
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52 / Teresa C órdova

means for residents in the ward to articulate their needs and opinions. García
was readily available to those who wanted to speak with him. As Lidia Braca-
monte, an original member of the Near West Side IPO, put it, “Chuy’s organi-
zation runs all the time. It’s the difference between the Machine and a political
apparatus that empowers people.” 39
In contrast, many believed that Gutiérrez developed his campaign around
the individual. According to close observers, “Louie built a circle of people
around him who followed the man and not the plan.” Chuy, on the other hand,
“has got the plan. That is what makes him so good.” Many were not surprised
when Gutiérrez chose to align with the Daley forces, a move which demon-
strably bolstered his political career.
At the same time, the political choices of both García and Gutiérrez sug-
gest something about the complexities and contradictions of participation in
the electoral arena. Namely, they were now in the world of deals —“I’ll vote for
your bill if you vote for mine.” The game that says you “don’t make no waves”
and you “don’t back no losers.” It’s an arena where you run on ideology and
then face the reality of patronage politics, leaving the question of whether en-
trenched patronage politics can ever fully be reformed. Both politicians have
survived and both have gone on to develop strong constituencies that keep
them in political office.
The political career of Luis Gutiérrez was visibly boosted through his affili-
ation with the new Daley regime. He became in 1992 the first Latino from Chi-
cago to be elected to Congress. The newly created political district again
demonstrated the demographic changes in Chicago and the importance of
participation in the struggle to ensure that districting results in adequate rep-
resentation. Despite certain presumptive behaviors upon arriving in Washing-
ton, Gutiérrez has managed to juggle many interests in his district. He went
on in 1994 to win, against Juan Soliz, a second term. Many point to Gutiérrez’s
anti-NAFTA stance as an indication that he has not completely abandoned
progressive interests.
Since 1992 García has represented his constituency in the Illinois Senate.
He too juggles an array of interests within the four wards of his district and
continues to fight for legislation that favors the interests of workers. García
joins Miguel del Valle as a leader in the Democratic Latino coalition that is a
formal organism of the state Democratic Party. Del Valle rose within electoral
politics as a member of the State Senate during the same electoral fervor that
nourished García and Gutiérrez.
To Latinos in Chicago, these three leading politicians continue to keep
alive the notion that the electoral arena is still a vehicle to empower their com-
munities. They are joined in political office by four aldermen and four state
representatives. Latinos continue to work in coalition with each other and
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 53

with many African American politicians. The era in which Washington was
elected was inspired by a grassroots movement that saw the electoral arena as
a vehicle for empowerment. The legacies of that movement are visibly seen in
the presence of Latino elected officials as players in the local, state, and na-
tional levels.

Reflections on a Chronicle

Widespread racism has characterized the Latino experience in the United

States, as typified by Latinos’ exclusion from electoral politics. Gerrymander-
ing has been the most prevalent measure to deny “fair representation,” and
court challenges have been the most effective way to remedy it.40 The Chicago
case confirms the prevalence of gerrymandering and its likely continuance
without the role of vigilant attorneys who make it their business to intercede.
In this case, the Mexican American Legal Defense Fund (MALDEF) was a pri-
mary actor in setting the stage for the Redistricting Elections of 1986, which
in turn was a critical moment in bolstering the Washington coalition.
Challenges over redistricting are not new to Mexican Americans but have
been a part of their political history in several regions since the 1960s.41 The
Voting Rights Acts of the 1960s certainly made these challenges viable.
Denial of Latinos’ political rights seems to be the norm, necessitating, each
time, a court challenge and all the time and expenses that accompany it. Where
access to these legal resources are nonexistent, denial of fair representation to
Latinos prevails. Even in cases of successful challenges, several years of access
are denied while the challenge is being waged. Either way, vigilance on the
question of fair representation is a critical measure toward inclusion in the po-
litical process.
Demographic shifts of Latinos in Chicago reversed previous size, residen-
tial patterns, and electoral participation rates, thus impacting their effective-
ness in the electoral arena.42 Activists were aware of the increasing numbers
and concentration of Latinos, which influenced their decision to mobilize
within the electoral arena. Demographics alone, however, does not explain
the rise of a Latino consciousness. The structural conditions that Latinos face
create a Latino identity that potentially provides the basis for mobilization ef-
forts to combat the structured inequality.43
The ethos of the era was indeed one of Latinismo, and many spoke of the
dream of Latino unity. Chicago had been somewhat unique in that large con-
centrations of several Latino groups coexisted. As Latino populations in large
urban areas become increasingly mixed, the Chicago case may yield some les-
sons. An articulation of a cultural and racial identity contributes to the likeli-
hood that Latinos will mobilize in unity. An articulation of the structural
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54 / Teresa C órdova

factors impacting Latinos and their causes is also an essential component of a

mobilizing effort, so that “unity” doesn’t become a euphemism for class domi-
nation within the races.
“Radical” grassroots activists led the plunge into electoral politics during
the era of Harold Washington. Services were denied or granted through City
Hall —and City Hall was within reach. “Progressive” politics was the rhetoric
of the day, though it was never entirely articulated what this meant, other
than access to services by destroying a patronage system that had previously
denied them. Other politicians who were part of the reform movement had
ascended through machine politics, and many of them returned once Wash-
ington had died. At the same time, becoming a part of the patronage fold is
compelling, as Gutiérrez exemplified when he chose the new Daley regime as
his political sponsor —he delivered votes in return for political advancement.
Whether politics fundamentally changed in Chicago is still an unanswered
question. Are “hacienda politics” alive and well? From the point of view of
many, it remained “business as usual,” though less centralized. Political observ-
ers had predicted that a less centralized machine would allow for Latinos to
participate in party politics, including some level of decision making.44 The
party machine itself, though perhaps not as total in its control, would maintain
its stronghold on the electoral arena. Nonetheless, gains are made through
electoral participation, most especially in the increased access to goods and
services. Participation in electoral politics, despite stated goals, may not fun-
damentally change the nature of the electoral arena. Participation may, none-
theless, provide some access to which Latinos are entitled in a representative
form of government.45
The potential of our numbers is enormous. The stakes are high. How clearly
we articulate our vision for a just society will impact the extent to which our
Latino identity will help us mobilize to fundamentally alter structured in-
equality. Electoral mobilization during the era of Harold Washington was a
spark in Chicago to ignite the belief that formal politics was at least one arena
which held hope for effecting social change. The dream, for many, continues.

Notes
I wish to thank the many political actors who shared their information and insights. I also wish
to thank Ray Romero and Dora Arechiga, former directors of the Chicago MALDEF, for infor-
mation on the redistricting case and David Montejano for his editorial work. I especially wish to
thank Alma Rivera for her research assistance.

1. Milton Rakove, Don’t Make No Waves—Don’t Back No Losers: An Insider’s Analysis of the
Daley Machine (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1975), p. 1.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 55

2. There are numerous treatments of Machine politics. See, for example, Edward C. Banfield
and James Q. Wilson, City Politics (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963); Harold F.
Gosnell, Machine Politics: Chicago Model (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 1977; Thomas M.
Guterbock, Machine Politics in Transition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980).
3. Milton Rakove, “Jane Byrne and the New Chicago Politics,” in Samuel K. Gove and
Louis H. Masotti, eds., After Daley: Chicago Politics in Transition (Urbana: University of Illinois
Press, 1982), p. 224.
4. Latinos did not join the Byrne forces in large numbers. In fact, of 18.3 percent of eligible
Latino voters who voted, the majority supported Bilandic. Paul Kleppner, Chicago Divided: The
Making of a Black Mayor (Dekalb, Ill.: Northern Illinois University Press, 1985), p. 116.
5. Rakove, “Jane Byrne and the New Chicago Politics,” p. 232.
6. See Ira Katnelson, Black Men, White Cities: Race, Politics, and Migration in the United States,
1900 –1930, and Britain, 1948– 68 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1976), pp. 86 –104.
7. Kleppner, Chicago Divided pp. 71, 73.
8. Ibid., p. 71.
9. Ibid., p. 84.
10. Ibid., 1985, pp.34, 74 –75. Also see Royko, Boss: J. Daley of Chicago (New York: New Amer-
ican Library, 1971), pp. 101, 137–138.
11. See Jean M. Terrell, We Want Harold. We Want Washington! The Chicago Mayoral Election
of 1983 (Chicago: MJ Terrell, 1984), p. 6.
12. For an account of the post-Daley era, see Joanne Belenchia, “Latinos and Chicago Poli-
tics,” in Gove and Masotti, eds., After Daley, pp. 118 –145; and John Walton and Luis M. Salces,
The Political Organization of Chicago’s Latino Communities (Chicago: Center for Urban Affairs,
Northwestern University, 1977), pp. 94, 123.
13. William Kornblum, Blue Collar Community (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974).
14. Quoted in Ibid., p. 169.
15. Personal interview, February 16, 1988, with Ronnell Mustin, Black activist, former mem-
ber of SNCC and CORE and campaign manager for Jesús García.
16. Latino Institute, Al Filo / At The Cutting Edge: The Empowerment of Chicago’s Latino Elec-
torate (Chicago: Latino Institute, September 1986), Appendix D, p. 34.
17. See Kleppner, Chicago Divided; and Michael Preston, “Black Politics in the Post-Daley
Era,” in Gove and Masotti, After Daley, pp. 88 –117.
18. Kleppner, Chicago Divided, pp. 146 –149.
19. Mustin interview. Personal interview with Jesús García on July 22, 1991. Rudy Lozano’s
political life was cut short, however, by an assassin’s bullet during a time when he was organizing
workers at the Del Rey Tortillería.
20. Calculated from figures obtained in David K. Fremon, Chicago Politics Ward by Ward
(Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1988).
21. Ibid.; Midwest Voter Registration Education Project, “Special Report: Chicago Mayoral
Election, April 1985.”
22. Many believed the gains were too few and too slow. See Nena Torres, “The Commission
on Latino Affairs: A Case Study of Community Empowerment,” in Pierre Clavel and Wim Wie-
wel, eds., Harold Washington and the Neighborhoods: Progressive City Government in Chicago, 1983–
1987 (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1991), pp. 165 –187.
23. The plaintiffs were a group of nine Black voters, six Latino voters, and members of a Black
organization called the Political Action Conference of the City of Chicago. Representing the
Latino plaintiffs were lawyers from the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund
02-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 56

56 / Teresa C órdova

(MALDEF). Defendants in the case included Mayor Jane Byrne, the City Council, and the Board
of Election Commissioners. The lawsuit was preceded by a successful challenge against gerryman-
dering of state legislative districts, making way for the election of a Latino State Representative.
24. Latino Institute, Latino Perspectives for 1990: New Numbers New Leverage. (Chicago: La-
tino Institute, 1987), p. 3.
25. Mustin interview; Robert Davis and Manuel Galván, “50 Candidates Line Up for 7 Alder-
manic Posts,” Chicago Tribune, January 19, 1986, sec. 3, p. 3.
26. Personal interview with Juan Soliz, December 1987; Jorge Casuso and Ben Joravsky, “Party
of Juan,” in Reader, Chicago’s Free Weekly Friday, April 24, 1987, vol. 16, no. 30, p. 18. The other
two candidates were Virginia Martínez, a local attorney and former MALDEF director, and Phil
Coronado, described as a “political unknown.” Davis and Galván.
27. Gary Rivlin, “How Did This Guy Get to Be an Alderman?” in Reader, Friday, May 16, 1986,
vol. 15, no. 33, pp. 30, 34, 42.
28. Vernon Jarrett, “Why Gutiérrez Scares Eddie,” Chicago Tribune, April 5, 1986, p. 35.
29. “For Carter, Gutiérrez,” Chicago Tribune, April 25, 1986, sec. 1, p. 22. Local commenta-
tors such as Tom Fitzpatrick and Vernon Jarrett wrote a number of feature articles.
30. Katherine A. Schmidt, “Disagreement over Hispanic Voting Bloc,” Lawndale News,
May 4, 1986, p. 1.
31. Ibid.
32. Board of Elections, Final Cumulative Reports. Municipal Primary and Aldermanic Elec-
tion, Chicago, Illinois, Cook County, Tuesday, February 24, 1987, p. 5; and Municipal General —
Supplementary Aldermanic Election, Chicago, Illinois, Cook County, Tuesday, April 7, 1987,
p. 5. Independent Tom Hynes dropped out just a few days before the general race.
33. Jean Latz Griffin and Manuel Galván, “Hispanics Sided with Mayor,” Chicago Tribune, Feb-
ruary 25, 1987, pp. 8, 9.
34. “10 Aldermanic Races Hold Key,” Chicago Sun Times, February 15, 1987, p. 10.
35. Board of Elections, February 24, 1987.
36. Tom Gibbons, “Hispanics Vow to Unite for Reform,” Chicago Sun Times, November 30,
1987, p. 7; and Jorge Casuso, “Hispanic Bloc Gives Credit to Washington,” Chicago Tribune, No-
vember 30, 1987, sec. 1, p. 5.
37. María de los Angeles Torres, “Latino Politics: The Focus on Foreign Policy,” Nation, July 16,
1988, pp. 59 – 61.
38. Rakove, in his classic analysis of the Machine, said that “the time will come when Latino
politicians of demonstrated political acumen will be taken into the party leadership, granted
power and prerogatives, and utilized to advance the interests of a Black-Latino, white-ethnic
Machine, as well as their own aspirations and interests.” Rakove did not anticipate Harold
Washington but may have anticipated Luis Gutiérrez. Rakove, Don’t Make No Waves, p. 284.
39. Personal interview with Lidia Bracamonte, August 15, 1990.
40. Richard Santillán, “The Latino Community in State and Congressional Redistricting:
1961–1985,” in F. Chris García, ed., Latinos and the Political System (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre
Dame University Press, 1988), pp. 328 –348.
41. Ibid.
42. Luis M. Salces and Peter W. Colby, “Mañana Will Be Better: Spanish-American Politics
in Chicago,” in García, ed., Latinos and the Political System, pp.195 –200.
43. Félix M. Padilla, Latino Ethnic Consciousness (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame
Press, 1985).
44. Salces and Colby, “Mañana Will Be Better”; Rakove, Don’t Make No Waves. See also
note 38, above.
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Harold Washington & Latino Electoral Politics / 57

45. Increasing levels of participation by Latinos in the formal political system, even by grass-
roots activists, do not necessarily signal the decrease of “confrontational” politics. We need only
to observe the Environmental and Economic Justice Movement to note that there are still groups
of activists who are engaged in another form of political activity. See, for example, Teresa Cór-
dova, José T. Bravo, Jean Gauna, Richard Moore and Rubén Solis, “Building Networks to Tackle
Global Restructuring: The Environmental and Economic Justice Movement,” in John Betancur
and Doug Gills, eds., Urban Challenges for Blacks and Latinos in the 1990s (Newbury Park, Calif.:
Sage Press, forthcoming); Teresa Córdova, “Grassroots Mobilizations by Chicanas in the Environ-
mental and Economic Justice Movement,” Journal of Chicana/Latina Studies 1, no. 1: 31–55;
Robert Bullard, ed., Confronting Environmental Racism: Voices from the Grassroots (Boston: South
End Press, 1993).
03-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 58

Three

Gendered Citizenship
Mexican American Women and Grassroots Activism
in East Los Angeles, 1986 –1992

Mary Pardo

Más de 600 residentes del Este de Los Angeles desfilaron anoche con
cirios encendidos y pañuelos blancos . . . en nueva protesta contra la
construcción de una cárcel estatal en el distrito de Boyle Heights. . . .
en la marcha de anoche, 450 serían madres de familia supuestamente
agobiadas por el peligro que representa para sus hijos . . .1

very Monday evening during the summer months of 1986 and

E 1987, from 500 to 3,000 people carrying bilingual placards pro-

claiming “No Prison in ELA” [“No Carcel en East L.A.”] marched
on the Olympic Street bridge that links downtown Los Angeles with Eastside
Los Angeles. A broad-based community group, “The Coalition Against the
Prison,” eventually defeated the first state prison proposed for construction in
a densely populated urban center. Symbolic of the legacy of “dumping” un-
wanted projects on Eastside Los Angeles, the community victory marked the
culmination of eight years of community mobilization and illustrated the power
of grassroots activism in working-class communities as well as the significance
of women’s participation.
In conjunction with weekly demonstrations in Eastside Los Angeles, a
group of 200 women, heads covered with symbolic white scarves, traveled on
chartered buses to demonstrate on the steps of the California state capitol. The
surprised looks of the legislators who passed the women on the capitol steps
revealed the gendered dimensions of politics at the grassroots, the stereotypi-
cal images of women of Mexican origin, and the often narrow ways in which
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Gendered Citizenship / 59

politics is conceptualized.2 The political demonstration by Mexican Ameri-

can women, members of a group called “Mothers of East Los Angeles,” illus-
trated that people enter politics as “gendered,” not as “generic” citizens.
Gendered politics, in fact, was evident from the very beginning of the
protests, when an elected official, Assemblywoman Gloria Molina, first voiced
opposition to the prison project. Molina, considered an aggressive, relatively
independent community advocate and an outsider from most of the “old boys’
network” of the Democratic Party, astutely turned to grassroots mobilization.3
In the process, she strengthened her base of support as preexisting community
networks, especially among women, became politicized.4
Although Mexican American women have been prominent actors at the
grassroots level, their activism has seldom been documented. Dominant defi-
nitions of political participation have failed to address the ways in which gen-
der and ethnicity shape political activism. Indeed, predictions by “experts” at-
tribute the low formal political participation of Mexican Americans to a set of
cultural “retardants,” including primary family ties, fatalism, religious tradi-
tion, and mother country attachment.5 The core activists in the “Mothers of
East Los Angeles” [MELA] may appear to fit this description: all the women
live in a low-income community, identify themselves as active Catholics,
claim an ethnic identity, and range in age from forty to sixty years. Only a few
have attained education beyond high school. However, these women fail to
conform to the predicted political apathy. Instead, they have transformed
social identity —ethnic identity, class identity, and gender identity —into a
catalyst as well as a basis for activism. In mobilizing their existing social net-
works, they transformed themselves as well.6
Using the term “gendered citizenship” redirects focus on how gender, along
with ethnicity and class, conditions political participation, especially at the
grassroots level. Unlike electoral politics, grassroots activism occurs at a junc-
ture between larger institutional politics and family networks, a place where
people sustain and renew community life. Women within families often take
on the work of creating the social networks that create community, becoming
activated as they meet the social responsibilities “traditionally” assigned them.7
In fact, the hotly debated “quality of life” issues —affordable housing, toxic
dumping, and community safety —are typically “women’s” concerns. In grass-
roots politics, gender responsibilities often converge with civic responsibility.
The siting of undesirable public projects is predicated on the assumption
that poor working-class ethnic communities will be less likely to mobilize
meaningful opposition.8 According to a “personality profile” commissioned by
the state of California, “older people, people with a high school education or
less, are least likely to oppose” undesirable facilities such as waste incinerators.
In California, three out of five African Americans and Latinos live near toxic
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60 / Mary Pardo

waste sites, and three of the five largest hazardous waste landfills are in com-
munities with at least 80 percent minority population.9
In 1985, Republican Governor George Deukmejian anticipated little com-
munity opposition to his decision to place the 1,450-inmate institution in East-
side Los Angeles. Violating convention, the state bid on an expensive parcel
of industrially zoned land without compiling an environmental impact report
or providing a public community hearing. Shortly after the public announce-
ment of the proposed prison, Eastside merchants and professionals, including
Frank Villalobos, an urban planner, and Steve Kasten, formed a group called
the “Coalition Against the Prison.” They made concerted appeals to the De-
partment of Corrections.
The state’s violation of procedures and disregard for public information
meant the only way to stop the process was to disrupt it. Within a few months,
a group emerged representing community interests with different resources:
moral authority and legitimation from the Catholic Church, invaluable re-
search skills and political contacts from a few middle-class professionals, fi-
nancial support from neighborhood merchants, and thousands of committed
parishioners led by the “Mothers of East Los Angeles.”
While many other community members made tremendous contributions,
I sought the women’s point of view about political activism in order to make
visible the often ignored “gendered” dimension of an illustrative case of grass-
roots politics in a working-class Latino community. In order to tell about the
mobilization against the prison from the vantage point of the women, I asked
three questions: How did women begin their involvement? What strategies did
they use? What theories and perceptions of their activism did women hold?
That is, how did they see the relationship between their activism and the “pri-
vate sphere” of home and family? To answer these questions, I used ethno-
graphic methods — participant observation and in-depth interviews with
core activists — that emphasized practices, processes, and context rather than
women’s individual characteristics divorced from social networks. The re-
search method included putting women at the center, following their social
relations in contemporary conflicts and back into their preexisting commu-
nity networks.10
For the purpose of the analysis that follows, social identity is a multidimen-
sional process rather than a list of characteristics. Ethnic /racial, class, and
gender identities are not distinct or discrete elements. One may emphasize or
combine these identities differently depending on the situation. The varied
expressions of social identity are creative and dynamic. Social identities are
expressed in social situations and often used as strategies to accomplish polit-
ical objectives: to promote group unity, legitimate “moral” authority, confront
the opposition, or redefine the state’s definition of the “common good.”11
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Gendered Citizenship / 61

When women activists accounted for their community work as an exten-

sion of family relationships, as “wives,” “mothers,” “sisters,” and “daughters,”
I called these expressions of gender identity. Gender identity of Mexican
American women is not “generic,” but specified by class, community, and eth-
nicity. In East Los Angeles, as in almost all major U.S. cities, ethnicity and class
often converge with the stratification of place. Segregated neighborhoods not
only reflect inequality; they also help to organize it. Women who live in low-
income, ethnically segregated neighborhoods often find ethnic identity a
meaningful base of organization.12 In short, I understand social identity —eth-
nic, class, and gender identity —as a network of social relationships rather than
a rigid and unchanging entity. The remainder of the essay is divided into three
parts. First, I describe the prison controversy and the mass protests by Eastside
residents. Next follows an overview of women’s accounts of how they became
activated in the conflict and the strategies and networks they used to express
their opposition. I conclude by discussing the outcomes of their activism and
how this case underscores the need for more inclusive accounts of political
participation.

The Proposed State Prison:

A Symbol of Social Injustice

The Eastside opposition against the proposed construction of the state prison
represents a long, complex, and continuing battle which began in March of
1985 when the California State Department of Corrections (DOC) publicly
announced the site, a ten-minute walk from Boyle Heights, for the first state
prison in Los Angeles County.13 Boyle Heights, the Eastside neighborhood
where opposition to the prison originated, is a heterogeneous community of
approximately 89,000 — twice the density of the City of Los Angeles. Accord-
ing to the 1980 U.S. Census, residents are primarily low-income ($12,767 me-
dian family income), blue-collar workers, and renters, and more than half of
the population is foreign born.14 Within community boundaries are two large
public housing projects often recognized as the territory of dozens of gangs and
five major freeways whose construction uprooted more than 10,000 residents
and now criss-cross over 12 percent of the community land space. At the same
time, it is an “ethnic heartland” and home where stable Mexican American
families have raised and educated their children, many of whom have com-
pleted college, moved to suburbs adjacent to Eastside Los Angeles, and return
regularly for family celebrations.
A casual observer would be struck by the internal differentiation in the
neighborhoods of Eastside Los Angeles; certain blocks which have particular
reputations for being quiet, clean, and well kept may be adjacent to blocks
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62 / Mary Pardo

considered untended, noisy, and dangerous. Most media coverage, blind to

the stable community elements, highlight drive-by gang shootings, poverty,
and disorganization. On two occasions I heard journalists — one from West
Los Angeles and another from Great Britain’s BBC —express concern for per-
sonal safety and hesitation at driving out to Boyle Heights for interviews with
the members of MELA. After seeing the community, they expressed surprise
that, in contrast to news accounts, “it was not as bad as they had expected.”
Women adamantly countered the media image of the Eastside as crime-ridden
and dominated by gangs and deviants. To accept a degraded image of the East-
side would justify placement of one more negative project in its boundaries.
Historian Rudy Acuña aptly calls the pattern of degrading a community im-
age and dumping negative projects on it “the arrogance of power.” 15
Such arrogance was unmasked in the prison issue. The final decision to
place the county’s first state prison in East Los Angeles occurred after several
middle-class communities — the Santa Clarita Valley and the cities of San Ga-
briel and Lancaster — opposed its placement within their boundaries. The
DOC argued that the site was more suitable than the other sites for two rea-
sons: the proximity of the site to the courts in downtown Los Angeles and the
fact that the majority of state prisoners come from Los Angeles County. Assum-
ing that the prisoners’ families lived in the Eastside area, the DOC argued that
they could easily continue communicating with family members.16
California State Assemblywoman Gloria Molina vehemently opposed the
Eastside site, arguing that it was too close to the long-established, densely
populated Boyle Heights neighborhood and within two miles of thirty-four
schools. She also pointed out that 75 percent of the county’s prison popula-
tion already resided in the five prisons located in her district; thus, another
prison would add to the overconcentration of penal facilities in the East Los
Angeles area. Governor Deukmejian and the DOC representatives completely
disregarded Molina’s objections. Shortly after the governor and the DOC dis-
missed Assemblywoman Molina’s objections, she explored the possibility of
grassroots mobilization.17 The chances of success were seen as slim for the po-
litically powerless Fifty-Sixth Assembly District, a district populated by poor
Mexican immigrants unlikely to raise opposition to state projects.
In September 1985 the Senate passed the bill with no senator voting against
it and sent it to the Assembly for an apparent endorsement. Opposition to the
prison faced incredible odds at winning support. News editorials began appear-
ing on a regular basis, with the Los Angeles Times initially supporting the East-
side site. One radio editorial belittled the mobilization efforts, stating, “Gloria
Molina likens herself to a drum major in a march against the East L.A. Prison.
Few have fallen in line behind her.” The Los Angeles Herald Examiner ques-
tioned the fairness of the selection, and La Opinión, a Spanish-language news-
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Gendered Citizenship / 63

paper, and the local neighborhood papers opposed it. The United Neigh-
borhood Organization (UNO), a parish-based, Alinsky-inspired community
group, felt the issue was unwinnable and declined to join the coalition efforts.
Later, as the community mobilization gathered momentum and broad sup-
port, the Los Angeles Times began changing its position, as did UNO.18
In spring 1986 after much pressure from the Fifty-Sixth Assembly District
office and the community, the DOC agreed to hold the first well-announced
public meeting. Over 700 people attended the meeting held at the proposed
prison site, a former depot and maintenance center for Crown Coach buses.
From this moment on, the community mobilized, and according to James
Vigil, Jr., of Molina’s staff, the “tables turned and the community began call-
ing the political office regarding hearings and meetings.” 19
By summer 1986 the community, now well aware of the prison site proposal
and organized under an umbrella group called the “Coalition Against the
Prison,” began weekly protest marches on Monday evenings. The coalition
included merchants, local political representatives, community members, and
the “Mothers of East Los Angeles” (MELA), which began with a loosely knit
group of over 400 Mexican American women. MELA members comprised the
majority of the representatives who traveled to speak at Senate hearings in
Sacramento.

Women and Community Mobilization

The mobilization efforts began with informing preexisting networks of people

in the community. Different segments of the community, including merchants,
professionals, extended family members who no longer lived in Boyle Heights,
and Catholic parishioners, contributed their resources.
The merchants and professionals in the community had been meeting
regularly as a group for years, taking issue with neighborhood developments
they deemed negative. In 1984 they stopped the building of a junkyard across
the street from a Lincoln Heights school for the mentally retarded. In Au-
gust 1985 the business council brought 200 people in to testify at hearings at
which the Rapid Transit District was proposing to cut back on bus service to
East Los Angeles. According to one central member of the group, landscape
architect Frank Villalobos, the business group was already primed for the im-
minent conflict over the prison.
Working in conjunction with Assemblywoman Molina, the business group
made several trips to Sacramento to lobby and testify against the prison. Finally,
Molina, well known as a forceful advocate for Latinas and the community,
asked Frank Villalobos why there were no women traveling to Sacramento to
speak against the prison. As he put it, “I was getting some heat from her be-
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64 / Mary Pardo

cause no women were going up there.” On the other hand, Villalobos noted:
“The Senators . . . didn’t even acknowledge that we existed. They kept call-
ing it the ‘downtown’ site, and they argued that there was no opposition in the
community. So, I told Father Moretta, what we have to do is demonstrate that
there is a link between the Boyle Heights community and the prison.” 20
The next junction illustrates how perceptions of gender-specific behavior
set in motion a sequence of events that brought women into the political lime-
light. Father Moretta, the Italian American pastor at Resurrection Parish, de-
cided to ask all the women to meet after mass. He told them about the prison
site and called for their support. Asked about his rationale for selecting the
women, he replied: “I felt so strongly about the issue, and I knew in my heart
what a terrible offense this was to the people. So, I was afraid that once we got
into a demonstration situation we had to be very careful. I thought the women
would be cooler and calmer than the men.” 21 Father Moretta named the group
“Mothers of East Los Angeles” and selected its president and spokeswoman.
Thus bolstered by the authority of the Church and by “a mother’s responsi-
bility to protect her children,” the women of Resurrection parish entered the
battle. In a short time the battle would take them far beyond their church-
bound origins.
Father Moretta asked twenty-one other priests in the area to announce
the many hearings and demonstrations from the pulpit that helped to mobi-
lize hundreds of people. Clearly, the Catholic Church served as a primary cata-
lyst in disseminating information through parish bulletins. But not all women
became involved through the church. Some took their first step into the eight-
year struggle by responding to local information sources — neighbors, the lo-
cal newspaper, and letters from Assemblywoman Gloria Molina’s office.
Juana Gutiérrez, active in the neighborhood for many years, found out
about the group from Assemblywoman Molina’s field representative, Martha
Molina-Aviles. Molina-Aviles (no relation to Gloria Molina) grew up in Boyle
Heights and used her intimate knowledge of the community to forge strong
links among the women in MELA and other members of the coalition and the
assembly office. In turn, Juana began to link up her previously established com-
munity networks, including local political offices, the Neighborhood Watch,
and the local parishioners. Her husband, Ricardo, and a group of five women
collected 900 signatures on petitions that Gloria Molina took to Sacramento
to illustrate community opposition to the prison.22
Another core activist, a senior citizen and mother of two sons in their
thirties, read local newspaper articles about the demonstrations. She recalls
her first reaction to the article and photograph of Mexican women with white
scarves: “I saw a picture of the women with the scarves and I wondered, who
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Gendered Citizenship / 65

are these ladies? I thought they were nuns! Then, I read that they wanted help
in the demonstrations on the bridge. When I went, I told them that I want to
help in any way I can because some of them don’t know how to be heard and
I want them to learn how to defend themselves and not get this prison.” 23 The
woman, who had been active in the PTA and parish and community clubs,
stressed the need to assume responsibility for those less able to defend them-
selves and the community.
Information also traveled by word of mouth through extended family net-
works and in neighborhood shopping areas. One MELA activist, asked how
she encouraged more people to participate, reminded me that she comes from
a large family born and raised in Boyle Heights: “All my six sisters came to the
marches with my mom and my brother. I have a sister who lives in Commerce,
another one in Monterey Park, one in Hacienda Heights, and two sisters that
live here in Eastside L.A. Then, my sisters started bringing their daughters to
the marches.” 24 Although some of her family members no longer lived in Boyle
Heights, they commuted weekly to the Eastside from their suburban commu-
nities to attend church and visit their parents. They added the demonstra-
tions to their agenda.
These preexisting networks formed the core of the first groups who par-
ticipated in the marches. After that, they took the marches through the Es-
trada Courts Housing Project, chanting as they made their way through the
small walkways separating the hundreds of housing units. One women tells of
the many times people didn’t fully understand what the protests were about,
although they gained some people as they marched through the housing proj-
ects. The negative responses came from people not “really understanding” and
thinking they were “just a bunch of viejas [old women or slang for women in
general] making a bunch of racket in the street.” She recalls one woman yelling
back at the marchers, telling them to “shut up and get out of here.” She tells
about the incident with energy: “One day, that same woman brought her kids
to enroll in school at Resurrection. She talked to me and said, ‘I remember that
day you yelling for us and I told you to shut up. Now that I see what you are
going through and how things are getting really serious, I am sorry.’” 25 An im-
portant aspect of the incident was the fact that the woman who had turned her
back on the rally had to confront a member of MELA in parish school activ-
ities. Much like a net drawing in other people, the parish networks served to
widen the basis for participation.
Given the powerful symbolic ethnic reference Eastside Los Angeles holds
for the larger Mexican American community, Chicano student groups began
joining the marches. La Gente, a UCLA-sponsored student newspaper, ran an
extensive article on the issue.26 Several of the women in MELA had children
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66 / Mary Pardo

or grandchildren attending UCLA. Mexican Americans also joined as indi-

viduals or as representatives of state and national Latino organizations such as
the Mexican American Political Association (MAPA), the League of United
Latin American Citizens (LULAC), and the Mexican American Education
Commission. Thus, a combination of family and ethnic ties formed the social
networks for political action.

Motherhood as an Oppositional Identity

The MELA activists had strong preexisting associations and a civic conscious-
ness historically rooted in Boyle Heights. In general, the women in MELA
were longtime residents of East Los Angeles; some were bilingual and had
lived in the community for over thirty years. All had been active in parish-
sponsored groups and activities; some had experience working in community-
based groups arising from schools, neighborhood watch associations, and la-
bor support groups. In short, women entered into the struggle both as good
Catholics and as “good citizens” angered by yet another affront to the quality
of life on the Eastside. Given the organizational name “Mothers of East L.A.,”
however, it is the significance of gender identity and of “motherhood” that
rings out most clearly.
Each of the core activists had a history of working with groups arising out
of the responsibilities usually assumed by “mothers”— the education of chil-
dren and the safety of the surrounding community. From these groups they
gained valuable experiences and networks that facilitated the formation of
“Mothers of East Los Angeles.” In the process, the women transformed the
definition of “mother” to include militant political opposition to state-pro-
posed projects they saw as adverse to the quality of life in the community. Ex-
plaining how she discovered the issue, Aurora Castillo said, “You know if one
of your children’s safety is jeopardized, the mother turns into a lioness. That’s
why Father John got the mothers. We have to have a well-organized, strong
group of mothers to protect the community and oppose things that are detri-
mental to us. You know the governor is in the wrong and the mothers are in the
right. After all, the mothers have to be right. Mothers are for the children’s
interest, not for self-interest; the governor is for his own political interest.” 27
Juana Gutiérrez explained her activism by linking family, community, and
ethnic identity: “As a mother and a resident of East L.A., I shall continue fight-
ing tirelessly, so we will be respected. And, I will do this with much affection
for my community. And, I say “my community” because I am part of it. I love
my raza [people] as part of my family; and if God allows, I will keep on fight-
ing against all the governors that want to take advantage of us.” 28 Like the
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Gendered Citizenship / 67

other activists, she clearly used motherhood and family as metaphors for civic
responsibility and action. By doing so, she expanded her responsibilities and
legitimized militant opposition to projects she judged to be detrimental to the
community.29
Women not only redefined understandings of “motherhood” to include
social and political activism; they also manipulated the boundaries of “mother”
to include women who are not biological mothers. At one meeting a young
Latina expressed her solidarity with the group. Almost apologetically, she qual-
ified herself as a “resident,” not a “mother,” of East Los Angeles. Erlinda Robles
replied, “When you are fighting for a better life for children and ‘doing’ for
them, isn’t that what mothers do? So you don’t have to have children to be a
mother.” 30
The women’s accounts of how they discovered the prison issue illustrate
that gender identity and civic responsibilities may blend together, as do the
parish and community boundaries. The notion of civic responsibility was
strengthened by the connections. Many studies argue that working-class
women activists seldom opt to separate themselves from men and their fami-
lies. In this particular struggle for community quality of life, they were fight-
ing for the family unit and thus were not competitive with men. Indeed, they
transformed organizing experiences and social networks arising from gender-
related responsibilities into political resources.

“Self-Sacrificing” Mothers

References to the “intersection” of race, class, and gender fail to capture the
fluidity and dynamic nature of the women’s interpretations and actions. Social
identity may be interpreted and used in numerous fashions; it is not predeter-
mined. Moreover, it may be transformed as a result of political activity. The
women of MELA crafted their identities as mothers to confront the state-
sponsored project; in the process, they became visible political actors. The ex-
perience transformed the women’s image of “humble mothers” into one of
well-respected community activists.
Father Moretta named the group “Mothers of East Los Angeles” and asked
them to wear white mantillas for practical reasons. He believed the name and
the visual image the women would present could help generate empathy and
support for the cause. After viewing the film “The Official Story,” about the
courageous Argentine women who demonstrated for the return of their chil-
dren — desaparecidos (the disappeared)—during Argentina’s repressive right-
wing military dictatorship, he took the name “Las Madres de la Plaza de Mayo”
and changed it to “Mothers of East Los Angeles.” Taking the example of the
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68 / Mary Pardo

Argentine women who wore mantillas, Father Moretta bought yards of white
cotton cloth and had them cut into scarf-sized squares for the women to wear
during demonstrations.
The hundreds of Mexican American women wearing white scarves at the
demonstrations achieved the desired effect. As soon as the media saw the
women, they asked who they were and what they were all about. The media’s
delight with the visual appeal of “ethnic” women wearing scarves seemed to
be simultaneously a curiosity as well as a confirmation of the way they per-
ceived the women of East Los Angeles. Some of the women commented that
wearing the scarves made them look like “poor homebodies.” Juana Gutiérrez
laughingly said that “el padre Moretta dijo que éramos unas madres muy ab-
negadas” [Father Moretta said we were the self-sacrificing mothers].31
The women faithfully wore the scarves at the beginning of the mobiliza-
tion efforts. As the anti-prison campaign wore on for years, the number of
women wearing scarves around the head and tied under the chin declined sig-
nificantly. In respect for Father Moretta’s request, they had agreed to wear
them. Gradually they began resisting them. Some would say it was “too hot”
or they “forgot them.” One of the women described her surprise at the “pieces
of white rag” the pastor called a mantilla, a word that actually means lace scarf.32
At subsequent demonstrations, protestors wore scarves in a variety of
ways. Some of the young men and women twisted them and wore them tied
across their foreheads as headbands. Others wore them around their necks or
tied around their upper arms. One woman agreed that the scarves did attract
media attention. Another wore the scarf but interpreted the white scarf as a
sign that they were “protesting, but protesting peacefully.” For the women, the
scarves held a meaning different from the one intended by Father Moretta.
Perhaps symbols of struggle cannot be so easily transported across national
and cultural boundaries.

Voices Raised in Protest

The political work of the MELA core activists generated personal changes in
the activists themselves. The core activists became recognized as “grassroots
community leaders,” developing a public presence — the topic of many news-
paper interviews and popular magazine articles requiring them to speak at ral-
lies and before television cameras. The core activists typically tell stories il-
lustrating personal change and a new sense of entitlement to speak for the
community. Lucy Ramos related her initial apprehensions after Father Mo-
retta asked her to be a spokesperson: “‘Oh no, I don’t know what I am going
to say.’ I was nervous. I am surprised I didn’t have a nervous breakdown then.
Every time we used to get in front of the TV cameras and even interviews like
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Gendered Citizenship / 69

this, I used to sit there and I could feel myself shaking. But as time went on,
I started getting used to it.” 33 Ramos noticed that this was a common experi-
ence among the MELA activists: “They were afraid to speak up and say any-
thing. Now, with this prison issue, a lot of them have come out and come for-
ward and given their opinions. Everybody used to be real ‘quietlike,’” she said.
For some core activists, speaking out was not a novel experience. As one se-
nior citizen put it, “I am not afraid to speak because I had my club meetings
and senior citizen meetings.”
Learning to raise one’s voice also meant insisting that Spanish be recog-
nized as a public language. In the context of public hearings intended to al-
low community input and participation, language turned into a focus of protest,
an act of resistance, and a critique of the state’s disregard for non-English-
speaking citizens. At one public hearing held in the State Building auditorium
and filled beyond capacity by Eastside community members, Assemblywoman
Gloria Molina approached the podium to speak against the prison project.
She began to read a written statement, paused, looked from side to side, and
then asked for the interpreter. There was none. She proceeded to turn back
to the hearing panel, and then faced the audience and asked, “Who needs a
Spanish translation of the hearing’s proceedings?” The audience fell silent for
a moment; no one responded. Then someone called out, “Ask that question
in Spanish!” She did. About three-fourths of the audience raised their hands.
She read her entire statement in Spanish and then in English, in spite of the
panel’s dismay at the time required for a bilingual presentation.
Although community members continued to ask for translators at all pub-
lic hearings, the city seldom provided them. Some residents gave testimony in
English and Spanish, demonstrating bilingual ability and unsubtle criticism of
the absence of translators.
Quiet and attentive at most hearings, the women sometimes used disrup-
tive strategies. At one demonstration about 150 women appeared at an East-
side Recreation Center where the DOC was holding a job fair for people inter-
ested in working at the proposed state prison. Rectangular tables lined the walls
of the large recreation room. Representatives from the DOC stood or sat be-
hind the tables displaying information leaflets and job announcements neatly
arranged in stacks. It was raining heavily that day as the women filed in, some
wearing the white scarves.
Juana Gutiérrez had a small bullhorn and led the women in chants, “No
Prison in ELA; No Prison in ELA!” A DOC representative, seemingly obliv-
ious to the passionate protesters, stood up and began speaking to the crowd
about job opportunities. Then some of the MELA members started calling out
remarks in response to the Department of Corrections representative’s at-
tempt to quell the demonstration: “Pues, yo no quiero trabajar en prisión!
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70 / Mary Pardo

Mejor mándame hacer pan!” [Well, I don’t want to work in prison! Better have
me make bread!] Another woman called out, “Yo quiero hacer pan dulce o tor-
tillas!” [I want to make sweet bread or tortillas!] The other women began to
laugh. Juana picked up the bull horn and in Spanish told the crowd to pick up
the pamphlets, take them out, and throw them away. They followed her
directions.
Dolores Duarte walked up to a Latino Department of Corrections repre-
sentative and began talking to him. “You know you are on the wrong side of
town,” she said. “You have nerve to sit here in a Hispanic area and let them do
that to YOUR people. You say you want to give jobs to people who don’t want
the prison here —your OWN people. And you support these gringos. You go
along with them after the way we have been treated. You want to dump every-
thing on us!” The representative made a feeble attempt to say that he was from
San Diego where the community had willingly accepted a large prison. As she
walked away, two other women standing a few feet away listening to the ex-
change cheered her on: “Give it to him Dolores!” The job fair ended in chaos,
the intention of the demonstration achieved.
The disruptive tactics shattered the hackneyed image of docile, passive,
unassertive Mexican women. At one community meeting, for example, rep-
resentatives of several oil companies attempted to gain support for placement
of an above-ground oil pipeline through the center of East Los Angeles. The
exchange between the women in the audience and the oil representative was
heated, as women alternated asking questions about the chosen route for the
pipeline: “Is it going through Cielito Lindo [Reagan’s ranch]?” The oil repre-
sentative answered, “No.” Another woman stood up and asked, “Why not place
it along the coastline?” Without thinking of the implications, the representa-
tive responded, “Oh, no! If it burst, it would endanger the marine life.” The
woman retorted, “You value the marine life more than human beings?” His
face reddened with anger, and the hearing disintegrated into angry chant-
ing.34 The proposal was quickly defeated.

Family Relations and Women’s Activism

The MELA women have become a public resource for other organizations —
parent education projects, such as the Mexican American Legal Defense and
Educational Fund (MALDEF), environmental groups such as Greenpeace,
and local political representatives.35 While the women have moved into the
public sphere and have become “public persons,” they have done so without
drastically changing household relations.
The media coverage of MELA do not show the family concerns with
which women have had to contend. Meeting places and demonstration times
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Gendered Citizenship / 71

had to be planned around meeting household and family responsibilities. The

children’s schedules set what time the women could leave in the morning and
what time they would have to return in the afternoon. As one woman ob-
served, “If we go downtown and have a march, we can have it any time when
the children are in school. But, if it is 11:30 –1:30, they can’t go. If it is before
8:30, they can’t go.” Likewise MELA’s demonstrations in Sacramento repre-
sented financial and personal sacrifices. Women took their children along
“because we were fighting for them and we wanted them to see what we were
fighting for. We made sure they got us a motel that had a pool for the kids.”
Several women figured that “jealous” husbands were amenable to the women’s
trips because they had come to the marches and were well informed about the
seriousness of the issue.36
Unexpectedly, the women who were active kept pace with household du-
ties the majority of the time. Juana Gutiérrez, one of the most active leaders
in the group, said she had time for all her housework: “I clean my house, I
babysit for my grandchildren and other kids, and take care of my block be-
cause I am Captain of the Neighborhood Watch Program [laughing] . . . a lot
of metiche [colloquial for someone who knows everyone’s business].”
When her husband, Ricardo, was asked if Juana’s activism bothered him,
he responded, “No. See, we started when our kids were very young. We have
always been involved with their education. To us education is the main thing.
It is going to allow them to live on their own and have no one manipulate
them. So it does not bother me that she goes out there and demonstrates. In
fact, she tells me when she is on TV or the radio and as soon as we come in
we turn on the TV and tape it.” Ricardo has a conception of how the whole
unit works, and it does not violate what he sees as conventional:
The mother in a Latino community is the head of the household,
and the man is the supplier . . . but the woman runs the whole show.
She is the one that takes care of the kids, she is the one that goes
here and there whenever something happens to the kids when they
are in school. The macho image is a little different when you put it
into practice. Sure, she does not do anything against my will. We
always talk about it and then she goes ahead and does it. She has
always been vociferous, maybe that is why we have stayed together
so long.

According to Ricardo, the women do what the men have wanted to do all
along: “they are carrying the flag for the family.”
At critical points, grassroots community activism requires attending many
meetings, phone calling, and door-to-door communications —all very labor-
intensive work. In order to keep harmony in the “domestic” sphere, the core
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72 / Mary Pardo

activists creatively integrated family members into their community activi-

ties. I asked Erlinda Robles how her husband, Valentín, felt about her activism,
and she replied openly:
My husband doesn’t like getting involved, but he takes me because
he knows I like it. Sometimes we would have two or three meetings a
week. And my husband would say, “Why are you doing so much? It is
really getting out of hand.” But he is very supportive. Once he gets
there, he enjoys it and he starts in arguing too! See, it’s just that he is
not used to it. He couldn’t believe things happened the way that
they do. He was in the Navy twenty years, and they brainwashed
him that none of the politicians could do wrong. So, he has come a
long way. Now he comes home and parks the car out front and asks
me “Well, where are we going tonight?”

Valentín Robles, when asked about his role in MELA, stated: “I’m part of the
coalition . . . all I can do is back my wife up. I can’t be a Mother of East L.A.
since I’m a man. They should be in control. They have started this fight. I
think it’s great.” 37

Victory

The final defeat of the proposed prison resulted from sustained political
battles at several levels: mass community protests in the streets, litigation in
the courts, and lobbying within the legislature. Eight years of community soli-
darity and sacrifice stalled the construction of the prison until 1992. The
California fiscal crisis provided additional pressure on Republican Governor
Pete Wilson, who finally signed Senate Bill 97, thereby eliminating the East-
side prison project and redirecting funds to expand existing prisons in other
parts of the state.
However, the crucial turning point had occurred during the summer of
1986, when mass protest and trips to hearings in the state capitol created the
possibility of stopping Senate Bill 904 authorizing $31 million for the initial
cost of the 1,450-inmate prison. It was expected to pass the Senate easily.
On July 7, 1986, MELA traveled to Sacramento on chartered buses. Hundreds
of women marched with signs saying, “Our children need schools, not
prisons —MELA.”
As the Senate debated the issue, about 200 MELA members wearing white
bandannas converged on the capitol. The strong show of community opposi-
tion to the prison had a major impact on the legislators. Hoping to discourage
community presence, the governor’s administrative officials tried to delay the
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Gendered Citizenship / 73

vote until the next week. However, Democratic Senator David Roberti con-
vinced Republican Senator Robert Presley to bring it to a vote. Senator Pres-
ley said that the environmental impact report (EIR) would be completed after
the purchase of the land. MELA held up signs chiding Democratic Assembly-
man Richard Polanco, a newly elected Eastside representative, for casting the
vote that released the bill from the assembly committee. Passage had been all
but assumed. That day the Senate reversed itself and rejected the plan to build
the prison in Eastside L.A. by a four-vote margin.38
In order to sway the Senate, Governor Deukmejian agreed to a limited EIR
to be completed before the purchase of the land. The governor was surprised
when the Senate rejected the bill that it had passed 35-0 one year earlier, in
1985. Sent to a Senate Assembly conference committee, the Senate voted
down the bill a second time in as many weeks. Surprised by the second defeat,
the Governor had underestimated the strong lobbying efforts by Latino orga-
nizations. Democrats cast all the “no” votes; Republicans cast all the “yes”
votes. Several senators who had been expected to support the measure feared
antagonizing the Mexican American community.39
The battle then moved into the courts. Again, the presence of women at
all the court hearings embodied community opposition and concern. Later,
legal strategies meant fewer demonstrations and, consequently, fewer opportu-
nities to bring large numbers of people together as had occurred two years ear-
lier. By 1989 the Coalition Against the Prison meetings numbered only about
forty to fifty people, who came to hear updates on the legal appeal of the envi-
ronmental impact report. Until it was denied by the California Supreme Court
in July 1992, the appeal continued to stall the prison construction.
Meanwhile, four alternative sites were identified, but Governor Wilson ex-
pressed ambivalence about changing the state’s plans.40 The eight-year battle
faced a final decision when the Latino Legislative Caucus, led by Senator Art
Torres, began lobbying Governor Wilson to stop the $147 million project.
Capitalizing on the state budget crisis, the caucus succeeded in convincing
the governor to sign the bill. The hard-won victory helped create a new polit-
ical image for the Eastside.41

New Community Voices

MELA originated out of the prison issue, but it gradually took on an identity
of its own. The women also decided to oppose a proposed toxic waste incin-
erator, a chemical waste treatment plant, and an oil pipeline.42 When decid-
ing to address other issues, opinions varied. Some felt they should concentrate
on the prison issue and not “spread themselves too thin.” When a local polit-
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74 / Mary Pardo

ical representative informed them about the toxic waste incinerator in nearby
Vernon, they decided they would fight it.
Whereas the fight against the prison engaged only the Latino community,
when the women took up the fight against the toxic waste incinerator, they be-
gan linking up with other ethnic communities. Greenpeace joined in at some
of the meetings and provided testimony at the hearings. They also invited
MELA to other Greenpeace-supported demonstrations organized in other
working-class communities. In November 1988 MELA traveled to the town of
Casmalia, 150 miles north of Los Angeles, to join in a demonstration for the
closing of a toxic dump site. Grassroots groups from other small California cities
with large minority populations —Kettleman, McFarland, Richmond, as well
as Casmalia —joined the march led by MELA.43 These mass mobilizations
bolstered the signing into law of Assembly Bill 58 (Roybal-Allard), providing
all Californians with the minimum protection of an environmental impact re-
port before the construction of hazardous waste incinerators.
The more significant result of MELA, of course, involved the politiciza-
tion of hundreds of working-class Mexican American women. Core activists
mobilized their social networks, established from many years of living and vol-
unteering in the community. This mobilization, as noted, relied largely on the
“traditional” gender identity of motherhood, which became transformed in
order to legitimize opposition to a state prison project. As MELA became
more than a single-issue group and began working with the environmental
groups around the state, the women acquired a sharper sense of class and eth-
nic identity. Aurora Castillo told of an incident in this regard: “And do you
know we have been approached by other groups? You know that Pacific Pali-
sades group asked for our backing? But what they did, they sent their powerful
lobbyist that they pay thousands of dollars to get our support against the drilling
in Pacific Palisades. So what we did was tell them to send their grassroots
people, not their lobbyist. We’re suspicious. We don’t want to talk to a high-
salaried lobbyist; we are humble people. We did our own lobbying.” 44
Outraged by the proposed prison, the women of MELA have become em-
powered to speak out publicly on behalf of their community. Women such as
Juana Gutiérrez, a forceful speaker, have taken leading positions as spokes-
people on Eastside community issues. Interestingly, Gutiérrez distinguishes her
advocacy for social justice and civil rights from being “political.” As she puts
it, “I don’t consider myself political. I’m just someone looking out for the com-
munity, for the youth . . . on the side of justice.” 45
In 1990, Mothers of East Los Angeles divided into two groups, roughly
along parish lines. Both groups continued to advocate for community well-
being and to inspire and affirm other women’s community activism. Juana
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Gendered Citizenship / 75

Gutiérrez founded Madres de Este Los Angeles, Santa Isabel (MELA-SI), a

nonprofit community-based organization. The group developed a community
partnership with a private corporation and the Metropolitan Water District.
By promoting a water conservation project, the group generated jobs and funds
that are reinvested in the community through a variety of neighborhood pro-
grams, including lead abatement and immunization awareness, scholarships
for youth, and graffiti removal. In 1996 Elsa López, who is Juana’s daughter
and a member of MELA-SI, attended a water conservation conference and
met representatives from the South African Ministry of Water Affairs and
Forestry. In South Africa as in Southern California, water is a scarce resource
and water management is a national priority. The representatives invited her
to Johannesburg, South Africa, to share her community organizing experi-
ences. During her 19-day trip she shared her experiences with women and
men wishing to develop a community-based water conservation project simi-
lar to the one developed by MELA-SI. Impressed by Elsa’s emphasis on the
importance of women’s activism, the South African women named their
group Mothers of Hermanus (a township in South Africa).46

What analytical lessons can be drawn from the experience of MELA? The ex-
istence and activities of the Mothers of East Los Angeles attest to the dynamic
nature of gender, class, and ethnic identities. The story of MELA reveals,
on the one hand, how individuals and groups can transform a seemingly “tra-
ditional” role such as “mother.” On the other hand, it illustrates how such
a role may also become a social agent, drawing members of the community
into the “political” arena. How women see their circumstances, how they le-
gitimize and redefine issues as they become involved, is essential to under-
standing community activism.47 This must become part of our analysis of the
“political.”
All too often women of color “disappear” in conventional social science
frameworks of political participation. The disappearance occurs because the
details of women’s leadership, commonly based in the face-to-face interaction
that takes place in households and communities, seldom fit into existing con-
ceptual frameworks. Leaving out women and a gendered analysis inclusive of
ethnicity and race represents more than simply an oversight; “it is a concep-
tual practice of power.” 48 The social science practice of dismissing local and
particular activities because they fail to conform or fit into abstract grand the-
ories perpetuates a patriarchal bias that erases gender, ethnicity/race, and class.
In short, social science concepts can obscure more than they reveal about ur-
ban politics. At the turn of the twentieth century, threats to the quality of life
in working-class Latina/o communities demand that activists and those who
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76 / Mary Pardo

write about activism develop a keen appraisal of what inspires successful grass-
roots organizing and active citizenship, including the “gendered” connections
between everyday life, citizenship, and political participation.49

Notes
Portions of the data in this chapter also appear in “Mexican American Grassroots Community
Activists: Mothers of East Los Angeles,” Frontiers 11 (Spring 1990): 1–7.

1. Carlos A. González, “Protestan contra prisión en ELA,” La Opinión, August 5, 1986, p. 1.

2. Roberto Rodríguez, “ELA Residents Halt Prison Bill,” Montebello Comet, August 21, 1986,
p. 1. For a review of how anthropology has depicted Mexican Americans as “fatalistic” but “cheer-
ful” victims of their own backward “traditional” culture, see Shirley Achor, Mexican Americans in
a Dallas Barrio (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1978). For recent alternative research on
women of Mexican origin, see the work of Chicana scholars Pat Zavella, Women’s Work & Chicano
Families (Ithaca, N.Y: Cornell University Press, 1987); Vicki Ruiz, Cannery Women, Cannery Lives,
Mexican Women, Unionization and the California Food Processing Industry 1930 –1950 (Albuquerque:
University of New Mexico Press, 1987); and Margarita Melville, ed., Mexicans at Work in the
United States (Houston: University of Houston, 1988).
3. For the first profile of Latina officeholders in the United States and an analysis of the rela-
tionship between electoral and community politics, see Paule Cruz Takash, “Breaking Barriers
to Representation: Chicana/Latina Elected Officials in California.” Urban Anthropology 22,
nos. 3– 4 (1993): 325 –360.
4. Gloria Molina served as the first Mexican American California Assemblywoman (56th
District) from 1982 to 1987, the first Mexican American woman Los Angeles City Council mem-
ber from 1987 to 1991, and since April of 1991 has served as the first Mexican American and the
first woman Los Angeles County supervisor for the First L.A. County Supervisorial District, cre-
ated as a result of the court-ordered L.A. County redistricting and special elections. Members of
MELA staunchly supported her campaign efforts in each election. See Rudy Acuña, “Behind the
Vote for a New Prison Is East L.A.,” Los Angeles Herald Examiner, July 8, 1986. Also see Rudy Acuña,
“The Coming Battle in the New Latino District,” Los Angeles Herald Examiner, October 31, 1986.
5. John García and R. de la Garza, “Mobilizing the Mexican Immigrant: The Role of Mexi-
can American Organizations,” Western Political Quarterly 38, no. 4 (December 1985): 551–564.
6. William Flores, “Mujeres en huelga: Cultural Citizenship and Gender Empowerment in
a Cannery Strike.” HJSR (1996): 57– 81.
7. Harry C. Boyte, Common Wealth (New York: Free Press, 1989); Robert Fisher and Joseph
Kling, “Community Mobilization, Prospects for the Future,” Urban Affairs Quarterly 25, no. 2 (De-
cember 1989): 200 –211; Bettina Aptheker, Tapestries of Life: Women’s Work, Women’s Conscious-
ness, and the Meaning of Daily Experience (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1989).
8. Cerrell Associates, Inc., “Political Difficulties Facing Waste to Energy Conversion Plant
Siting,” report prepared for California Waste Management Board, State of California, Los An-
geles, 1984.
9. Jesús Sánchez, “The Environment: Whose Movement?” California Tomorrow 3, nos. 3 & 4
(Fall 1988): 13. Also see Rudy Acuña, A Community Under Siege (Los Angeles: Chicano Studies
Research Center Publications, UCLA, 1984). The book and its title capture the sentiments and
the history of a community that bears an unfair burden of city projects deemed undesirable by all
residents.
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Gendered Citizenship / 77

10. This essay draws on data from more than twenty audiotaped life stories of women ac-
tivists, focused interviews with other key informants, and coded field notes from 21⁄ 2 years of par-
ticipant observation from December 1987 to June 1990, and news media accounts.
11. Teresa de Lauretis, “Feminist Studies/Critical Studies: Issues, Terms and Contexts,” in
Lauretis, ed., Feminist Studies/Critical Studies (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1986),
pp. 1–19.
12. See Don Parson, “The Development of Redevelopment: Public Housing and Urban Re-
newal in Los Angeles,” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 6, no. 4 (Decem-
ber 1982): 392 – 413; John Logan, “The Stratification of Place,” American Journal of Sociology 84
(1978): 404 – 414. Also see Cheryl Gilkes, “Holding Back the Ocean with a Broom,” The Black
Woman (Beverly Hills: Sage Publications, 1980).
13. Richard Connell, “Downtown Prison Site Selected,” Los Angeles Times, March 21, 1985.
The prison was to house 1,450 inmates. Opponents argued that half of the state’s prisons were
housing more than the overcapacity estimate of 190 percent on which an environmental impact
report was based. Later, this fact became the basis for a Superior Court decision to uphold a court
order requiring a new EIR based on the “worst-case” level before prison construction could begin.
See Michael Cárdenas, “Community Scores Big in Anti-Prison Battle,” Belvedere Citizen, Au-
gust 1, 1990, p. 1.
14. Based on 1980 U.S. Census Data. UCLA Ethnic Studies Center, Ethnic Groups in Los
Angeles: Quality of Life Indicators, University of California, Los Angeles, 1987. The percentage of
homeowner-occupied units may vary from 3 percent to 75 percent from block to block, accord-
ing to Raul Escobedo in Boyle Heights Community Plan, Department of City Planning, Los An-
geles, 1979.
15. See Rudy Acuña, “Another Prison? No Rewards for Latino Unity,” Los Angeles Herald
Examiner, September 11, 1986. Gerald Suttles notes that “community images” may complement
or denigrate the places they represent. As in the Eastside case, the community image may then
become contested given different political purposes. Gerald D. Suttles, The Social Construction of
Communities (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1972).
16. Roxanne Arnold and M. Seiler, “State Prison, A Birthday Gift They’d Like to Pass,” Los
Angeles Times, February 17, 1984; and Rodney J. Blonien, “The Los Angeles Crown Coach Prison
Site —A Superior Location,” Americas 2001, March 1986, p. 2.
17. Gloria Molina, “Response to Department of Corrections from Assemblywoman Gloria
Molina,” Americas 2001, March 1986, p. 6.
18. “Dawdling on the Prison,” editorial, Los Angeles Times, January 27, 1986; “The Great
Prison Holdup,” editorial, Los Angeles Times, April 18, 1986; “Prison Urgency,” editorial, Los An-
geles Times, August 22, 1986; “Corrections vs. Molina,” editorial, KNX Radio, March 15, 1986;
Carolina Serna, “Eastside Residents Oppose Prison,” La Gente (UCLA Student Newspaper) 17,
no. 1 (October 1986): 5. For Alinsky’s views on community organizing, see Saul Alinksy, Reveille
for Radicals (New York: Vintage Books, 1969).
19. James Vigil, Jr., field representative for Assemblywoman Gloria Molina (1984 –1986),
personal interview, Whittier, Calif., September 27, 1989.
20. Frank Villalobos, personal interview, Los Angeles, May 2, 1989.
21. Father John Moretta, Resurrection Parish, personal interview, Boyle Heights, Eastside Los
Angeles, May 24, 1989.
22. Juana Gutiérrez, born and raised in the Mexican state of Zacatecas, has lived in Boyle
Heights for over thirty years. She stated that she has always been outspoken. In 1978 her husband,
Ricardo, served on the first steering committee of the United Neighborhoods Organization (UNO).
Juana Gutiérrez, personal interview, Boyle Heights, Eastside Los Angeles, January 15, 1988.
03-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 78

78 / Mary Pardo

23. Anonymous, member of MELA, personal interview, Los Angeles, August 14, 1988.
24. Anonymous, member of MELA, personal interview, Los Angeles, September 14, 1989.
25. Ibid.
26. Serna, “Eastside Residents Oppose Prison.”
27. Aurora Castillo, personal interview, Boyle Heights, Eastside Los Angeles, January 15,
1988.
28. Juana Gutiérrez interview.
29. See Gail Minault, “Introduction: The Extended Family as Metaphor and the Expansion
of Women’s Realm,” in Minault, ed., The Extended Family: Women and Political Participation in India
and Pakistan (Delhi, India: Chanakya Publications, 1981), pp. 3–18.
30. Erlinda Robles, personal interview, Boyle Heights, Eastside Los Angeles, September 14,
1989.
31. Reymundo Reynoso and Josefina Vidal, “Las Madres del Este de Los Angeles se proponen
seguir luchando por sus hijos y su barrio,” La Opinión, August 28, 1986.
32. Anonymous, member of MELA, personal interview, Los Angeles, California, Septem-
ber 14, 1989.
33. Lucy Ramos, personal interview, Boyle Heights, Eastside Los Angeles. May 3, 1989.
34. As reconstructed by Juana Gutiérrez, Ricardo Gutiérrez, and Aurora Castillo.
35. Sharon McDonald and Robert McGarvey, “The Most Beautiful Women in L.A.” L.A.
Style, September 1988, p. 245. Dick Russell, “The Air We Breathe: Viva Las Madres!” Parenting,
November 1989, pp. 127–128; Louise Sahagun, “Boyle Heights: Problems, Pride and Promise,”
Los Angeles Times, July 31, 1983.
36. Anonymous, member of MELA, personal interview, Los Angeles, September 14, 1989.
37. Cited in Gabriel Gutiérrez, The Founding of the Mothers of East Los Angeles, pamphlet (Los
Angeles: Gabriel Gutiérrez, December 1989). The author, one of Juana Gutiérrez’s sons, com-
pleted his Ph.D. in History at UC Santa Barbara and wrote an excellent pamphlet documenting
the founding of MELA. Also see Gabriel Gutiérrez, “The Mothers of East L.A. Strike Back,” in
Robert D. Bullard, ed., Unequal Protection (San Francisco: Sierra Club Books, 1994).
38. Linda Breakstone, “Foes of L.A. Prison Manage to Thwart Bill’s Passage Again,” Los An-
geles Herald Examiner, August 14, 1986; Leo Wolinsky, “Prison Plan Loses in Senate 3rd Time,”
Los Angeles Times, September 24, 1986; and Leo C. Wolinsky, “L.A. Prison Bill ‘Locked Up’ in
New Clash,” Los Angeles Times, July 16, 1987.
39. Leo C. Wolinsky, “Senate Rejects L.A. Prison Site in a Blow to Governor,” Los Angeles
Times, August 15, 1986; Richard Paddock, “Governor Risks Latinos’ Support on Prison Issues,”
Los Angeles Times, September 14, 1986.
40. See Tracey Kaplan and M. Gladstone, “4 Alternative Sites Found for Controversial
Prison,” Los Angeles Times, April 26, 1991.
41. Greg Spring, “Opposition Builds to Prison,” Los Angeles Downtown News, August 24,
1992; Mark Gladstone, “Latinos Press Wilson to Sign Bill to Kill L.A. Prison Plans,” Los Angeles
Times, September 2, 1992; Louis Sahagun, “Mothers of Conviction,” Los Angeles Times, Septem-
ber 16, 1992.
42. Miguel G. Mendivil, field representative for Assemblywoman Lucille Roybal-Allard,
56th District, personal interview, Los Angeles, April 25, 1989. The toxic waste incinerator pro-
posed for Vernon, a small city adjacent to East Los Angeles, would worsen the already debilitat-
ing air quality of the entire county and set a dangerous precedent for other communities through-
out California. See Dick Russell, “Environmental Racism,” The Amicus Journal 11, no. 2 (Spring
1989): 22 –32.
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Gendered Citizenship / 79

43. Judy Christrup and R. Schaeffer, “Not in Anyone’s Backyard,” Greenpeace 15, no. 1
( January/February 1990): 14 –19.
44. Castillo interview.
45. Cited in Gabriel Gutiérrez, The Founding of Mothers.
46. Elsa López, member of MELA-SI, personal interview, Los Angeles, January 28, 1997.
47. See Ida Susser, “Working Class Women, Social Protest and Changing Ideologies,” in Ann
Bookman and Sandra Morgen, eds., Women and the Politics of Empowerment (Philadelphia: Temple
University Press, 1988); and Beverly Thiele, “Vanishing Acts in Social and Political Thought:
Tricks of the Trade,” in Carole Pateman and Elizabeth Gross, eds., Feminist Challenges, Social and
Political Theory (Boston: Allen & Unwin, 1986), pp. 30 – 43.
48. Dorothy Smith, The Conceptual Practice of Power (Boston: Northeastern University Press,
1990).
49. For a comparative study of Mexican American women activists in Eastside Los Angeles
and women in an adjacent suburb and further discussion of methodological and conceptual im-
plications, see Mary Santoli Pardo, Mexican American Women Activists: Identity and Resistance in
Two Los Angeles Communities (Philadelphia: Temple University Press, 1998).
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04-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 81

Part Two
Institutional Studies
04-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 82
04-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 83

Fo u r

The Struggle Within

The California Agricultural Labor Relations Board, 1975–1990

M a r g a r i ta A r c e D e c i e r d o

n 1973 there was a strike at Giumarra Vineyards. In the course of this strike

I as many as 80,000 boxes of grapes were burned, five fields completely de-
stroyed by fire, two labor camps burned down. Picketers were beaten and
many seriously injured by company cars that swept through the fields without
stopping. Molotov cocktails were discovered in several labor camps. And two
United Farm Workers Union members were killed.
Two years later in the same fields, a California State official entered Giu-
marra Vineyards and approached the foreman in charge. She instructed him
to call out the crews and stop production. She then told him to leave and wait
at the edge of the road until she finished speaking to the workers. With much
emotion in her voice, she read a state official notice: the State of California,
for the first time in its history of agribusiness, had made a law to protect, en-
courage, and allow farmworkers the right to freely choose union representa-
tion. It was in this manner, in similar episodes repeated throughout the state,
that the Agricultural Labor Relations Act came into effect.1
For many, the historic creation of California’s first farm labor law repre-
sented a resolution to the violent conflict between growers, farmworkers, and
labor unions. Yet, after years of intense and bitter unrest, during which tensions
and confrontation had often resulted in violence and sometimes death, an end
to this struggle would not occur overnight. The intervention of the “state” in
California’s race and class struggle did not represent the end of this conflict.
On the contrary, it meant the “importation” of the grower-farmworker struggle
into the very agency designed to mediate it. Ultimately, it also meant the regu-
lation of a farmworker labor movement.
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84 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

Much has been written about the role of the state in mediating or managing
class relations in capitalist society. The literature is generally clustered around
two basic positions, the “instrumentalist” and the “structuralist.” Briefly, the in-
strumentalists maintain that the state serves the interests of the ruling class,
and the structuralists argue that the state can act independently of the ruling
class and maintain a degree of autonomy. As outlined by James O’Connor,
Ralph Miliband, and Claus Offe, relative autonomy is viewed here as the state
having the flexibility in surpassing the specific or immediate class interests of
the elite and responding to various organized interests of other class groups.2
This case study of “state intervention,” by fleshing out this generally ab-
stract discussion, suggests that these two theoretical positions have been ex-
cessively drawn out. In tentative fashion, this study suggests that the state is not
simply a committee of capitalists, nor will it “stand above” the class struggle in
any removed or autonomous sense. While the state serves as an instrument that
carries out different class interests, it is sufficiently resilient to accommodate
conflicting interests. In fact, the complexity of the state indicates that differ-
ent components, like the police, Immigration and Naturalization Service, and
county officials may carry out contradictory policies. Under pressing economic
and social conditions, the state will reflect the class struggle occurring around
it. When viewing state intervention, therefore, one must understand the rel-
ative strengths and weaknesses of the oppositional forces within the political
and economic arena. What role will the state play in order to accommodate the
interests of the forces at hand? More critically, what will be the interplay of the
oppositional forces and the strategic remedies available to each of them un-
der specific economic, racial, and social conditions?
In this light, I will describe one form of state intervention — the historic
implementation of California’s first labor law, the Agricultural Labor Relations
Act (ALRA). The discussion is divided into four parts. The first part will pro-
vide the background for understanding the strategic positions and strength of
the three political actors, the United Farm Workers of America, the Teamsters
Union, and the fruit and vegetable growers, in the drafting and passage of the
ALRA.
The second section introduces the Agricultural Labor Relations Board
(ALRB) and describes its first year of operations. Of special interest will be the
board’s attempt to place the bitter conflict of the three parties within the frame-
work of the new farm labor law.
The third section looks at those who controlled the state agency, at times
referred to as state managers or government officials. Here I describe the deli-
cate interplay of state managers within the ALRB. For the purpose of this analy-
sis, it will be important to identify the state managers as pro-worker, pro-
grower, or neutral. In other words, to what degree did each state manager
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The Struggle Within / 85

carry out a specific class interest in implementing the new law? The manner
in which these political actors interpreted and implemented the law effectively
imported the race and labor conflict into the internal operations of the ALRB
itself. This internal conflict reached a climax with the formation of the ALRB
Workers’ Union of “pro-worker” state managers. The irony of this case, then,
was that state intervention to pacify the struggle between growers and farm-
workers imported the struggle “within” the ALRB. This agency, in effect, was
an apparatus for confrontation and negotiation among state manager-officials.
The final section is a description of political changes that have affected
the board and the UFW in the 1980s. Twenty years after the passage of the
ALRA, the political topography of California has changed dramatically. The
election of pro-grower Republican governors has virtually transformed the
ALRB into an agency working to contain the farmworker labor movement.

Passage of the Agricultural

Labor Relations Act, 1975

The chaotic and turbulent conditions in the fields —a conflict involving grow-
ers and two competing unions, the United Farm Workers Union and the Team-
sters Union — provided the background for the ALRA. The creation of the
ALRA itself was a complicated and delicate matter. In the mid-1960s the strat-
egy of the United Farm Workers Union was to seek legislation under the Na-
tional Labor Relations Act (NLRA). During that time, the NLRA seemed
like the proper avenue to follow, for it provided for elections and union recog-
nition. In 1968, however, the Union’s position changed drastically. As a result
of grape and lettuce boycotts, the UFW had won major contracts with grape
and lettuce growers. UFW President César Chávez and movement followers
were opposed to any legislation for fear that any form of state intervention
would “take the wind out of its sails like it did to the Civil Rights Movement
in the South.” Under NLRA regulations, argued the UFW, the Union’s right
to boycott — the most powerful and effective tool against growers —would be
eliminated. Consequently, the Union halted its bid to be represented by the
NLRA.3
In 1970 –1972 growers, affected by the impact of the UFW’s boycott suc-
cess, pressured the legislature to place the UFW under NLRA provisions and
regulations. Several bills were introduced in the Senate which, although they
provided for elections, did nothing else. There was no protection of farmwork-
ers against grower discrimination and harassment, no system of unfair labor
practice protection, no duty to bargain in good faith, and no right to boycott.
The UFW was able to stop passage of these bills by holding mass demonstra-
tions and marches in Sacramento. Chávez went on a fast on several occasions.
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86 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

In 1973, after the grape and lettuce contracts had expired, growers decided
not to renew their contracts with the UFW. Instead, they established and
signed contracts with the Teamsters Union. Chávez charged that there was a
conspiracy by the growers and Teamsters to keep the UFW out. In retaliation,
the UFW called for more strategic boycotts and asked for the financial assis-
tance of the AFL-CIO. The support was given; the AFL-CIO, however, wanted
the UFW to actively seek legal arbitration.
In 1974 the political reality changed. Gerald Brown, a farmworker sympa-
thizer and longtime friend of César Chávez, ran a successful gubernatorial race.
During the course of his campaign, Brown had made a commitment to sup-
port the union’s position for effective and democratic legislation. In December
of 1974, Brown declared in his inaugural address that it was time to extend the
rule of law to the agricultural sector.4
Three bills —AB 1, sponsored by the UFW; SB 308, by the Teamsters; and
SB 813, by Brown —generally touched on the same major questions: secret
ballot elections, strikes, existing contracts, labor court review, administration
of the law, and voter eligibility. There were, as might be expected, distinct ideas
on how these would be addressed. The UFW, for example, strongly supported
the provisions for secret balloting in the choice of bargaining agents.5 With a
secret ballot provision, growers could no longer sign contracts with labor or-
ganizations unless there had been an election and workers had voted for an
ALRB-certified labor organization.
The growers conceded to this provision only if the provision would allow
a “no labor organization” choice in elections. The Teamsters, on the other
hand, opposed such a provision unless they were assured that the contracts they
had would remain in effect until a union representation election was held.6
After much heated discussion, it was agreed that representational elections
would be held if 50 percent of those working signed petitions asking for an elec-
tion and if these petitions were filed when employment on the farm reached
50 percent of peak employment total.
On the matter of recognitional strikes and the related question of second-
ary (consumer) boycotts, however, the growers were totally opposed. Les Hub-
bard, spokesperson for the Western Growers Council, stated that “the growers
will certainly fight this bill or any other which authorizes the use of the sec-
ondary boycott. We are dead set against that.” 7 The UFW, on the other hand,
had scored some major contracts with grape and lettuce growers as a result of
the boycott and were determined to keep their right to boycott. UFW Presi-
dent Chávez and his supporters held several demonstrations at the capitol
protesting any bill that would eliminate the boycott clause. Finally, a compro-
mise was reached that would permit secondary boycotts by unions that were
certified as bargaining agents.
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The Struggle Within / 87

Another point of contention was the question of access. Any effective

farm labor law needed a provision which allowed union organizers to enter the
fields in order to inform farmworkers about union representation. Growers,
however, opposed such a provision. They felt that a rule permitting access to
the fields would help unionization of workers, and growers should not be re-
quired to provide such help. They further argued that the basic issue of pri-
vate property rights was involved and that if union organizers were allowed on
the farms those rights would be violated. The Teamsters’ position with regard
to the access regulation called for limited access. They suggested that limited
access should be given to organizers and that growers be allowed to designate
certain areas of their property for union organizers to meet workers. The UFW
argued that union organizers should be allowed on farms to talk with workers
before and after work and during lunch and coffee breaks. If growers were al-
lowed to designate areas for union representatives, argued UFW attorney Jerry
Cohen, then they could easily manipulate such situations by keeping the lo-
cation under close surveillance and discouraging workers from going to the
designated meeting places. After several weeks of heated debate, the end result
was a complicated formula which allowed access to organizers at “reasonable
times” (see Table 4.1).8
And so went the negotiating process until, after several weeks, a final
compromise was reached. On June 5, 1975, the Alatorre-Zenovich-Dunlap-
Berman Agricultural Labor Relations Act was signed into law by Governor
Brown. It was a historic event. The State of California had extended the cov-
erage of the National Labor Relations Act to agricultural employees. The
ALRA now recognized the right of agricultural workers to associate freely, to
organize in unions and designate representatives of their own choosing, to ne-
gotiate the terms and conditions of their employment, and to be free from the
interference and coercion of employers or their agents. This was theory, how-
ever; much still had to be learned from actual practice.

ALRB, 1975: The First Year

On August 25, 1975, California’s first farm labor law went into effect. The pre-
amble of the ALRA itself was explicit about the need for “peace” and “stabil-
ity”: “In enacting this legislation the people of the State of California seek to
ensure peace in the agricultural fields by guaranteeing justice for all agricul-
tural workers and stability in labor relations. This enactment is intended to
bring certainty and a sense of fair play to a presently unstable and potentially
volatile condition in the state.” 9 In technical terms, the ALRA gave agri-
cultural employees the right to elect a representative for the purpose of col-
lective bargaining and directed the ALRB to supervise elections. The ALRA
Table 4.1. Major Farm Labor Legislation, 1975 10
This is how the farm-labor bills stood before the Brown compromise measure was amended extensively. AB1 was sponsored by Cesar Chavez,
SB 308 by the Teamsters (a grower-backed bill was substantially merged into SB 308), and SB 813 by Brown.
Alatorre Zenovich Dunlap
(AB1) (SB 308) (SB 813) Compromise

Selecting Representatives
Secret ballot election X X X X
04-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 88

Recognitional strikes X
Secret ballot elections with a “no-union” option X X
Election Timing
Within seven days after petition filed X X
Within five days after petition filed X
Within 48 hours, if possible, after petition filed, if majority of workers on strike X X
Permits expedited election when no recognitional picketing X X X
To be determined by board X
Voter Eligibility
Employees on payroll immediately before petition filing X X X
All employees who left work due to work stoppage and are not working elsewhere X
Employees terminated due to unfair election practice X
All employees discharged after petition filing X X
Persons displaced by strike X X
To be determined by board X
(continued)
Table 4.1 (continued)
Alatorre Zenovich Dunlap
(AB1) (SB 308) (SB 813) Compromise

Labor Practices
Secondary boycott
Full prohibition X
No restriction X
*No restriction on secondary boycott by certified union to secure X
04-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 89

collective-bargaining agreement with primary employer

*Permits appeals to consumers to not patronize a neutral employer X X
where no election held in the last 12 months or no union certified
*Permits boycott publicity asking consumers not to buy a specific product X X X
at neutral employer’s place of business
*Prohibits forcing employees of a neutral employer to strike or cease work X
to pressure employer to stop doing business with primary employer
Recognitional Picketing
Prohibited X
No restrictions X
Allowed for up to 30 days before filing petition (used only when no union is X X X
certified or where no election has been held within the last 12 months)
Strikes
Recognitional strikes allowed X
Strikes at harvest permitted X X X X

Source: California Journal, June 1975, p. 192.

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90 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

required a bargaining representative to be elected by majority vote in a secret

ballot election and, unlike the NLRA, did not permit voluntary recognition
of a union by an employer. The ALRA further defined unfair labor practices
which could be committed by an employer or by a labor union. The Act au-
thorized the ALRB to conduct administrative hearings and issue remedies
when unfair labor practices had been proven.
Before the actual operation of the ALRB, there were definite indications
that the new farm labor law would not resolve the conflict between growers and
farmworkers. Governor Brown himself was realistic about the prospects of the
new law: “of course I expect conflicts. But hopefully, the law will provide a
framework to resolve that conflict.” Rose Bird, Brown’s representative, likewise
noted that this new situation “involves the human response to new situations
set up to deal with private individuals locked in a bitter struggle in an arena
where the stakes are high, emotions volatile and the outcome uncertain.” 11
During the first year of implementation, two main issues surfaced. One
was the issue dealing with union access on employer property and the other
was election manipulation. According to the unfair labor practices filed with
the ALRB in 1975 –1976, the UFW was at a serious disadvantage. In a repre-
sentative case, for example, two farmworkers from Salinas described what had
occurred when three Teamsters organizers came to the field where they were
working:
They arrived . . . and told our foreman to stop the machine so they
could talk to us. He made us stop working and the Teamster orga-
nizer talked to us for about 50 minutes about the benefits that we get
when we are under Teamster contract. Many times before, organizers
from the United Farm Workers have come to the fields where we
have been working and have tried to talk to us. They have not been
permitted to enter the fields on many of these occasions even though
we were on our lunch break and they have been arrested on more
than one occasion.12

Underlying the evident favoritism shown the Teamsters was outright grower
opposition to the ALRB’s access rule. When UFW organizers tried to enter
the Ballentine grape ranch near Parlier in Fresno county, two Ballentine su-
pervisors blocked the way of the organizers. According to UFW testimony, the
organizers were recorded as saying, “we have a right to enter the fields and speak
with the workers.” The supervisor responded, “we know all that, and we don’t
give a shit about the law, we don’t give a shit about Governor Brown. All we
know is that you are trespassing on private property, so get the hell out.” 13
Some growers were reported to have set up armed vigilantes. In one in-
cident in Fresno county, UFW organizers attempting to speak to tomato
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The Struggle Within / 91

workers were met with dozens of men and boys carrying shotguns, rifles, and
pistols who threatened to “blow heads off ” if they set foot on ranch property.
The leader later told a Fresno reporter that “all we are doing is trying to keep
trespassers out, you wouldn’t want those people in your living room, and this
tomato field is this man’s living room.” 14
The growers wanted the ALRB to change its policy on the access regula-
tion by prohibiting any union organizers from entering their property. They
argued that their property was private property and that no one should enter
without express permission from them. The conflict was finally adjudicated in
favor of the ALRB by the California Superior Court, which ruled that all pri-
vate property is held subject to the power of government to regulate its use for
the benefit of the public welfare.15
Despite such court rulings, the question of access continued to be a major
problem in the face of grower antagonism. In an interview with the Los An-
geles Times, Chávez stated, “without access to workers in the fields, the law be-
comes a hoax.” 16 A county sheriff in Tulare county, for example, repeatedly
maintained that he would honor the property rights of farmers and enforce
trespass statutes rather than the ALRB access rule. This particular action had
also encouraged sheriffs in other grower-dominated counties to take a similar
position. Meanwhile, the ALRB General Counsel maintained that the agency
was powerless to do anything about law enforcement.17
In addition to the controversy over the access rule, frequent charges of
grower manipulation of elections were filed with the ALRB in 1975 –1976.
Among the many complaints recorded, some charged that growers were pad-
ding their payrolls with anti-UFW workers just before an election. On one
such occasion, an employer hired two extra crews (a change from previous prac-
tice) which consisted of about 20 –35 older farmworkers. These workers were
known to be ex-Teamster members and did not favor the UFW. In another
case, an entire crew who had supported and voted for the UFW were “coinci-
dentally” laid off, an action justified by claims that there was no more work.
To further complicate matters, growers used several tactics to undermine
the operation of the ALRB. They used anti-union attorneys specializing in
farm labor law to stall negotiation, clogged the board’s administrative machin-
ery with thousands of unfair labor practices, and sponsored court challenges
to the board’s power and authority. Growers complained that the ALRB was
not acting in an “impartial” manner and that specific board employees were
colluding with the UFW officials and organizers.
On the other hand, the UFW accused the board’s general counsel of at-
tempting to undermine the law with his favoritism towards growers. AFL-
CIO Director of Organizing Alan Kistler charged that there was no question
that the vast majority of the elections that had taken place could not pass the
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92 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

tests of the NLRB. A UFW attorney likewise concluded that “some people in
Sacramento don’t want the Act to work.” He noted that anyone with any ex-
perience in union organizing knows that “the time to investigate unfair labor
practice charges is the time they are filed, not two or three or four weeks later
when people have left or moved on with the crops to other areas, other states
or Mexico.” 18 The UFW claimed that such delays in investigating unfair la-
bor practices worked to the advantage of growers.
These types of acts, then, had a serious impact on elections. According to
a report filed by a key official of the ALRB, the UFW would have won between
15 and 20 percent more votes in the elections held in 1975 –1976 if there had
been no abuses of the law. Nonetheless, the results of the elections held in
1975 –1976 indicated that the farmworkers’ choice was the UFW. Out of
34,000 votes cast, approximately 22,000 were for the UFW. The UFW had won
a total of 154 elections. The Teamsters, on the other hand, had won 91 elec-
tions and represented 10,000 farmworkers.19
The growers, the Teamsters, and the UFW were all unhappy with the
ALRB. The UFW was claiming lack of aggressive enforcement, board bias in
favor of the growers, and that unfair labor practices were not being resolved
promptly. Growers, on the other hand, wanted some serious amendments to
the ALRA, especially on the question of access.
The ALRB, however, had a more serious problem to deal with. On April 2,
1976, the board ran out of money because it had conducted more elections than
had been anticipated. If no other resources were allocated, the board would
have to be shut down completely.20 In order to refinance the ALRB, enabling
legislation needed to be introduced to the Legislature. There were, however,
serious divisions within the Legislature. Pro-grower legislators were blocking
any funds for the ALRB unless several amendments to the law were made.
The UFW reacted by threatening to boycott Sunmaid Raisin growers, Sun-
sweet, and eight other Central California grape and fruit growers.21 The UFW
claimed that these growers were mostly responsible for blocking the appropri-
ation for the ALRB. To break the impasse, the majority Democratic caucus in
the Assembly forced reluctant Democrats, who were themselves grower rep-
resentatives, to support a $2.6 million funding bill (AB 2886). The bill was
finally passed with a 54-24 majority vote.22
There were some modifications made to the ALRA, however. One was
concerning the access regulation. The rules now indicated that organizers
could enter employer property one hour before work, during lunch break, and
anytime after work. Also, the number of organizers that had access was lim-
ited to two per crew. This was basically a concession to growers. Other changes
in the law included a developed procedure to expedite election objections and
unfair labor practice charges. The Joint Oversight Committee, composed of
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The Struggle Within / 93

legislators representing labor and agriculture, was essentially created to over-

see the internal operations of the ALRB.

ALRB, 1976: A Second Look

An inside look into the board’s internal affairs during its second “go-around”
sets the chaotic scenario and struggle to implement the act. The very conflict
that the state was supposed to monitor and mediate became the very conflict
that was waged within the second year of the ALRB. It was no longer assumed
by any of the parties concerned that “impartial” and “neutral” staff and board
members were in charge of interpreting and administering the ALRA. The
five-member Executive Board appointed by Governor Brown itself reflected
the contending sides: two members were known to have worker sympathies,
two had grower interests, and the fifth was a “neutral” bureaucrat with exten-
sive NLRB experience. This was the executive committee which oversaw the
entire operation of the ALRB. The executive secretary, who was responsible
for the “judicial review” of election objections and other charges, was known
to have worker sympathies; and the general counsel, responsible for supervi-
sion of attorneys, field examiners, and support staff in the seven regional of-
fices, was known to be pro-grower.
Not surprisingly, this design of compromise at the upper echelons of the
ALRB was reflected in the composition of the general staff of attorneys, field
examiners, and clerical workers. Although only few personnel had been ex-
plicitly hired to represent the interests of growers or the UFW, the majority
who may have been neutral or unfamiliar with the conflict in the fields soon
learned and discovered, in the course of implementing the act, that they too
had to take sides. Some attempted to remain neutral. By 1976, the ALRB staff
of 206 employees (50 attorneys, 50 field examiners, and 106 support staff )
were divided into pro-grower, pro-worker, and pro-management camps. So
transparent were these divisions that an estimate of the relative strength of
these camps can be made: of the 206 staff members, approximately 109 were
pro-worker, and the remainder were either pro-grower or pro-management.
Since these three groups played an important part in carrying out the new
state law, let us describe them in more detail.
The pro-management staff were generally bureaucrats who had been civil
service employees for many years. They saw their role simply as “neutral” state
officials and were concerned more with personnel matters, job stability, and
going home after a long eight hours of work. For them, the external struggle
between the competing forces could be ignored as long as it didn’t interfere
with their routine or job stability. Yet it was this seemingly neutral air which
led to the clumsy and careless implementation of the law. Their function, for
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94 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

the most part, was determined by the other staff members. Thus, they could
easily be manipulated by either pro-grower or pro-worker personnel. Nonethe-
less, even this type of “neutrality” accommodated many personal prejudices.
One UFW lawyer described them this way: “There is a certain amount of rac-
ism, a lack of understanding and knowledge of agriculture and . . . emphasis is
on the good faith of the employer . . . the UFW is [seen as] a radical, trouble-
making organization while the employers . . . and the Teamsters are good and
honest.” 23
In contrast to these “neutral” bureaucrats were the pro-worker and the pro-
grower staff who understood the seriousness of the external struggle, and who
had very definite ideas about how the farm labor law should be interpreted
and administered. For the pro-worker staff, aggressive enforcement of the law
was key. This meant several things. For one, it meant that pro-worker staff
would have to be given some positions of power and authority. It also meant
that their relationships with the pro-grower staff had to be handled with the
greatest discretion. If the pro-worker staff showed any hostility toward the
pro-grower personnel, this staff would become hostile toward farmworkers.
And this hostility toward farmworkers sometimes resulted in delays of inves-
tigation and resolution of unfair labor practice cases. The other important fac-
tor for the pro-worker staff was the type of relationship they established with
farmworkers themselves. In order for farmworkers to respect and believe that
the law was established to serve their interest, consistent communication be-
tween staff and workers had to be maintained. The pro-worker election team,
for example, on a daily basis spoke with workers, outlined workers’ rights fully,
and explained the entire election procedure. This was critical, especially in
light of the fact that many farmworkers had never voted, were not familiar
with unions, and were generally frightened by state procedures.
The pro-grower staff had a different interpretation and interest. Not sur-
prisingly, this personnel usually treated and regarded farmworkers with suspi-
cion and spent the least amount of time in the fields with them. They were
known to patronize the workers; and when elections were conducted by this
staff, the election procedure would not be explained fully. As a result, many
farmworkers complained about surveillance and intimidation.
The differences between pro-worker and pro-grower staff also surfaced in
the investigation teams which were responsible for determining whether a
case had merit or not. The pro-worker team spent at the minimum twelve to
fifteen hours investigating cases per week. The pro-grower/ bureaucrat team,
however, was known to spend less than six hours weekly investigating cases.
This type of attitude from pro-grower (and bureaucrat) teams affected the out-
comes of numerous cases, again in favor of growers.
In order to appreciate the critical differences between the pro-grower and
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The Struggle Within / 95

pro-worker staff, we turn now to the election process to study how the con-
tending sides interacted with one another.

The Gallo Election

On June 27, 1973, Ernest and Julio Gallo Wineries signed a four-year contract
with the Teamsters in order to avoid renewing the contract it had with the
UFW. In response, the UFW called a nationwide consumer boycott against the
nation’s largest wine producer. Gallo officials never publicly admitted the im-
pact of the boycott, but polls conducted with regard to its effectiveness revealed
that 11 million adults stopped drinking Gallo wines.24 The relationships
among the UFW, Teamsters, and Gallo, of course, remained bitter.
In 1975, with the changing political climate in the fields due in part to the
new law, the UFW attempted to gain lost territory and campaigned for an elec-
tion at Gallo farms. Gallo officials and foremen announced that they would
do everything in their power to stop the UFW. The testimony of a security
guard made these intentions clear: “We are instructed by the company to keep
our eyes open for UFW organizers and to harass, photograph, and keep under
close surveillance farmworkers who support the Union. The Teamsters will be
allowed free and open access to the Gallo property at any time they want.”
According to an account given by a worker, “the company only lets UFW or-
ganizers talk to workers for one hour, but the Teamsters get to be on the prop-
erty any time during the day.” Clear favoritism was shown to Teamsters in ac-
cess to fields.
Intimidation of workers by both Teamsters and ranch foremen was com-
mon. Gallo security guards took pictures of workers talking to UFW organiz-
ers. UFW organizer Fred Ross, Jr., testified later that in forty years of commu-
nity and union organizing he had never witnessed such blatant harassment of
workers by company representatives: “I went door to door in the company
housing. At each door I knocked on, a guard would take a picture of me talking
to the worker. Then we had out cameras taking pictures of them taking pic-
tures of us.” 25
For Gallo workers, there was continual threat of being fired, deported, or
caused bodily harm. A worker at Gallo later testified as follows: “A Teamster
organizer and a company man approached us and stopped to talk about the
elections. The Teamster organizer told me and the other workers that we could
lose our jobs at Gallo if we voted for Chávez. He also asked me if I had been
having any meetings with the Chávez people at my house. He told me that he
had seen me at the meeting with César Chávez and he told me that he could . . .
get me fired . . . he said that he had a list of all the Chávez supporters at Gallo
and that there were 11 names on the list and mine was one of them.” The win-
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96 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

ery kept the threat of firing hanging over the heads of any workers who didn’t
“vote right” or who just showed too much interest in the UFW.26 Typical of
Teamsters tactics, the night before the election, half a dozen Teamsters inter-
rupted a UFW meeting and taunted the one hundred Gallo workers who had
gone to hear César Chávez.
During the election campaign, there were more than fifty accusations of un-
fair labor practices filed by the UFW. They included death threats to pro-UFW
workers, the use of armed vigilantes to prevent UFW organizers from leaflet-
ing workers, manipulating the workforce to affect the outcome of the election,
and providing unequal access to competing unions. Despite the allegations
that workers were in fact being intimidated and harassed, the position of the
ALRB was one of total disregard. The announced position of the ALRB’s gen-
eral counsel was “we have a procedure for running elections and we will let
the parties prove their allegations after elections have been held.” This “non-
decision,” however, encouraged the continuation of grower intimidation and
surveillance. Workers, seeing the inaction of the ALRA, were afraid to exer-
cise their rights, and many didn’t vote at all. “The General Counsel’s failure to
try to correct unfair labor practices at the time they occur,” UFW vice-president
Dolores Huerta said, “results in tainted elections with unfair labor practice
charges that have to be investigated, heard by hearing officers and many times
taken to court. . . . All of this could have been avoided had there been an ef-
fort to secure a fair climate of elections in the pre-election campaign.” 27
Irregularities in the election itself were highlighted when about thirty
Gallo security guards cast their ballots by marching toward the voting booth
in a goose-step fashion. They were wearing uniforms and badges similar to ones
used by Border Patrol officials. The action had its intended results. Several
workers waiting to cast their ballots moved away from the voting both and
told a board agent that they didn’t want to vote. Another worker observed that
he and others were brought to the polls in company buses: “The regular bus
driver was not there and I notice the new one was the foreman from my crew.
After the workers got out, he yelled ‘don’t forget to vote for the Teamsters!’”
The pro-grower board agent refused to allow three workers to vote because
their names did not appear on the employee list, even though the UFW ob-
server recognized them as workers in his crew. The pro-worker agent, how-
ever, assumed responsibility and told the pro-grower agent that they should be
allowed to vote but have their votes challenged with a postelection investi-
gation to determine the matter. As a fitting conclusion to the Gallo elections,
after the voting fifty workers were loaded on Border Patrol buses and taken
away to immigration detention centers.28
After the election, two pro-worker attorneys and two people from Brown’s
Community Relations office proceeded to investigate the mounting charges
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The Struggle Within / 97

of unfair labor practices against Gallo. The investigation concluded that “re-
taliation against workers after elections and failure of the ALRB to promptly
remedy acts reflects on the ability of the Board and General Counsel’s office
to protect workers who have sought to exercise their rights under the Act.” It
was recommended that prompt investigation and action should be taken on
retaliation charges. The pro-grower general counsel was reported to have been
outraged at the report.29

The Imported Struggle

The pro-grower staff, especially those in positions of power, did not sit pas-
sively while the pro-worker personnel aggressively enforced the act. They knew
that they could easily change the situation and swing the law back into the
hands of the growers. The general counsel and his pro-grower supporters de-
veloped a pattern of harassment of pro-worker staff. Demotions, bad proba-
tionary reports, juggling case assignments, arbitrary transfers, and firings were
methods used to discourage the enforcement of the law.
The general counsel demoted competent attorneys and field examiners
who were known to be pro-worker staff members and replaced them with pro-
grower personnel. For example, a pro-worker attorney in charge of the ALRB’s
Coachella office began an investigation of unfair labor practice charges filed
by the UFW against two legislators ( John Stull and Tom Suitt) who were mem-
bers of the Oversight Joint Committee. These charges accused the legislators
of interrogating farmworkers on behalf of several agricultural employers. Sev-
eral days before the hearing, the general counsel called the attorney and or-
dered him to dismiss the charges because the legislators had immunity. Much
to the surprise of the general counsel, the attorney responded by asking for more
legal research on the matter. Subsequently, the attorney was relieved of his
duties and replaced by a field examiner known to be a pro-grower supporter.
The general counsel then instituted a policy which specifically said that only
non-attorneys could head field offices. The attorney who had refused to dis-
miss the charges against the legislators received his final probationary report,
personally prepared by the general counsel, and was demoted to staff counsel.
Job security was no longer a question of whether one was officially qualified
to handle the difficult intricacies of labor law, conduct elections, or recom-
mend the proper legal decisions of cases, but was contingent on the general
counsel’s strategy to relax the enforcement of the act. The general counsel had
succeeded in replacing most of the pro-worker attorneys and field examiners
with pro-grower staff.
In response, pro-worker personnel began to campaign for the formation of
a union within the ALRB. A workers’ union within the board would protect
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98 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

personnel against discriminatory actions taken by the general counsel. After

securing enough signatures from board employees and following several
months of negotiations with the Personnel Board in Sacramento, the Ag-
ricultural Labor Relations Board Workers’ Union (ALRBWU) was finally rec-
ognized in early 1977. Ironically, the very rights outlined in the preamble of
the ALRA were the same rights inscribed in the preamble of the ALRB
Workers’ Union. The birth of this union, however, did not stop the discrimi-
nation and harassment by the general counsel. As a matter of fact, conditions
only worsened for the pro-worker staff, who were now ALRBWU members.
A test case occurred immediately. The vice-president of the ALRBWU was
given his final probationary report. The report, prepared by the general coun-
sel, stated that his performance was substandard and that consequently the
agency had to fire him. The employee filed a grievance with the ALRB Work-
ers’ Union claiming that he had been fired due to his union activities. After sev-
eral months of hearings, the personnel courts in Sacramento decided that there
was enough evidence to prove that this employee had been fired for union ac-
tivities. The employee was reinstated to his former position with one year’s
back pay. This case, however, did not stop the general counsel from harassing
and threatening pro-worker staff.
After numerous complaints of management harassment produced no re-
sults, the pro-worker staff from the seven regional offices throughout the state
gathered and conducted an informational picketing of the ALRB headquar-
ters in Sacramento. On November 22, 1977, more than seventy-five employ-
ees of the board gathered in front of Capitol Mall and began to call for the im-
mediate resignation of the general counsel. The employees felt that the general
counsel was obstructing the enforcement of the act by threatening and firing
employees who sought only to carry out the spirit of the law for farmworkers.30
The governor refused to call for the resignation of the general counsel,
and those employees who had participated in the picketing were severely pun-
ished. One well-known pro-worker employee was removed as chief of opera-
tion and demoted. Another three attorneys were subsequently discharged. The
general counsel made it unbearable for many pro-worker staff to continue work-
ing with the ALRB — there were many demotions and more transfers. As a re-
sult, as many as twenty-five pro-worker staff left the agency or were discharged.
Most of the pro-worker staff were gone by 1978. It was in this manner, then,
that the “struggle within” was contained and pacified.

The ALRB in the 1980s

By 1980 the UFW had won the right to represent over twenty thousand farm-
workers throughout the state of California. The height of UFW success came
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The Struggle Within / 99

Table 4.2. Farm Worker Elections, 1976 –1986

Victories 76 –78 % 78 – 80 % 80 – 82 % 82 – 84 % 84 – 86 %

No Union 29 23.0 23 24.2 15 18.1 29 43.9 28 53.8

United Farm Wrks 70 55.6 31 32.6 53 63.9 30 45.5 14 26.9
Intrnl Un Ag Wrk 23 18.3 30 31.6 5 6.0 3 4.5 1 1.9
Other Unions* 4 3.2 11 11.6 10 12.0 4 6.1 9 17.3
Total Elections 126 95 83 66 52
Total Voters* 17,937 6,513 8,831 8,477 5,440

*Excludes the 69 victories of 420 dairy workers, organized as the Christian Labor Association, in 1976 –
1978. These elections merely ratified previous arrangements, and no elections involving the CLA were
held after 1978.
Source: Agricultural Labor Relations Board: Annual Report to the Legislature, 1976 –1987.

in 1980 –1982, when the union won fifty-three of eighty-three elections (or
63.9 percent) compared with fifteen for “no union” (12 percent) and five for
the Teamsters (6 percent) (see Table 4.2). The Teamsters Union, as a result of
these defeats, left the fields in 1982 to organize elsewhere. Nonetheless, in
1982 –1984, there was a noticeable decline in UFW victories, as workers split
their support between the UFW (in thirty elections) and for “no union” (in
twenty-nine elections). By the mid-1980s it was clear that something had defi-
nitely gone sour for the UFW. Of fifty-two elections held between 1984 and
1986, farmworkers voted for “no union” in twenty-eight (or 53.8 percent). The
UFW won in only fourteen contests (26.9 percent). In the span of four years,
the union had lost its widespread support. Why were farmworkers voting for
no-union representations?
There had been much speculation about the UFW’s loss of support. Many
farmworkers complained about the poor job the UFW was doing in repre-
senting their needs. Others pointed to internal political problems. The
union’s difficulties, however, extended beyond organizational questions. One
explanation notes the shift in consumer interest and support, which weakened
the favored UFW boycott strategy. This conservative political mood was evi-
dent during Governor George Deukmejian’s tenure (1983–1990). A more pre-
cise explanation points to the transformation of the ALRB into a pro-grower
state agency. Shortly after his term began in 1983, Deukmejian, who had re-
ceived significant financial support from growers, slashed the board’s budget
by 27 percent.31 In addition, he appointed a new general counsel, Harry Deli-
zonna, to head the investigative arm of the ALRB.
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100 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

According to César Chávez and the UFW, this new general counsel went
after them like “a bunch of criminals.” In fact, the counsel made it clear that
the board was never meant to be a pro-labor board and that he would do every-
thing in his power to rid it of pro-labor bias. From the union’s perspective, the
new general counsel was a disastrous appointment. To take an example, Abatti
Produce, a family farm employing 2,500 workers, had been found guilty of
union busting during contract negotiations in 1978 and also of illegally firing
union activists over a period stretching back to 1969. Under the “make whole”
provision, whereby farmworkers receive compensation when the employer is
found guilty of bad-faith bargaining, Abatti had been fined $8 million. Through
his power to make final decisions on cases, the general counsel reduced the
judgment to $1.76 million. ALRB staff who handled the Abatti case rejected
the general counsel’s recommendation as too small. In response, the general
counsel reduced the award even further, to $1.06 million. After the Abatti rul-
ing (ALRB v. Abatti, 1984), the remaining key ALRB pro-worker staff, includ-
ing a regional director, left the board. The pro-worker staff were winning only
10 to 20 percent of their cases, and the Abatti case was the final setback.32
Growers in the meantime began breaking labor contracts rather than pay
farmworkers what was owed to them. Following judgments of unfair labor
practices, for example, Sun Harvest, Bruce Church, California Coastal, Hub-
bard Company, and Martori Brothers quit farming altogether. One UFW at-
torney regarded these shutdowns as fraudulent: “We’ve got compelling proof
that a lot of these companies, like Sun Harvest and Growers Exchange and
Bruce Church, are just changing their names, firing union workers, lowering
wages and continuing operations with labor contractors who hire workers from
the shape-up at 4 am along the street in Calexico, and then truck them to the
fields at rock-bottom wages. We sent these shutdown companies letters, and
they refuse to reply, saying they’re not the same, so we have to file new charges
with the ALRB.” 33
The decisions of the pro-grower general counsel forced the UFW to re-
think its organizing strategies. They had used the state’s machinery to win the
right to bargain collectively with growers, but this had obviously proved to be
a disappointing strategy. César Chávez stated the hard facts to a reporter for the
San Francisco Examiner: “We thought we could redress our grievances through
the board, but that is not to be. That is definitely not to be. We have no choice
but to change our tactics now.” 34
The shift in tactics generally meant a return to the boycott in order to force
growers to service union contracts. In the mid-eighties the union persuaded
McDonald’s, Lucky Stores, and A & P to stop buying lettuce from Bruce
Church. But generally the boycott strategy brought mixed results. More criti-
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The Struggle Within / 101

Table 4.3. Unfair Labor Practices Complaints, 1976 –1986*

76 –78 78 – 80 80 – 82 82 – 84 84 – 86

Charges Filed 742 2,116 1,868 2,116 1,190

Complaints Issued 285 321 242 150 93
Hearings Opened 68 173 177 155 59
Brd Decisions Issued 59 119 97 132 63

Source: Agricultural Labor Relations Board: Annual Report to the Legislature, 1976 –1987.
*Fiscal Years, Beginning July 1, Ending June 30.

cally, the UFW had ceased efforts to organize workers. Chávez believed that
the boards had swung squarely in the growers’ favor and that this made union
representation elections meaningless.
The UFW and farmworkers stopped using the board to address unfair la-
bor issues. This can be seen rather clearly in the decline in the number of
charges filed and complaints issued (see Table 4.3). Between 1978 and 1984
the number of charges filed ranged around 2,000 per biennium; in 1984 –1986
these had declined by almost half to 1,190. The complaints issued likewise de-
clined, from 150 in 1982 –1984 to 93 in 1984 –1986. Not surprisingly, the num-
ber of hearings and board decisions also declined sharply in this time period.
As a result, in 1986 the UFW reversed its position and began to actively
campaign to defund the ALRB. The UFW attempted to persuade the state
legislature to eliminate the entire $8.7 million annual budget of the ALRB.
As UFW attorney Chris Schneider stated, “It’s clear that the law is no longer
working. That means you’re going to see a lot of marches, more boycotts and
economic action at the workplace. It’s the only thing a lot of these growers
understand.” 35
Growers, on the other hand, have kept trying to keep the board alive by
publicly stating that the farm law has been a good law and must remain operat-
ing at all costs. In fact, the general counsel noted that “it would indeed be a
dark day in California agricultural labor relations if the ALRB were defunded
merely to satisfy the reckless agenda of one spoiled and disgruntled labor leader
[Chávez] whose singular theme seems to have become ‘sour grapes.’” 36
By the mid 1980s California growers had effectively turned the operations
of the ALRB in their favor. Through elaborate changes in their harvesting and
hiring arrangements, the growers “removed” themselves as employers of farm
labor. Joe Sahagun, a former ALRB field organizer, described the problem: “The
concept of grower as it used to be is disappearing. Instead they opt to either
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102 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

hire contract laborers or custom harvesters who provide equipment along with
workers, or small farm-management companies that carry out all aspects of an
operation on a consulting basis. Fewer and fewer growers actually employ farm-
workers directly.” 37 Such fragmented hiring patterns, sanctioned by a pro-
grower board, undermined the organizing efforts of the UFW.
As a consequence of these constantly fluctuating arrangements, the work-
ers and the unions could not determine against whom they should file griev-
ances. Because the names of the employers or companies were often incorrect,
cases would be held in abeyance until further proof was provided. Such delays
acted against the workers. As UFW attorney Mary McCartney put it: “The
board has recently issued decisions and orders on cases that were four to five
years old. This is terrible for us because the workers are not receiving the pay
nor the benefits due to them. Consequently, the workers get discouraged at the
ALRB and at us. And then they leave to harvest crops in other areas.” 38
The discouragement was evident in the significant decline in the number
of charges filed against employers and board decisions rendered. In fiscal year
1988 –1990, 522 charges were filed and only 26 board decisions rendered. This
contrasts sharply with the years 1982 –1984, when 2,116 complaints were filed
and 132 board decisions made, and also with the years 1984 –1986, when
1,190 complaints were issued and 63 board decisions made. The decline in the
filing of unfair labor practices corresponds, not surprisingly, to a significant de-
cline in overall representational elections, from 66 in 1982 –1984 and 52 in
1984 –1986 to 42 in 1988 –1990.39 Again, these figures suggest that the orga-
nizational decline of the UFW can be traced in part to the manipulation of
the ALRB by the growers.

Conclusion

The Agricultural Labor Relations Act represented an attempt by the state to

mediate the farm labor conflict between growers and farmworkers. Under reg-
ulations and procedures outlined in the ALRA, growers and the union were
forced to settle their differences after years of bitter conflict. In the preceding
discussion, the various moments in the implementation of the new farm labor
law were outlined as they unfolded in the context of a class struggle.
The first moment described the competing parties and their efforts to tailor
a law that would fit their special interests. In effect, the UFW, the Teamsters
Union, and California growers reached an agreement and a farm labor law was
finally passed. The UFW agreed to suspend the secondary boycott that had
been instrumental in the success of the first table grape boycott. And the
growers and Teamsters agreed to a farm labor law that would allow farmwork-
ers the right to have representational elections.
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The Struggle Within / 103

The second moment discussed the first year (1975) of the ALRA and traced
the relations of the UFW, Teamsters, and growers within the framework of the
act. The contending parties, not surprisingly, pointed to each other’s manipu-
lation of the law in order to meet their own interests. Growers, for example,
refused to obey ALRA statutes with regard to access and instead had private
property laws enforced by local and state police.
The third moment looked at the political actors within ALRB and de-
scribed the importation of the grower-worker struggle into the agency de-
signed to mediate their conflict. The “state managers” clashed over the inter-
pretation and implementation of the ALRA. This internal conflict led to the
ironic birth of the ALRB Workers’ Union, as the pro-worker state managers
attempted to defend themselves from pro-worker state officials. From the ac-
tual making of the bill and throughout the actual implementation of the act,
then, the farm labor conflict directly influenced the character of the mediat-
ing state agency itself.
The fourth moment described the transformation of the ALRB into a pro-
grower agency in the 1980s. With the election of Republican Governor Deuk-
mejian, the board was reshaped to reflect grower interests. This, along with the
removal of growers as direct employers of farmworkers, undermined the orga-
nizing efforts of the UFW.
What do these moments say about the nature of state agencies? Certainly
the “flexible” nature of the ALRB raises a fundamental question concerning
the impartiality or neutrality of state officials. Clearly, state managers and em-
ployees do not automatically carry out the wishes of a “ruling class,” nor do they
“stand above” the class struggle in any removed or autonomous sense. They
consciously make political decisions, feel the intensity of conflict, and select
a “proper” strategy in the implementation of state policy. These state actors
are not impartial because, in an important sense, they organize and actually
shape the class struggle.
In the 1990s this struggle has turned in clear favor of the growers. Bill
Camp, a Brown appointee on the ALRB from 1976 –1985, notes that the
agency was deliberately dismantled by Governor Deukmejian to the point
where it now actually works against farmworkers. Governor Pete Wilson has
continued the assault. “People ask why the UFW isn’t going to the ALRB.
Why would anyone go there when [Pete Wilson’s] only appointment has pub-
licly bragged that he is the enemy of the ALRB?” In the meantime, Wilson’s
allies in the legislature regularly introduce legislation to abolish the ALRB or
merge it with other state agencies.40 As of 1994, the ALRB had closed all its
regional offices with the exception of Sacramento, Salinas, Visalia, and El
Centro, another indication that its political support has diminished.
As for the farmworking class, their conditions have deteriorated in the
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104 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

1990s. In the Salinas Valley, where vegetable and fruit crops were estimated to
be worth $1.2 billion in 1990, farmworkers were earning $4.25 an hour. Ac-
cording to one farmworker, growers told them, “If you don’t want it, we’ve got
100 people waiting.” Likewise farmworkers who were paid $1.10 per carton of
lettuce in 1985, were in 1990 being paid 95 cents per carton of lettuce. Not
only do these conditions reflect the decline of the UFW; they also point to the
vulnerability of the new immigrant workers, mainly Mixtec and Zapotec In-
dians from southern Mexico. Speaking only their indigenous dialect, these
farmworkers are open game for grower abuse, as evidenced by the discovery of
two hundred workers living in dugout caves and filthy plastic lean-tos in Mon-
terey County in 1991.41
These were the challenges facing the UFW when César Chávez died on
April 21, 1993. It is difficult to know what impact Chávez’s death will have
on the UFW. In the short run, it seems to have revitalized the farmworkers’
movement and public support. To commemorate the one-year anniversary of
this death, the UFW organized a 330-mile pilgrimage from Delano to Sac-
ramento. The march began on March 31, Chávez’s birthday, and when it ended
23 days later, ten thousand farmworkers and supporters had marched through
Sacramento. Filled with historical symbolism, it recreated the pilgrimage that
Chávez, Dolores Huerta, and several hundred farmworkers had made in 1966
in launching the farmworkers’ struggle for recognition and justice.42

Notes
1. The facts contained in this study, the quotes, election results, and ALRA amendments
were drawn from several sources: UFW witness testimony, ALRB attorney briefs, the ALRB Bill
of Particulars, worker testimony, conversations with farmworkers, and my own experience while
I was working with the ALRB as a field examiner. The sources came from the following regional
offices: El Centro, Salinas, Fresno, Delano, San Diego, Calexico, Sacramento, Oxnard, and La-
mont. It is worth mentioning here that the conflict between growers and farmworkers was not sim-
ply a class struggle. This conflict had racial and ethnic meaning as well. For a more detailed account
of the violent confrontation between growers and the UFW, see Jacques E. Levy, César Chávez:
Autobiography of La Causa (New York: W. W. Norton, 1975). See also Sam Kushner, Long Road to
Delano (New York: International Publishers, 1976).
2. See, for example, Ralph Miliband, The State in Capitalist Society (New York: Basic Books,
1969); James O’Connor, The Fiscal Crisis of the State (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1973); and
Claus Offe, Societal Preconditions of Corporatism and Some Current Dilemmas of Democratic Theory
(South Bend, Ind.: Notre Dame University Press, 1984).
3. Chris Bowman, “Brown’s Farm-Labor Coup,” California Journal, June 1975, pp. 190 –192.
4. The ALRA was part of Brown’s general campaign promise to give organized labor a voice
in state policy making. In fact, during the first year of Brown’s term, John F. Henning, executive
secretary-treasurer of the California AFL-CIO, noted that twenty-four AFL-CIO – sponsored
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The Struggle Within / 105

measures had become law and called the 1975 session the “best in the history of labor.” California
AFL-CIO News, October 3, 1975.
5. The Sabotage and Subversion of the Agricultural Labor Relations Act, a United Farmworkers
of America White Paper published in 1976; hereafter, referred to as the UFW White Paper.
6. The Teamsters declared that if the bill was passed, twenty-five thousand farmworkers cov-
ered by Teamster contracts in four states would strike. UFW president César Chávez called the
Teamster threat “an idle one.” Los Angeles Times, May 13, 1975.
7. Los Angeles Times, April 12, 1975.
8. The executive director of the California Peace Officers Association declared in an inter-
view that they backed the growers on the issue of access, saying that trespass laws would be en-
forced. Los Angeles Times, August 29, 1975; Chris Bowman, “Brown’s Farm-Labor Coup,” Califor-
nia Journal, June 1975, pp. 190 –192.
9. Senate Bill No. 1, Chapter 1, “An Act to Add Part 3.5 (Commencing with Section 1140)
to Division 2 of the Labor Code, Relating to Agricultural Labor,” 1975.
10. Other key differences in the proposed legislation were as follows:

Alatorre Zenovich Dunlap

(AB1) (SB 308) (SB 813) Compromise

Bargaining Unit
Board selects between employer, craft or farm units X
Only employer unit permitted unless employees X X
work in noncontiguous areas
Board selects most appropriate unit, but employer X
unit favored
Existing Contracts
Permits existing contracts to be challenged X X X
through election
Court Review
A 24-hour notice before court orders are sought X
banning pickets
Board may ask a superior court to enforce its orders X X
Parties hurt by a board order may obtain court review X
Parties hurt by a board order may obtain a review X X X
in court of appeals
Court prohibited from issuing injunctions in labor X
disputes
Administration
Five-member full-time board (two labor, two X
agricultural, one public)
Five-member full-time board (no specified X X
representation)
Board required to create regional councils (no X
specific representation)

Source: California Journal, June 1975, p. 192.

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106 / Margarita Arce Decierdo

11. Chris Bowman, 191–192.

12. UFW White Paper, p. 20.
13. Ibid., p. 22.
14. Ibid., p. 24.
15. ALRB v. Superior Court, 16 California Reports 3d, 392, 128 Cal. Rptr. 183 (1976).
16. Los Angeles Times, September 4, 1975.
17. UFW White Paper.
18. Ibid.
19. Ibid., p. 14.
20. First Annual Report of the Agricultural Labor Relations Board, for the fiscal years ending
June 30, 1976, and June 30, 1977.
21. The Packer, February 14, 1976.
22. In the midst of this apparent deadlock, the UFW introduced an initiative to be placed on
the November ballot that would have taken the ALRA funding out of legislative hands and
placed it in those of California voters. The initiative, however, was defeated in November 1976.
California Journal, September 1973, June 1975, November 1975.
23. UFW White Paper.
24. Ibid.
25. Ibid.
26. Ibid.
27. Ibid.
28. Ibid.
29. Ibid.
30. The Bill of Particulars (1977) was a document prepared by ALRB employees. The Bill
highlights numerous representative examples of the mismanaged administration of the ALRB’s
general counsel. The incidents and examples provided in this document reveal several themes:
the inability of General Counsel Harry Delizonna to administer the ALRB, his retaliation against
employees who disagreed with him, and his reward of “cronyism” over competence.
31. California Journal, December 1983.
32. Richard Steven Street, “It’s Boycott Time in California,” The Nation, March 23, 1985,
pp. 330 –333.
33. Los Angeles Times, April 30, 1986; Street, “It’s Boycott Time,” pp. 330 –333.
34. Street, “It’s Boycott Time,” pp. 330 –333.
35. Ibid.
36. Los Angeles Times, April 30, 1986.
37. Elizabeth Schilling, “The ALRB in the 1990’s: Do Not Disturb . . . Agency Asleep,”
California Journal 23, no. 3 (March 1992): 152 –153.
38. Mary McCartney, United Farmworkers Union attorney, personal interview, La Paz, Calif.,
August 1994.
39. Agricultural Labor Relations Board, Annual Reports to the Legislature, 1987–1992.
40. The latest political assault on the board came from Senator Leonard Hill, who introduced
a legislative bill (SB 81) to abolish the ALRB and have the Public Employment Board assume its
duties as the renamed California Employment Relations Board. This threat disappeared, how-
ever, when Senator Hill was sentenced to a four-year prison term for accepting bribes. San
Francisco Chronicle, September 13, 1994.
41. “Cave Dwellers Found at Luxury’s Doorstep,” in San Francisco Examiner, September 10,
1991.
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The Struggle Within / 107

42. See José R. Padilla, “A Tribute to César and His Lessons,” Race, Poverty & the Environ-
ment 4, no. 3 (Fall 1993); Susan Ferriss, “Bitter Harvest: The UFW After César Chávez,” San
Francisco Chronicle Image, July 18, 1993; and “10,000 at Rally for Farm Workers: Lively Celebra-
tion After 330-Mile March,” San Francisco Chronicle, April 24, 1994.
05-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 108

Five

Protest and Affirmative

Action in the 1980s
The Case of the University of New Mexico

Phillip B. Gonzales

fter 1965, Chicano politics were characterized by a massive tendency

A among Mexican Americans to engage in collective protest. Vari-

ous mainstream institutions came in for innumerable challenges
under the banner of the movement. Among them, university campuses expe-
rienced perhaps the most sustained amount and among the most intense lev-
els of confrontation, primarily on issues related to ethnic exclusion. It is well
known that as an important part of the movement a mobilized student sector
struck the university hardest, militantly demanding curricular changes, spe-
cial faculty recruitment, and university responsiveness to social problems in
the community.1 What is given less emphasis, however, is that in the momen-
tum of the movement, many of the Chicano professors, staff, and administra-
tors also contributed to the pressures placed on university administrations.
For whatever reasons, the overall extent of protest activity associated with
the Chicano movement receded dramatically after 1975. In some sociopoliti-
cal domains it disappeared altogether. But if the movement was to impact the
political character of any institution by remaining somehow within it, it stands
to reason that it would be the university, an institution whose political charac-
ter is more flexible and accommodating of reformism, but also not as subject
to standardized rules of authority and governance as other public entities, ren-
dering its internal conflict more dynamic if not chaotic.2
This chapter presents an illustration of how the protest arm of the Chicano
movement extended itself across time to impact the administrative apparatus
of one institution of higher learning in particular. It recounts a conflict that
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 109

consumed the University of New Mexico (UNM) throughout the academic

year of 1985 –1986. The story involves a process of ethnic protest occurring
some ten years after the Chicano movement declined. As will be seen, the af-
fair was unique in terms of its primary combatants. This very uniqueness serves
in turn to heighten the idea that the era of protest truly affected the nature of
ethnic politics at the university.

The Disputants

In the politics of higher education, relations between a university’s president

and its board of regents are often delicate. Operating in distinct spheres of re-
sponsibility, regents are appointed to hold the institution itself “in trust” while
presidents take charge of organizational management. A contradiction ap-
pears, however, in that regents are legally responsible for all that goes on in
the university. If at odds, regents often act to police the president and directly
influence the running of the university. This happens often enough that,
along with other major conflicts, “Angry disputes in public between . . .
trustees and president . . . seem the normal state of the institution.” 3
It was just such a dispute that occurred at UNM in 1985 –1986. Amid a
flame of charges and counter charges, the chair and vice-chair of the univer-
sity’s board of regents gave the president a low job evaluation. The president
defended himself by accusing the regents of political interference in university
business. The strain of the conflict, exacerbated by the special interest that
the press took in the story, covered a broad front of friction. The considerable
and often caustic opinion expressed by faculty and the public, especially in
criticizing the regents, was aggravated by the sense of crisis surrounding the
funding of higher education in New Mexico.
The whole affair would have represented a conventional sort of fight in a
basic American institution but for the striking ethnic element that coursed
through it. First was the fact that the two key players on the board of regents
were Chicano (“Hispanic” according to the nomenclature of the incident it-
self ) while the president was white. Moreover, among the varied issues, a big
one involved affirmative action, particularly as the regents vehemently ques-
tioned the president’s commitment to it. Finally, the regents’ actions were part
of a collective outburst. Key roles were played by members in a contingent of
Chicano administrators, some faculty, staff, students, lay organizations, and,
not least, a governor.
Truly remarkable was the confrontational ethnic stance that the Chicano
regents took against the president. It has been pointed out that for minorities
in high public office, it may be acceptable to broker one’s ethnic claims ag-
gressively in the “corridors of dominant power,” but the professionalism and
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110 / Phillip B. Gonzales

universalism in such corridors act as powerful inhibitors of untoward militant

advocacy.4 Nevertheless, at UNM the two key regents saw within their ken the
need to openly confront the president over ethnic matters. The force of their
actions in the affair caused the president to resign from his office only a year
and a half after having assumed it.
However, the regents paid a heavy public-relations price for their stance.
Mass opinion, especially by Anglos, went heavily against them, in part because
the president himself appeared fully committed to affirmative action. It was
commonly charged that the regents were cynically exercising their power.
Later, New Mexico voters passed a constitutional amendment that added two
new seats to the board of regents.
To fully comprehend UNM’s regent-president dispute, it is necessary to
consider essential aspects that define the American university as a political
community, showing how it was that a characteristically Chicano-movement
form of behavior was able to wend itself into the higher reaches of the uni-
versity structure. In the process, the account will point out the legitimate
affirmative action issue that the Hispanic regents defended to the president in
spite of the public’s inability to recognize it.5

A Perspective

What can be seen in the regents-president affair is how a protest dynamic was
able to penetrate the normative walls of the professional university through
the cracks which exist in the political structure of higher education. Accord-
ing to Brown and Goldin, collective behavior occurs on campus when a rela-
tively large collectivity, say a sector of students, working in a conventional
fashion on projects is suddenly faced with an external threat or interference
to its overall “collective construction.” Collective constructions in this sense
are vulnerable to external impact especially from higher authority. A principal
source of tension and conflict in the university is the tendency of high office
to exert control over the system. In striving to concentrate power, officials con-
struct their power base. In doing so, they often interfere with the ongoing work
of lower-order collectivities by threatening to usurp resources. As Brown and
Goldin write, an analysis of this type of conflict requires “a discussion of pat-
terns of interference among competing collective constructions of the situa-
tion and the points of confrontation at which competition is made explicit.” 6
As it has been widely pointed out, academic power in the university con-
centrates in the bureaucratic administration. Central administration estab-
lishes a sphere of professionalism that is sharply bounded from other strata in
the university.7 Also important is that, despite the university’s political, eco-
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 111

nomic, and social ties to the rest of society, a cosmopolitan academic ideology
proclaims the university an independent enclave devoted strictly to the schol-
arly pursuit of knowledge. Academic autonomy, which is “widely endorsed by
professors and administrators who write about the university and its place in
society during periods of crisis,” often conflicts with lower-order perspectives
and the prior constructions among departments and collectivities.8
A useful way of referring to the perspectives of players in collective dispute
is in terms of their “frame of reference.” Snow et al. theorize that individuals get
recruited to collective activity through a process of “frame alignment,” which
is the linkage of individual and collective interpretive orientations. The frame
of an individual’s “interests, values, and beliefs” become “congruent and com-
plementary” with the “activities, goals, and ideology” of the collective move-
ment.9 It is entirely possible, as seen below, for lower-order collective and
higher-order power constructions to become aligned in their frames of refer-
ence and that such alignment can lead to unified collective action.

The Context of Constructions

With these general points in mind, what can be seen to have converged at
UNM as 1985 approached were three major “constructions” around affirmative
action. The first of these was an older collective construction reflecting the
work of Chicano faculty and administrators. The term “affirmative action” first
arose in the Kennedy presidential administration and was codified and given
its authority under the 1964 Civil Rights Act. Agencies having federal con-
tracts were required to integrate underrepresented minorities and to devise
affirmative action plans. But federal guidelines allowed universities to tailor
their affirmative action plans according to the way that the various academic
markets affect them. In the 1980s, the Reagan administration began undercut-
ting the federal enforcement of affirmative action compliance. As a conse-
quence, affirmative action, more than anything, began to provide the socio-
moral grounds for reform efforts at local sites.10 In the university, affirmative
action was most commonly monitored by minority and women activists who
formed collectivities on specific campuses and university systems.
Affirmative action at UNM had always been attended to most effectively
by Chicano professionals. Los Profesores, a loosely formed faculty/staff group,
arose out of the ferment of the Chicano movement in the early 1970s. From the
start, Los Profesores began consulting with UNM presidents on academic and
administrative hiring, student aid and recruitment, grievance cases, and re-
lated matters. This work led to the university’s 1978 affirmative action plan,
which, as the university president at the time declared, was dedicated to the
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112 / Phillip B. Gonzales

Table 5.1. Hispanics in Professional Ranks,

University of New Mexico, 1977–1987
1977 1979 1981 1983 1985 1987

Executive/manager/admin., 6 16 10 4 4 10
academic rank/tenure
Faculty, full time 60 69 79 84 84 94
New hires, prof. nonfaculty 19 87 84 86 123 135

Source: Equal Economic Opportunity– 6 Reports, 1979, 1981, 1983, 1985, 1987; Affirmative
Action Office, University of New Mexico.

“building of a university that will be an outstanding international example of

multicultural development.” 11
In the 1980s, Los Profesores gave way as an organization to the fact that
some of its members were being incorporated into the central administration.
At this point, affirmative action issues were taken up by a contingent of admin-
istrators, headed by a Chicano dean with help from a few faculty. By 1985 this
group was drawing from a segment of nonfaculty Chicano professionals that
had seen a relatively sharp rise in new hires, from 86 in 1983 to 123 in 1985.
Between 1981 and 1983, however, the number of Chicano central adminis-
tration officials had decreased from ten to four (see Table 5.1). Such ratios were
at once significant and politically problematic relative to affirmative action —
significant enough to form a collective process; problematic within a state pop-
ulation that was 38 percent Hispanic and in which parity as a civil rights goal
was well established.
It is clear that by 1985, Chicano affirmative action had carved out a place
of its own in the realm of campus power, only to feel some slippage in the cen-
tral administration. In late 1984, Chicano affirmative action was spearheaded
by three Chicano deans and other administrators who diplomatically planned
to see that affirmative action remained high on the incoming president’s
agenda.
Another independent interest in affirmative action issues happened to be
taken in late 1984 by Toney Anaya, New Mexico’s Hispanic governor. It should
be noted that UNM had fallen heir to a tendency toward external political in-
fluence in the 1970s, when a conservative state legislature reacted to campus
protest by ordering control over student political activity and faculty expres-
sion. The chair of the board of regents at that time later wrote that he took
this mandate seriously, resulting in tensions with his own president.12
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 113

In 1984, Anaya, a steadfast liberal, tried his own hand at academic power.
Anaya was a progressive Democrat who, at the expense of much popularity,
took on the role of national Hispanic spokesman while still governor. Anaya’s
reform program in New Mexico stressed education. His Commission on Higher
Education required New Mexico colleges to form Affirmative Action Councils
and annual affirmative action goals. In addition, Anaya appointed John Páez
to UNM’s board of regents in 1983, giving the board its first ever Spanish-
surnamed majority.13
The following year, two more seats on the board of regents fell vacant.
Anaya made support for affirmative action a major qualification in considering
his appointments to university boards of regents. For UNM, he had a confirmed
supporter in former Democratic governor Jerry Apodaca.14 Apodaca partici-
pated in Hispanic business organizations, wrote on civil rights, and played
broker for corporate foundation funds awarded to Hispanic organizations.
Anaya also appointed Robert Sánchez, a young nuclear pharmacist, Repub-
lican, and outgoing regent of another New Mexico college. Sánchez’s recep-
tiveness to affirmative action was evident early in 1985 when he strongly fa-
vored UNM’s divestment of stock in companies doing business in South
Africa.15
Apodaca and Sánchez took their seats on the board of regents on Janu-
ary 1, 1985. On that same day, Tom Farer began his duties as UNM’s new presi-
dent. As an incoming university president, Farer was in some key ways unique.
Most university presidents in the United States attain their offices by having
moved through the administrative ranks of department chair, dean, and vice-
president; by having had distinctly “local” or “parochial” working relations
with the institutions that hire them; and by having developed a “reactive,”
conservative approach in order to handle the myriad pressures that attend a
university administrator. None of these aspects of usual presidential profes-
sionalism applied in the case of Farer. He had had no previous higher educa-
tion administrative experience and had been a law professor at Rutgers when
he got the job of UNM president. Rather than moving up through the system,
his hiring at UNM, facilitated through a professional “head hunting” agency,
meant that Farer leaped over the boundaries of interstatus layers that typically
characterize the university hierarchy.16
Finally, rather than take a normal cautious approach to his new admin-
istrative duties, Farer immediately became an activist president. In a move
that faculty liked, Farer immediately proclaimed his academic cosmopoli-
tanism. Coming from Rutgers, where he had been a distinguished professor of
international law, Farer defined UNM as a regional institution in need of aca-
demic upgrading. As he would eventually explain, he went to UNM “on a
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114 / Phillip B. Gonzales

mission,” “to face a challenge,” and to act as “an ‘agent of change’ as president.”
Farer’s mission was to begin elevating UNM’s level of excellence. “There ought
to be a sense,” he tended to say, “that we can be one of the outstanding univer-
sities in the country.” In the belief that UNM could be instantly “outstand-
ing,” he immediately instituted “strategic action,” a set of policies developed
in America’s “best” universities in order to meet the changing demands of aca-
demic management. Included in Farer’s plan were the recruitment of faculty
“stars” from around the world, a strategic planning committee, a “cabinet”
form of central administration, and an “imaginative” personal style.17

The Pattern of Interference

In this setting, a process of interference among institutional players began in

the fall of 1984 before the Hispanic regents came on board and as part of the
process which resulted in the hiring of Farer as president. At the time, a divided
UNM board of regents had voted to retain an executive search firm in order
to conduct a secret national hunt for a president. Anaya juxtaposed regional-
ism with affirmative action and charged that the regents’ strategy eliminated
his wish to have special consideration given to “New Mexicans,” minorities,
and women. Controversy surrounded the fact that several names were men-
tioned as being on Anaya’s list of preferred candidates. The governor was ac-
cused of interfering in the prerogatives of the board of regents. One editorial
said that the governor “should relegate to second place questions of ethnicity,
geography, sex and political persuasion in making his selections.” 18
When the regents accepted the search firm’s second recommendation to in-
vite Farer for an interview, Anaya threatened to have unsigned letters of res-
ignation drawn up for the two regents he was due to appoint to ensure that
they would break off any subsequent contract with the presumptive president.
The attorney general called this a violation of the regents’ constitutional au-
tonomy. The regents said they would thwart Anaya by awarding their presi-
dent a two-year contract that would extend beyond Anaya’s term in office.
Immediately after Farer interviewed in New Mexico, Anaya and one Chicano
regent, soon to be replaced, announced opposition to him, saying that a nec-
essary qualification for the university presidency was experience in and knowl-
edge of the home state, or at least “Western ways.” On a three-two vote, the re-
gents offered Farer a two-year contract. Farer accepted, on condition that his
contract be reviewed six months before its termination date; this would give
him time to search for another job should the new regents not look upon his
administration in favor.19
Anaya swore “a hands-off policy” toward the university at the start of 1985.
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 115

On his previous contract threat, he reportedly said, “I made many mistakes in

1984 and probably one of the most grievous is even suggesting such a move.”
Apodaca assured him that he was not under the governor’s control and told
Farer, “We want to work with you from day one.” Despite later speculation to
the contrary, there is no real evidence that Apodaca and Sánchez were hired
specifically to oust Farer.20 Nevertheless, Farer was well on his way to defining
the situation in New Mexico as one in which the political system violated the
principle of academic autonomy. He sensed that the regents were likely to in-
terfere administratively based on the fact that from the very beginning, Farer
had felt hostility from Regent Sánchez, whom Farer alleged wanted a friend
promoted within the administration.21
The first stage of tension also included a clash of public images. Farer’s cul-
tivated style generated much appeal. Articulate, dapper, sporting a fedora that
to many observers epitomized Eastern Establishment, Farer appeared before
many community audiences. The media, already unusually attentive to the
university for its fiscal problems, exploited Farer’s public persona. Apodaca was
drawn in sharp contrast. Not only was he associated with Anaya, a highly un-
popular governor, but there was also the old rumor of ties to organized crime.
The charge had never stuck legally, but this did not stop a conservative state
senator from exploiting it by holding up Apodaca’s legislative confirmation to
the board of regents, before finally saying he had no information which would
prevent Apodaca from serving on UNM’s board of regents.22

Threat to the Chicano Meaning

of Affirmative Action

As publicized from the start, Farer’s distinguished career included extensive

work in the area of human rights —in a presidential appointment to the Inter-
national Human Rights Commission, as first American to head the commis-
sion, and as human rights counsel in Africa and South America. During his
presidency, some of Farer’s early affirmative action – related decisions appeared
consistent with this experience. In five months he appointed two Chicanos to
vice-president positions, acceded to the League of United Latin American
Citizens’ proposal for a Hispanic research position, and reinstated a Chicano
programmer that community groups charged was fired by the university radio
station for racial reasons.23
Farer also consulted with campus Hispanics over affirmative action. Here,
however, total cooperation was aborted by what Farer himself called his “cabi-
net.” Farer started the cabinet because, as he said in one of the biting academic
evaluations he frequently threw at UNM, the previous provost system was
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116 / Phillip B. Gonzales

“both bizarre and dysfunctional.” He made up his cabinet by personally se-

lecting individuals for vice-president and other high-level positions. In addi-
tion, Farer set about creating his own informal “kitchen cabinet” from among
his many appointees.24 What proved significant is that Farer’s policy of hand-
picking central administrators conflicted with UNM’s affirmative action
guideline, long understood by local Chicano administrators, that full-fledged
searches be undertaken within six weeks to permanently fill openings at this
level. The rule was intended to provide fair and open consideration of mi-
norities and women. From the Chicano perspective, Farer circumvented what
had been sought-after procedures. A more moderate response among some
gave the matter less importance in view of Farer’s previous affirmative action
overtures. The more circumspect, however, saw it according to the words of
one informant: “Does affirmative action [as law] mean anything or not?” 25
It appears that when apprised on the cabinet, Regent Apodaca initially
defended Farer’s assurance of affirmative action appointments. However, that
a new definition of the situation arose in his mind is indicated in a March 1
story in the campus daily newspaper which briefly quoted Apodaca saying that
the regents’ “first goal will be improving excellence of the people in top ad-
ministrative positions.” A week later, on the occasion of his appointing a vice-
president without a search, Farer stood committed to the cabinet system, de-
fending it against current affirmative action policies because “not all major
universities follow such a procedure when promoting a person from within.
‘We need to address the question of whether this [policy of full searches] is a
waste of money and time.’” 26
Farer continued making fiat appointments in the administration in the
coming months, including an executive assistant, a coordinator of external
relations, a deputy vice-president for student affairs, a vice-president for con-
tinuing education, two associate vice-presidents for academic affairs, general
counsel of the university, and the vice-president for academic affairs. Two of
these appointments were Hispanic; none were of other minorities. Chicano
skeptics considered it a significant bias that key members of Farer’s kitchen
cabinet were taken from the law school, representing the president’s own
discipline.
Governor Anaya came back into the picture on May 2, which suggested
to Farer the connection between affirmative action and political meddling in
the university. That day, the Advisory Committee to the U.S. Commission on
Civil Rights conducted a forum entitled “Affirmative Action Issues at the Uni-
versity of New Mexico.” The committee’s special concern was new statistics
showing the lowering in recent years of minority and women’s participation
on the faculty and administration. Farer testified in the morning, pledging him-
self to vigorous minority faculty recruitment. In the afternoon, a series of gov-
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 117

ernment and community speakers of Hispanic, Black, and Native American

backgrounds criticized UNM for allegedly excluding New Mexico citizens.
Anaya’s director of the Human Rights Commission made obvious allu-
sions to Farer. “[I]t’s kind of interesting . . . to me,” he said, “that someone com-
ing from a state like New Jersey where there are large numbers of blacks and
Hispanics is amazed when coming to New Mexico. We’re amazed, as natives
of this state, how ignorant some people are who are hired for some supposedly
sensitive high paying positions from other parts of the country and they do
not take time or it does not become a requirement for them to understand a
culture and the needs of the people of New Mexico.” 27
Farer responded in ten days by amplifying his viewpoint in a speech at com-
mencement. His themes were the ultimate purpose of a university and how a
president of one should define success. Farer acknowledged in his speech that
these were questions he had had “few incentives” to ask himself six months
previously, when, as he said, “I was still living the relatively carefree, rather
hermetic life of an academic.”
Farer would conclude that the sole purpose of the university was to en-
courage the “passion to press against the frontiers of knowledge.” First, he felt
it necessary to cite other notions of UNM in particular. “One view I have de-
tected,” Farer told his audience,
is that the university is a form of legitimate political prey, a large
cluster of jobs available for allocation to people who have paid their
political dues or have the right sorts of friends or preferably both.
Probably such a perception is inevitable in any state where the uni-
versity is one of the largest single employers and where the public
sector has historically provided an important source of political
patronage. Since this notion of the university collides harshly with
other ideas about the university’s role, ideas often held by the very
same people who are affected by what we might call the ‘cluster-of-
jobs’ syndrome, the latter perception rarely surfaces openly except,
perhaps, in the form of claims about the distinctive virtues or supe-
rior rights of New Mexico citizens competing with outsiders who
would like to become citizens. As long as I am President of UNM, it
will remain open to men and women from every part of the country
and the world who possess the skills and the character and the com-
mitment one finds on the campuses of all great universities.” 28

Farer had his commencement address reproduced on June 5 in the state’s largest
newspaper, the Albuquerque Journal. In mid June, a letter to the editor hinted
at Farer’s power of suggestion, as it praised UNM for having a president who
at last “spoke like a scholar” and cited the “cluster of jobs” reference. Antici-
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118 / Phillip B. Gonzales

pating the tone of public opinion that would soon arise against the regents,
the letter ended by referring to nameless “political hacks” influencing the
university.29

Breakdown of Diplomacy

Collective episodes are usually sparked by dramatic incidents. The conflict that
arose in this case was precipitated at a meeting Apodaca and Sánchez con-
vened on July 2. No recording of this meeting was made. A news report later
said, “In a move many on campus call unprecedented, Apodaca and Regent
Robert Sánchez in early July called a meeting of UNM deans and vice presi-
dents to talk about increasing the number of minorities in academic positions.
Descriptions of the closed door meeting range from a pep talk to high pressure
politics.” 30 Similar recollections by informants reflect views of the meeting
from three frames of reference: the president and his kitchen cabinet; those
who pressed for affirmative action, including Apodaca, Sánchez, and two Chi-
cano administrators; and several deans from the campus at large.
The regular deans sat as witness to a confrontation between the other two
groups. The news report said that “Apodaca expressed satisfaction with Farer’s
commitment to affirmative action. But he is less satisfied with appointments
by lower level administrators and by individual department chairmen.” This
alluded to the fact that in the meeting, Apodaca singled out one member of
the kitchen cabinet for reproach on the law school’s affirmative action record.
Another cabinet member apparently rose to his colleague’s defense. Apo-
daca’s forceful counter, that no one should feel satisfied about affirmative ac-
tion progress, closed off the exchange. A third cabinet informant recalled that
“this was the first blow across the brow of President Farer.”
In September, Farer ordered reprints of his commencement address sent
to offices throughout campus. Shortly thereafter a series of stories in the me-
dia began projecting the regents and the president in a state of battle. The first
issue, a proposal to improve the football stadium, did not involve ethnopolitics
or affirmative action, but did lead a political columnist to see a “quickening
campus maelstrom.” What should have, but did not, serve to dampen one con-
spiracy theory was the stand the columnist attributed to Governor Anaya, who
opposed the stadium proposal, while Apodaca supported it.31
As the stadium controversy drew the public line between the regents and
the president, a volatile issue arose in October. The regents voted in a confi-
dential appeal to overturn the one-semester suspension of a law student who
was found to have falsified an application form. In addition to Apodaca and
Sánchez, the split vote was carried by Regent Colleen Maloof, who had orig-
inally voted against the hiring of Farer. Once the decision was leaked, anony-
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 119

mous members of Farer’s cabinet treated it as a gauntlet, charging a serious in-

fringement on their daily operations. The first news account of the meeting
quoted “sources close to the regents” saying that “[s]everal high-level admin-
istrators came close to resigning over the affair.” 32
Apodaca raised the Chicano issue regarding Farer’s cabinet. That so many
of its members had been law school administrators, he argued, meant that
their acting replacements had weakened the law student’s right to full due pro-
cess. The case had run the official course and would not be formally dealt with
again. Endangering his right to confidentiality, the press was told that the stu-
dent involved was Hispanic and that his family was known to Apodaca. The
vote split the Hispanic regents. John Páez, who had originally voted to hire
Farer and who had voted against the law student’s appeal, defended the ad-
ministration, reportedly asking if the university was “entering an age of de-
grees by patronage, or diplomas by patronage? Not what you know, but who
you know?” Anticipating the provision which said that continuation of Farer’s
two-year contract had to be settled six months in advance of its official ter-
mination, Páez said Apodaca was holding the contract renewal “hostage.” 33
Serving as a court of last resort is a traditional responsibility of a college gov-
erning board. But as one expert says, “Concomitant with the responsibility to
act in this appellate capacity is the judgement to know when not to act.” In
short, the student’s case should have been resolved prior to the need for an ap-
peal in private agreement between regents and president. But such normal
working relations had by this point broken down. To Farer, the root problem
was the regents’ political meddling. To Apodaca, it was the role of the cabinet.
Reflecting a clash at the level of social constructions, Apodaca said, “While
I’m there, the university is going to be responsive to the students, not to the
prima donnas who have administrative posts.” 34
The law student’s case produced serious campus discussion on student ap-
peal procedures. But the public condemned and disparaged the regents. In
claiming that the university was being subjected to “patronage politics, fa-
voritism and personalistic particularism,” an emeritus professor referred to the
“political culture of Santa Fe,” a phrase Farer would later pick up to explain
his problems in New Mexico. Another professor, already famous for his cyni-
cal blasts at those he disagreed with, set out in his column in the campus news-
paper to develop a satire of Apodaca as an Italian fascist lording over his (uni-
versity) realm. “Finally,” he wrote, “the UNM Board of Regents has a leader
who is not afraid to lead and to exercise fully the god-given powers of La Ta-
vola Nostra.” Similarly, a Roswell citizen wrote that the regents “reeked” of
“something like Nazism or the Politburo.” A political columnist toyed with
the suspicion allegedly held by the governor’s enemies that Anaya was “feath-
ering a nest” so as to become president of the university himself. It was further
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120 / Phillip B. Gonzales

rumored, the columnist said, that Apodaca himself wanted the presidency
and that he would “cut [the Governor] out of the action” when the time came.35
The law student controversy began to subside when affirmative action arose
as a prominent issue in November and December. The regents had kept the
affirmative action pressure up by requiring a monthly report on faculty hiring
from the campus affirmative action officer. Apodaca also reminded the faculty
senate and Farer of the possible violation of affirmative action laws as searches
for the permanent appointment of top administrative positions had not yet be-
gun. Farer, meanwhile, requested that the campus Chicano leaders submit their
affirmative action concerns in writing. Eight recommendations were submit-
ted, and on December 2 Farer convened a meeting to discuss them. Fifty to sixty
Hispanic faculty and staff attended. In a long and tense session, Farer would
agree to a special fund to attract qualified minority faculty, although on the cab-
inet he persisted in favoring permanence for most of those already in office.36
What dominated the meeting, however, were the caustic exchanges. Farer
took immediate control, ousting a television news reporter and camera oper-
ator and making clear his displeasure that the core Chicano leadership had al-
ready met with the regents on affirmative action (though this had been an-
nounced to him in memo two months before). Ethnic sensitivities were aroused
when Farer charged that the Chicanos present were lacking in the cortesía, tra-
ditional courtesy, he was accustomed to when dealing with Latin Americans.
Farer called Anaya a “demagogue” for stating that Hispanic representation on
the faculty should approach the proportion of Hispanics in the state’s popula-
tion. The director of UNM’s Chicano Studies program reacted angrily to this
charge. Peaceful discussion on the academic objection to absolute ethnic par-
ity was short-circuited. To the Chicanos, Farer appeared as a name-calling out-
sider; to Farer, the Chicanos appeared as a political mob. The friction overall
alienated many Chicanos from the president, and he from some of them, re-
gardless of his stated commitment to affirmative action. Some Chicanos were
not particularly put off, while still others were caught in what one described
as a “moral quandary” between the ethnic tensions arising and the fact that
the president had actually supported some Chicano causes on campus.
Farer held the reins against the Chicano collectivity, but lost them to the
regents at their monthly meeting in Santa Fe a week later. Anaya gave per-
functory welcoming remarks and departed. The press reported on a nonethnic
argument that had arisen in the meeting but neglected to make clear that it
had preceded the one on affirmative action. Apodaca reported that legislators
had complained to him about Farer’s “boondoggle” alumni trip to New York.
Farer implied in defense that the regents were shirking their responsibility to
raise funds. The snide and rather anarchic exchange on the level of official con-
flict opened up the ground for a duel over affirmative action.
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 121

UNM’s affirmative action officer presented figures showing that the uni-
versity’s long-established goals for hiring minority faculty were falling short.
Apodaca and Sánchez took some time pinning Farer, suggesting that he was not
moving quickly or effectively enough in this area. The press would depict the
regents “shaking heads angrily” and “visibly upset.” An editorial cartoon cari-
catured regents on a statement concerning the need for a rise in absolute num-
bers of minorities. Editorials and letters called the attack on Farer unseemly
and the accusations unjustified, especially as Farer had earlier announced his
fund for minority faculty recruitment and other related actions. The press
scored the regents as Machiavellians wielding an affirmative action “club” in
order to dispose of Farer.37 While Farer believed affirmative action served mer-
itocracy by expanding the pool of talent from which departments could draw,
he still held to the academic ideal that the “most qualified” should be hired
regardless of ethnicity. The public view held that on this score the regents
were cynical, although Apodaca and Sánchez’s response can be seen as hav-
ing reflected a kind of “freedom now” civil rights demand.38
Sánchez told Farer in regard to minority representation on the faculty,
“We want to get to the bottom of this issue and we want to meet these [estab-
lished UNM faculty] goals.” Farer at one point referred to the problems that
arise when only “conspicuously inferior” persons apply under affirmative ac-
tion. Apodaca called the comment “very disturbing,” interpreting Farer to
mean, “‘Do you want us to continue to hire white males or do you want us to
hire inferior people and hire women and minorities?’” Decrying his reticence,
the regents wished to see Farer “out in the trenches,” talking to deans and de-
partment chairs, instilling the commitment to hire minorities that the regents
noted one department had already demonstrated. While the press called this
a “brow beating,” it more accurately reflected a classic confrontation between
“those who regard the university as a facilitator of social mobility and those
who place a premium on the university as a safeguard of academic (that is cog-
nitively rational) traditions.” 39
Apodaca closed off the exchange, emphasizing that should Farer not real-
ize progress, he would indeed “meddle” to instill the proper commitment in
department heads. After other routine business, brief discussion ensued on
the central administration and the cabinet. The meeting concluded with Farer
grudgingly agreeing to the regents’ call for national and local searches for all
cabinet-level positions.
This should have been seen as an important point of compromise. But pub-
lic opinion continued mostly against the regents, concluding variously that
they were attempting to enforce illegal affirmative action quotas; that the “po-
liticization of the university under the guise of affirmative action” would ham-
per the state’s economic development; and that as “political provincials,” the
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122 / Phillip B. Gonzales

Hispanic regents had someone else in mind for president. Apodaca and sev-
eral other Chicanos responded with essays on the principle of affirmative ac-
tion, inexplicably making little mention of the cabinet issue. These were met
by philosophical, partisan, or ideological counters and attacks. One of the few
ethnic allusions among the anti-regent statements was that as “reactionaries”
opposing “visionaries,” Apodaca and Sánchez were incapable of laying to rest
their “ancestral persecutions and paranoia of outsiders, in order to move
ahead in brotherly love with their Anglo brothers for a new beginning.”
Among the regent defenders, one letter writer asserted that the attacks on
Anaya, Apodaca, and Sánchez were meant to reflect on the integrity of His-
panic politics itself. The reaction, he said, stemming from the “underlying rac-
ism that upholds structures of inequality,” intended to portray the regents and
the governor as “the slimy Hispanic patron, the dissolute Mexican power-
players.” 40

Official Conflict

As Farer relented on the cabinet at the December regents meeting, the threat
to the Chicano construction of affirmative action had been lifted and the spe-
cifically ethnic protest against Farer ended. However, official tensions between
Farer and the regents lasted another five months. As they did, Chicanos at large
tended to sense a continuing ethnic conflict. The public record indicates that
during the spring semester tensions eased and then rose again to a high re-
solving pitch.
One Chicano dean implied that Anaya’s concern with minority faculty
was misplaced. Departing from the confrontation with the president, he hand-
delivered a petition to the board of regents from his college that objected to
blaming a new president for affirmative action problems that were long stand-
ing in the university. In the weeks afterward, Apodaca appeared conciliatory,
telling the Rotary Club he was willing to see if Farer had the ability to be a
good administrator and expressing hope that his presidential term would be a
long one. One editorial called Apodaca’s words “a welcome departure” from
his previous attitude.41
But the press speculated that the regents were prematurely reviewing Farer’s
contract. Regent Sánchez and an athletic administrator were reported saying
that it was Farer who had himself previously attempted to secure a second, con-
siderably longer contract. This sort of exchange served to keep public opinion
aroused and mostly critical of the regents. In this election year, it also led to
a joint legislative resolution that proposed to give the voters a chance to
amend the state constitution by adding two more seats to UNM’s board of re-
gents. The bill’s sponsors said its intent was to “dilute” the power of “certain”
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 123

board members and to make it more difficult for a governor to control the board.
(Ironically, the 1983 state legislature had defeated a bill supported by Anaya
which proposed to give the boards of regents at New Mexico colleges greater
diversity by increasing their membership from five to nine.)
The regents’ consensus in February favored offering Farer a second term.
He said this seemed like an expression of confidence for which he was “de-
lighted.” Editorials expressed hope for campus stability. The regents announced
that they would have to review applicant résumés and approve administrative
appointments. Farer reportedly said this was a “compromise we can all work
well with.” 42
But feelings on campus still smoldered. With the prospect of negligible pay
raises for faculty, the professor with the weekly column gratuitously wrote that
a faculty strike should be proposed except that Anaya “would come up with
a thousand in-laws to take our place.” A Chicano student’s retort stressed
Anaya’s favorable higher education record and said that the professor colum-
nist “would best serve the dual cause of misguided Anglocentrism and in-
creased faculty salaries by deferring to his intellectual superiors and retiring to
the damp, dark, mucky underside of the eastern seaboard rock from whence
he and his sort periodically and predictably emerge [where] he can comfort-
ably renew his search for ‘truth’ unimpeded by the realities of Hispanic regents
and governors.” In the legislature, the bill to increase membership on the
Board of Regents passed and was on its way to the November ballot.43
At the March regents meeting, Apodaca pressed Farer on thirteen admin-
istrative positions for which searches were not as yet underway. Without per-
manence in key posts, Apodaca insisted, important matters such as student
rights of appeal still hung in the balance. Farer raised no objection. Conten-
tion between the two major parties was largely absent in the news. Instead,
reflecting two generally activist administrations, the president and the regents
each sparked their separate controversies. Saying he meant only to place his
work station on par with any American university president, Farer was criti-
cized for “extravagantly” renovating his office at a time when university fund-
ing was at low ebb. Shortly after, the five Catholic regents ordered a student
film committee not to show the controversial movie Hail Mary, only to re-
scind the ban after the Associated Students filed suit. Public reaction, includ-
ing picketing by community Catholics at the movie’s showing, lasted close to
a month.44

Finale

Dispute at the top broke out again in mid April when it was reported that at
the time of the Hail Mary controversy Farer was secretly interviewing for
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124 / Phillip B. Gonzales

positions at two eastern universities. Apodaca reverted to an angry tone, re-

portedly saying Farer “did not care” about the university and wondering if it was
in the best interest of the university to renew the contract of someone “who
is only interested in enhancing his own career.” Farer defended the job hunt,
saying it was in November that he had begun making inquiries elsewhere be-
cause, he explained, the “overall setting” in New Mexico as well as the threat
from Apodaca that he would “run him off ” the campus (which Apodaca de-
nied having made) caused him to doubt that he could accomplish what he had
intended when he took the job. As the day scheduled for the regents to review
Farer’s contract approached, several names were mentioned in the press as
possible presidential replacements.45
In late April the regents decided in closed session to extend Farer’s con-
tract. At that very time, however, Farer taped a television interview in which
he returned to the theme of his commencement address. After the evening
news had announced his new contract offer, Farer appeared on television in
cosmopolitan frame of mind, saying that the regents operated according to a
“culture of political cronyism, rewarding themselves, family and friends” while
thwarting the meritocracy of academia which he said rewarded “people for
their contributions to the end of the system.” Farer claimed he had been “pub-
licly lacerated” on affirmative action. Claiming he was stopped because he
would not turn “yes-man,” and feeling his integrity impugned in regard to his
job search, Farer said he could continue as president only on an open pledge
of support from the regents.46
Fallout from the interview lasted several weeks. A Chicano administrator
whom Farer had accused of using pressure tactics to get a promotion called
Farer a liar. Signaling the rupture of Farer’s base, a member of his cabinet cor-
roborated the Chicano administrator’s version. Anaya was reported prepared
to step in to bring the university under control if need be. Editorials and let-
ters ran mostly anti-regents. Campus petitions and radio polls were interpreted
as favoring Farer. Gubernatorial candidates and a group of city professionals
deplored the university conflict, the regents’ role in particular.47
The faculty, an estimated seven hundred strong, rallied to consider two
resolutions: that they actively work for passage of the constitutional amend-
ment to expand the board of regents; and that they vote no confidence in the
board for discrediting, interfering, and not effectively leading the university.
In a great show of indignation, in which some of the attempts to negotiate the
terms of the resolutions were shouted down, these resolutions and a third call-
ing on all five regents to resign were overwhelmingly adopted. A circular drawn
up by IMAGE (Incorporated Mexican American Government Employees)
was distributed at the meeting, asserting that President Farer had “grievously
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 125

damaged the Hispanic community by holding us up to public ridicule and scorn

and . . . impairing our image and standing within the university and in the
community at large.” Alluding to the original affirmative action grievance,
IMAGE charged that in forming his cabinet “Tom Farer has employed the
buddy system himself in his actions and appointments at the University.” 48
That afternoon Apodaca appeared as a guest on the television program
that had interviewed Farer a few days earlier. Apodaca avoided Farer’s allega-
tions, emphasizing the board’s willingness to start a new period of cooperation
with him. Asked to reflect on the ideal candidate for UNM president, Apodaca
all but eliminated any cosmopolitan outsider as he listed, in order of prefer-
ence, a state resident, someone from within UNM, and someone who knew
the state well. Soon after, and without a public pledge of support from the re-
gents, Farer announced he would not accept another contract under any cir-
cumstance. He and the board of regents proceeded into negotiations for an
early “buy-out” of his contract. The board announced appointment of a dean
as interim president effective July 1, 1986.49
The conflict in UNM’s authority structure ended here. That fall, New Mex-
ico voters approved the constitutional amendment creating two more posi-
tions on the board of regents. They also elected Republican Garry Carruthers
governor. The term of one of the board members ended in December. With
three new appointments in the offing, UNM’s board of regents was set for its
second major recomposition in as many years. Carruthers appointed three
Anglo males, one who had been living in the state but six months.

Conclusion

This chapter has described and accounted for the Chicano dimension within
UNM’s 1985 –1986 regents-president dispute. The conflict overall involved
more than ethnic conditions and events, some not included here. In this
sense, the Chicano protest tactics meshed with the problems that otherwise
inhere in the relations between trustees and presidents.
UNM’s Chicano regents were led to become ethnically hostile with the
president insofar as they took up the specific cause for affirmative action that
the local Chicano perspective had defended. The link to the Chicano move-
ment was provided by a core of Hispanic administrators whose activism
stemmed from the original Los Profesores organization. President Farer’s ag-
gressive, cosmopolitan administrative practice interfered with the local Chi-
cano construction of affirmative action. His reluctance to see eye to eye with
the regents on the issue of cabinet appointments was reinforced by his defini-
tion of a politicized situation at UNM. While Apodaca attempted to call at-
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126 / Phillip B. Gonzales

tention to the cabinet issue, it was practically impossible for the public to see
the social importance of the preestablished rules on affirmative action that the
Chicano group had worked so long to effect.
Farer’s definition of a politicized institution was not entirely inaccurate.
But much of what Farer included as undue political influence reflected a uni-
versal tendency toward power concentration throughout the bureaucracies of
state institutions. Much of the rest stemmed from the classic standard in U.S.
society that, as a public institution, the university should be an “‘instrument
of the people,’ [placing] its resources at the disposal of all members of the state
who need its aid.” 50 In fairness, Apodaca and Sánchez appeared unwilling or
incapable of recognizing the optimism that Farer supplied to a demoralized
and underpaid faculty.
Oddly enough, despite the appearance of complete institutional break-
down in the dispute, affirmative action was served by both sides but on differ-
ent tracks. Farer did in fact promote minority recruitment, as the League of
United Latin American Citizens tended to point out (see Table 5.1), while
the regents’ concern did serve to open up opportunity in the central adminis-
tration in accordance with the spirit of UNM’s original affirmative action
plan. In this regard, affirmative action appeared vulnerable to approach and
construction from various points of origin. In principle, the governor, the re-
gents, Chicano leaders, and the president all agreed on the need for affirma-
tive action. But the question of its locus of control arose dynamically in the
dispute, whether it would emanate as part of a cosmopolitan liberal construc-
tion or from the framework of campus collectivities.
By now, the language of affirmative action is largely supplanted by that of
“multiculturalism.” The specific goals of multiculturalism have yet to be clearly
spelled out. But it is not entirely clear that affirmative action per se, which has
been under attack from both the left and the right, could arise as the center
of such heated dispute at UNM as was seen in 1985.
Out of the throes of the Farer controversy, some Chicano administrators
created Hispanics for UNM (HUNM), an organization designed for Hispanic
faculty, staff, and administrators from throughout the university. HUNM func-
tioned a few years in various activities, including scholarship drives and greater-
community projects. But the organization waned with the retirement of a key
leader. The political center of gravity for Chicanos on campus shifted some-
what to the ranks of faculty, particularly in the College of Arts and Sciences,
while the Chicano Studies program embarked on a new expansion. In line with
a national trend, there was a resurgence of Chicano consciousness to be noted
among the ranks of Spanish-surnamed students.51 These are all indications
that the ethos of the Chicano movement persisted at UNM.
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 127

For a whole complex of reasons (not least of which was a contest among
powerful personalities), the president and the regents became locked in a per-
sonal and institutional antagonism that was destined to play itself out. At the
least and in a context in which institutional inclusion arose as a dominant goal
of Hispanic ethnopolitics, the regents-president dispute at the University of
New Mexico demonstrates the sociostructural and political stakes that can
arise as Chicanos set out to participate, as Chicanos, in the circles of institu-
tional power.

Notes
1. Carlos Muñoz, Youth, Identity, Power: The Chicano Movement (London: Verso, 1989), chaps.
3 and 5.
2. See Harold L. Hodgkinson and L. Richard Meeth, eds., Power and Authority: Transforma-
tion of Campus Governance (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1971).
3. Jacques Barzun, The American University (New York: Harper & Row, 1968), p. 147n.
4. Joseph Rothschild, Ethnopolitics: A Conceptual Framework (New York: Columbia Univer-
sity Press, 1981), p. 142.
5. Several participants in the dispute consented to anonymous interviews; hereafter cited as
Interview.
6. Michael Brown and Amy Goldin, Collective Behavior: A Review and Reinterpretation of the
Literature (Pacific Palisades, Calif.: Goodyear Publishing, 1973), pp. 178, 201, 214; see also
pp. 129 –130, 201–204, 289 –290. While authority figures or public opinion may define short-
term collective outbursts as socially unauthorized, deviant, or unscrupulous, it is more accurate to
regard it as “unauthorized socio-political action.”
7. Ibid., pp. 255 –256, 259.
8. Ibid., pp. 269, 215; see also pp. 141, 145, 261, 270, 276.
9. David A. Snow, E. Burke Rochford, Jr., Steven K. Worden, and Robert D. Benford, “Frame
Alignment Processes, Microbilization, and Movement Participation,” p. 464 in American Socio-
logical Review, 51 (August 1986): 464. Frame alignment in this sense occurs through “frame bridg-
ing” (“the linkage of two or more ideologically congruent but structurally unconnected frames re-
garding a particular issue or problem”); “frame amplification” (“the clarification and invigoration
of an interpretive frame that bears on a particular issue, problem or set of events”); or “frame ex-
tension” (an SMO extending “the boundaries of its primary framework so as to encompass inter-
ests or points of view that are incidental to its primary objectives but of considerable salience to
potential adherents”). Ibid., pp. 467, 468, 472.
10. Ray T. Fortunato and D. Geneva Waddell, Personnel Administration in Higher Education:
Handbook of Faculty and Staff Personnel Practices (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1981), pp. 91– 93;
see Ron Simmons, Affirmative Action: Conflict and Change in Higher Education After Bakke (Cam-
bridge, Mass.: Schenkman, 1982.), especially chap. 4; Willie F. Page, “Recruiting Black Faculty:
A Brief History of Efforts by White Institutions of Higher Education Prior to Bakke,” in George L.
Mims, ed., The Minority Administrator in Higher Education (Cambridge, Mass: Schenkman, 1981),
p. 3; Félix Padilla, Latino Ethnic Consciousness: The Case of Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans
in Chicago (Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press, 1985), p. 84; and ibid., “Latino
Ethnicity in the City of Chicago,” in Susan Olzak and Joane Nagel, eds., Competitive Ethnic Rela-
tions (Orlando: Academic Press, 1986), pp. 163–164.
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128 / Phillip B. Gonzales

11. See, e.g., “Points of Concern of Hispanic Faculty Presented to President William E. Davis
by Representatives of Los Profesores,” manuscript, n.a., n.d. [c. 1980]; Sabine R. Ulibarri to Dear
Colleague, “Emergency Meeting of Los Profesores,” May 6, 1980; William E. Davis to Chairman Sa-
bine Ulibarri et al., “William E. Davis, President, to Representatives of Los Profesores,” May 27,
1980; Ethnic Minorities at the University of New Mexico: A Presidential Progress Report (Albuquer-
que: University of New Mexico, May 1977), p. 16.
12. See Calvin Horn, The University in Turmoil and Transition (Albuquerque: Rocky Moun-
tain Publishing, 1981), chaps. 10 and 17; for a general view, see Ralph K. Huitt, “Governance in
the 1970s,” in Hodgkinson and Meeth, eds., Power and Authority, p. 176.
13. Cara Abeyta, “Hispanic Force 184: Collective Symbolism or Political Reality?” Chicano
Studies Occasional Paper Series, University of Texas El Paso, November 1984; The Future is Ex-
cellence: Report of the New Mexico Governor’s Commission on Higher Education (Santa Fe: State of
New Mexico, 1983), pp. 8 – 9.
14. Nationally, Latinos form less than 1 per cent of members on all university boards of re-
gents and only 4 percent of all members on public four-year single campus boards. See Com-
position of Governing Boards, 1985: A Survey of College and University Boards (Washington, D.C.:
Association of Governing Boards of Universities and Colleges, 1986), pp. 9, 30. The University
of New Mexico is an institution that, except for 1931–1933, has seen Chicanos serve on its gov-
erning board ever since its founding in 1889. Since 1940, nearly one-third of regent appointees at
UNM have been Chicano (see Records of the University Secretary, University of New Mexico).
UNM stands as an exception to the national trend of underrepresentation.
15. On Apodaca see, e.g., the New Mexico Sun, March 6, 1985; Diálogo: Annual Report Issue for
1986 2, no. 4, p. 12; and Albuquerque Journal, February 3, 1986. On Sánchez, see, e.g., Albuquer-
que Journal, May 7, 8, 1985.
16. Michael D. Cohen and James G. March, Leadership and Ambiguity: The American College
President (Boston: Harvard Business School Press, 1986), pp. 1–2, 17–28. Brown and Goldin,
Collective Behavior, p. 269.
17. Liz McMillen, “Feud between President and Regents Debilitates University of New Mex-
ico,” Chronicle of Higher Education, June 4, 1986, p. 23. Albuquerque Journal, May 1, 1985; and
George Keller, Academic Strategy: The Management Revolution in American Higher Education (Bal-
timore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1983), pp. 611, 125, 143–144. For the parallels between
Farer’s program and strategic action, compare Keller (chap. 5) with Farer’s description of his own
program in Albuquerque Journal, January 3, 1985; Daily Lobo, May 30, 1985; “State of the Uni-
versity: A Report from the President,” University of New Mexico, September 1985.
18. Albuquerque Journal, August 8, 29, 1984. Anaya’s regionalism reflected the kind of ex-
pressions that were common in peripheral areas against the national, international, and ideolog-
ically universalist dimensions of higher education. See Christopher Jencks and David Riesman,
The Academic Revolution (Garden City, N.Y.: Doubleday, 1968), chap. 4. For New Mexico’s his-
tory of education, see Robert W. Larson, New Mexico’s Quest for Statehood, 1846 –1912 (Albuquer-
que: University of New Mexico Press, 1968), pp. 279 –280; Phillip B. Gonzales, “Spanish Heritage
and Ethnic Protest: The Anti-Fraternity Bill of 1933,” New Mexico Historical Review 61, no. 4
(October 1986): 282 –283.
19. Albuquerque Journal, September 5, 7, 19, 1984.
20. Albuquerque Tribune, January 3, 1985; Albuquerque Journal, January 17, 1985. Farer would
eventually say that he had Apodaca’s cooperation at the beginning. Moreover, Anaya clearly
steered away from UNM throughout its turmoil in 1985 –1986. See Daily Lobo, April 24, 1986.
Bill Hume, “UNM Tug-of-War Could Pull in Anaya,” Albuquerque Journal, November 10, 1985.
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Protest & Affirmative Action in the 1980s / 129

21. Albuquerque Tribune, April 24, 1986.

22. Albuquerque Journal, March 3, 1985; Albuquerque Tribune, March 6, 1985. Throughout
1985 –1986, some of the bigger media stories on UNM involved the fiscal tug-of-war between a
liberal governor calling for increases in higher education funding and a conservative legislature
curtailing the proposal, course cutbacks, a brain drain to other universities, and management of
the athletic department’s budget.
23. Albuquerque Journal, September 10, 16, 1984; also, e.g., March 6, 14; April 19; May 7, 8,
1985; and Albuquerque Tribune, May 8, 1985.
24. President to Board of Regents, University of New Mexico, Nov. 1, 1985. For a discussion
of the “dysfunctional” consequences of the cabinet style of leadership in higher education, see
L. Richard Meeth, “Administration and Leadership,” in Hodgkinson and Meeth, eds., Power and
Authority, pp. 42 – 43.
25. Chronology of Hiring Process for Academic Personnel, UNM Affirmative Action Man-
ual; and interview.
26. See e.g., Daily Lobo, March 1, 1985; Albuquerque Tribune, April 4, 1985; Albuquerque Jour-
nal, March 6; April 5, May 7, May 15, 1985.
27. Partial recording of forum proceedings, courtesy Vicente Silva; interviews. See also
“Affirmative Action Issues at the University of New Mexico —An Update, Briefing Memorandum
to the Commissioners: A Community Forum, May 2, 1985; New Mexico Advisory Committee to
the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights; and Albuquerque Journal, May 3, 1985.
28. “The Purposes of the University: An Address Presented by Tom J. Farer, President of the
University of New Mexico, at the Ninety-Third Commencement of the University of New
Mexico,” May 12, 1985, n.p.
29. Albuquerque Journal, June 17, 1985.
30. Mary Engel, “University Hiring Practices Still Draw Criticism,” The Sunday Journal, Au-
gust 25, 1985.
31. Albuquerque Tribune, September 18, 29, 1985. Daily Lobo, November 20; December 16,
1985. Albuquerque Journal, November 1, 11, 1985.
32. Albuquerque Journal, October 20, 1985; November 3, 1985; Daily Lobo, October 23, No-
vember 4, 1985.
33. Daily Lobo, November 13, 1985; Albuquerque Journal, October 20, 1985.
34. Daily Lobo, October 23, 1985. On the responsibility of college boards, see Morton A. Rauh,
The Trusteeship of Colleges and Universities (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1969), pp. 8 – 9.
35. Daily Lobo, November 26, 20, 1985; (Roswell) Daily Record, November 22, 1985; Albu-
querque Tribune, November 29, 1985.
36. Daily Lobo, November 13; December 16, 1985. This account of the meeting is based on
the author’s participant observation. The meeting is mentioned in Albuquerque Journal, Decem-
ber 3, 1985, and Daily Lobo, December 5, 1985.
37. Factual statements about this meeting are based on its official recorded proceeding, Office
of UNM Secretary. See also Albuquerque Tribune, December 11, 20, 1985; Albuquerque Journal,
December 11, 12 (editorial), 13, 15, 20, 1985.
38. John C. Livingston, Fair Game? Inequality and Affirmative Action (San Francisco: W. H.
Freeman, 1979), pp. 4 –5, 233–234. On the dilemmas of affirmative action facing the traditional
cultural values of academia, see William H. Exum, “Climbing the Crystal Stair: Values, Affirma-
tive Action, and Minority Faculty,” Social Problems 30, no. 4 (1983): 384.
39. Neil J. Smelser, “Epilogue: Social-Structural Dimensions of Higher Education,” in Talcott
Parsons and Gerald M. Platt, The American University (Cambridge: Harvard University Press,
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130 / Phillip B. Gonzales

1973), p. 399; see also the discussion of Jeffersonian intellectuals vs. Jacksonian social democrats
in Frederick E. Balderston, Managing Today’s University (San Francisco: Jossey-Bass, 1984),
pp. 272 –273.
40. Albuquerque Journal, December 4, 19, 22, 1985; Albuquerque Tribune, December 24, 26,
1985; Daily Lobo, December 9, 1985.
41. Daily Lobo, January 20, 1986; Albuquerque Journal, January 17, 19 (editorial), 1986.
42. Albuquerque Tribune, January 11, 25, February 5, 1986; Daily Lobo, January 28, Febru-
ary 11, 1986; Albuquerque Journal, January 19, February 5, 6, 12, 1986.
43. Daily Lobo, February 12, 26, 1986; Albuquerque Journal, February 7, 1986.
44. Official transcript, UNM Board of Regents Meeting, March 11, 1986. Albuquerque Jour-
nal, March 11, 1986; Daily Lobo, April 22, 24, 29, 1986.
45. Albuquerque Journal, April 23, 1986; Daily Lobo, April 22, 1986.
46. Daily Lobo, April 24, 1986; Albuquerque Journal, April 24, 1986; Albuquerque Tribune,
April 24, 1986.
47. Daily Lobo, April 25, 29; May 1, 12, 1986; Albuquerque Tribune, April 25, May 9, 21, 1986;
Albuquerque Journal, April 25, 30, May 7, 1986.
48. Albuquerque Journal, May 9, 1986; Daily Lobo, May 12, 1986; participant observation;
IMAGE de Albuquerque to Mr. Jerry Apodaca, April 30, 1986.
49. Albuquerque Journal, May 9, 25, June 4, 5, 1986; Albuquerque Tribune, May 20, 24, 1986.
50. J. J. Findlay, quoted in Barzun, The American University, p. 1. That trustees in general, who
usually come from the world of business, tend to lack adequate understanding of academia, is ar-
gued in John J. Corson, The Governance of Colleges and Universities: Modernizing Structure and Pro-
cesses (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1975), pp. 263–273.
51. See the Chronicle of Higher Education, October 13, 1993.
06-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 131

Six

In Search
of National Power
Chicanos Working the System on Immigration Reform, 1976 –1986

Christine Marie Sierra

n important transformation has taken place in the politics of Mexican

A Americans at the national level. In short, Chicano politics have

moved from “recognition politics” to the politics of “institu-
tionalized power.” 1 During the 1960s and early 1970s, a period marked by so-
cial protest and broad-scale political mobilization, Mexican Americans sought
national recognition as a legitimate and significant group within the Ameri-
can polity. With that end more or less achieved by the 1980s, attention turned
to another goal: the institutionalization of group power in national politics.
Over the past two decades, then, a critical challenge for Chicano politics has
been the creation of a long-term, well-rooted basis of group power to impact
U.S. policies at the national level.
Mexican American efforts to institutionalize their presence in national
politics continue to evolve. It is important to examine both the nature and the
consequences of Chicano attempts to penetrate previously inaccessible centers
of power and decision making. This study analyzes Chicano efforts specifically
directed toward the U.S. Congress to influence national policy on immigra-
tion reform.
Chicano activism on the issue of immigration spanning the decade of
1976 –1986 serves as the specific focus for analysis. An important evolution
in the nature of Chicano politics took place over this period of time. Chicanos
moved from grassroots mobilization on the issue to the development of a new
“Hispanic lobby” in Washington, D.C. In the end, the study reveals a grow-
ing presence of Chicanos in national politics. At the same time, it points to
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132 / Christine Marie Sierr a

important challenges that confront the group as it becomes incorporated into

the policymaking process.

Under the Carter Administration, 1976 –1980

Immigration as a policy issue has appeared at the top of the nation’s political
agenda intermittently throughout the twentieth century. In recent times, it was
President Jimmy Carter who promoted immigration reform as a national con-
cern of critical importance. On August 4, 1977, President Carter proposed to
Congress “a set of actions to help markedly reduce the increasing flow of un-
documented aliens in this country and to regulate the presence of the millions
of undocumented aliens already here.” 2
Carter’s proposals included the implementation of employer sanctions,
stricter enforcement of the U.S.-Mexican border, and an adjustment of status
or “amnesty” for long-term undocumented residents in the United States.
He also called for a restructured temporary foreign worker (H-2) certification
program for farm labor. He indicated continued “cooperation with source
countries” in pursuing U.S.-sponsored programs for economic assistance and
called for a “comprehensive review” of existing immigration laws and policies.
Carter acknowledged that his proposals developed from both “a thorough
Cabinet-level study” of immigration, previously commissioned by the Ford
Administration, and Congressional proposals that had been advanced since
the beginning of the decade.3
In October 1977, Carter’s legislative package was formally introduced into
Congress as the Alien Adjustment and Employment Act of 1977 (S. 2252/
H.R. 9531). The “Carter Plan,” as the President’s package came to be called,
launched Congressional efforts to solve the problem of undocumented immi-
gration — efforts that would span the next ten years. The Carter Plan also trig-
gered a rebirth of Chicano activism, which had been in relative decline since
the early 1970s.

“Abajo con la Migra”

Chicano opposition to the Carter Plan was immediate. The day after the presi-
dent unveiled his immigration proposals, Congressman Edward Roybal
(D-Calif.) cited his objections to the plan. Meeting in Washington, D.C.,
with representatives from various Chicano and other Latino organizations,
Congressman Roybal critiqued specific aspects of the proposal as “offensive”
to the Mexican-origin community in the United States and basically exploita-
tive in nature toward undocumented aliens.4 Although Roybal was serving as
chair of the newly formed Congressional Hispanic Caucus, he cautioned at-
tendees at the meeting that he was not speaking on behalf of the caucus. Ac-
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In Search of National Power / 133

cording to one of those in attendance, Roybal explained “that the Caucus it-
self had differing views of the various proposals being circulated and each mem-
ber had to take into consideration the constituencies they [sic] represented.
The members of the Caucus with farming communities have tended to sup-
port employer sanctions and a limited amnesty program.” 5
The National Council of La Raza (NCLR), one of the few national Mexi-
can American organizations at the time with headquarters in Washington,
D.C., quickly distributed copies of Carter’s message to Congress to all of its af-
filiate organizations and other selected groups. Attached was a statement from
the council’s national director, Raul Yzaguirre, indicating general council sup-
port for the “overall thrust and intent” of what the president had proposed.
Yzaguirre noted, however, that while the president’s proposal “provides a
framework from which to work, . . . [it] does not go far enough and does not
adequately address the root cause of the flow of undocumented aliens to the
United States.” At the same time, Yzaguirre expressed concern over the ef-
fects of employer sanctions on Hispanics and other minorities and the limited
legalization program.6
Other groups, such as the United Farm Workers Union (UFW), were more
decisive in their criticism of the Carter Plan. The UFW advocated for “total
amnesty to undocumented aliens,” higher immigration quotas for Mexico and
the Western hemisphere, and firm opposition to employer sanctions.7 As the
saliency of the immigration issue increased, a consensus of opposition rose from
most sectors of the Chicano community who chose to speak out on the issue.
Over the next several years, Chicano opposition to the Carter Plan found ex-
pression through a number of organized groups and community forums. Broadly
speaking, at least five major sources of activism can be identified: (1) single-
issue groups, (2) professional-provider groups, (3) membership organizations,
(4) national advocacy groups, and (5) formal political representatives.8
First, single-issue groups exploded on the scene. Their main intent was to
defend the rights of immigrants in the United States, with or without proper
documents. The nature of their memberships varied. In some cases, immi-
grants, documented and undocumented, comprised the membership of some
of these groups. In Los Angeles, the organization La Hermandad Mexicana Na-
cional, begun by longtime activists Bert Corona and Soledad “Chole” Ala-
torre, had such a membership.9 On the other hand, Chicanos from the uni-
versities and community representatives formed the organizational core of
many, such as the Bay Area Committee on Immigration and the Sacramento
Committee for a New Immigration Policy in Northern California, to name
only one area of intense activity.
Most prominent among these single-issue groups in terms of its ideologi-
cal impact on the immigration issue during this period was CASA, Centro de
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134 / Christine Marie Sierr a

Acción Social Autónoma, headquartered in Los Angeles. CASA advocated

working-class solidarity among Mexicans on both sides of the border. It de-
nounced past and present U.S. immigration policies, including the Carter Plan,
as repressive measures that violated the rights of both immigrant and domes-
tic workers.10 Overall, these groups that rallied in defense of immigrants’ rights
were, perhaps, among all sectors the most unequivocal in their condemnation
of Carter’s stand on immigration.
Second, professional-provider groups could be counted among the oppo-
nents to the Carter Plan. They included Chicano professionals who adminis-
tered to the needs of immigrants, through legal aid offices, social service agen-
cies, and community centers across the country. These Chicano professionals
took public positions on the issue as, literally, experts in the field. That is, their
“hands-on” experience working with immigrants largely served as the basis of
their knowledge and expertise. As an example, staff from Centro Legal de la
Raza in Oakland, California, tirelessly offered their assistance to numerous lo-
cal groups who sought information and education on the issue. Centro Legal
lawyers spoke at numerous community meetings and public forums explain-
ing the Carter Plan and its consequences.
Third, membership organizations constituted a major sphere of Chicano
activism. These organizations may also be referred to as voluntary organiza-
tions, given that individuals voluntarily join them and coalesce around simi-
lar interests. They address multiple issues of concern to their membership.
Because of the significance and anticipated ramifications of the Carter Plan,
many chose immigration as one of their top issues of concern. These groups
were wide ranging. Among them were political organizations such as the
Mexican American Political Association (MAPA), Chicano student groups
on numerous college campuses, and labor unions with large percentages of
Mexican workers.
The fourth category refers to a select group of organizations who sought to
play a leading role in the immigration policy debates at the national level.
They laid claim to nationally based constituencies and spoke on behalf of not
only Chicanos but the “Hispanic” population at large. While they continued
to address numerous policy issues, they invested a major part of their organi-
zational resources to work on immigration. As they set up legislative offices in
Washington, D.C., their work turned more and more to active lobbying “on
the Hill.”
Finally, a fifth important dimension to Chicano activism included a wide
array of Chicano political representatives — that is, public officials and polit-
ical party activists. Chicano caucuses within the Democratic Party structure
at the state and national levels took issue with the Carter Plan. Public officials
across the country also spoke to the issue. Their reactions, however, tended to
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In Search of National Power / 135

vary perhaps more than any other sector’s. As indicated above, some Hispanic
members of Congress immediately spoke out against the Carter Plan, while
others did not. In any event, during the Carter years this sector of political
representatives took a back seat to the local-level mobilization generated by
the immigrants’ rights groups and Chicano community organizations across the
country.
Chicano activism, based within and among these five sectors, attempted
to “Stop the Carter Plan” by employing tactics familiar both to social move-
ments and to the more conventional types of interest groups. For example,
workshops, community meetings, marches and demonstrations, and other
forms of organized protest transmitted intense Chicano opposition through-
out many local communities. There was also grassroots lobbying of individual
policymakers in Carter’s administration and in Congress.
Carter’s newly appointed commissioner of the Immigration and Naturaliza-
tion Service (INS), Leonel Castillo, came under intense criticism for his de-
fense of Carter’s proposals. The Committee on Chicano Rights, an organiza-
tion active in the San Diego area, published an informational pamphlet on
the Carter Plan which condemned Castillo’s role in the controversy. The pam-
phlet prominently displayed Castillo’s picture opposite the pictures of seven
Chicano/a leaders who had spoken out against the Carter Plan. The question
the committee graphically posed was “Which Side Are You On?/¿En qué lado
estás?” 11
Numerous groups launched campaigns to get people to send letters and
telegrams to Congress to urge defeat of the legislation. Senator Edward Ken-
nedy (D-Mass.) was a prime target for grassroots pressure since he was perceived
as a liberal ally yet was a cosponsor of Carter’s bill in the Senate.
Chicanos also appeared before Congressional committees to offer tes-
timony on S. 2252. Some of those appearing in Congressional hearings held
in Washington during 1978 included: Vilma Martínez, president and gen-
eral counsel of the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund
(MALDEF); Domingo González, Rural Affairs and Farm Labor Program rep-
resentative of the American Friends Service Committee; Rubén Bonilla, state
director of the Texas League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC);
and Delfino Varela, representing the Mexican American Political Associa-
tion (MAPA).12
When Congress sponsored hearings on the bill outside of Washington,
groups from the immediate local area came to testify. For example, in Septem-
ber 1978, hearings were held in Tucson and Nogales, Arizona. Farm labor
groups, represented by Jesús Romo and Guadalupe Sánchez, and Chicano fac-
ulty and students from the University of Arizona offered criticism of the Car-
ter proposals. Chicano support for the Carter Plan sometimes surfaced in such
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136 / Christine Marie Sierr a

hearings. However, this remained largely a minority position among Chicanos

who testified before Congress.13
Chicano activism centered in major urban areas in the Southwest during
this time. Chicano inroads into policymaking circles in the nation’s capital
were few but developing. National Chicano — or Hispanic — organizations
with offices in Washington monitored Congressional legislation. However,
these groups, which included the NCLR, LULAC, and MALDEF, were still
relatively new to the Washington scene and in the midst of building their leg-
islative offices or policy divisions.
Mexican Americans in Congress numbered only four in the House of Rep-
resentatives during the Carter years. They worked largely as individual repre-
sentatives, not as a unit. The Congressional Hispanic Caucus, formally estab-
lished in 1976, did not have an office or staff until 1978.14
There was only one formally organized Chicano lobby group in Washing-
ton at the time. Known as the National Congress of Hispanic American Citi-
zens, or El Congreso, its staff testified in Congressional hearings a few times.
However, the group was short-lived and defunct by the late 1970s.15
In general, then, Chicano opposition to the Carter Plan was expressed
through a number of important but largely disparate efforts. Some groups at-
tempted to forge some cohesion to their efforts by forming into coalitions.
However, for the most part, Chicano political activity remained as diverse as
the sectors from which it emanated.
In the fall of 1977, there was a major attempt to unite the various activist
groups. Approximately 2,600 persons from thirty-two states and Mexico trav-
eled to San Antonio, Texas, to attend the National Chicano/Latino Confer-
ence on Immigration and Public Policy. Prominent among the delegates were
representatives from immigrants’ rights groups, CASA, LULAC, La Raza
Unida Party (LRUP), and the Socialist Workers Party (SWP). All in atten-
dance indicated unified opposition to the Carter Plan. However, organiza-
tional rivalry undermined a major purpose of the conference — to forge a col-
lective plan of action against the Carter Plan. The conference degenerated
into factional in-fighting, sending many disappointed people back to their
communities without a collectively endorsed strategy for action.16 But the
momentum of opposition continued nonetheless.
The extent to which Chicano opposition to the Carter Plan gutted the
bill is difficult to determine. There can be little doubt that it was a significant
contributing factor to blocking the proposal. Jimmy Carter was unable to
forge the coalition of support in Congress necessary to enact his legislation.
Consequently, he had to settle for the establishment of a special commission
to study the problem and report policy recommendations to the president.
Government’s sponsorship of immigration reform thus became embodied
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In Search of National Power / 137

in the work of the Select Commission on Immigration and Refugees, estab-

lished in 1978. Chicano opposition to the Carter plan subsequently subsided
as the clear target of attack—a specific legislative initiative — dissolved and
immigration reform was put on the back burner.

The Consequences of Movement Activism

The overriding significance of Chicano activism on immigration reform dur-
ing the Carter Administration lies in the following considerations. First,
government-sponsored initiatives mobilized a community of shared interests,
igniting once again some semblance of social movement activism that had
been in relative decline in the 1970s. Consequently, a renewed sense of group
cohesion and political revitalization took place, at least among Chicano com-
munity leaders and activists, if not the general public.
Chicanos introduced new terms for debate on the immigration issue.
Chicano solidarity in defense of immigrants’ rights had never been so wide-
spread or unequivocal, as displayed through demands for “unconditional am-
nesty” for undocumented workers. Moreover, the notion of shared interests
regardless of citizenship and legal status found new levels of expression, if not
clear acceptance, within the Mexican-origin community as a whole.17 This
revitalized movement activism clarified the major features of a new Chicano
position on immigration reform before the nation. The ideological thrust of
the new position set the parameters for debate as Chicano leaders grappled
with the issue during the 1970s and 1980s. Its impact was also felt in national
policymaking arenas.
Finally, Chicano activism signaled an increasing sophistication and level
of organization, for the most part. One scholar commented on the nature of
Chicano involvement in the immigration debate of the 1970s as compared
with debates in previous eras. She perceived a broader and more highly orga-
nized Chicano position on immigration. In past restrictionist eras, Ann Craig
commented, no “national response from Mexican-American interest groups”
had been forthcoming. Similarly, Gilberto Cárdenas noted that Chicano de-
mands to end the “Bracero Program” in the 1960s were primarily articulated
through church-based groups, labor unions, and local community service or-
ganizations rather than through “autonomous Chicano organizations” as was
now occurring.18

Under the Reagan Administration, 1981–1986

The creation of the Select Commission on Immigration and Refugees had

ensured that immigration would appear as a national issue well beyond
Jimmy Carter’s years in the White House. As newly elected Ronald Reagan as-
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138 / Christine Marie Sierr a

sumed the presidency, the Select Commission issued its final report on March 1,
1981.19 Immigration reform then entered into a serious legislative battle.
Two members of Congress, one of whom had served on the Select Com-
mission, spearheaded the legislative strategy designed to bring the immigra-
tion “crisis” under control. On March 17, 1982, Senator Alan K. Simpson
(R-Wyo.) and Representative Romano Mazzoli (D-Ky.) introduced their pro-
posal on immigration reform, commonly known as the Simpson-Mazzoli bill.
For the next five years, Congress attempted to pass this piece of legislation.
The Simpson-Mazzoli bill died in the 97th and 98th Congresses (1980 –1982,
1982 –1984). However, a reconstituted version, which Simpson cosponsored
with Representative Peter Rodino (D-N.J.), emerged victorious in the waning
hours of the 99th Congress (1984 –1986). During these years, Chicano activ-
ism on immigration reform continued; however, it changed in important ways.
Chicano activism on immigration reform began to follow more tradi-
tional — or mainstream — political strategies and priorities. Emphasis was
placed on building power bases in Washington, D.C., in order to influence
policymakers more directly. Politics on Capitol Hill now determined the out-
come of immigration reform, insofar as a specific legislative act would set new
policies and directives. Consequently, Chicano activism on the issue neces-
sarily had to shift more toward lobbying Congress through conventional in-
terest group tactics and strategies. As the debate over immigration policy be-
came firmly planted within Congress, Mexican Americans sought ways to
increase their influence within the national legislative arena.

Chicano Politics “On the Hill”

Two of the activist sectors in the Chicano community previously described

played increasingly significant roles in the immigration debates of the 1980s:
national advocacy organizations and political representatives. Indeed, specific
groups from each of these sectors became key players in the bargaining and
compromise that dominated the policymaking process from 1981 to 1986.
From the first sector, the following groups played pivotal roles: LULAC,
MALDEF, the NCLR, and the UFW (AFL-CIO).
All of these groups, with the exception of the UFW, had set up legislative
offices in Washington, D.C. Their staff monitored Congressional action on
the immigration issue on a daily basis. They also began to establish working
relationships with members of Congress. Their offices issued position papers
and policy analyses on virtually every major provision of the immigration re-
form legislation. As their work on immigration increased, so did their visibil-
ity and familiarity with key members of Congress. Simultaneously, there was
a narrowing in the number of groups who articulated a Chicano position on
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In Search of National Power / 139

immigration reform before Congress. For the most part, the groups cited
above became the dominant spokespersons for “the Hispanic position” on im-
migration reform at the national level. Indeed, these groups constituted the
organizational core of a new “Hispanic lobby” in Washington —at least on the
immigration issue.20
Among political representatives, the Hispanic members of Congress were
key. Congressional decision making is, fundamentally, an insiders’ game. Thus
the role of these Hispanic representatives was considered central to Chicano
success in influencing Congressional action on immigration reform.
Merged together, these specific actors represented Chicanos (with a
Hispanic label) in policy making at the national level. To be sure, Chicano
activism continued “outside the beltway”— that is, beyond the nation’s capi-
tal as well. However, because of the predominance of the “insiders” in the pol-
itics of immigration from 1981 to 1986, their actions took on increased signifi-
cance. We now turn to an analysis of their roles.

Hispanics in Congress: “Boring from Within?”

As elected representatives, Hispanic members of Congress may perform nu-
merous functions within the legislative body. Fundamentally, they are charged
with two overriding tasks: (a) to legislate — to make and enact laws; and (b)
to represent constituent interests in the policymaking process. Constituent
representation for members of the U.S. House of Representatives specifically
relates to the representation of one’s district.
There is at least one additional dimension to representation, however, for
Hispanic members of Congress. They also assume the role of ethnic group rep-
resentatives. That is, both within and outside of Congress, they are viewed as
national spokespersons for Hispanics on issues of public policy. The contro-
versial issue of immigration challenged Hispanic legislators to reconcile
conflicting positions on this issue, expressed in their home districts, with the
needs and interests of the ethnic group at large.
Two periods of legislative behavior become important to distinguish. The
first period, 1980 –1984, spanning the 97th and 98th Congresses, can be char-
acterized as a period in which Hispanic members of Congress engaged in “veto
politics” on the issue of immigration reform. The second period, spanning the
work of the 99th Congress, 1985 –1986, can be described as the “politics of
compromise.”
The years 1980 –1984 saw the further development of the Congressional
Hispanic Caucus. The caucus expanded in size and visibility. At the outset of
the 1980s, Latinos in Congress numbered five voting members and one non-
voting delegate. All were in the House of Representatives. Mexican American
legislators, all of whom were elected in the 1960s, included Edward Roybal
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140 / Christine Marie Sierr a

(D-Calif.), Henry B. González (D-Tex.), E. Kika de la Garza (D-Tex.), and

Manuel Luján (R-N.M.). They were joined by Puerto Rican Congressman
Robert García (D-N.Y.), who was elected in 1978. The nonvoting delegate
was Baltasar Corrada from Puerto Rico.21
Elections in 1982 saw four new Mexican Americans seated in the House
of Representatives: Esteban Torres and Matthew Martínez from California,
Bill Richardson from New Mexico, and Solomon Ortíz from Texas. All Demo-
crats, they were elected from new districts created through reapportionment.
In 1984 another Mexican American representative, Albert Bustamante, a
Democrat from South Texas, joined the Hispanic delegation. Consequently,
in just four years, Latino representation in Congress increased by five, dou-
bling the number of Hispanic voting members in Congress. While they still
constituted only a tiny fraction of the total number (435) in the House of
Representatives, the new members brought more visibility to the group. They
began meeting on a regular basis as a caucus and increased the legislative ac-
tivities of their group. In coordinating their legislative activity around specific
issues, the caucus sought “to develop a united congressional effort on behalf
of Hispanic Americans.” 22

The 97th Congress, 1981–1982: The Play of Veto Politics

With the release of the Select Commission’s final report, the Congressional
Hispanic Caucus (CHC) began to address immigration as a priority issue. The
chair of the CHC, Robert García, used his prerogative as chair of the House
Subcommittee on Census and Population to convene hearings on Hispanic
immigration and the Select Commission’s final report. García set up the hear-
ings to permit a “Hispanic point of view” to be aired. During Hispanic Heri-
tage Week in September 1981, the caucus sponsored seminars on immigra-
tion, which included the participation of Senator Simpson, Representative
Mazzoli, Rubén Bonilla (LULAC), and Vilma Martínez (MALDEF).23
Using the Select Commission’s policy recommendations as the basis for
legislation, Senator Simpson and Representative Mazzoli introduced their bill
for major immigration reform on March 17, 1982, during the second session
of the 97th Congress. For the rest of the year, the caucus monitored progress
on the bill as it wound its way through the various committee hearings and
markups. But Hispanic action on the bill was more likely to emanate from in-
dividual members than from the caucus as a unit. No doubt this was a reflec-
tion of the fact that not all members shared similar positions nor equal com-
mitments to the issue.
For example, caucus members communicated to the chair of the House
Judiciary Committee, Peter Rodino, their concern that the Simpson-Mazzoli
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In Search of National Power / 141

bill “[ran] counter to this nation’s commitment to civil rights and due process
for all people residing in the United States.” But this message was sent under
four individual names, not as a caucus-endorsed position. Similarly, only Ed-
ward Roybal and Robert García wrote to Rodino urging him to strike the tem-
porary foreign worker (H-2) provisions from the bill.24 But the visible actions
of only one or two Hispanic members of Congress would be sufficient to con-
solidate caucus opposition to the bill by the end of the congressional session.
The Senate passed its version of the bill on August 17, 1982, by the lop-
sided vote of 81-18. But on the House side, the bill was blocked. Opponents
of Simpson-Mazzoli introduced almost three hundred amendments to gut the
bill. Congressman Edward Roybal led the opposition with over a hundred
amendments of his own, drafted in late working sessions by staff from his con-
gressional office and one or two Latino organizations, most notably MALDEF.25
In the end, a number of factors held the Simpson-Mazzoli bill hostage in the
final hours of the 97th Congress. The complexity and scope of the bill and its
last-minute consideration —in a lame duck session —were significant factors.
Division among traditionally aligned interests within Congress presented an
additional obstacle to the bill’s passage. In particular, division within the
Democratic party on the bill’s merits was key. Chicano opposition to Simpson-
Mazzoli clearly had whittled away the expected Democratic consensus on
the bill.
Given these conditions, Hispanic opposition, combined with support
from the Congressional Black Caucus and liberal allies, proved to be a neces-
sary and sufficient force to stop the proposal. Journalists and political observers
in fact claimed an “unexpected political victory” for Latino lobbyists and mem-
bers of Congress.26 Yet many recognized that with changing circumstances the
Hispanic victory could prove to be only a fleeting moment of success.

The 98th Congress, 1983–1984: Veto Politics Revisited

Chicanos continued their battle against the Simpson-Mazzoli bill when it was
reintroduced in the 98th Congress. But they quickly learned that the strategy
of veto politics had its limitations. They were compelled to search for alter-
native ways to deal with the issue.
In May 1983, the Senate once again quickly and decisively approved the
Simpson-Mazzoli bill by a vote of 76-18. As in the past, Chicanos had to ex-
ert what influence they had in the House of Representatives. That year Chi-
canos took their demands of discontent to the House leadership. Simpson-
Mazzoli was ready for floor consideration by the fall of 1983. However, due to
partisan politics and, in part, Latino lobbying on the bill, Speaker of the House
Thomas P. “Tip” O’Neill kept the measure locked away in the Rules Commit-
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142 / Christine Marie Sierr a

tee, delaying action indefinitely on the bill. O’Neill also challenged Hispanic
legislators to devise their own proposal.
Hispanic veto politics appeared successful once again in stalling progress
on the bill. Certainly, commentators from across the country thought so. In
opinion columns, letters to the editor, and editorials in the nation’s leading
newspapers, Latino opponents of Simpson-Mazzoli were heavily criticized for
obstructing badly needed immigration reform.27
Latinos both within and outside of Congress began searching for a new
strategy of opposition. Taking Speaker O’Neill’s challenge to heart, Represen-
tative Bill Richardson (D-N.M.) expressed the new concern: “It’s important
that we not be viewed as obstructionist. We have to come up with a serious
alternative. If we don’t have a serious alternative, [Simpson-Mazzoli] deserves
to pass.” 28
Once again the ball passed to Congressman Edward Roybal to sponsor the
alternative legislative strategy: the drafting of a bill to rival Simpson-Mazzoli.
Staff from several Washington-based organizations, including MALDEF,
LULAC, and the NCLR assisted Roybal in drafting H.R. 4909, the Immigra-
tion Reform Act of 1984. Roybal introduced his bill at the start of the second
session of the 98th Congress.
According to a former legislative assistant to the Congressman, Roybal
felt that his bill should represent a “wish list” of Chicano policy recommen-
dations for immigration reform. To be sure, the Roybal bill addressed the ma-
jor concerns Chicanos had with the Simpson-Mazzoli bill. H.R. 4909 elimi-
nated employer sanctions and the temporary farm labor program. It created a
strong labor law enforcement package and provided for a more generous le-
galization program.29
The bill was appealing to Chicanos and their allies. It eliminated the worst
aspects of Simpson-Mazzoli, and the opposition now could posture itself in a
positive light, as working for immigration reform. Under the direction of sec-
ond-term chairman Robert García, the legislative staff of the CHC sponsored
briefings on the Roybal bill “in conjunction with a coalition of organizations
supporting immigration reform, but opposed to the passage of the Simpson-
Mazzoli bill.” 30
Chicanos across the country united behind the Roybal bill, which offered
both a symbolic and a substantive alternative to Simpson-Mazzoli. Those or-
ganizations that helped to draft the Roybal bill generated letters of support
from their own executive directors and other organizations to Speaker Tip
O’Neill, requesting movement on Roybal’s measure. The National Council of
Churches wrote O’Neill to urge that H.R. 4909 “be considered an integral
component of the debate [on immigration] and permitted . . . a hearing.” The
American Jewish Committee (AJC) urged serious consideration of the bill,
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In Search of National Power / 143

noting that it was “sensitive to the needs of the Jewish and other ethnic com-
munities in the United States.” The AJC reaffirmed its position that immi-
gration reform legislation was necessary.31
The flurry of activity around the Roybal bill, however, did not prove suc-
cessful. This time Latino efforts to derail Simpson-Mazzoli were cut short. The
Roybal bill never even got a hearing. Several things proved problematic. First,
Hispanic members of Congress were divided on some provisions of the Roybal
bill. Manuel Luján, the sole Republican in the caucus, opposed the legalization
program. Kika de la Garza supported the farm labor provision in the Simpson-
Mazzoli bill. The Roybal bill eliminated this provision. As one Latino lobby-
ist explained, “The growers put up the money for his campaigns and elections.
Hispanics vote him in —are his base of support in terms of votes. But grower
money constitutes his resource.” 32
Moreover, there was a general reluctance among Hispanic members of
Congress to exert leadership on the issue. A congressional staffer for one of the
Hispanic members of Congress explained that immigration is seen as a politi-
cally dangerous and costly issue on which to advocate. Her words were echoed
by one scholar who stated that immigration is considered by many as a “po-
litically no-win issue.” One Hispanic legislator who was serving his first term in
Congress characterized his role as offering “behind-the-scenes” support for
Roybal’s bill; he “didn’t want to take away the thunder from Roybal or García.” 33
Congressman Roybal had had a long history of advocacy on immigration
legislation in Congress. He felt personally committed to the issue. Conse-
quently, his leadership came as no surprise. Robert García assumed some leader-
ship responsibility because he was chair of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus
at the time. However, aside from Roybal and García, Hispanic members of
Congress seemed to shy away from visible roles on immigration.
Divided opinion on the merits of the Roybal bill and individual calcula-
tions of political risks prevented the caucus from formally endorsing —as a
group — the Roybal bill. Without strong and firm CHC backing, it is no won-
der that “a ferment of support within Congress” for the Latino alternative to
Simpson-Mazzoli never materialized.” 34
Roybal’s legislative style also came into play. While he found cosponsors
for his bill from the CHC and other members of Congress, he did not lay the
appropriate groundwork for pushing his bill forward. Several lobbyists and con-
gressional staff characterized Roybal as a loner when it came to handling legis-
lation. They claimed that he did not “wire” enough support for his bill through
the expected intimate give-and-take with others, including party leaders, in
Congress. One lobbyist went so far as to say, “If you want something blocked,
give it to Roybal; but if you want something passed, find someone else.” 35
The failure to move the Roybal bill through the House also pointed to
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144 / Christine Marie Sierr a

critical features of the congressional decision-making process. The key to draft-

ing legislation and getting it passed in Congress rests largely in committee as-
signments. No Hispanic member of Congress served on the House Judiciary
Committee, from whose subcommittee immigration legislation originates.
Further, it was highly unlikely that an immigration bill that came from out-
side the subcommittee would advance. The rules of decentralized decision
making within Congress would not allow this to happen easily.
Finally, the ideological position advanced by the Roybal bill ran counter
to the ideological position the Congress has usually taken with regard to im-
migration policy. The Simpson-Mazzoli bill promoted in essence a restrictive
immigration policy with a back door opened for the continued importation of
a temporary “foreign” farm labor force. The Roybal bill promoted a liberal im-
migration policy with no provision for temporary guestworkers. It also ad-
vanced the rights of all workers by calling for the vigilant enforcement of this
country’s labor laws. Only the most intense and broad-based support could
have pushed the Roybal bill beyond the ideological predispositions within the
U.S. Congress —if even that were possible.
With their affirmative strategy on the rocks, Latinos once again resorted to
veto politics. Roybal offered provisions of his bill as amendments to Simpson-
Mazzoli during floor debate. The Congressional Hispanic Caucus issued guide-
lines on how to vote on several key amendments. Hispanic members argued
passionately on the floor of the House for the elimination of employer sanc-
tions and retention of the legalization provision in the bill. But, in the words
of one legislative assistant, these actions were “too little, too late.” 36
On June 20, 1984, after one week of heated debate, the House of Represen-
tatives passed its version of the Simpson-Mazzoli bill by a mere five votes, 216-
211. The Congressional Hispanic Caucus unanimously opposed the bill’s final
passage, although members deviated in their votes on particular amendments
to the bill. The fate of Simpson-Mazzoli then passed to a Senate-House con-
ference committee that had to reconcile differences between the Senate and
House versions of the bill.
In the meantime, Chicano opposition “outside the beltway” pushed its
way to the forefront of the battle. Groups across the country protested the pas-
sage of the bill. Chicanos took advantage of partisan politics during the 1984
presidential election year to make their position known. The Democratic
party and its candidates were lobbied heavily to take firm stands of opposition
to Simpson-Mazzoli. Televised proceedings of the Democratic party’s national
convention broadcast Chicano opposition to Simpson-Mazzoli to a national
audience. Walter Mondale, the Democratic nominee for the U.S. presidency,
subsequently withdrew his support for Simpson-Mazzoli.
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In Search of National Power / 145

By the time the Senate and House conferees met in September of 1984 to
move the bill forward, a multitude of problems prevented final approval. It
would take yet one more round for this legislation to become law. For Chi-
canos, it would be in the next round that a new politics of compromise would
replace the veto politics of the past.

The 99th Congress, 1985–1986: The Politics of Compromise

The years spanning the life of the 99th Congress saw the breakdown of con-
sensus among Chicanos on immigration reform. At the start of the new year,
Congressman Edward Roybal, in a surprise move to friends and foes alike, in-
troduced another immigration bill. However, his Immigration Act of 1985
had a striking resemblance to the previous Simpson-Mazzoli bill. In fact, Roy-
bal’s new bill contained the very feature condemned most virulently by Latino
groups — employer sanction provisions.37
The Congressman maintained that he introduced his bill as “bait.” He
wanted to draw out Senator Simpson’s true position on immigration. Roybal
explained that with Simpson thinking the opposition was weakening, the
Senator would introduce “an even worse bill.” With Simpson adopting a more
extreme position, Roybal felt that the possibilities of blocking congressional
efforts to pass another version of Simpson-Mazzoli would improve.38
Legislative aides to Roybal indicated that employer sanctions seemed sure
to be included in any immigration legislation passed by Congress. They con-
tended that some of the Latino organizations in Washington were also think-
ing that a compromise on employer sanctions would be necessary. So Roybal
decided to “call the question” in his own way. Roybal’s aides defended the bill
by pointing to how it still departed from the previous Simpson-Mazzoli bill,
even in its provisions for employer sanctions.39
Regardless of Roybal’s well-meaning strategy, Latino opposition to his ’85
bill was immediate. MALDEF led the criticism. One of its attorneys com-
mented, “He [Roybal] included sanctions without consulting anyone and
made concessions without getting anything in return.” On the other hand,
Senator Simpson, as expected, hailed Roybal’s bill as evidence that a new
mood prevailed among Hispanics on immigration reform. The Senator com-
mented: “It took a lot of courage for Ed Roybal to put in a bill with employer
sanctions in it. . . . It showed me that he, too, wants to do something (about
immigration).” 40
In the end, the Roybal bill simply died for lack of support from the
Chicano community. This was the only comprehensive legislative initiative
offered by any Hispanic member of Congress for the duration of the 99th
Congress. Some sponsored particular amendments to the reconstituted bill,
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146 / Christine Marie Sierr a

cosponsored this time by Simpson and Peter Rodino (D-N.J.). But once again
Latinos were unable to initiate successfully an alternative legislative package
to rival the one preordained by congressional leaders.
A breakdown of consensus on immigration reform became increasingly
apparent as the Hispanic congressmen and national advocacy organizations
reevaluated their previous positions. The junior members of the Hispanic
Caucus indicated a new willingness to support the Simpson-Rodino bill. They
spoke to three primary considerations: (1) the need to engage in “realistic poli-
tics,” (2) constituency pressure to “do something” on immigration reform, and
(3) their desire to shed their obstructionist label and improve their stature
within Congress.
Congressman Bill Richardson (D-N.M.) underscored the need to com-
promise and “mainstream” Chicano demands in order “to break into the po-
litical infrastructure.” He claimed that employer sanctions were now inevi-
table. Chicanos had to push for antidiscriminatory safeguards against employer
sanctions and fight for the retention of the amnesty program in the legisla-
tion. He leveled criticism at those who ignored the reality of the political
situation.41
Several others pointed to constituent pressure to enact some type of leg-
islation, but their constituents supported the measure for different reasons.
Calls for action revolved around two prevalent concerns: the need to prevent
further undocumented immigration into the United States and the need for a
legalization program. In the spirit of political expediency, to “do something”
on immigration, numerous members of Congress, including some of the
Hispanic members, voted for the Simpson-Rodino bill because it was “better
than nothing.” 42
Additional justifications for vote switching on Simpson-Rodino pointed
to the concern that the time was now or never to enact a legalization program.
Members expressed concern that increasing anti-Hispanic, anti-immigrant
sentiment across the country would result in more restrictive legislation in the
future if something was not forthcoming now. Bill Richardson characterized
the bill as “the last gasp for legalization to take place in a humane way.”
Esteban Torres (D-Calif.) commended some of his colleagues for their “coura-
geous” but “difficult” vote on Simpson-Rodino. In his “Dear Colleague” letter,
Torres stated: “Public attitudes about the illegal immigration situation are be-
coming increasingly harsh. I am convinced that continued failure by Con-
gress to address this problem would have resulted in a far more punitive mea-
sure in the future. The immigration bill that you supported is probably the
best legislation possible under current political conditions.” 43
Five of the eleven voting members of the Hispanic delegation in Congress
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In Search of National Power / 147

voted for the Simpson-Rodino bill. Divisions within the Hispanic caucus
no doubt contributed to the collapse of opposition against the bill from other
sectors. Only one Black member of Congress had previously voted for the
Simpson-Mazzoli bill; this time nearly half of the Congressional Black Caucus
voted for Simpson-Rodino. Final passage was achieved through the lopsided
vote of 230-166.
The organizational core of the Hispanic lobby in Washington also expe-
rienced a breakdown in consensus from 1985 to 1986. Since the late 1970s,
LULAC, MALDEF, the NCLR, and the UFW had maintained unified oppo-
sition to restrictive immigration policy. Not without their differences and dis-
agreements, these organizations nevertheless coordinated their efforts to de-
feat Simpson-Mazzoli in previous Congresses. However, in the 99th Congress
their consensus on strategy dissolved. Like the Congressional Hispanic Cau-
cus, Latino lobby groups and their closest allies began to engage in the poli-
tics of compromise.
Breaking from its unequivocal opposition to any kind of guestworker pro-
gram, the UFW lent its support to the agricultural /farm labor provision in the
bill, known as the Schumer compromise. The UFW’s interests were repre-
sented by Howard Berman (D-Calif.), who played a major role in crafting the
Schumer compromise. The union remained concerned about various provi-
sions in the bill, but it involved itself in the politics of compromise in order
to strengthen its position and to protect its interests should the immigration
bill pass.
The National Council of La Raza attempted a “reasonable approach” to
immigration reform. Its staff considered employer sanctions inevitable, so the
group attempted to bargain on employer sanctions to win other concessions.
The NCLR also promoted the Schumer compromise “behind the scenes.” Its
staff considered that this was a good way to engage in “damage control” and
contain the ill effects of the immigration bill should it pass.
The reasons compelling Latino groups to engage in their various strategies
of bargaining and compromise included the following:
(a) The immigration bill was before Congress for the third time. The old
strategy of veto politics would not work again.
(b) Grassroots interest and opposition to the congressional initiative were
not as intense as in previous periods; public opinion polls showed a
divided Hispanic community on immigration reform.
(c) The lobby groups wanted to maintain their credibility with members
of Congress and other policymakers; they sought ways to continue to
be part of the process of decision making.
(d) Ideally they wanted to kill the bill. If the bill did indeed fail but surfaced
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148 / Christine Marie Sierr a

again in the next Congress, they wanted to be in a stronger position

to lobby on it.
(e) The groups wanted to cut their losses should they be unable to kill
the bill.44

In contrast to the other groups, MALDEF continued its unequivocal op-

position to the Simpson-Rodino bill. Consequently, it gained the reputation
in Washington as being “purist” or “absolutist” in its politics. Lobbyists on im-
migration reform maintained that MALDEF’s “hard-line” position was im-
portant in reaffirming certain principles. They suggested that MALDEF rep-
resented the position of “the left” on immigration reform. At the same time,
they contended that MALDEF was no longer taken seriously by members of
Congress. They said that the organization had damaged its own credibility by
refusing to engage in the politics of compromise.

The Final Outcome: A General Assessment

On November 6, 1986, President Ronald Reagan signed the Simpson-Rodino

bill into law as the Immigration Reform and Control Act of 1986 (IRCA). Em-
bedded in the new immigration policy were contributions made by Hispanic
members of Congress and the Latino lobby groups. Perhaps most significant
were Latino efforts to ensure that the final bill included a legalization program
for undocumented immigrants. At the same time, major components of a re-
strictive immigration policy remained intact. Indeed, IRCA included an em-
ployer sanctions provision, a policy long opposed by Chicano activists as po-
tentially discriminatory against racial and ethnic minority groups.45
In the end, divergent assessments of the costs and benefits of IRCA em-
anated from Chicano and Latino activist circles. At the same time, Mexican
American and Latino public opinion on immigration reform revealed a good
deal of ambivalence. Public opinion surveys showed Mexican Americans to be
divided on various aspects of immigration reform. For the most part, Mexican
Americans tended to support a legalization program for undocumented im-
migrants. On the question of employer sanctions, sentiments were less clear.
In some polls, Hispanic support for employer sanctions ran as high as 63 per-
cent in favor. In others, Hispanic opinion was evenly divided. Importantly,
nativity appeared to be a key variable, with the foreign-born voicing much
more opposition to employer sanctions than the native born.46
The full effects of a broad and complex piece of legislation such as IRCA
will take years to unfold. What can be more clearly pinpointed, however, are
the implications of the shifting politics pursued by Chicanos over this time
period.
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In Search of National Power / 149

The politics of immigration from 1976 to 1986 point to an important evo-

lution in Chicano politics. Chicanos penetrated policymaking arenas to a
much greater extent than ever before. This is most clearly seen at the national
level with the development of a Hispanic lobby on Capitol Hill. Hispanic
members of Congress and national Hispanic organizations became significant
players in congressional decision making on immigration reform. Overall,
Chicano efforts to influence American public policy, from the local to na-
tional level, increased in their organization, political sophistication, and
significance.
As Chicanos have found their way into the policymaking process, the
nature of their political endeavors has also changed. In the case of immigra-
tion, Chicano activism on the issue initially evolved as a social protest move-
ment against government policy initiatives. Over time, however, Chicano ef-
forts to influence immigration policy increasingly reflected more conventional
interest-group strategies and behavior, as Hispanic elected officials and na-
tional lobby organizations assumed predominant roles in the policymaking
process. The transition from social movement to interest group politics reflects
the successful penetration of previously inaccessible policymaking arenas.47
Scholars have noted similar patterns of development in the politics of
other social groups, particularly Blacks and women. Since the 1960s, the
struggles for Black political empowerment and women’s rights have shifted
from the politics of protest to increased participation in conventional forms
of political behavior. In particular, these groups have vigorously pursued the
incorporation of Black and female elected officials in the policymaking pro-
cess and the development of strong lobby organizations at the national, state,
and local levels. To be sure, scholars have argued that “protest is not enough”
to empower previously disenfranchised groups and incorporate them into the
political system. Electoral politics and interest-group lobbying are also neces-
sary complements to protest strategies.48
As Chicanos seek to further their incorporation into the political system,
they will face numerous challenges and political trade-offs in what is won or
lost for the group’s benefit. As seen in the politics of immigration reform, the
process of incorporation pressures political elites — public officials, organiza-
tional leaders, and community activists — to moderate their demands on the
political system. As Chicano leaders establish themselves within decision-
making circles and learn the rules of the game, they are much more likely to
pursue incremental policy goals — that is, narrow, short-term, policy gains —
and to avoid formulating and advancing more comprehensive and far-
reaching demands on the political system.
Political scientist Lenneal Henderson has described how the politics of in-
crementalism took hold in the Black community during the 1970s. According
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150 / Christine Marie Sierr a

to Henderson, Black politicians spoke to the necessity of “incremental policy

changes to insure black survival” in the 1970s. Black politicians “counsel[ed]
the black community to be ‘realistic’ and ‘pragmatic’ in their policy demands
and in their expectations of white and black politicians.” Many Black leaders
perceived a national backlash against programs and goals associated with the
era of the Great Society. They consequently felt that Blacks had to concen-
trate on protecting the gains they had already won. Henderson thus argued
that the politics of “idealistic protest” had yielded to a “cautious politics of
backlash pragmatism.” His concern was that backlash pragmatism would in-
hibit the further development of policy gains for Blacks under the Carter
Administration.49
At least in the policy area of immigration, Chicano politics reveal a sim-
ilar move from idealistic protest to the politics of backlash pragmatism.
Hispanic leaders contended that a hostile political climate toward Latinos
and immigrants compelled them to compromise in their issue positions in or-
der to avoid more punitive measures against these groups. In the end, the pres-
sure to compromise resulted in a breakdown of consensus among Hispanics,
resulting in more modified positions than had previously been articulated.
The extent to which Chicano politics are expressed in the future within the
framework of “backlash pragmatism” may prove problematic. Incremental and
defensive policy positions alone will not, in the long run, adequately resolve
many of the intractable issues confronting the Chicano/Latino community.
The articulation of bold and comprehensive policies, oftentimes associated
with social movement politics, could help to infuse Chicano politics —indeed
American politics —with sorely needed challenges to “politics as usual” and
galvanize fresh approaches to pressing public policy concerns. In the end, the
institutionalization of group power requires not only “sitting at the table” with
national policymakers; it also implies the ability to produce effective and long-
lasting benefits for those communities whose interests are being represented.

Notes
1. John A. García, “Chicano Political Development: Examining Participation in the ‘Decade
of the Hispanic,’” La Red/ The Net, no. 72 (September 1983): 17.
2. President Jimmy Carter, the White House, Message to Congress, Press Release, Office of
the White House Press Secretary, August 4, 1977, p. 1.
3. Ibid., pp. 1–7.
4. Cosme J. Barcelo, Jr., Staff, to Raul Yzaguirre, National Director, National Council of La
Raza, Washington, D.C., Memorandum, August 5, 1977, pp. 2 – 4.
5. Ibid., p. 1.
6. Ibid., pp. 1, 2.
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In Search of National Power / 151

7. United Farm Workers of America, AFL-CIO, “Resolution 73,” Resolution on Immigration

Reform, Third Constitutional Convention, Fresno, California, August 26 –28, 1977; Harry Bern-
stein, “UFW Denounces Carter Program on Illegal Aliens,” Los Angeles Times, Sunday, August 28,
1977, part 1, pp. 3, 26.
8. This categorization results from the author’s long-standing research agenda on Chicano
mobilization on immigration reform.
9. For an insightful memoir from Bert Corona about his organizational experiences with La
Hermandad Mexicana, see Mario T. García, Memories of Chicano History: The Life and Narrative of
Bert Corona (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994).
10. See David G. Gutiérrez, Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants, and
the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), chap. 6.
11. Committee on Chicano Rights, Inc., “Stop Carter’s Immigration Plan!: A Chicano Per-
spective on the President’s Immigration Proposals,” pamphlet, c. 1977–1978.
12. U.S. Congress, House, Committee on the Judiciary, S. 2252: Alien Adjustment and Em-
ployment Act of 1977, Parts 1 and 2, Hearings before the Subcommittee on Immigration and the
Committee on the Judiciary, 95th Congress, 2nd session, May 3, 4, 9 –11, 16 –18, September 1, 2,
1978.
13. Congressional Information Service, Abstracts of Congressional Publications and Legislative
Histories, Washington, D.C., 1976 –1979.
14. Interviews with legislative staff from the Congressional Hispanic Caucus, Washington,
D.C., December 1985.
15. Congressional Information Service, Abstracts of Congressional Publications, 1975 –1979.
16. Alan Bailey, “Hispanics Rap Amnesty Plan,” San Antonio Express, October 31, 1977,
pp. 1A, 10A; Danny García, “Near-Chaos Marks End of Chicano Meet,” San Antonio Light, Oc-
tober 31, 1977, pp. 1, 12.
17. As noted in another section of this article, public opinion polls during this time showed
Mexican Americans in general to be ambivalent on a number of issues concerning immigration.
18. Ann L. Craig, Mexican Immigration: Changing Terms of the Debate in the United States and
Mexico, Working Papers in U.S.-Mexican Studies 4 (La Jolla, Calif.: Program in United States –
Mexican Studies, University of California, San Diego, 1981), pp. 9 –10; Gilberto Cárdenas, “An
Assessment of Chicano Views and Reaction toward Undocumented Immigration,” unpublished
paper, Center for Immigration Policy Studies, Georgetown University, Washington, D.C.,
May 24, 1983.
19. U.S. Congress, House and Senate, Committees on the Judiciary, U.S. Immigration Policy
and the National Interest, Final Report and Recommendations of the Select Commission on Im-
migration and Refugee Policy with Supplemental Views by Commissioners, March 1, 1981. 97th
Congress, 1st session, Joint Committee Print, no. 8, August 1981.
20. See Christine Marie Sierra, “Latino Organizational Strategies on Immigration Reform:
Success and Limits in Public Policymaking,” in Roberto E. Villarreal and Norma G. Hernández,
eds., Latinos and Political Coalitions: Political Empowerment for the 1990s, (New York: Greenwood
Press, 1991), pp. 61– 80.
21. Delegates in Congress are not allowed to vote on the House floor. However, they do vote
in committees.
22. García, “Chicano Political Development,” p. 9; Congressional Hispanic Caucus informa-
tion sheet, 1985.
23. Congressional Hispanic Caucus, Avance, March 1981 and August – September 1981; U.S.
Congress, House, Committee on Post Office and Civil Service, Hispanic Immigration and Select
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152 / Christine Marie Sierr a

Commission on Immigration’s Final Report, Hearings before the Subcommittee on Census and Pop-
ulation, 97th Congress, 1st session, April 27, 28, 1981, Committee Print, Serial No. 97-16, p. 1.
24. Edward R. Roybal, Robert García, and Matthew Martínez, Members of Congress, to the
Honorable Peter Rodino, Jr., Chairman, Committee on the Judiciary, U.S. House of Representa-
tives, September 13, 1982; E. (Kika) de la Garza, Chairman, Committee on Agriculture, to the
Honorable Peter W. Rodino, Jr., Chairman, Committee on the Judiciary, U.S. House of Represen-
tatives, September 14, 1982; and Edward R. Roybal and Robert García, Members of Congress, to
the Honorable Peter Rodino, Jr., Chairman, Committee on the Judiciary, U.S. House of Represen-
tatives, September 14, 1982.
25. Interviews with congressional staff of Edward Roybal, U.S. House of Representatives,
Washington, D.C., 1985 –1986; also see Estevan T. Flores, “1982 Simpson-Mazzoli Immigration
Reform and the Hispanic Community,” La Red/ The Net, no. 64 (February 1983): pp. 14 –16.
26. Frank del Olmo, “Latinos Should Offer Own Immigration Ideas,” Los Angeles Times, De-
cember 30, 1982, n.p.
27. See Leo R. Chávez, “Hispanics and Immigration Reform,” Nuestro, October 1983, for an
insightful critique of this national response and a clarification of the Latino position on immi-
gration reform.
28. Karen Tumulty, “House Likely to Pass Immigration Reform Bill,” Los Angeles Times,
December 1, 1983, n.p., quoting Representative Bill Richardson.
29. Interview with Dan Maldonado, Washington, D.C., May 22, 1986; U.S. Congress, House,
Congressman Edward Roybal introducing the Immigration Reform Act of 1984, H.R. 4909, 98th
Congress, 2nd session, February 22, 1984, Congressional Record, pp. H781–H782; Hispanic Link
News Service, “The Immigration Bills: How They Compare,” Hispanic Link Weekly Report 2,
no. 10 (March 5, 1984), Special Pull-Out Supplement, pp. 3– 6.
30. Robert García, Chairman, Congressional Hispanic Caucus, to Representative Matthew
Martínez, March 2, 1984.
31. William K. Du Val, Chairman, Immigration and Refugee Program Committee, and Dale
S. de Haan, Director, Immigration and Refugee Program, Church World Service, National
Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America, to the Honorable Thomas P.
O’Neill, March 1, 1984; Howard I. Friedman, President, The American Jewish Committee, New
York City, to the Honorable Thomas P. O’Neill, February 23, 1984.
32. Conversation with a Latino lobbyist, Washington, D.C., October 31, 1985; also Memo-
randum to Members of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus from Bob García, March 29, 1984.
33. Interview with Elaine Sierra, staff member, Congressional office of Representative Ed-
ward Roybal, Washington, D.C., November, 1985; Craig, Changing Terms, p. 13; interview with
a Hispanic member of Congress, U.S. House of Representatives, Washington, D.C., July 16, 1986.
34. Interview with Dan Maldonado, Washington, D.C., May 22, 1986.
35. Conversation with a lobbyist, Washington, D.C., December 1985.
36. Conversation with the legislative assistant to a member of the Congressional Black
Caucus, Washington, D.C., December 1985.
37. For a critique of several aspects of the Roybal immigration bill of 1985, see Leo R. Chávez,
“Roybal Jumps Ship on Immigration Bill,” San Diego Union, January 20, 1985, p. C-6.
38. Interview with Congressman Edward Roybal, Washington, D.C., July 22, 1986.
39. Interviews with Elaine Sierra, October 1985, and with Dan Maldonado, July, 1986, both
in Washington, D.C.
40. Senator Alan Simpson quoted in Julia Malone, “Hispanic Groups Foresee Backlash, Ease
Opposition to Immigration Bills,” Christian Science Monitor, April 2, 1985, pp. 1, 60; Richard
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In Search of National Power / 153

Fajardo, attorney for the Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund (MALDEF),
quoted in Mercedes Olivera, “Hispanic Groups Oppose Immigration Reform Legislation,” Dallas,
Texas News, February 24, 1985.
41. Congressman Bill Richardson, speech before conference “Ignored Voices: Public Opinion
Polls and the Latino Community,” The University of Texas at Austin, October 18, 1985.
42. Interviews and conversations with Hispanic members of Congress and their staffs, Wash-
ington, D.C., 1985 –1986; Nadine Cohodas, “Congress Clears Overhaul of Immigration Law,”
Congressional Quarterly Weekly Report, October 18, 1986, pp. 2595 –2596. See also U.S. Con-
gress, House, House Debate on H.R. 3810, 99th Congress, 2nd session, Congressional Record,
October 9, 1986.
43. Esteban E. Torres, Member of Congress, U.S. House of Representatives, Washington, D.C.,
Dear Colleague letter, October 20, 1986; also Cohodas, “Congress Clears Overhaul,” p. 2595,
quoting Bill Richardson (D-N.M.).
44. Clarification and elaboration on most of these points were made by Dale Frederick Swartz,
Director, the National Citizenship, Immigration and Refugee Forum, Washington, D.C., in an in-
terview conducted on November 8, 1986.
45. Evidence suggests that Chicano concerns over the potentially discriminatory effects of em-
ployer sanctions were valid. See United States General Accounting Office, Immigration Reform:
Employer Sanctions and the Question of Discrimination, Report to the Congress, March 1990.
46. For further elaboration of these and additional public opinion data, see Christine Marie
Sierra, “Latinos and the ‘New Immigration’: Responses from the Mexican American Commu-
nity,” Renato Rosaldo Lecture Series Monograph, vol. 3, 1987: 33– 61.
47. For a similar argument regarding the women’s movement, see Anne N. Costain, “Repre-
senting Women: The Transition from Social Movement to Interest Group,” in Women, Power and
Policy, edited by Ellen Boneparth (New York: Pergamon Press, 1982), pp. 19 –37.
48. Rufus P. Browning, Dale Rogers Marshall, and David H. Tabb, Protest Is Not Enough: The
Struggle of Blacks and Hispanics for Equality in Urban Politics (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1984); and Ellen Boneparth, ed., Women, Power and Policy (New York: Pergamon Press, 1982).
49. Lenneal J. Henderson, “Black Politics and the Carter Administration,” Journal of Afro-
American Issues 5, no. 3 (Summer 1977): 244.
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Seven

Chicano Politics
and U.S. Policy
in Central America,
1979–1990

Antonio González

Introduction

The formation of U.S. foreign policy is generally the province of cliques of

East Coast think tanks, congressional committees, and the administration in
power. The citizenry and its local leadership are usually ignorant if not obliv-
ious to the details and implications of our nation’s foreign policies. The Jewish
lobby on U.S. policy toward Israel and the Middle East departs from that gen-
eral truth. The advocacy of African American leaders regarding U.S. policies
in southern Africa is also notable. Both efforts have injected a modicum of
civic participation and oversight in the making of U.S. foreign policies.
In this essay, I argue that Chicanos are entering a period in which they will
have increasing influence over U.S. foreign policy concerning Latin America.
Demographic changes in the Southwest (Texas, New Mexico, California, Ari-
zona, and Colorado) due primarily to in-migration from Mexico and Central
America, coupled with the acquisition of political power by Chicano com-
munities, have created the basis for unprecedented Chicano advocacy on U.S.
policy in Latin America, especially the Caribbean basin countries (Mexico,
Central America, and the Caribbean). I use Chicano advocacy on U.S. policy
in Central America during the 1980s, and in Nicaragua in particular, as a case
study.
U.S. intervention in Central America was arguably the nation’s most con-
tentious foreign policy matter of the 1980s. Visions of communist expansion
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 155

in “our backyard,” on the one hand, and becoming trapped in another Vietnam-
type war without end, on the other, fueled a rigorous public debate. Over time,
the massive migration of Central American refugees to the United States ex-
pressed the human dimensions of U.S. policy. Despite the political cost, the
Reagan Administration’s priority continued to be the destruction of the Nica-
raguan revolution. In early 1988, Congress definitively halted U.S. arms sup-
plies to the Contras, dealing a significant defeat to the Reagan Administration.
Chicano politicians and community organizations played a key but unex-
plored part in defeating Reagan’s interventionist policy.
The literature discussing the Chicano role in U.S. foreign policy is sparse.
Conventional wisdom holds that Chicanos have no role in U.S. foreign pol-
icy. Some analysts believe that Chicano leaders have little expertise and that
the Chicano community has no common self-interest. Rodolfo O. de la Garza
argues that “the historical ties between Chicanos and the homeland have not
produced a relationship strong enough to propel Mexican American political
mobilization around issues related to U.S. policy toward Mexico.” According
to de la Garza, “given the heterogeneity of the Mexican-American population,
even if it were interested in Latin America issues, it is unrealistic to expect that
it could respond with one voice to political developments in Latin America,
especially in view of the complexity of Latin American socio-political reality.” 1
Chicano political voices had, indeed, been quiescent and unfocused dur-
ing the early years (1979 –1984) of U.S. intervention in Central America.
Prominent Chicano leaders in this period defended a range of positions: pro-
Sandinist, anti-communist, anti-intervention, pro-containment, and so on.
However, by 1984 Chicano public opinion coalesced into consistent opposi-
tion to U.S. intervention in Central America. This, coupled with the emer-
gence of opposition to U.S. intervention among Chicano organizations,
created a new consensus: active opposition to the U.S. policy of providing
arms to the rebels (or Contras) fighting for the overthrow of the Nicaraguan
government.

The Broadening of the Chicano Agenda

Historically, U.S. policy premises in the Americas have been twofold. Since
the Monroe Doctrine, the U.S. has always considered Latin America and the
Caribbean to be within its sphere of economic and military influence. Sec-
ond, U.S. policymakers have, since the Mexican revolution, considered most
revolutionary movements to be inspired by Marxism and thus threatening to
U.S. interests.
Nearly two centuries after the proclamation of the Monroe Doctrine,
these premises still define U.S. behavior. This is especially true in Central
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156 / Antonio González

America, where meaningful change in Central American political and social

systems can be guaranteed only if U.S. domestic actors or movements prevent
hostile U.S. action. Such activity implies altering the terms of the policy de-
bate with a critique of U.S. premises. Such a political space is ideally suited for
Chicano leaders.
The creation of such space for Chicano leaders and organizations did not
occur in a vacuum. It was paralleled and organically connected to develop-
ments in the Chicano community. Since the mid-1970s Chicanos have expe-
rienced an unprecedented expansion of political power, reflected in a doubling
of registered voters, an increase in the number and size of community organi-
zations, and a doubling of elected officials.2 The growth of Chicano political
power has broadened the Chicano political agenda. Nationally, between 1980
and 1990, the Chicano membership in Congress increased from four to ten.
In addition, Chicano state legislators and officers number over one hundred.
In view of these developments, the late William C. Velásquez argued that
Chicanos were entering a new period of political power and were thus obliged
to begin addressing national and foreign policy issues. Velásquez maintained
that given historic, cultural, linguistic, and economic relationships, migration
patterns, and a pattern of problematic U.S. policies, Latin America was a nat-
ural beginning point for Chicano political action on issues of U.S. foreign pol-
icy. Latino leaders, according to Velásquez, should develop “Hispanic alterna-
tives, not just to the Nicaragua problem, but Hispanic alternatives to the
development of U.S. policy.” 3
A second general factor concerned Latino in-migration. Twenty years of
Mexican and Central and South American in-migration have altered the so-
cial fabric of the U.S. Latino community. The 1986 Immigration Reform and
Control Act (IRCA) legalized nearly three million undocumented immi-
grants, 90 percent of whom were Latino.4 Their integration into the barrios of
the Southwest (where a great majority have settled) has replenished the
strength of Latino culture and consciousness in numerous ways. Moreover,
their presence has helped sensitize the Chicano community regarding the
causes of migration to the United States.
Voter opinion surveys conducted by the Southwest Voter Research In-
stitute (SVRI) from 1984 to 1988 indicate that Chicano voters were sub-
stantially more supportive of the rights of Mexican immigrants and Central
American refugees than Anglo voters. While Chicano voters in Texas favored
amnesty for undocumented immigrant workers (50.8 percent in favor, 30.8
percent opposed), Anglo voters in the same precincts opposed such a measure
(51.0 percent opposed, 36.4 percent in favor). While Chicano voters in Cali-
fornia were sharply divided on hiring prohibitions for undocumented workers
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 157

Table 7.1. Chicano Voter Opinion on Contra Aid (in Percentages)

1984 1986 1988

Favor 14 24 18
Oppose 62 59 66
Unsure 24 17 17

Source: Southwest Voter Research Institute statewide exit polls of 1,785 Mexi-
can American voters in Texas, Nov. 1984; 2,300 Mexican American voters in
Texas and California, Nov. 1986; and 5,722 Latino voters in Texas, New Mex-
ico, and California, Nov. 1988.

(45 percent in favor, 41 percent opposed), Anglo voters in the same precincts
overwhelmingly supported the hiring prohibitions (64 percent in favor, 22 per-
cent opposed).5
At the leadership level, Chicano elected officials and organizational lead-
ers were increasingly compelled to address the root causes of problems in their
communities. U.S. military intervention, direct or indirect, in Central Amer-
ica stimulated the flow of hundreds of thousands of refugees to the United
States.6 These refugees settled in the urban Southwest (as well as other places)
and impacted a range of municipal services. Thus, Chicano leaders seeking
to deliver improved educational or municipal services to their constituencies
were compelled to deal with a human consequence (the newly arrived refugees)
of U.S. foreign policy in Central America.
Concurrent with the demographic changes in the Southwest, Chicano
public opinion shifted from indifference regarding U.S. policy in Central
America to opposition. In 1984, a SVREP exit poll of 1,785 Texas Chicanos
showed 62 percent opposition to giving more U.S. aid to the Contras (Nica-
raguan counterrevolutionaries seeking to overthrow the Sandinista govern-
ment) and 60.6 percent opposition to aiding the dictatorial Salvadoran gov-
ernment. In 1986 SVRI polled 2,300 Chicano voters in Texas and California
who indicated 59 percent opposition to giving military aid to the Contras.
And similarly, the 1988 SVRI exit poll of 5,722 Chicano voters in Texas, New
Mexico, and California showed 66 percent opposition to funding the Contras
(see Table 7.1).
Surveys of elected officials and community leaders during 1984 –1986
showed similar opposition to aiding the Contras and providing military aid to
the Salvadoran government.7 By the mid 1980s opposition to Contra aid con-
tained all the rallying points for Chicanos, bringing together public opinion,
progressive activists, mainstream elected officials, and community organiza-
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158 / Antonio González

tions. Of course, some Chicanos had opposed U.S.– Central America policy
from the start. They were typically students or members of the peace commu-
nity. But their activism was usually outside the scope of Chicano politics.

Chicano Leaders and U.S. Policy

in Central America: 1979–1985

Washington, D.C., does not wait for communities and their leaders to analyze
and arrive at consensus. While the Carter Administration (1979 –1980)
probed the possibilities for intervention, the Reagan Administration (1980 –
1988) set a brisk pace for U.S. intervention. National Chicano opinion lead-
ers had no choice but to respond, even if lacking a consensus among their peers
or a grassroots base of informed constituents. A review of the actions and po-
sitions of the most prominent Chicano leaders of the early 1980s provides
some insight.
San Antonio Mayor Henry Cisneros attained national prominence by
joining President Reagan’s National Bipartisan Commission on U.S. Policy in
Central America in 1983. Cisneros was the first Chicano to gain such promi-
nent entry into elite foreign policy circles. Indeed, the star-studded commis-
sion, headed by former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, was President Rea-
gan’s best early attempt at neutralizing public and congressional opposition to
his Central America policies. The “Kissinger Commission” surveyed the po-
litical situation in Central America and made a set of policy recommenda-
tions to the president. Cisneros, though supporting the report as a whole, dis-
sented on the commission’s proposals regarding Nicaragua and El Salvador.
The commission endorsed U.S. military intervention in El Salvador and Nica-
ragua. Cisneros argued in his dissent: “The Sandinista Regime should be en-
couraged to intensify dialogue with the hierarchy of the Nicaraguan Catholic
Church, the private sector, and the opposition parties; expand its offer of
amnesty for anti-Sandinist rebels; introduce details of legislation to permit
the free functioning of political parties and the promise of elections in 1985;
eliminate censorship of the press; fulfill its recent promises to the opposition
newspaper La Prensa to acquire newsprint; and reduce the numbers of Cuban
advisers and Salvadoran rebel elements from Nicaragua.” 8 He added that the
United States should suspend “covert” aid to the anti-Sandinist rebels “so
that the Sandinista government can demonstrate its capacity to move toward
pluralism and to fulfill its promise to hold free and fair elections.” Regarding
El Salvador, Cisneros did not oppose U.S. military aid to the Duarte govern-
ment but instead proposed efforts to “convince FDR /FMLN [Revolutionary
Democratic Front /Farabundo Marti People’s Liberation Front] moderates . . .
to take part in discussions concerning participation in a security task force to
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 159

arrange security provisions for all participants on election processes [in El Sal-
vador].” Regarding the FMLN guerrillas and the Salvadoran military, Cisneros
recommended that “the Salvadoran security forces and the guerrillas should
agree to a complete cease fire,” after which discussions on security arrange-
ments and election matters would determine the extent to which “meaning-
ful dialogue on coalition approaches and structural reforms can proceed.”
Mayor Cisneros’s dissenting comments can be interpreted in two ways. On
one hand, his participation in the Kissinger Commission legitimized Chicano
involvement in foreign policy at the national leadership level. On the other
hand, Cisneros’s substantive positions, though dissenting from the right wing
majority, embraced the practice of U.S. military intervention, negated self-
determination, and ignored the root causes of the region’s revolutions: poverty
and repression. Cisneros advanced positions that, de facto, supported the re-
pressive Duarte government in El Salvador. He opposed, for practical reasons,
sending “covert” military aid to the Contras seeking to overthrow the San-
dinista government in Nicaragua, but only if free and fair elections were held.
This moderate or, more accurately, centrist tendency in Chicano leader-
ship advocacy is underscored by congressional voting patterns throughout the
1980s. Chicano members of Congress, while reaching a rough consensus in
1987 to oppose military aid to the Contras (they also voted against military
aid in 1983–1984), vacillated until December 1989 on opposing military aid
to the Salvadoran government. Generally, Congressmen Henry B. González of
Texas and Edward Roybal, Esteban Torres, and Matthew Martínez of Califor-
nia opposed U.S. intervention in Central America. Congressmen Manuel Lu-
ján of New Mexico and Solomon Ortiz of Texas consistently supported U.S.
intervention. And Congressmen Kika de La Garza and Albert Bustamante of
Texas vacillated: they alternated between voting for and against Contra aid
until 1986 and then tended to oppose Contra aid (see Table 7.2).
In the early years of the Central America debate (1982 –1985), Chicano
leaders only tentatively addressed issues of U.S. policy in Central America.
Their actions were as likely to be pro-intervention as not. Mayor Cisneros’s
moderate anti-intervention stance was contradicted by actions like that of
Congressman Bill Richardson of New Mexico, who in 1985 as Chair of the
Congressional Hispanic Caucus played a public role in reinitiating military
aid to the Contras (which had been prohibited by the Boland Amendment in
1983–1984). At the time Richardson was reportedly incensed by Nicaraguan
President Daniel Ortega’s visit to Moscow.9
Another characteristic of Chicano political action in the “early years” was
the noninvolvement of Chicano institutions and organizations in the Central
America debate. With some exceptions, e.g., Chicano student MEChA groups
or Seattle’s El Centro de la Raza, Chicano community organizations played
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160 / Antonio González

Table 7.2. Hispanic Members of Congress Voting Record on Contra Aid

Name/State 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988

A B C D E A B C A B A B
Bustamante—Tex. N N N Y Y N Y Y N Y N N
De la Garza —Tex. N N Y N Y Y N N N N N Y N N
García —N.Y. N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
González —Tex. N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
Luján—N.M. Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y Y N
Martínez — Calif. N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
Ortiz —Tex. N N Y Y Y Y N Y Y Y Y Y Y N
Richardson—N.M. N N N N N Y N N N N N N N N
Roybal— Calif. N N N N N N N N N N N N N N
Torres — Calif. N N N N N N N N N N N N N N

Totals (%) 88.8 88.8 69.4 73.3 70.0 89.5

Key: N  voted against pro-Contra measure, Y  voted for pro-Contra measure

Source: FCNL Washington Newsletter, nos. 464, 472, 516; Coalition for a New Foreign and Military Policy,
1985 and 1986 voting records; Sane/Freeze, 1987 Senate and House voting records.

little or no role in the Central America debate. For the most part, influential
groups like the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund
(MALDEF), National Council of La Raza (NCLR), League of United Latin
American Citizens (LULAC), and Southwest Voter Registration Education
Project, though probably critical of U.S. policy, steered clear of active oppo-
sition. Aside from the debate on immigration policy, none of them had any
experience in foreign policy matters. Some, like MALDEF and NCLR, had
explicit prohibitions on getting involved with foreign policy. Local commu-
nity groups opposed to U.S. Central America policy generally joined Anglo-
dominated peace committees.10

Chicano Organizations
and Central America: 1984 –1988

The pattern began to change with the initiation of the Latin America Project
of LULAC. In 1984 LULAC National President Mario Obledo launched the
Latin America Project. Designed to involve LULAC leaders in the national
debate on U.S. policy in Latin America, the LULAC effort represented an im-
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 161

portant change for Chicano politics in the 1980s. Not only was the nation’s
largest and oldest Latino membership organization getting its leadership in-
formed and involved in a new policy area, it was doing so in opposition to U.S.
government policy and independent of the peace community.
Over the next three years the LULAC Latin America Project conducted
a LULAC leaders’ delegation to Mexico, Cuba, and Nicaragua (1984). It also
sponsored a series of debates in Washington, D.C., and at its national con-
ventions on the key issues of U.S. immigration and refugee policy, Contra aid,
the Contadora negotiating process, the English Only movement, and the role
of Hispanics in U.S. policy in Latin America. A publication series accompa-
nied the symposia.
Though LULAC often took positions on these issues, with the exception of
language and immigration issues, they did not create ad hoc or ongoing lobby-
ing efforts. Rather, the emphasis of the LULAC Latin America Project was ed-
ucation and policy participation. Obledo argued in “The Role of Hispanics in
U.S. Foreign Policy in Latin America” that, “[f ]ocusing upon Latin America,
our government looks upon the region with disregard. Latin America was and
remains a second class citizen in the world community just as the Hispanic
American has been and remains a second class citizen within U.S. borders.” 11
Obledo believed that Hispanics could make a substantial and significant
contribution to the improvement of relations between the United States and
Latin America. He felt that the cultural and historical relationship of U.S.
Hispanics with Latin Americans “creates an environment whereby nuances,
dynamics, symbols, facial expressions, temperament, customs, languages, phi-
losophies, and emotions can be best understood.” This unique Hispanic per-
spective could provide “an invaluable service to America.” Yet Obledo felt
“tremendous frustrations” because of the U.S. government’s interventionist
response to “circumstances and events —in Chile, Cuba, Nicaragua, the Do-
minican Republic, and so on.” 12
Congressman Esteban Torres, in response, emphasized the need for Latino
political participation. “I simply have to look at the Department of State to
see that there are very few Hispanics there,” he said. Torres felt that the way
to increase the role of Hispanics in foreign policy was “to get out there and
promote political activity, right from the barrio up . . . to do all the necessary
political tasks that eventually lead to election to the Congress, where they
then can really influence the making of foreign policy.” 13
The pioneering LULAC initiative on Hispanic involvement in U.S. pol-
icy in Central America stressed participation and education. By 1986, how-
ever, prominent Chicano leaders were actively taking critical stands regard-
ing U.S. policy in Central America and its implications in the United States.
A watershed in Chicano leadership dissent came with Governor Toney
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162 / Antonio González

Anaya’s declaration of New Mexico as a sanctuary for Central American refu-

gees in March 1986. Though symbolic in nature, the sanctuary declaration sig-
nified courageous opposition to the Reagan administration’s discriminatory
treatment of Central American refugees. Since 1983 the administration had
opposed providing temporary asylum (extended voluntary departure) for Cen-
tral American refugees, especially Salvadorans who were fleeing from a repres-
sive U.S.-supported regime. Anaya, then the highest-ranking Hispanic in the
country, essentially defied the Reagan administration, using his office to skirt
the president’s block on congressional action to protect Central American
refugees.
Anaya argued against the administration claim that over 97 percent of
these refugees were only “economic migrants,” and thus deportable. Anaya
held that these people were refugees, literally and legally. This definition ap-
plied to any person who was unable or unwilling to avail himself or herself of
the protection of the home country because of “a well-founded fear of perse-
cution on account of race, religion, nationality, or membership in a particular
social group.” Anaya asked rhetorically: “Doesn’t it seem to you that anyone
who migrates from El Salvador, a nation which has seen 1% of its population
assassinated within the past few years . . . would qualify for a ‘well-founded fear
of persecution,’ much less anyone who has actually tried to implement any
change in that society?” 14 By declaring New Mexico the nation’s first sanctu-
ary state, Anaya also emphasized the connection between U.S. policy in
Central America and its domestic implications. Indeed, situated along the
border between the United States and Latin America, Chicano leaders like
Anaya were ideally suited to remind the nation of its heritage of protecting
the human rights of refugees and immigrants.

Chicano Advocacy against U.S. Intervention

Chicano participation in U.S. policy in Central America developed further in

the summer of 1987 when Willie Velásquez, president of the Southwest Voter
Registration Education Project (SVREP), launched his own Latin America
Project. Based on the LULAC effort (which concluded in 1987), the South-
west Voter Research Institute (SVRI) Latin America Project has since 1988
conducted several delegations of Latino leaders to Mexico and Central Amer-
ica, including an observers’ mission to the Nicaraguan elections. The project
has also included an intensive leadership seminar series and a polling and
publication series. The effort continues through the 1990s.
Politically socialized during the Chicano movement, Velásquez felt that
U.S. intervention in Central America was misguided. Increasingly vocal in
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 163

opposing Contra aid, he even threatened to run against San Antonio Congress-
man Albert Bustamante because of his support for Contra aid. Velásquez felt
another Vietnam, with the incumbent racist effect on Chicanos (and Central
Americans), had to be avoided. But he also knew that neither Chicano lead-
ers nor the community at large were well informed on the subject. When the
SVRI project was launched in 1987, Velásquez intended it to facilitate the
emergence of a broad group of Chicano leaders that could develop and advo-
cate a consensus Chicano perspective on U.S. policies in Latin America, es-
pecially Central America.
In launching SVRI’s Latin America Project, Velásquez expressed his vi-
sion of the eventual Chicano role in U.S. policy in Latin America. Mexican
American leaders, according to Velásquez, had to become “seriously involved
as advocates for appropriate and genuine developmental aid” for a “peaceful
resolution of conflictive situations” and had to act “as liaisons of communica-
tion and negotiation” in military or economic conflicts.15
Initiatives like SVRI’s reflected a clear trend toward actively opposing
U.S.-Nicaragua policy in Chicano politics. By 1988, there was no significant
urban center in the Southwest where Chicano leaders and activists had not be-
come involved in lobbying or organizing to change U.S. policy in Nicaragua.
By 1987 groups as diverse as Texas LULAC, California MAPA, Southwest
Organizing Project in Albuquerque, Southwest Voter Registration Education
Project, and Texas GI Forum were organizing pressure campaigns on south-
western Congress members who had previously voted for the Contras or were
undecided. Other groups, like the Chicanos Against Military Intervention in
Latin America (CAMILA), conducted mass mobilizations in Austin, Hous-
ton, San Antonio, and Hondo, Texas. Prominent opinion leaders like New
Mexico Governor Toney Anaya, Congressman Esteban Torres of Los Angeles,
and Congressman Henry B. González of San Antonio repeatedly spoke out
publicly at press conferences and protest events against Contra aid.
In fact, when the Central American presidents reached a peace accord in
August 1987, Velásquez and Al Luna, chair of the Mexican American Legisla-
tive Caucus (MALC) of the Texas House of Representatives, traveled to Cen-
tral America to survey the prospects for peace and the impact of U.S. policy.
Their findings led them to intensify Chicano opposition to Contra aid and
support the Central American Peace Plan. Luna publicly criticized U.S. pol-
icy: “If we want peace, we must do our part. President Reagan cannot credibly
make public speeches for peace in Central America while at the same time ad-
vocating a three-fold increase in funding to the Contras.” Luna felt that Nica-
ragua’s government had taken deliberate steps to comply with the Central
American peace plan. He also defended Nicaraguan self-determination:
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164 / Antonio González

“Whether we like it or not, the Nicaraguan government has a right to exist.

It is legitimate . . . the United States cannot determine what social and politi-
cal system should exist in Nicaragua. That is the right of the Nicaraguan people.
That is called the right of self-determination. Our country is supposed to sup-
port that sort of thing. Isn’t it?” Luna appealed to President Reagan to reverse
this Nicaragua policy. “End your tenure in the White House, Mr. President,
by acting for peace. The Contras have caused enough damage. Stop funding
them. It’s the right thing to do,” he exhorted.16
In January 1988 when Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives
Jim Wright attempted to block the Reagan administration proposal for military
aid to the Contras in violation of the Central American accords, Velásquez or-
ganized a historic delegation of Chicano leaders to visit Nicaragua and Costa
Rica. The nine-member mission included Velásquez, Anaya, Mario Obledo,
State Representative Eddie Cavazos (who was also vice-chair of the Texas
MALC), refugee advocate attorney Linda Yáñez, and university professor Ave-
lardo Valdez. Their report, presented on the eve of the vote to the Congres-
sional Hispanic Caucus and Speaker Wright, was bitterly critical of U.S. policy.
Delegation Chair Anaya charged at a national press conference on February 3,
1988, on Capitol Hill, that the Reagan Administration supported, in practice,
the destabilization of Central America. Anaya, presenting the group’s find-
ings, “concluded that the missing element in the search for peace in Central
America is the will of our government to genuinely support the Peace Plan.”
He argued that “the policy of giving aid to the Contras, whether military or
non-lethal, must be terminated immediately.” Importantly, Anaya explained
that the U.S. moral standing was damaged by aiding the Contras: “the Ameri-
can contribution to resolving the conflicts in Central America ought not to
be support for the Contras, whose claim to fame seems to be the wanton de-
struction of 25,000 Nicaraguans and $3.5 billion in economic damage. That’s
not the democratic way and not the American way.” 17
Later that day, the Congressional Hispanic Caucus, led by Albert Busta-
mante of San Antonio, a former supporter of Contra aid, voted 8 to 2 to op-
pose sending further military aid to the Contras. Every one of their votes were
needed, as opponents of Contra aid won by 218 to 211, thus ending a six-year
policy of arming the Nicaraguan counterrevolutionaries.
After six years of contradictory involvement, Chicano leadership opposi-
tion to U.S. policy in Central America had crystallized around the Contra aid
issue and the Central American Peace Plan. A working consensus had been
reached that included progressives and moderates, elected officials and orga-
nizational leaders. Congressman Henry B. González, a senior statesman of
Chicano politics, explained the logic of the new Chicano consensus: “It is
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 165

morally bankrupt and politically blind to support military dictatorships . . . our

leadership is meaningless unless it stands for our own principles of law, de-
cency and liberty. . . . With bombs and bullets, we are buying only fear and ha-
tred. In the long run, our choice is between being an army of occupation, or
helping Central Americans achieve what we would want for ourselves: decent
government and a decent chance in life.” 18

Chicano Leaders Debate

the Character of Revolution

Chicano leaders that had first questioned and then actively opposed U.S.-
Nicaragua policy remained involved with U.S.-Central America relations.
Some focused on U.S. policy in El Salvador; some on refugee and immigrant
issues. Others continued to monitor U.S. policy in Nicaragua, which had in-
creasingly relied on building civic opposition to the Sandinista government.
In one instance, an SVRI fact-finding mission in Esteli, Nicaragua, stumbled
upon a meeting of Nicaraguan opposition leaders being conducted by the U.S.
ambassador. For this blatant violation of diplomatic protocol, the ambassador
was promptly expelled. After the defeat of Contra aid, the U.S. Embassy be-
came an even more important center of intrigue, receiving an endless stream
of Nicaraguan anti-Sandinistas.19
The scores of Chicano leaders who had visited Central America could not
help but begin to ponder broader issues. Chicanos had viewed Latin America
through “Mexican” lenses. Yet Central America made Mexico look rich, stable,
and developed; the region was as different from Mexico as Mexico from the
United States. The poverty was depressing. Repression and fear in El Salvador
was palpable. New Mexico Secretary of State Rebecca Vigil Girón, upon her
return from a SVRI fact-finding mission to El Salvador and Nicaragua in
August 1989, put it succinctly:
I have rage. I have a feeling of concern about what we are doing in
El Salvador in terms of our dollars . . . going to killing people, harass-
ing people — people that just want to be left alone . . . I felt a real
fear, I do not think I have felt so much fear in any place in my whole
life. . . . I heard shots outside of our hotel, and it scared me to death
because I did not know what would come after that. . . . But it is
a really horrible life for these people and yes, you could see it on
their faces.20

Returning delegations of Chicano leaders regularly concluded that U.S. inter-

vention mirrored its own internal racism. The issues of Central America were
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166 / Antonio González

not capitalism versus communism, but the basics of human development: jus-
tice and human rights, land and jobs, freedom and democracy.
Still, the questions remained. How could progress occur? Were Central
American societies doomed to perpetual cycles of poverty and repression, to
revolution and counterrevolution and U.S. intervention? Could revolutions
succeed in not only overthrowing dictators, but also delivering socioeconomic
benefits and popular democracy?
In a debriefing session following their mission to Nicaragua in Febru-
ary 1988, Velásquez, State Representative Cavazos, and Attorney Linda Yáñez
debated the nature of the Sandinista revolution. Velásquez began: “The San-
dinista revolution truly is a revolution. . . . It is a classic revolution . . . de-
signed to do something about the working people that have, for at least 300
years . . . gotten a very raw deal with fate.” Velásquez felt that although ex-
cesses of power were likely, the revolution was basically Latino and Western
oriented. Charges that the Sandinistas were Moscow-Havana style commu-
nists did not faze Velásquez.
Then I would ask a question, what kind of communists? They’re Latin
communists who believe that there ought to be a private sector, cap-
italism. They believe that religion ought to be strong. They’re com-
munists who believe that there ought to be a press that’s open. . . .
That there ought not to be abusers, an abuser class, there’s nothing
wrong with confiscating their land and distributing it to the working
people. And that laws and programs ought to be for the majority of
the people as opposed to the elite. And I’d label that communism,
Latino style.21

Cavazos disagreed, arguing that the Sandinistas were pragmatically “tak-

ing advantage of what’s there”: “And what’s there is communist aid, Russian
aid, Cuban aid or whatever. . . . Where are they getting their arms? That’s the
only place they can get them, or they won’t get them. Where are they getting
their gasoline? Ortega . . . and the Sandinistas are having to run a government
by whatever means they can get.”
Cavazos believed that Nicaragua could just as easily swing into the U.S.
camp “if the tide was turned and all of a sudden we started dealing with them,
they would be as pro-American as the next guy, simply because it’s to their
advantage.” 22
Yáñez differed with both, arguing that we cannot expect “United States-
style democracy in Nicaragua any time in the foreseeable future or Soviet-
style communism either.” She believed that Nicaragua was developing “a
social-political system that cannot be labeled.” Yáñez observed that Nicaragua
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 167

has not risen to “the level of closed, structured society currently in place in
Russia.” 23

The Election of Violeta Chamorro:

A U.S. Victory?

Even as the Sandinista army defeated the U.S.-supported Contras, the coun-
try’s economy went into shock. The resources diverted for fighting the Contra
war had been too much. The economy collapsed. In 1988 inflation was 36,000
percent and in 1989 nearly 2,000 percent. The Sandinista revolution gave new
meaning to the term hyperinflation. No government in modern history had
endured such conditions, even less so in Latin America. The refugee stream
to the United States, previously overwhelmingly Salvadoran, by 1987 was in-
creasingly Nicaraguan. Nicaraguan exports dropped by half, to $233 million
per year as rich coffee, pasture, and cotton lands located in battle zones went
untended. Government programs making medical aid and education avail-
able to peasants and the urban poor were targeted and destroyed by the Con-
tras or cut back because of scarce resources. Hyperinflation made private-
sector investment in even secure areas risky and unprofitable.24
Though Presidents Reagan and Bush could not overthrow the Sandinistas
by force, their policies effectively crippled the economy and exhausted the
population. Support for the Sandinistas eroded. The beleaguered Sandinistas
began to harden, creating further problems.25 By the beginning of Nicaragua’s
electoral process in September 1989, questions on the future and character of
the revolution were appropriate. Would the Sandinistas allow free elections?
The previous 1984 elections had been fair and clean, but less competitive. This
time 23 parties were participating, many receiving U.S. and European funds (as
were the Sandinistas). Clearly, “había una perdida de sangre para los Sandinis-
tas”; the Sandinistas had lost considerable popularity.
An eight-member SVRI fact-finding delegation (August 1989), led by
Rebecca Vigil Girón, found electoral conditions more than adequate.26 With
an electoral accord signed by all parties, the credibility of the elections was
guaranteed. The Contras were on their last legs. Indeed, confident Sandinistas
plunged into an election campaign against a fractured and poorly organized op-
position. All claimed the election would be a referendum on the revolution.
In March 1990, in a virtually flawless election with 86 percent voter turn-
out, the pro-U.S. candidate, Violeta Chamorro, upset Sandinista President
Daniel Ortega. No one had predicted the upset. Afterward, the Bush Admin-
istration blustered that the Nicaraguan people had followed the example of
Eastern Europe, voting for democracy and against communism.
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168 / Antonio González

Postelection analysis was problematic. The referendum was over, but what
did it mean? Did the voters support the Contras and U.S. intervention? Did
peasants want to return their lands to the “patrones”? Were the Sandinistas
seen as communist oppressors? Or did the voters see Violeta Chamorro’s can-
didacy as a way to obtain economic support from the United States, demobi-
lize the Contras, and end objectionable Sandinista policies like the military
draft? The SVRI’s fourteen-member election observers’ delegation, though
united in supporting the elections as fair and clean, were divided on what mo-
tivated the voters. Juan Andrade, executive director of the Midwest Voter
Registration Project, believed that the intent of the Nicaraguan electorate was
very clear: “The vote was pro-Chamorro, anti-Sandinista, and a rejection of
policies that have had negative impact upon the people.” Andrade added that
“Nicaragua’s second clean election in six years suggests that the roots of de-
mocracy have begun to take hold.” The Sandinistas, he argued, would have to
be content with influencing “public policy as a legislative opposition party.” 27
Dr. Avelardo Valdez of the University of Texas, San Antonio, strongly dis-
agreed. “The United National Opposition’s, or UNO, landslide victory was
both a protest vote and a vote for change,” he said. “The electorate understood
the United States clearly favored Violeta Chamorro’s UNO party and was
convinced that a victory for the Sandinistas, even a democratic one, would
have meant a continuing policy of U.S. intervention.” 28
Chamarro’s UNO won a landslide victory for president, for National As-
sembly (51 of 92 seats), and for over 90 percent of the 131 municipalities. But
UNO’s margin in the National Assembly did not approach the 61 votes needed
to change the revolutionary constitution. Thus, the broad outline of the San-
dinista revolution, including land reform, independent judiciary, Atlantic
Coast autonomy, and a broad range of human, civil, and labor rights, re-
mained legally protected. Moreover, within a month after their victory,
Chamorro’s coalition had gone into a crisis, with 23 of the 51 UNO deputies
combining with 39 Sandinista deputies to elect most of the new National As-
sembly officers. This was inevitable, for the same breadth of parties in the
UNO coalition —from communist to ultra-conservative — that allowed
them to posture as a viable alternative to the Sandinistas, made programmatic
unity difficult if not impossible.
Whatever the long-term outcome in Nicaragua, two things are clear: social
struggles will be intense as the old elite seeks to reassert itself; and the U.S.
will continue to be a wild card, altering through its purse strings and covert
activity the range of possibilities. Interestingly, the end of U.S. aid to the Con-
tras in 1988 brought about their collapse and also caused the end of San-
dinista rule when Nicaraguans voted them out of power in 1990. Subsequent
elections in 1996 confirmed the end of Sandinista rule.
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 169

Toward a Redefinition of Premises

By the end of the 1980s many Chicano leaders viewed the revolutionary move-
ments in Central America as indigenous revolts directed against age-old dic-
tatorships and unjust structures. These movements, irrespective of their ex-
ternal allies, reflected a deeply rooted desire for land rights, jobs with decent
conditions and pay, human and civil rights, and true democracy. These aspi-
rations were not so different from Chicano aspirations.
Indeed, William Velásquez felt that U.S. intervention in Central America
raised anew the great formative principles of the Chicano movement: self de-
termination, social justice, human rights, and democracy. He felt that Chicano
leaders’ attitudes toward the intervention and the revolutions reflected their
true potential as leaders. The best and brightest of them would naturally op-
pose intervention.
The debate on these questions was not academic. Enormous upheavals
were taking place, not just in Nicaragua but in other Central American soci-
eties as well. The United States invaded Panama in December 1989, over-
throwing nationalist dictator Manuel Noriega and installing a puppet gov-
ernment. More than one thousand people died in the process. El Salvador
exploded in November 1989 with the biggest rebel offensive in the civil war.
Thousands more died.29 Guerrilla struggles and government repression inten-
sified in Guatemala. It seemed as though progress toward peace and intensified
civil war and intervention were two sides of the same coin. As progress toward
peace seemed attainable, all sides launched offensives to improve their posi-
tions at the bargaining table. Then, with the end of the civil wars in El Sal-
vador (1992) and Guatemala (1996), brokered by the United States and the
United Nations, Central America fell off the foreign policy radar scope. Chi-
cano attention also turned to other elements of U.S.–Latin America policy.30
Sadly, however, the battle to change fundamental U.S. premises in Latin
America and the Caribbean continues. The failure of the United States to
recognize the true character of the Central American revolutions and the in-
vocation of ill-suited Cold War and Monroe Doctrine policies have squan-
dered much Latin American goodwill toward the United States. Latin Ameri-
can governments were pushed into an oppositional stance toward U.S. policy.
Indeed, U.S. military intervention created Latin American unity around the
principles of nonintervention, self-determination, and respect for interna-
tional law. This was unprecedented. Historically, U.S. intervention in the
Americas has often been accompanied by some Latin American partner. The
1980s saw countries as diverse as Cuba, Mexico, Colombia, and Peru coordi-
nate diplomatic efforts to change U.S. policy in Central America. Even the
Organization of American States, traditionally a rubber stamp for U.S. policy,
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170 / Antonio González

opposed it. In the case of Cuba, interventionist policies such as the Helms-
Burton Act continue in force.31
The experience of Chicano advocacy on U.S. policy in Central America in
the 1980s provides valuable lessons for the future. First, without a rough con-
sensus within both the community and its leadership, Chicano leaders were
not effective actors. Consensus against U.S. intervention in Nicaragua was fi-
nally achieved (1984 –1985) around the principle of self-determination. This,
however, did not stop Chicano leaders from criticizing the Sandinistas’ abuses
of human and civil rights or the numerous U.S. government – sponsored abuses.
Human and civil rights were treated as absolute moral principles. Second,
Chicano advocacy, even with an internal consensus, needed allies to be suc-
cessful. In the Nicaraguan case, the allies were a U.S.-based anti-intervention
movement and international public opinion. Third, effective Chicano advo-
cacy saw foreign and domestic policy as interconnected. Cuts in social pro-
grams in home and massive refugee in-migration were understood and ex-
plained as effects of U.S. foreign policy. Finally, Chicano advocacy not only
opposed U.S. intervention, but sought policy alternatives. For example, the
Central American Peace Plan was immediately embraced by key Chicano
leaders and served as an effective tool for broadening advocacy to other lead-
ers and organizations.
Over the next generation the rapidly growing political and economic clout
of Chicanos will make them a significant variable in U.S. foreign policy. Per-
haps the Chicano role in the twenty-first century will be to challenge the Mon-
roe Doctrine as the operative premise of U.S. policy in Latin America and the
Caribbean. Chicano advocacy can act as the conscience of the nation, ex-
plaining that only respect for self-determination, coupled with long-term,
equitable growth in Latin American societies, can truly benefit U.S. interests.

Notes
1. Rodolfo O. de la Garza, “U.S. Foreign Policy and the Mexican American Political Agenda,”
in Mohammed E. Ahari, ed., Ethnic Groups and U.S. Foreign Policy (New York: Greenwood Press,
1987), pp. 105 –106, 110.
2. Community-based Chicano organizations have grown in size and number. They have also
extended into geographic regions and social sectors that were historically unorganized. For ex-
ample, Texas LULAC maintains over one hundred councils. The Industrial Areas Foundation in-
cludes mass-based parish organizations in a dozen southwestern urban centers. Southwest Voter
Registration Education Project includes activist networks in 160 cities.
Latino Registered voters in the five southwestern states of Arizona, California, Colorado, New
Mexico, and Texas doubled from 1,511,500 to 3,002,900 in the 1976 –1988 period. Southwest
Voter Research Institute, Southwest Voter Registration Education Project, U.S. Census Bureau,
Voting and Registration Series, 1976 –1988.
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Chicano Politics & U.S. Policy in Central America / 171

Chicano elected officials also experienced dramatic growth, more than doubling from 1,379
to 3,066 during the 1973–1988 period. NALEO National Roster of Hispanic Elected Officials
(Aztlan Publications, 1988); National Roster of Spanish Surnamed Elected Officials, 1973.
3. SVRI Latin America Project Report 1, Views of Latino Leaders: A Roundtable Discussion on
U.S. Policy in Nicaragua and the Central America Peace Plan, 1989, p. 10.
4. Frank D. Bean, Thomas J. Espenshade, Michael J. White, and Robert F. Dymowski, “Post-
IRCA Changes in the Volume and Composition of Undocumented Migration to the United
States: An Assessment Base on Apprehensions Data,” in Undocumented Migration to the United
States: IRCA and the Experience of the 1980s (Washington, D.C.: Urban Institute Press, 1990), p. 3.
5. Southwest Voter Registration Project exit poll of 1,785 Mexican American voters and 919
Anglo voters in Texas on election day 1984. Unpublished summary, author’s records. SVRI exit
poll of 958 voters in California on November 4, 1986.
6. This is a conservative estimate. Douglas Farah, “Salvadorans Lining up to Get Out,” Wash-
ington Post, December 28, 1989. Farah estimates Salvadoran refugees in the United States alone
number about one million.
7. SVREP South Central RPC Report 1, no. 3 (March 1986): 4; SVREP California RPC Report 1,
no. 5 (October 1986): 6; SVREP Coastal Bend RPC Report 1, no. 2 ( January 1986): 4.
8. Report of the National Bipartisan Commission on Central America, January 1984, pp. 128 –129.
9. In 1985, shortly after a close congressional vote in which Congress denied further funds to
the Contras, Nicaragua’s President Ortega departed for a visit to Moscow. Ortega’s trip was touted
in the U.S. press as a slap in Congress’s face. Shortly thereafter, President Reagan reintroduced an
aid package to Congress. Congressman Richardson of New Mexico, then chair of the Congres-
sional Hispanic Caucus, publicly denounced the trip to Moscow and announced he was switch-
ing his vote. Other opponents of Contra aid switched, and President Reagan’s proposal passed.
10. Chicano activists tended to join groups like the National Network in Solidarity with the
Nicaraguan People (NNSNP) or the Committee in Solidarity with the People of El Salvador
(CISPES).
11. The Role of Hispanics in U.S. Foreign Policy in Latin America, LULAC Latin America Proj-
ect pamphlet 2, no. 1 ( January 1987), p. i.
12. Ibid.
13. Ibid., p. 9.
14. Proclamation Declaring New Mexico a Sanctuary State, March 28, 1986, p. 2.
15. Founding Document of SVRI’s Latin America Project (unpublished, October 1987), p. 6.
16. “Central America Deserves Peace Accord by Al Luna,” San Antonio Light, October 11,
1987.
17. SVRI Latin America Project Report 1, pp.. 13–14.
18. Congressional Update Newsletter from U.S. Rep. Henry B. González, 20th District, Texas,
October 15, 1987, vol. 20, no. 3, p. 4.
19. U.S. Ambassador to Nicaragua Melton was expelled for violating diplomatic privileges in
July 1988.
20. Unpublished transcript of debriefing session of SVRI fact-finding mission to Mexico,
El Salvador, and Nicaragua, August 1989, p. 7– 8.
21. SVRI Latin America Project Report 1, pp. 5 – 6.
22. Ibid., p. 6
23. Ibid.
24. Envío (published by Instituto Histórico Centroamericano, Managua, Nicaragua) 8,
no. 100 (November 1989), p. 7; Nicaragua’s Elections. . . a Step Towards Democracy?, published
07-T0159 9/28/2001 5:32 PM Page 172

172 / Antonio González

jointly by Hemisphere Initiatives, Washington Office on Latin America, Center for International
Policy and Unitarian Universalist Service Committee, Section on Nicaragua’s Economy,
February 1990.
25. Amnesty International 1990 Report, pp. 176 –177.
26. Unpublished transcript of debriefing session of SVRI fact-finding mission to Mexico,
El Salvador, and Nicaragua, August 1989, p. 16.
27. SVRI Latin America Project Report 2, Draft, Roundtable Discussion: SVRI Delegation to Ob-
serve the February 25, 1990 Nicaraguan National Election, pp. 4 –5.
28. Avelardo Valdez, “Nicaragua Vote a Plea to End U.S. Oppression,” San Antonio Express-
News, March 10, 1990.
29. Chicano advocacy continued in the El Salvador case. SVRI launched a campaign to op-
pose U.S. military aid to the Salvadoran government from 1989 to 1992, conducted a major elec-
tion observation mission during the Salvadoran elections in 1991, and provided technical and
financial assistance to over two dozen Salvadoran and Nicaraguan nongovernmental organiza-
tions on grassroots electoral participation in the 1990s.
30. Chicano advocacy dramatically expanded during the debate on the North American Free
Trade Agreement (NAFTA) with Mexico and Canada. SVRI led the way, forming the Latino
Consensus on NAFTA together with over a hundred key leaders and organizations. Other prin-
cipal players included Congressman Esteban Torres, MALDEF, and the National Council of La
Raza (NCLR). Through the Latino Consensus on NAFTA, Latinos were able to gain key con-
cessions from the Clinton Administration (1992 – present), in exchange for the support of twelve
key Democratic U.S. Representatives. These concessions included a $3 billion border cleanup
fund, called the North American Development Bank (NADBank), and a $100 million worker
adjustment and retraining fund, called the NAFTA Trade Adjustment and Assistance Act. In
many ways, the debate over Chicano (and Latino) participation in U.S.–Latin America policy
was ended by NAFTA. Nearly every major national Latino organization (and numerous local
groups) now conducts some type of international activity.
31. The Contadora Pact countries included Mexico, Panama, Venezuela, and Colombia.
These countries sought to facilitate negotiations between the conflicting Central American
forces beginning in 1983. The Grupo de Apoyo, or Support Group, nations of Brazil, Argentina,
Peru, and Uruguay sought to support Contadora’s efforts. Cuba actively supported both initia-
tives. All countries opposed U.S. military intervention, especially support to the Contras.
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Part Three
General Studies
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08-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 175

Eight

Politics and
Chicano Culture
Luis Valdez and El Teatro Campesino, 1964 –1990

R o y E r i c X av i e r

l Teatro Campesino and Luis Valdez continue to be the subjects of

E scrutiny more than three decades after their initial appearance.

Writers in and outside the academy weigh the merits of their con-
tributions to Chicano politics and culture, the trajectory of their artistic devel-
opment, and the myriad reasons for the absence of any definitive successors to
their struggle.1 But few writers attempt to explain the cultural and political
contexts in which Valdez and his troupe did their work, or the pivotal role they
played in the formation of Chicano politics, nor the lessons their experiences
may teach us about inclusion into mainstream society.2
In this essay I will outline a perspective from which these questions might
be analyzed. My focus will be on the culture and politics of the Chicano move-
ment from 1964 to 1990. During those years, I argue, the relation between Chi-
cano culture and politics was, at times, mutually supportive and reciprocal.
That is, individuals in each arena shared values and perspectives which helped
legitimize many forms of artistic and political expression. As the Chicano
movement reached its zenith, the affinity between artists and politicians
seemed to increase. Early artists attempted to use their skills to suggest politi-
cal solutions, while some politicians tried to incorporate artistic concepts to in-
still a sense of purpose and hope in their followers. Both these tendencies were
expressed in the work of a contemporary Chicano playwright, Luis Valdez,
and his troupe, El Teatro Campesino.
The argument in this essay suggests that artistic expression enjoys mo-
ments of relative autonomy, and thus has the opportunity to develop particu-
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176 / Roy Eric Xavier

lar interests and influence human behavior. When art is created in the vortex
of a political movement, as was the case of El Teatro Campesino, its impact
can be traced both in the range of artistic vision and in the degree to which
artists attempt to establish political agendas. In other words, artists may re-
spond to political events in a variety of ways. At times they may accommodate
art to dominant forces; at other times they may seek independence or resist
accommodation, or they may actively oppose the status quo. As I shall dem-
onstrate, the relative autonomy of Luis Valdez and El Teatro Campesino dur-
ing the sixties and seventies allowed him to create new cultural forms which in-
fluenced Chicano political life and were in turn influenced by political events.
There have been few systematic attempts to analyze Chicano politics and
culture as interactive processes. A review of the literature suggests two gen-
eral misconceptions, which present serious obstacles for the study of culture
in contemporary society. First, there is the assumption that cultural expression
and political activity are autonomous and separate spheres.3 This perspective
is characterized by a degree of conceptual rigidity. Culture is usually defined as
folklore, literature, “artifacts,” or intransigent national traditions; in short, as
specific and autonomous objects which can be analyzed as distinct compo-
nents of a larger totality called “culture.” The definition of politics, on the
other hand, is usually confined to certain formalized activities: the electoral
process, labor organizing, reform movements, for example. Each definition is
limited by a fragmented view of reality, excluding many “intangible” processes
such as art, the influence of media, and advertising which may have profound
effects on political life.
A second assumption is that cultural expression is largely determined by
economic and political forces. This perspective seems to acknowledge the re-
lation between culture and politics but tends to assume the subordination of
cultural expression to political forces. This approach suggests a one-to-one
correspondence between culture and certain historical events. In doing so,
some scholars suggest that sociopolitical developments are mechanically
matched or reflected by periodic “flowerings” of art and subculture practice.
Seldom do we see evidence that art may be political, or that politics may be
creative, or that both share similar traits.
Thus, both perspectives obscure an understanding of the complex rela-
tions between culture and politics within the Chicano movement, and in so-
ciety in general, over the past two decades. An alternative approach must be-
gin with more flexible concepts. Culture should be conceptualized not solely
as specific objects or “traits,” but, as Raymond Williams suggests, “a constitu-
tive social process, creating specific and different ‘ways of life.’” 4 The analysis
of these ways of life, or subcultures, and the artistic forms that result, can
deepen our understanding of cultural practice in recent Chicano history. The
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 177

definition of politics, in the same way, must be expanded to include those ac-
tivities which contribute to the creation and re-creation of organized ways of
political life. This expanded definition may include formal political routines,
such as elections, and also mechanisms which reproduce traditional political
relations through ideology, that is, through dominantly defined values and
stereotypes.
This essay argues that El Teatro developed a reciprocal relation to Chicano
political activity, largely because the theater grew from and helped shape the
intellectual currents of the Chicano movement. At the same time, the plays of
Luis Valdez developed the capacity to “distance” audiences from the dominant
ideology, primarily through humor and satire. Valdez’s plays in particular at-
tempted to separate audiences from this ideology by exposing and dramatizing
the contradictions of field work, by emphasizing the deeper social implications
of labor, and by demonstrating the vulnerability of cultural stereotypes. In so
doing, the division between Valdez the artist and Valdez the political leader
was often difficult to define.
The degree to which Valdez could maintain his independence and ideals
corresponded to the ability of El Teatro to give audiences a conceptual under-
standing of the Chicano experience. The implications of Valdez’s changing
interpretation of that experience are drawn throughout the essay and evalu-
ated in the conclusion. The evolution of Valdez’s work through the 1980s pro-
vides not only an example of how politicized art might be studied, but also a
case study of how one Chicano cultural form has become “integrated” into
Anglo society.

Farmworkers’ Theater, 1965 –1967

Almost every discussion of Chicano politics points to the important role played
by the United Farm Workers Union (UFW), and with good reason.5 The
Delano Grape Strike and Boycott of 1965, together with the Civil Rights,
Free Speech, and antiwar movements, served as catalysts for many Mexican
American organizations in the sixties. The grape strike and boycott were to
culminate in the first successful effort to unionize U.S. agricultural workers
since the 1930s.
The Delano strike quickly became a powerful symbol for many Chicanos.
Among them was a young college student named Luis Valdez. Valdez first heard
reports of the strike while writing and performing with the San Francisco
Mime Troupe. He later went to Delano to investigate the situation for him-
self; it was an experience that proved unsettling. As Valdez recalled in an in-
terview a few years later, “There was this organizer, César Chávez, and all
these campesinos, Mexicanos, and Filipinos, marching through the streets . . .
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178 / Roy Eric Xavier

it really grabbed me. We marched down Ellington Street. I was born on Elling-
ton Street. . . . Marching past streets I had grown up in. I even saw some of my
relatives. Some of them were even out in the fields scabbing. I had to straighten
out a lot of things.” 6
Valdez returned to San Francisco after the march, but was soon drawn by
the popular struggle in the fields. When Chávez came to the city to speak at
a rally a week later, the student approached him with the idea to start a farm-
workers theater.7 Chávez responded favorably: “I said, ‘Yeah, let’s try it.’ So he
[Valdez] organized the original El Teatro Campesino with four or five farm
workers. They played for the first time at the regular Friday night union meet-
ing in Delano. Then people began to look forward to the next performance
on the picket line or whenever the occasion lent itself.” 8
The first rehearsals were held in the back room of the union’s headquarters.
Using hand-lettered signs and improvising as they went along, the actors drew
from their experiences during the strike. On picket lines, often within sight of
armed guards and sheriff deputies, El Teatro began to take daring jabs at the
traditional exploitation of agricultural labor. When direct access to farmworker
audiences was denied —a frequent occurrence as their popularity grew — the
troupe performed on flatbed trucks driven up to the fences of the labor camps.
From these first performances emerged several stock characters: El Patrón
(the boss), Don Coyote (the labor contractor), and El Esquirol (the scab). Soon
masks and other props began to replace the crude signs. As more workers were
recruited, the number of characters and plots increased. Eventually, El Tea-
tro’s fragmented improvisations began to develop into a unique artistic form,
which Valdez and his actors called the acto.
Initially a collective creation, the acto was also the result of Valdez’s ex-
periments with a variety of theatrical styles. The first drew from the work of
the Spanish poet and playwright Federico García Lorca. Valdez was attracted
to Lorca’s work because of the latter’s physical comedic style. Lorca also was
one of the few European artists to break with the tradition of the formal stage
by bringing performances to audiences in the Spanish countryside. Another
source of inspiration was the commedia dell’arte style of the San Francisco
Mime Troupe. This style, described as “a 16th century Italian method of broad
comedy using stock characters, improvisation, and intense physicality,” was
infinitely useful to the union, and became the vehicle for much of El Teatro’s
early work.9 The blending of comedy and satirical improvisation also had its
roots in the agitation-propaganda tradition of Brechtian theater. As some
writers have noted, in the early years El Teatro already showed evidence of a
style that was “part Brecht and part Cantinflas.” But when emphasizing the
“alienation effects” of the former, the actos went beyond mere comedy. They
began to acquire a pedagogical flavor. Valdez explained: “Brecht’s technique
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 179

of learning plays became a very real aspect of teatro, especially when we tried
to teach workers about the grape strike. People can go on strike very simply.
That’s the easy part. What’s hard to understand is what striking involves as
well as the tactics of a prolonged struggle.” 10
The lessons Valdez and his troupe attempted to convey are evident in an
early acto, “Las dos caras del patroncito” (The Two Faces of the Boss). More a
series of short skits, the play attempted to counteract the myth of El Patrón’s
material and cultural superiority over the worker. If there was a moral lesson, it
was that the “mask” of economic dominance worn by the grower was subject
to the conditions of class struggle, a reference to the strike and grape boycott.
Only when the farmworker could see that the grower’s power was vulnerable
could his weaknesses be exposed and the mask symbolically removed.
The realization that grower-farmworker relations were vulnerable also im-
plied that certain kinds of struggle had effects on cultural relations as well. Here
lay the strongest emphasis of the acto, for to Valdez the mask of economic dom-
inance had a less obvious profile: cultural superiority. While exploitative rela-
tions supported the economic interests of the grower, cultural superiority sug-
gested not only his dominance but also an acceptance of subordinate status by
field workers. In order to counteract economic exploitation, farmworkers had
to recognize and overcome the ideological supports inherent in cultural domi-
nation. Thus, as the curtain closed on this early acto, it became evident that the
thrust of resistance was both economic and cultural. Audiences were shown the
reasons for opposing the social relations and culture maintained by an ag-
rarian elite. Valdez emphasized this theme when he observed, “We try to make
social points not in spite of the comedy but through it. This leads us into sat-
ire and slapstick, and sometimes very close to the underlying tragedy of it all . . .
the fact that human beings have been wasted in farm labor for generations.” 11

Movement Theater

Although he did not fully realize it at the time, Valdez’s work placed El Teatro
at the forefront of a growing political movement in the mid 1960s. Just as the
UFW reached the height of its struggle in California, activists throughout the
Southwest were organizing. In New Mexico, Reies López Tijerina founded
the Alianza Federal de Mercedes, an organization to recover lost land and
water rights. In Colorado, Rodolfo “Corky” González, a former Democratic
precinct captain, was providing legal and health services to Chicano youth
through the Crusade for Justice. In East Los Angeles, more than ten thousand
high school students walked out of their classes and staged a sit-in at the Board
of Education. Similar walkouts and protests in Texas led to the founding of El
Partido de la Raza Unida, a populist-nationalist alternative to the Democratic
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180 / Roy Eric Xavier

and Republican Parties. These and other events in the Southwest suggested
the beginnings of a political strategy that called for self-determination by La-
tinos on several fronts.12
This reawakening suggested to Luis Valdez and his troupe that the issues
raised in the early actos may have been limited. Activism from other quarters —
blue- and white-collar workers, women, students, urban youth, and academ-
ics — suggested that the scope of the plays had to be expanded and redirected.
Despite the broader concerns brought about by this activism, however, El
Teatro’s future (in 1966) was still very much tied to the UFW. The close as-
sociation between the organizations was not without conflict, and because of
different priorities, may have temporarily stalled the theater’s ability to address
new issues and to reach new audiences. Valdez described some of the difficul-
ties the theater faced during this period: “After the first month, the boycott
against Schenley Industries (a major grower in the San Joaquin Valley) started
and my two best actors were sent away as boycott organizers. There was a lot
of work to rehearse so there was a lull for a month. That was due, in part, to
the fact that most of my actors were taken away, and we were involved in pick-
eting and boycotting and chasing trucks.” 13
The problem was not only a matter of union activities taking precedence
over rehearsals. According to a former member of the troupe, the union’s mod-
erate leadership was dismayed by the actors’ leftist orientation. There were
also signs that Chávez’s union was hostile toward some militant factions in the
Chicano movement.14 To Valdez, whose sympathies straddled both socialism
and a developing Chicano nationalism, these rumblings signaled a coming
philosophical rift. This may have been sufficient cause to seek other sources of
organizational support. Not surprisingly, the first opportunities to do so were
encouraged by the union.
Shortly after El Teatro Campesino performed for the first time at Stanford
University, in 1966, Chávez asked Valdez to tour other college campuses to
promote the grape boycott. Within a year El Teatro had attracted the atten-
tion of both critics and audiences. Much of the theater’s notoriety was due to
the talent of the performers and, significantly, to a new group of plays written
for the tour. Two actos in particular, “Huelguistas” and “Vietnam campesino,”
continued the advocacy of the UFW struggle. The latter was especially skill-
ful in highlighting the common interests of the growers and the military es-
tablishment. In a third acto, “Soldado razo,” Valdez experimented with char-
acter development in a drama focusing on the experiences of a young Chicano
soldier. Through the course of the play, the audience witnessed “Johnny’s” grad-
ual realization of the Vietnam war’s tragic consequences not only on his own
family, but on the Vietnamese, whose social condition Valdez believed to be
similar to that of Chicanos in the United States. One of the most important
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 181

actos of the period was “No saco nada de la escuela” (I Don’t Get Anything
From School). The play’s value lay in its ability to portray the alienation of
youth and the problems of teacher-student relations. In the playwright’s hands
both issues conjured up images of paternalism and latent racism.
The momentum generated by these productions moved El Teatro to
broaden its critique to include issues that concerned not only campesinos but
all oppressed groups. Valdez’s intention was to inspire social action through
the illumination of contradictions, which the actors were to address through
satire and humor. The actos also were to hint at certain solutions that the ac-
tors felt to be consistent with the audience’s thinking.15
On the basis of this new strategy and their early triumphs, the troupe be-
gan to win wide critical acclaim. This led to opportunities for national expo-
sure. In 1967 El Teatro Campesino was invited to perform at the prestigious
Newport Folk Festival. At the request of Robert Kennedy, the theater also per-
formed before a Senate subcommittee on migrant labor. El Teatro’s national
reputation was enhanced once more by a special Obie award for, as the inscrip-
tion read, “creating a worker’s theater to demonstrate the politics of survival.”
Eventually, the promise of an identity other than a “Farmworkers Theater”
and unresolved political questions with the UFW leadership led to a formal
separation from the union in 1967. Later, Valdez revealed his thoughts on the
split:

The strike in Delano is a beautiful cause, but it won’t leave you

alone. A cause is a living, breathing thing. It’s more important to
leave a rehearsal and go to the picket line. So we found we had to
back away from Delano . . . to be a theater. That was a very hard
decision to make . . . very, very hard. Do you serve the movement as
being just kind of half-assed, getting together whenever there’s a
chance, hitting and missing, or do you really hone your theater down
into an effective weapon? Is it possible to make an effective weapon
without being blood close to the movement? 16

These would be difficult questions for any artist intimately involved in poli-
tics, but the social condition of Chicanos throughout the sixties and the seven-
ties made Valdez’s inquiries that much more urgent. In the years that followed,
the playwright would find himself wrestling with the same thorny questions.
Could the theater continue to interpret faithfully in aesthetic terms the “lived
experience” of audiences without belonging to a movement organization?
Could Valdez continue to develop his artistic talents without compromising
his self-proclaimed political objectives? The playwright soon realized that the
answers to these questions were not immediately clear.
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182 / Roy Eric Xavier

Teatro of Ritual, 1968 –1971

The period following Delano was perhaps the most turbulent for El Teatro, as
well as for the Chicano Movement in general. By the end of the sixties, state
and federal authorities had mobilized to meet the challenge from the Left. In
New Mexico, for example, the Alianza’s ability to halt land seizures by the fed-
eral government was blunted by a lengthy court battle resulting in Tijerina’s
conviction and incarceration in 1967. In August 1970, the Los Angeles Chi-
cano Moratorium against U.S. involvement in Vietnam quickly escalated into
a “police riot,” leaving more than four hundred people injured, three dead,
and several million dollars in property damage. In Denver, Crusade for Justice
programs lost support when organizers were continually discredited by local
law enforcement officials. At the national level, political infighting at the
1972 La Raza Unida convention in El Paso was climaxed by a split between
Chicano “pragmatists” led by José Angel Gutiérrez, and Chicano “socialists”
led by Corky González. The division left La Raza Unida without a leadership
that could gain consensus.17
The Farmworkers Union was also vulnerable to repression. By 1971 the suc-
cess of the Delano strike and the national grape boycott were overshadowed
by sweetheart contracts between the Teamsters and lettuce growers. Compe-
tition between the rival Teamsters union and the UFW was so intense that
the latter was forced to seek the intervention of the AFL-CIO and the Demo-
cratic Party. By the 1972 presidential election, the UFW had become the link
between Chicanos and the Democratic Party liberals. The new alliance sharp-
ened simmering differences between traditionally oriented rural activists and
urban organizers who distrusted white liberal Democrats. These differences also
seemed to be widened as much by militant rhetoric as they were by political
strategy.18
By the early seventies, a pattern of political realignments within and out-
side the Chicano movement was beginning to evolve. The previously assumed
consensus based on nationalism was now being scrutinized in light of new or-
ganizational alliances and strategies. These, in turn, were affected by long-
simmering regional and personal rivalries.
While repression and internal strife limited the effectiveness of other or-
ganizations, the increasing loss of confidence among Chicanos in the goals of
the movement had lasting effects on El Teatro. The theater’s contribution was
largely its ability to convey a conceptual understanding of the world, to sug-
gest an “experience” through humor and satire that contradicted ideological
stereotypes. In this way the intrinsic value of the actos lay in their resistance
to dominant values and their ability to foster trust in the efficacy of the move-
ment’s goals. These goals were assumed by Valdez to be shared collectively by
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 183

others in the Chicano community. Once the fragile alliances that held the
movement together began to crumble, the faith in common goals also began
to wane. With that loss of faith, El Teatro’s interpretation of events came into
question.
This process first became apparent in the attitude of the actors. Pressures
within the movement quickly fueled conflicts among members of the troupe.19
Their differences threatened to inhibit both the theater’s artistic development
and its future as an organization. As Valdez stated in an interview, “Anger
against the imperialist, anger against an unjust system, was very quickly satis-
fied by anger between members of our group. They let out their hostility toward
injustice on each other. It complicated our own work because it destroyed the
very unity that we needed to continue, and it destroyed the very reason we
were doing all of this work, our own brotherhood.” 20
To overcome these obstacles Valdez pushed for better organization and
more discipline within El Teatro. This meant streamlining the troupe accord-
ing to specific tasks. Valdez became artistic director, while other members were
assigned duties according to their theatrical or technical skills.
Valdez also sought new ways to continue the development of the theater’s
art, an activity without which, he argued, the theater could not survive. He
began to dabble with different forms of theater and other media. In 1971 his
screenplay for “Yo soy Joaquín,” (an adaptation of Corky González’s poem, “I
Am Joaquín”) won El Teatro a national film award.
The playwright also expanded the activities of the theater to attract the
growing number of Chicano artists in the late sixties. During this period a
significant number of activists turned toward aesthetic activities once oppor-
tunities in the political arena began to narrow.21 To take advantage of this
trend, Valdez divided the theater into two companies. One performed at San
Juan Bautista while also serving as a training component, and the other com-
pany toured the United States and, eventually, abroad.
Among the new artists was a core of young playwrights who adopted some
of Valdez’s actos for their first productions. Their interest in Chicano theater
prompted Valdez to publish El Teatro in 1970, a journal devoted to the ex-
change of ideas and techniques. During the same year the playwright orga-
nized the first “Festival de los Teatros” to provide a forum to show new work
and begin sharing ideas. Following the second festival in 1971, Valdez and a
group of directors and teatro representatives founded “El Teatro Nacional de
Aztlán” (TENAZ), the first Chicano theatrical organization. According to one
of its founding members, TENAZ was to stimulate communication among
Chicano and Latino theaters and create a body to assist in “developing acting
and staging techniques and in creating more esthetically politically sophisti-
cated material.” 22
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184 / Roy Eric Xavier

The creation of TENAZ can be viewed as an attempt by Valdez to secure

a base of support to replace El Teatro’s former tie to the UFW. Thus, TENAZ
was organized to promote and encourage Chicano theater independent of
other political work. More important, however, Valdez may have viewed
TENAZ as a means to usher in a revival of the movement, a revival based on
a commonly assumed acceptance of nationalism. In this regard, the play-
wright wrote:
If Aztlán is to become a reality, then we Chicanos must not be reluc-
tant to act nationally. To think in national terms: politically, eco-
nomically, and spiritually. We must destroy the deadly regionalism
that keeps us apart. The concept of a national theater for La Raza
is intimately related to our evolving nationalism in Aztlán. . . .
Consider a Teatro Nacional de Aztlán that performs with the same
skill and prestige as the Ballet Folklórico of Mexico. . . . It would
draw its strength from all the small teatros in the barrios, in terms
of people and their plays, songs, designs; it would give back funds,
training, and augment strength of national unity.23

Significantly, TENAZ’s role implied a different kind of political strategy.

Just as Chicano politicians were articulating a nationalist perspective, Valdez
seemed to be proposing a new cultural agenda, which included a reevaluation
of the movement’s aims and a strengthening of Chicano identity. According
to Valdez,
beyond the mass struggle of La Raza in the fields and the barrios
of America, there is an internal struggle in the very corazón of the
people. That struggle too calls for revolutionary change. Our belief
in God, the Church, the social role of women . . . these must be sub-
ject to examination and redefinition on some kind of public forum.
And that again means teatro. Not a teatro composed of actos and
agit-prop but a teatro of ritual, of music, or beauty and spiritual sen-
sitivity. A teatro of legends and myths, a teatro of religious strength.24

One of Valdez’s first attempts to create a “teatro of ritual”— the play “Ber-
nabé”—illustrated the underlying premise of the new strategy: an acknowl-
edgment of the Chicano Left’s ambivalent relation to a hostile world. As the
protagonist, Bernabé personified the Chicano caught between two worlds, the
material world in which he was powerless, and the spiritual world from which
he drew strength.
In the “real” world, Bernabé is portrayed as an outcast, a village idiot de-
pendent on his aging mother. Bernabé’s insecurity is painfully reinforced by
his experience with Connie, a local prostitute. Rejection by Connie forces
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 185

Bernabé back into his role as the powerless child, a reference perhaps to the
ill-fated attempts of Chicano militants to recover from their recent setbacks.
Bernabé’s inability to maintain the relationship with Connie, moreover, sug-
gested the political and economic impotence of Chicanos during the late six-
ties. Without work, without a woman, without the dignity of an adult, Bernabé
has no real link to the material world.25
By contrast, in the spirit world Bernabé is all powerful. He is the Vato Loco,
the epitome of Chicano strength and, above all, the legitimate heir to an an-
cient philosophical tradition. As a Chicano and a man, Bernabé is shown to
be one with the symbols of power, La Luna (the Moon), La Tierra (the earth),
and El Sol (the Sun).
Despite achieving this status, however, Bernabé is never able to reconcile
the two worlds, for in real life he has no power. He is unable to transfer his
new spiritual status to the real world, largely because Valdez viewed Chicano
political power to be on the decline. Since strength is achieved in the spirit
world, the play’s meaning becomes clear: the militant strategy had missed an
important element, an acknowledgment of Chicano culture. The failure to
recognize cultural identity, as represented by spiritual symbolism, Valdez sug-
gested, was a major reason for Chicanos’ lack of power. As long as Chicanos
neglected their ancient legacy, they would remain mired in petty political
squabbles. Armed with this vision, El Teatro entered the seventies.

Theater at Odds, 1972–1976

The 1970s provided a chaotic atmosphere for Valdez to continue his work. By
the middle of the decade, Chicano organizations had continued to disinte-
grate and seemed even further from a common political direction. Many fac-
tors contributed to this turn of events. They included the decline of UFW
membership as a result of union-busting efforts by the Teamsters and the fed-
eral government; the infiltration of Chicano organizations by local, state, and
federal intelligence operatives; and the general disorganization of student
groups. Perhaps the most significant setback for the movement was the in-
creasing fragmentation and decline of La Raza Unida Party. These events re-
sulted in pockets of localized political strength in South Texas, but ultimately
left the movement without a national leadership or a coherent strategy.
This scenario strengthened Valdez’s convictions about the movement’s
weaknesses and his resolve to develop his art. Although some critics have sug-
gested that Valdez’s exploration of ritual theater in the seventies amounted to
a political retreat, the playwright was motivated by other factors. Taking into
account his proximity to the movement, it seems reasonable to suggest that
Valdez may have been attempting to develop a broader analysis of the Chi-
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186 / Roy Eric Xavier

cano experience. Valdez may also have been trying to fill a void created by the
lack of political leadership. In other words, the playwright was attempting to
present a “cultural solution” to a political problem. Regardless of how Valdez’s
solution may be judged, his approach was vibrant, albeit at times perplexing.
El Teatro’s development up to 1972 was the culmination of experiments
undertaken at the troupe’s new headquarters in San Juan Bautista. This phase
is illustrated by two works, “La carpa de los Rasquachis” and the poem “Pensa-
miento serpentino.” 26 In “La carpa” Valdez began with an acto which told the
story of an underdog, José Rasquachi, and his family’s struggle to survive in the
United States. The acto was later expanded and refined through the use of co-
rridos (poetry and stories set to music), which illustrated José’s exploitation,
the circumstances leading to his death, and the subsequent quest for power by
his sons. Another form, the mito or myth, was introduced at the conclusion to
suggest that only a spiritual reawakening among Chicanos, rather than mate-
rial gain, held promise in the future. Reflecting on the play, critic Arthur
Sainer summarized Valdez’s position as an attempt to regain political perspec-
tive through psychological drama and satire. Thus, in “La carpa,” rather than
the politics being an end in itself, a “spiritual struggle now informed the so-
cial struggle.” 27
This perspective is reflected in Valdez’s poem “Pensamiento serpentino.”
In contrast to the theme of Bernabé (the separation of the Chicano’s role in
the material world from the world of the spirit), “Pensamiento serpentino”
promised a joining of both realms. Incorporating the ancient Mayan symbol
of the Great Serpent, Valdez sketched out a theory in which he envisioned
the social and political struggles of Chicanos continually evolving to higher
states of consciousness. As the serpent shed its skin to emerge rejuvenated, au-
diences were shown by analogy that certain conditions also change, that Chi-
canos ultimately have the ability to withstand repression and internal strife.
This realization, however, would only come if Chicanos were willing to be
guided by religious “truths” born of Mayan philosophy. As the playwright ob-
served, “La nueva realidad nace de la realidad vieja”—a new reality is born of
the old.28
The basis of this new reality was the Mayan concept “Lak ’Eck,” which Val-
dez interpreted humanistically as, “If I love and respect you, I love and respect
myself. Whatever I do to you, I do to myself.” This principle was to be applied
within the movement. Chicanos were to find love by developing a common re-
spect for each other. Self-respect, in turn, would cultivate trust for peoples of
all races. Once Chicanos understood this logic and that love emanated from
a supreme spirit, “La Energía that created the Universe,” they could overcome
the present obstacles facing them. Thus, Valdez wrote,
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 187

As Chicanos
As Neo-Mayans
We must re-identify
with that center and proceed
outward with love and strength
Amor y fuerza (love and strength)
and undying dedication to justice.

Further on in the poem, he linked the Mayan way of life to a grand stage in
which the Great Spirit took on multiple roles as “El great playwright del uni-
verse,” “el scene designer y costume maker,” and,
El make-up man del teatro
infinitivo
que nos pone el maquiaje (the one who gives us faces)
brown, white, black, yellow

None of the faces, Valdez continued, could be considered ugly or beauti-

ful, although we may not always be content with them. “The point is to par-
ticipate in the play (of life), not to reject the parts we are given to play.” The
Great Spirit gave Chicanos their roles for specific purposes. Valdez stressed that
no one else had the Chicano part. “If a Chicano rejects his part,” that is, de-
nies his cultural roots for the sake of material gain, “he’s going to mess up.”
In the end, the role of Chicanos in this world is what the Mayans called
“the limit,” that is, the material existence which is physically separate from the
world of the spirit. Beyond lay a realm that is not bound by the body. The key
was that once Chicanos learned the material limits of the real world, they
would “encounter your infinite potential. Encuentras a dios en tu corazón”
[you find God in your heart]. For ultimately, the Great Spirit resides in all in-
dividuals and charts the course in the world.
The importance of Valdez’s contribution to aesthetic as well as political
discussion should not be lost in the poem’s metaphysical tone. He was, in ef-
fect, proposing a humanistic approach to politics which attempted to incor-
porate nationalist sentiments. By doing so Valdez, along with other intellec-
tuals, was opening the door for a broader analysis of the Chicano experience.
Valdez’s enthusiasm was matched by the zeal of writers who touted the higher
truths offered by indigenismo, or those who called for “responsible and au-
thentic relationships” among Chicanos, or others who wrote with the implicit
assumption that humanism transcends politics, and could thus form a sym-
bolic link among all Chicanos.29
In these and other examples, the emphasis on humanism was tantamount
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188 / Roy Eric Xavier

to a call on a fragmented class to take a closer look at itself, to find those in-
tangible qualities which Chicano leaders had not taken into account. To Val-
dez the essence of the problem was that a materialist strategy was responsible
for the factional differences within the movement. The solution was to reduce
these differences to the most fundamental level. In short, Valdez sought to ex-
pand political horizons by embracing a spiritual aesthetic grounded in an
emerging nationalist ideology.
Perhaps because he was one of the most prominent advocates of the spiri-
tual humanist approach, Valdez came under intense criticism. Ironically, the
same festivals he helped organize fostered debates over his art. At the fourth
TENAZ festival in 1973, for example, controversy raged over Valdez’s support
of religious theater, which many observers believed diluted the political role
of Chicanos. At the fifth festival, conflicts between community-based teatros
and professional groups may have been fueled by Valdez’s brand of aesthetics.
This led to accusations from a number of artists that Valdez had lost touch
with the developments of the movement.30 An observer who witnessed a per-
formance by El Teatro during the fifth festival described it as “entertaining, but
confusing.” He added, “A lot of it was Aztec and Mayan ceremony. The cos-
tumes were far-out and the choreography, wild. But it didn’t really give people
a clear message. When we talked to people afterwards, they said they liked it,
but they couldn’t explain what they saw.” 31
A major drawback to Valdez’s approach was that the dialogue the plays gen-
erated was confined to a relatively small group of intellectuals. Several artists
during the seventies enthusiastically embraced the playwright’s position; their
own work reflected the influence Valdez had on Chicano theater and Chicano
art in general. In terms of a larger audience, however, “La carpa” and “Pensa-
miento serpentino” were largely foreign to the experience of working-class
Chicanos. In effect, Valdez was asking them to accept on faith certain social and
metaphysical principles which were not only unfamiliar, but also historically
and politically suspect. The call to “turn the other cheek” suggested that Val-
dez’s approach rested on an avoidance of social problems, and came very close
to accommodation. The result was that instead of precipitating an examina-
tion and redefinition of concrete issues, Valdez’s religious jargon may have ob-
scured social issues and contributed very little to the development of political
consensus during this period. Valdez’s response to his critics can be gleaned
from a letter he wrote explaining his position: “We do not feel that this is in any
way inconsistent with our Chicanismo. Ask La Raza. They will tell you. Our
people believe in the Creador, hermanismo. The Great Spirit . . . they are all
manifestations of the same Cosmic force. Man is a spiritual animal. Man in his
heart contains the divine spark. What we intellectuals struggle to grasp with
our minds, La Raza más humilde has always known through sheer faith alone.” 32
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 189

The playwright may have overestimated the acquiescence of his audience

to religious values. To observers in TENAZ it was apparent that some mem-
bers of the audience were not content with merely watching theater; many
wanted to become actively involved. As more activists joined the organiza-
tion and began to participate in the exchange of ideas, they began to question
TENAZ’s approach to art and its relevance to daily experience. As Nicolas
Kanellos noted, a number of groups “looked upon (TENAZ’s) efforts at pro-
fessionalism suspiciously” and considered them to be “too removed from their
everyday reality.” In Kanellos’s words, “The members of these groups have
formed teatros not because they consider themselves actors, performers or art-
ists, but because teatro is a means of serving their communities in the struggle
for civil rights and human dignity.” 33
Controversy emerged over the use of Valdez’s original actos by the
community-based theaters. To their members, the acto was more conducive to
collective involvement than the mito, because the acto involved a wider range
of individuals whose daily experiences became material for the plays. Those
experiences were often specific to the region in which the troupe performed,
and helped to create a close bond between actors and audiences. At times that
relation was so intimate that actors and members of the audience exchanged
roles during a performance. Themes reflecting a concern for specific issues, such
as labor organizing, welfare rights, or ending barrio warfare, were often pre-
sented by individuals who were striving toward these goals in real life. On these
issues, Valdez was silent.
There were, however, other factors which may account for Valdez’s resis-
tance to community-oriented productions. The playwright’s adjustment to po-
litical struggles within the movement may have been influenced by El Teatro’s
increasing popularity outside the Chicano community. Despite the pressures
on Valdez from within the movement, El Teatro was encouraged by the re-
sponse of non-Chicano audiences. This recognition may have indirectly bol-
stered the playwright against his critics, while opening the way for a further
development of his art, which moved further away from its original social
base. At the same time, El Teatro’s popularity took on a new meaning. What
previously had been considered unusual or avant garde was suddenly in de-
mand. Theatrical promoters had come to recognize the mass appeal and com-
mercial potential of El Teatro’s performances.

Professional Teatro, 1977–1980

Valdez’s courtship of these new audiences tended to coincide with the emer-
gence of an influential strata of Chicano professionals. By the latter half of the
seventies this well-educated, predominantly male group, the first to benefit
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190 / Roy Eric Xavier

from affirmative action policies, made significant advances toward equal

opportunity. Organizations like TENAZ expanded their membership and
adopted more sophisticated techniques. Like other racial and ethnic groups,
however, Chicano professionals paid a price for their mobility by becoming
estranged from the majority of working-class Chicanos.34
Perhaps a similar observation could be made of the founder of El Teatro
Campesino. As Kanellos has noted, “For Campesino, professionalism was a
goal fostered and realized through the efforts of the university-trained play-
wright and director, Luis Valdez. It represented the only avenue to a full ex-
ploration of the esthetic and cultural possibilities of the Mexican-American
theatrical form that Campesino had helped to invent.” 35 Valdez’s efforts can
perhaps best be understood by examining the stage production of Zoot Suit.
Zoot Suit dealt with a long-submerged incident in Chicano history, the
Sleepy Lagoon Murder Case. In 1942 José Díaz, age twenty-two, was found dead
from a fractured skull near a Montebello swimming hole known as Sleepy
Lagoon, in the Los Angeles area. Police officials, goaded by the Los Angeles
Times and the Hearst press at the height of World War II, eventually arrested
twenty-two members of the 38th Street gang for Díaz’s murder. Labeled “Zoot
Suit Gangsters” because of their fondness for wearing exaggerated business
suits popularized by young blacks in Harlem, the youth were the defendants
in one of the most racially charged trials in California history. After many le-
gal maneuvers and much public pressure, the convictions were overturned
two years later for lack of evidence.
On the basis of his research on the Sleepy Lagoon trial and the infamous
“Zoot Suit Riots” in Los Angeles in 1943, Valdez fashioned a musical drama
focusing on the defendants and the historical events surrounding the case.
Zoot Suit proved so successful in its Los Angeles debut that in 1979 the play
went to Broadway. This marked the first time a Chicano production was able
to break into the mainstream of American theater.
Zoot Suit’s success owed as much to the staff of the Mark Taper Forum,
where the production was first presented, as it did to the perseverance of Val-
dez and his troupe. A close relationship between the Forum’s staff and the
playwright was in fact a prominent feature of the play’s early development. In
1977 Gordon Davidson, artistic director for the Taper, began a series of ex-
perimental productions called the “New Theater for Now.” A major effort was
made to produce plays involving local minorities in the Los Angeles area, par-
ticularly Chicanos, who make up a sizable but untapped audience. Davidson
hired Kenneth Brecher, an anthropologist, to help develop works for the new
project. One of Brecher’s first visits was to San Juan Bautista to encourage Val-
dez to produce a play. Valdez recalled the discussions: “We talked about sev-
eral things with the Taper. Finally, I said to Ken, how about a play about the
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 191

pachuco era? He was pretty excited. And it turned out Gordon Davidson had
just heard something on the car radio about the period so it was on his mind
too. We researched the Sleepy Lagoon Case and the riots at the UCLA
Chicano Library, but what we came up with isn’t a Chicano play like the ones
we do at San Juan Bautista. It’s an American play.” 36
Commissioned by Davidson, Valdez immersed himself in six thousand
pages of Sleepy Lagoon trial transcripts and read through hundreds of letters,
defense papers, and newspaper clippings to reconstruct the events. Mean-
while, he and Brecher interviewed the principals of the case. Despite these ef-
forts, Valdez’s first draft was apparently not what Davidson had in mind. An
article in the New York Times disclosed: “Instead of the excitement and the-
atricality of Brecht and Cantinflas, [Davidson] beheld a fairly conventional
work of Odets-like naturalism. Immediately he sensed the problem: Luis Val-
dez had become overwhelmed by the myriad facts of his long research. Gordon
counseled the playwright to start all over again, to abandon strict naturalism
for a more theatrical structure, to find a metaphor for his tale that evoked the
throbbing rhythms of his people, to splash color and fire across his pages.” 37
Valdez apparently accepted Davidson’s assessment. In an interview with
Dan Sullivan of the Los Angeles Times, the playwright acknowledged the ob-
stacles he faced and gave a glimpse of the new direction the play would take.
“You can see the problem: how to integrate it all,” he explained. “If I used a nat-
uralistic approach, I couldn’t make it through the story. So the backdrop is sym-
bolic. Some of the characters are based on real people, some are composite
characters, and some are symbolic characters.” 38
The playwright’s use of symbols is evident from the opening scene when
the play’s narrator, El Pachuco, slices through a huge World War II newspaper
headline with a six foot switchblade. “When that enormous switchblade knife
comes out,” a reviewer commented, “it’s clear that exaggeration will be one
emotional keynote for the evening —we’re meant to understand that we’re in
for something a little larger than life.” 39 Exaggeration began with El Pachuco’s
costume. Dressed in a knee-length coat, billowing pants pegged at the ankle,
a gold chain stretching almost to the floor, topped off by a wide-brimmed feath-
ered hat, El Pachuco personified the legendary hero-gangster of the barrio. And
that was apparently how Valdez envisioned him — part legend based on the
Aztec “lord of education and experience,” and part social misfit and noncon-
formist. By bringing to life this cultural archetype, the playwright instilled in
the character a “subliminal power” designed to span the full spectrum of the
barrio hierarchy: from the street personality who had taken on a godlike qual-
ity among Chicano youth, to the socially “deviant” gang member as seen from
the perspective of more traditional observers. At the same time, Valdez was
aware that his characters had to be relevant to other audiences; while El
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192 / Roy Eric Xavier

Pachuco was “to be admired and despised at the same time by some of the same
people,” he was also to be funny and frightening. “I wanted to capture that en-
ergy in the play,” Valdez said, “and use that as a bridge, the human bridge into
mainstream America.” 40
The intention of reaching the American mainstream was not overlooked
by early reviewers of the play. Some critics noted that because of Valdez’s in-
tention to attract middle-class patrons, it was obvious that Chicanos were not
the play’s primary audience. “I am certain that its popularity,” Harold Clur-
man wrote, “is not due to a large attendance of Chicanos. . . . The majority of
the audience at the Taper was, and perhaps still is, to a considerable extent
unfamiliar with the various sections (of Los Angeles) inhabited by its mi-
norities. What does Hollywood, not to speak of Beverly Hills, Brentwood, Bel-
Air and Santa Monica know of Watts, Boyle Heights and other ‘submerged’
parts of the town where the others dwell?” 41
Critic Gerald Rabkin wrote that Valdez, in responding to Gordon David-
son’s commission to write a play, “was well aware that an evening of Actos and
Mitos would not satisfy middle-class theatrical expectations.” 42 Davidson’s
role as a promoter may partially explain Valdez’s intention to direct the play
“beyond the barrio.” In Valdez’s words, “I wanted to write a play that was not
just a Chicano play but an American play. I wanted to make a single human
statement, to invoke a vision of America as a whole including the minorities —
using joy and humor.” 43
The desire to make a “single human statement” on a grander scale may
have motivated Valdez and Davidson to take Zoot Suit to Broadway. Valdez ex-
plained that “Zoot Suit staying in the barrio would be like that pachuco putting
on the zoot suit and staying in the barrio. The play had to come to Broadway
because this is the Palladium of the theater. Zoot Suit belongs here.” 44
While Zoot Suit may have belonged on Broadway, the reality of the situa-
tion suggested otherwise. After only four weeks the play closed because of
poor ticket sales. Part of the problems were strained relations between Teatro
personnel and the play’s New York promoters, the Shubert organization. The
two parties apparently entered into the agreement with different goals, the
Shuberts not concealing the fact that they viewed Zoot Suit as a potential hit,
while Valdez and his troupe considered their very presence in New York as a
political coup. Predictably, the differences eventually came to a head over
finances. The Shubert organization initially allocated only $7,000 out of a
$700,000 advertising budget for promotion in New York’s Latino media. At
the same time, the Shuberts saw no contradiction in paying $15,000 weekly
for advertisements in the New York Times. Following negative reviews in the
Times and the New Yorker, an additional $125,000 in advertising was spent as
a last hope. With the troupe and the Shuberts working at such cross-purposes,
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 193

the curtain quickly fell on El Teatro’s Broadway debut.45 Thus, despite Val-
dez’s and Davidson’s best intentions, the theater returned to California after
only five weeks.
El Teatro’s experience in New York was only a temporary setback. Zoot
Suit proved to be a box-office hit in Los Angeles, continuing for many months
to rave reviews. In 1981 a film version, which was a significant departure from
the play, also made the rounds of theaters from coast to coast. Its use of mon-
tage and acknowledgment of the audience, its depiction of alternative life-
styles, and the political questions the film raises brought much critical acclaim.

El Teatro in the 1980s and 1990s

Filmmaking was the next phase in the artistic development of Luis Valdez. It
also illustrates the progression of Valdez’s political thought. We will recall that
in the sixties Valdez’s work had criticized notions of cultural deference. In the
seventies we saw him questioning the goals of the theater within the context
of the Chicano Movement. By the eighties Valdez’s introspection evolved into
an ambiguous liberalism based on individual initiative. Filmmaking was an
important element in this new strategy, for it provided the means of reaching
new audiences and of ensuring the survival of the theater.
Soon after the success of Zoot Suit the film, Valdez indicated the direction
the theater would take. In an interview, the playwright said his new goal was
“to bridge the seemingly unbridgable gaps in life and politics.” He concluded:
“That’s actually one of [my] approaches to life in general. If you feel you’re
shortchanged, fill the gap yourself. Why mope? Why feel angry? You’ve got the
power to do something.” This initiative is similar to the early goal of using
theater to direct social action. Rather than focusing on specific contradictions,
however, Valdez’s new strategy is “to take peoples’ minds off their problems by
entertaining them.” 46 He stated, “This relates to what’s happening through-
out American theater. People are experimenting with drama, dance, sing-
ing. . . . Look what’s happening with MTV. Music is being visualized and that’s
what’s happening on stage. . . . That’s challenging.” 47
Perhaps most challenging was to use this strategy to create a place for Chi-
cano Theater in American culture. As Valdez noted, “We are trying to build
things that last, not only theater, but movies and videotape, an institution that
can be used by others so this doesn’t disappear.” 48 Creative longevity could be
achieved, Valdez suggested, through the cultivation of audiences for different
media projects. After filming Zoot Suit, for example, Valdez signed a contract
for distribution of the movie to video stores, collaborated with well-known
television producers in a syndicated “video rock opera,” and was hired by Jane
Fonda’s production company to write and direct other films. Between 1985
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194 / Roy Eric Xavier

and 1986 Valdez developed a screenplay from his musical Corridos, a series of
vignettes based on Mexican ballads; then in 1987 he narrated, directed, and
staged the production for a public broadcasting station in San Francisco.
That year Valdez’s most ambitious project to date, La Bamba, a film based
on the life of Chicano rocker Richie Valens (Ricardo Valenzuela), made its
debut. Contracted to direct by Columbia Pictures, Valdez fashioned a musical
biography of Valenzuela’s life as a field worker and an East Los Angeles teen-
ager —a music career highlighted by the adaptation of a traditional Mexican
ballad to a top-forty song, and Valenzuela’s death in a plane crash with Buddy
Holly and the “Big Bopper.”
Critical and public reaction to La Bamba was divided. After the film
opened, a Los Angeles Times critic described it as “no more electrifying than
the ordinary ’50’s bio-pic. The charisma that Richie Valens had and the kind
of energy that must have been there to propel a young Mexican American
from picking fields and orchards into the world of music is missing.” Yet audi-
ences were eager to see the film. In the first three days of distribution, La Bamba
grossed $5.6 million and was well on its way to recouping the $6.5 million
Columbia had spent to make it.49
Much of the film’s success was among Latino audiences. At Valdez’s urg-
ing, Columbia distributed several Spanish dubbed and subtitled prints to thirty
key cities with large Latino populations. Movie theaters in those cities con-
sistently grossed more revenue than those showing the English versions. Favor-
able Latino audience response, in fact, was a decisive factor in the statements
of studio executives. In an ironic twist, Valdez’s efforts to reach the mass mar-
ket were perceived by the studios as an opening into the “Hispanic” market.
According to Columbia Pictures President David Picker, “If we can establish
[Hispanics] as an on-going market, it will be a great asset to us. . . . One rea-
son we are doing ‘La Bamba’ at all is that we have a market, that has never
been addressed with the care and attention it deserves. If ‘La Bamba’ succeeds,
it will create new avenues for Latino actors, writers, and film makers.” 50 A rep-
resentative for Universal Films took a similar view: “I want ‘La Bamba’ to suc-
ceed. . . . A success for a single Hispanic film is a success for all of us. If that
movie makes money, then there’s something to show to executives when they
make the next film. Of course, success depends on how effectively Columbia
reaches the Hispanic market.” 51
There is no question that La Bamba was a solid financial success. The film
was profitable in theatrical release. Pay cable and home video distribution be-
gan in early 1988. Additional revenues have come from broadcast network
play, independent television syndication, foreign release, redistribution, and
the royalties from the music rights owned by Los Lobos, a well-known Chicano
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 195

band. Had Valens lived longer, there would have been a sequel (La Bamba:
Part II?), which would have begun the cycle all over again.
This potential has greatly increased Valdez’s marketability among movie
executives. It was not surprising that he used his new clout to create a pro-
duction company, the current trend in the industry, in order to seek a long-
term contract from a major studio. As this happened, Valdez moved finally in
a position to give Latino arts some permanence, and perhaps demonstrate
that it is possible to create, in his words, “an institution that can be used by
others so this doesn’t disappear.” 52

Conclusion

The final task of this essay is to evaluate Valdez’s changing interpretation of the
Chicano experience. What conclusions can be drawn by our examination of
the turning points in Valdez’s art? What can we learn about the cultural pro-
cess as it exerted pressures on the artist over the years? Two articles illustrate
an attempt to address these questions.
Dieter Herms argues that Valdez’s work should be viewed as part of “unified
cultural process and reality,” in which professional and nonprofessional Chi-
cano artists contribute to a “subversive praxis of philosophy.” In a similar view,
George Lipsitz suggests that the effort of Chicano artists in general, and mu-
sicians in particular, to enter the cultural mainstream “reflects their struggle
to assemble a ‘historical bloc’ [of advanced intellectuals] capable of challeng-
ing the ideological hegemony of Anglo cultural domination.” 53
These scholars have highlighted some important aspects of Valdez’s work.
Certainly, Valdez’s writings have drawn from and sought to inspire social ac-
tion. Valdez has also played a significant role in the vanguard of Chicano in-
tellectual thought. What has not been discussed, however, is the degree to
which Valdez or other activists were able to maintain these positions and ad-
dress social issues at particular points in their careers. I would explain these
varying degrees of success as symptomatic of Valdez’s “contradictory develop-
ment” as both a cultural and a political figure.
The paradox that seemed to escape Herms and Lipsitz is that while artists
are engaged in aesthetic activities, they also struggle with political processes
that are rife with contradictions. Thus, we saw Valdez contending with the
moderate UFW leadership while attempting to address wider social issues as a
playwright. Valdez’s break with the union only increased pressures on his troupe
to function as a national theater. When political tensions worsened within
the Chicano movement, Valdez found himself reassessing his strategies and
weathering strife within his own theater. The result was a new spiritual em-
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196 / Roy Eric Xavier

phasis, which met with movement criticism and drove Valdez to seek a larger
audience.
Thus, Valdez’s involvement in both cultural and political contexts required
him to negotiate with the Chicano movement and the dominant culture for
the right to be recognized as an artist. That negotiation was protracted and
consisted of a number of stages which I identified throughout this chapter.
Moreover, the need to negotiate has been by no means unique to Valdez. An
entire generation of artists and social activists experienced the same types of
pressures. The “price” Valdez eventually paid was his isolation from Chicano
politics and recognition by mainstream theater critics as the premier “His-
panic” artist of his generation.
The final issue to be addressed is Valdez’s diminished political role in the
1990s, in contrast to El Teatro’s activities in the 1960s and 1970s. As we saw
from the preceding analysis, the path taken following Teatro’s break from the
UFW led not only to creative independence but also to the need to develop
independent financial and artistic support. This meant that Valdez and the
troupe were immediately required to acknowledge “real world” needs, such as
food, shelter, and clothing, as well as to cultivate audiences to support their
new creative efforts.
In contrast, under the umbrella of the union, Valdez and other actors could
rely on some level of support, while serving farmworker audiences as they
struggled against the growers. “Politics” in the early stages for Valdez tended
to come with the territory. El Teatro was part of the union, and therefore part
of the latter’s political and social struggles. As a result, the artists enjoyed a
close “living” relationship with farmworker audiences, continually reinforced
by the requirements of the strikes and the grape boycott.
Once independent of the union, however, political activity no longer took
center stage for El Teatro. The process of creative production in itself became
“politics” for several members of the troupe. To Valdez, cultural production
meant moving away from overt political activity toward a philosophy of “pro-
fessionalism” in all forms of expression. This process included regimented di-
visions of labor within the theater and layoffs of actors who did not fit the
mold. El Teatro’s new direction also led to commercially commissioned plays
rather than plays developing out of social causes. In the eighties and nineties
El Teatro and Valdez are best known for forays into movies, television, and
multimedia, which initially attracted interest from the industry but led ulti-
mately to the demise of Campesino as a theater company.
Some writers suggest that Valdez developed his apolitical themes at the
time he sought to make the theater company more commercial in 1976 –1977.
I believe the process began as early as 1966, when El Teatro figuratively and
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 197

creatively moved away from Mexican American farmworkers, and later from
the urban working class in 1970 –1971. Since then, the history of the theater
can be viewed in some respects as the story of El Teatro’s, and especially Luis
Valdez’s, search for a new sociocultural and political base. The Chicano
movement was the most likely and compatible suitor. But once movement or-
ganizations disintegrated in the mid 1970s, El Teatro was left to its own de-
vices. Many artists inside and outside Chicano theater sought creative refuge
in religious and intellectual symbolism. Valdez’s search continued through na-
tionalism, humanism, liberalism, and professionalism, by blending the collec-
tive work of the troupe and his own individual initiative to develop unique —
and ultimately marketable —art forms.
Despite this history, it is unfair and counterproductive to be too critical of
Luis Valdez and El Teatro Campesino. In many respects, Valdez’s efforts can
be viewed as metaphors for our own adjustments to the contradictions of a
dominant culture. We have only to listen to the doublespeak of this culture to
realize its impact on our lives. Thus, we strive to hone our “professional skills”
and continue our education to be more “marketable,” all for the sake of af-
fording the kind of “lifestyle” in which we can enjoy the fruits of our “labors”
and pass on those values to our children, whom we subtly enlist into the ranks
of a new “Hispanic” middle class.
The art forms created by El Teatro Campesino suggest alternatives to such
values. Their plays capture the exhilarating events and disappointments of the
sixties, as well as the realities of the movement’s demise in the seventies and
the Reagan aftermath in the eighties. The production of some early Teatro
pieces in the nineties by a new generation of artists signalled possibilities for
the future. Through its art, El Teatro has given us the means to overcome cul-
tural and political obstacles and has motivated us to get on with our lives.
Change is inevitable, we realize, but on whose terms? In the work of El Teatro
we recognize the ability to push the boundaries of personal and cultural de-
velopment, whatever the costs. In the long run, institutions like El Teatro
Campesino and the artists they produce prepare us for a promising, and at times
uncertain, future. Without their guidance, that uncertainty would seem over-
whelming, and the promise of new vistas all too distant.

Notes
Author’s Note: This essay had its origins during the early 1980s in Berkeley. Since then, many
colleagues and family members helped me in varying degrees to produce the final passages. My
thanks go to the 1983–1984 U.C. Berkeley ChPEC working group, and to Tomas Almaguer,
Larry Almada, Félix Alvarez, Jon D. Cruz, Margarita Decierdo, Troy Duster, Russell Ellis, Fran-
cisco García, Juan C. García, Todd Gitlin, Tomas González, David Montejano, Katia Panas, Brian
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198 / Roy Eric Xavier

Rich, and Julie L. Sickert. Finally, this project is dedicated to my children, Nick, Russell, and
Veronica, who as a new generation provided much of the impetus to complete the final draft. Any
flaws which remain are my own.

1. See the following: El Teatro Campesino, El Teatro Campesino: The Evolution of America’s
First Chicano Theatre Company (1965–1985) (San Juan Baptista, Calif.: El Teatro, 1985); Arthur
C. Flores, El Teatro Campesino de Luis Valdez (1965–1980) (Madrid: Pliegos, 1990); Yolanda
Broyles-González, El Teatro Campesino: Theater in the Chicano Movement (Austin: University of
Texas Press, 1994); Manuel de Jesús Vega, El Teatro Campesino: Chicano y La Vanguardia Teatral,
1965–1975 (Middlebury, Vt.: Middlebury College Press, 1983); and Víctor Zavala Catano, Teatro
Campesino (Lima: Ediciones Escena Contemporánea, 1983).
2. A notable exception is the book by Yolanda Broyles-González, op. cit. Mixed with some
harsh criticism of Valdez, González illuminates the “dynamics of Teatro’s creative production pro-
cess” against the backdrop of sociocultural and political developments. The author lays bare the
tensions within the troupe, particularly the conflict between the collective work of female en-
semble members and Valdez’s impulse to point the theater toward the mainstream. I would ex-
plain these and other conflicts as evidence of the unstable union between culture and politics
within the Chicano movement, focusing on Valdez as a representative of Chicana/o artists who
sought to present alternative forms of expression.
3. See, for example, Juan Gómez-Quiñones, “On Culture,” in Revista Chicano-Riqueño 5, no. 2
(Spring 1977): 29 – 47; Juan Bruce Novoa, “The Space of Chicano Literature,” in De Colores 1,
no. 4 (1975): 22 – 42; José Limón, “Agringado Joking in Texas Mexican Society: Folklore and Dif-
ferential Identity,” New Scholar 6 (1977): 33–50; Tomás Ybarra Frausto, “The Chicano Movement
and the Emergence of a Chicano Poetic Consciousness,” New Scholar 6 (1977): 81–109; Joseph
Sommers, “From the Critical Premise to the Product: Critical Modes and Their Applications to
the Chicano Literary Text,” New Scholar 6 (1977): 51– 80; and Luis Davila, “Otherness in Chicano
Literature,” in James W. Wilkie, Michael C. Meyer, and Edna Manzon de Wilkie, eds., Contempo-
rary Mexico (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1973), pp. 556 –563. Analytical questions
concerning culture and politics, of course, are not limited to Chicano studies. See also Terry Eagle-
ton’s Criticism and Ideology, A Study in Marxist Literary Theory (London: New Left Books, 1976).
4. Raymond Williams, Marxism and Literature (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1977), p. 19.
5. See Armando Rendón, Chicano Manifesto (New York: Collier Books, 1971); Armando Na-
varro, “The Evolution of Chicano Politics,” Aztlán 5, nos. 1 & 2 (Spring & Fall 1974); Rodolfo
Acuña, Occupied America, 2nd edition (New York: Harper & Row, 1981); Tomás Ybarra Frausto,
“The Chicano Movement”; and Gustavo Segade, “Identity and Power: An Essay on the Politics
of Culture and the Culture of Politics in Chicano Thought,” Aztlán 9, no. 1 (Spring 1978):
pp. 89 – 99.
6. “Platicando Con Luis Valdez,” Rayas (newsletter of Chicano arts and letters) 4 ( July –
August 1978): 11.
7. Ibid.
8. Jacques Levy, César Chávez: Autobiography of La Causa (New York: W. W. Norton & Co.,
1970), p. 196.
9. Paula Cizmar, “Luis Valdez,” Mother Jones, June 1979, p. 52.
10. Ibid.
11. Beth Bagby, “El Teatro Campesino: Interview with Luis Valdez,” Tulane Drama Review 11,
no. 4 (Summer 1967): 70 – 80.
12. Clark Knowlton, “Guerrillas of Río Arriba: The New Mexico Land Wars,” in F. Chris
García, ed., La Causa Política: A Chicano Politics Reader (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame Press,
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Politics & Chicano Culture / 199

1974); Stan Steiner, La Raza: The Mexican Americans (New York: Harper & Row, 1969); Carlos
Muñoz, “The Politics of Protest and Chicano Liberation: A Case Study of Repression and Co-
optation,” Aztlán 5, nos. 1 & 2 (Spring & Fall 1974): 119 –141; John Staples Shockley, Chicano
Revolt in a Texas Town (Notre Dame, Ind.: Notre Dame Press, 1974).
13. Bagby, “El Teatro Campesino.”
14. From an interview with Félix Alvarez, a former member of El Teatro, Oakland, Califor-
nia, April 1978; Olga Rodríguez, ed., The Politics of Chicano Liberation (New York: Pathfinder Press,
1977), p. 36.
15. Alvarez interview.
16. Sylvia Drake, “El Teatro Campesino: Keeping the Revolution on Stage,” Performing Arts,
September 1970, pp. 59 – 60.
17. Knowlton, “Guerrillas of Río Arriba”; Armando Morales, “The 1970 –71 East Los An-
geles Chicano-Police Riots,” in García, ed., La Causa Política; Richard García, “The Chicano
Movement and the Mexican American Community, 1972 –1978: An Interpretive Essay,” Socialist
Review no. 40 – 41 ( July – October 1978). See also Carlos Muñoz, Jr., and Mario Barrera, “La Raza
Unida Party and the Chicano Student Movement in California,” Social Science Journal 19, no. 2
(April 1982): 101–119; Juan José Peña, “Reflecciones sobre El Movimiento,” De Colores 2, no. 1
(1975): 59 – 63; see Acuña’s Occupied America, p. 389.
18. Rodríguez, Politics of Chicano Liberation; José Limón, “The Folk Performance of Chicano
and the Cultural Limits of Political Ideology” (unpublished manuscript, 1979). Limón implies that
the use of the term Chicano among young organizers was instrumental in creating distrust among
older Chicano voters.
19. González, El Teatro Campesino, provides a vivid account of these conflicts in a section on
the stereotypical roles endured by women members throughout El Teatro’s history. In later years,
Valdez’s efforts to produce images of “colonization” for Chicano and non-Chicano audiences
tended to reproduce tensions within the company when women continued to be cast as whores,
prostitutes, or ingenues. See González’s chapter 3, “Toward a Re-Vision of Chicana/o Theater
History: The Roles of Women in El Teatro Campesino,” pp. 129 –163.
20. Theodore Shank, “A Return to Mayan and Aztec Roots,” Drama Review 18, no. 4 (De-
cember 1974): 56 –78.
21. Ybarra-Frausto, “The Chicano Movement.”
22. Nicolas Kanellos, “Folklore in Chicano Theater and Chicano Theater as Folklore,”
Journal of Folklore Institute 15, no. 1 ( Jan.–April 1978): 74.
23. Actos: El Teatro Campesino (Fresno: Cucaracha Press, 1971), p. 3. Aztlán, in Chicano
writings, is a mental and physical state. Literally, it refers to a utopia written about by Aztec and
Mayan philosophers and projected to the Southwest by Chicano writers in the 1960s.
24. Ibid.
25. For a vivid example of Valdez’s attitude toward militants during this period, see his acto,
“The Militants,” in ibid.
26. Luis Valdez, Pensamiento Serpentino: A Chicano Approach to the Teatre of Reality (San Juan
Bautista, Calif.: Cucaracha Publications, 1973).
27. Arthur Sainer, Village Voice, April 26, 1973.
28. Valdez, Pensamiento Serpentino.
29. See, for example, Rendón’s Chicano Manifesto, and to some extent Gómez-Quiñones’s
“On Culture”; Raymond A. Rocco, “The Role of Power and Authenticity in the Chicano Move-
ment,” Aztlán 5, nos. 1 and 2 (Spring and Fall 1974): 167–176. See the work of the Chicano “for-
malist” school, particularly the writings of Juan Bruce Novoa. Ybarra’s article, op. cit., cites other
examples.
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200 / Roy Eric Xavier

30. Unity, June 15, 1977; Juan Bruce Novoa and C. May Gamboa, “El Quinto Festival de
Teatros,” De Colores 2, no. 2 (1975).
31. Unity, June 15, 1977.
32. Personal correspondence from Valdez to Jorge Acevedo, April 12, 1973, on file in the
Chicano Studies Library, University of California, Berkeley.
33. Kanellos, “Folklore in Chicano Theater.”
34. See Acuña’s criticism in his Occupied America, p. 385.
35. Kanellos, “Folklore in Chicano Theater,” p. 79.
36. Los Angeles Times, April 16, 1979, p. 69.
37. New York Times Magazine, February 11, 1979, p. 99.
38. Los Angeles Times, April 16, 1979, calendar.
39. Encore, May 7, 1979, p. 32.
40. Los Angeles Times, April 16, 1979.
41. Harold Clurman, The Nation, April 21, 1979, p. 444.
42. Gerald Rabkin, Newstatesman, June, 1979, p. 962.
43. Cizmar, “Luis Valdez.”
44. Encore, May 7, 1979, p. 32.
45. The play was unsympathetically reviewed by New York critics. See Brendan Gill in the
New Yorker Magazine, April 2, 1979, p. 94; and Richard Eder, in the New York Times, March 26,
1979; also see Cizmar, “Luis Valdez.”
46. Los Angeles Times, June 3, 1984.
47. Los Angeles Times, October 3, 1984.
48. Los Angeles Times, June 3, 1984.
49. Shelia Benson, “La Bamba: Flooded with Irresistible Music Yet Void of Raw Energy,” Los
Angeles Times, July 24, 1987.
50. Spanish-language prints averaged $5,300 per day in 77 theaters, while English-language
prints averaged $4,886 per day in 1,174 theaters. “Richie Valens Film Boosts Prospects of Dub-
bing, Subtitles,” Los Angeles Times, July 24, 1987.
51. Ibid.
52. Unity, December 17, 1990, p. 7. At the end of 1990, reports Gina Hernández, Valdez was
working with actor Ted Danson and Paramount Studios on a television series based on the play
“I Don’t Need to Show You No Stinking Badges.” There were also plans to create an artists’ “pueblo”
in San Juan Bautista that would include an outdoor amphitheater, recording studios, workshops,
and a working farm. The Easter 1991 grand opening involved the production of The Passion Play:
The Way of the Cross.
53. Dieter Herms, “Ideology and El Teatro Campesino,” in Renate Von Bardeleben, ed., Mis-
sions of Conflict: Essays on U.S.-Mexican Relations and Chicano Culture (Tübingen: G. Narr, 1986),
p. 115; George Lipsitz, “Cruising around the Historical Bloc: Postmodernism and Popular Music
in East Los Angeles,” Cultural Critique no. 5 (Winter 1986 –1987): 157–178.
09-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 201

Nine

Where Have All

the Nationalists Gone?
Change and Persistence in Radical Political Attitudes
among Chicanos, 1976 –1986

M a r t ı́ n S á n c h e z J a n k o w s k i

Introduction

In the 1960s the African American population in the United States began a
social movement that both challenged and changed the existing social and
political order in the country.1 Chicanos experienced a similar awakening,
called el movimiento, and it captivated both the old and the young within Chi-
cano society.2 Like the Blacks, Chicanos had experienced a long history of ra-
cial prejudice and discrimination; and in an effort to overcome this history, el
movimiento was a conscious campaign on the part of Chicanos to challenge
the existing social and political order.3
While Chicanos may have been generally united in their desire to chal-
lenge discriminatory practices and improve their socioeconomic condition,
they were anything but united on how politically to do it. Within Chicano
society there existed a myriad of political ideas, each with its spokespersons
and impassioned followers. The two most prominent political positions were:
(1) those who supported the U.S. political system, but wanted the government
to both take a more active role in guaranteeing the civil rights of Chicanos
and create more opportunities for economic mobility; and (2) those who called
themselves Chicano nationalists and displayed hostility to much, if not all, of
the existing socioeconomic and political order in the United States. However,
as the 1960s and ’70s passed, less and less was heard from those who identified
themselves as Chicano nationalists, and by the late 1980s, there appeared to
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202 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

be virtually no one who supported nationalist politics. Ironically, sociologists

and political scientists have consistently identified nationalism as one of those
political attitudes that is held most dear to individuals, and one which is diffi-
cult for most individuals to discard.4 Thus, an important and perplexing ques-
tion that concerns the Chicano social movement of the 1960s and ’70s (el
movimiento) has to do with how it is possible that a once strong Chicano na-
tionalism appears, for all practical purposes, to have died; in other words,
where have all the nationalists gone?
What factors led those individuals who supported nationalism to abandon
it? Was it simply a time in which the protest politics that Chicanos had been
engaged in had succeeded in forcing the system to include them as full par-
ticipants within the political arena, and thus nationalism became irrelevant?
This paper is an attempt to address some of the questions concerning what
this time of enormous transition in Chicano politics meant for the individu-
als who experienced it. Was this a time when the radicalism associated with
the time of inclusion gave way to the moderate politics of being incorporated?
In my endeavor to understand the decline of nationalism among Chicanos,
I shall draw on the work of Daniel Latouche, whose study on this very ques-
tion in Québec provides a theoretical guide for my analysis.5 At the time of
Latouche’s research, the first referendum put forth by the separatist Parti Qué-
becois asking the electorate of Québec whether they supported the govern-
ment’s effort to negotiate a new and more independent relationship with the
rest of Canada had been voted down and there was little nationalist activism.
In fact, independent of the support for separating from Canada, data from the
general surveys of public opinion in Québec indicated that nationalist senti-
ment was also waning. Within this climate, Latouche undertook his study to
explain what the determinants of the change in nationalist sentiment and ac-
tivism were. He offered three possibilities to account for both the change and
stability in nationalist attitudes in Québec. The first is what he refers to as the
group-specific “air of the times” experiences, in which people are nationalists
because that is the predominant attitude at the time. The second is what he re-
fers to as “life-cycle” experiences, in which youth, who are more willing to ad-
here to new ideas, seize on to nationalism, but as they grow older they become
more conservative and abandon it. The third is what he calls the “generation-
specific” experiences in which those people who go through a particular intense
event (such as World War II or the Great Depression of the 1930s) maintain
the attitudes developed during that particular time throughout their lives.
Of course, more recently (1995), a new Parti Québecois government initi-
ated a second referendum asking the general public for their support in direct-
ing the provincial government to begin talks with the national government
concerning the creation of an autonomous Québec. This time, the referendum
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 203

was barely defeated (49.44 percent yes vote to separate, against a 50.56 percent
no vote to separate) which indicated that clearly there was cross-generational
support for a separatist platform. More will be said in the conclusion about the
cross-generational basis in the rise of pro-nationalist attitudes in Québec, and
how that relates to nationalist attitudes among Chicanos. However, suffice it
to say now that it would be difficult to understand the resurgence of national-
ist attitudes in Québec without understanding the factors that influenced at-
titude change and persistence during a time when efforts were being made to
accommodate French interests within the larger national Canadian context.
Likewise, it would be difficult to fully understand the contemporary Mexican
American political condition without understanding the dynamics of change
and persistence in Chicano nationalism — the most dominant of the radical
ideological positions of the time. Therefore, this paper is an effort to identify
the factors that influenced Chicano political attitudes during a time of politi-
cal inclusion, how stable these attitudes have been over time, and how they
have influenced other attitudes and behaviors of Chicanos over time.6
In my effort to determine the origins of nationalism’s decline among Chi-
canos since the 1960s, the first two theoretical positions (“air of the times” and
“life-cycle”) advanced by Latouche provide just such an explanation, whereas
the third theoretical position in his paper (“generation-specific”) tends to ex-
plain why people would have maintained their nationalist attitudes. Therefore,
in the present inquiry into the status of Chicano nationalism, I shall partially
test all three of these theoretical postulates. In this endeavor, the chapter’s de-
sign is to look first at what changes occurred over time in nationalist attitudes,
then move to an analysis of the factors that affected attitude change, and then
finally to address how changes in attitudes toward nationalism have had an
impact on party identification and political participation.

Data and Methods

The data for this paper were collected as part of a longitudinal study com-
menced in 1976, with retesting done in 1982 and 1986. The 1976 sample con-
sisted of 1,040 high school seniors living in San Antonio, Texas (335); Albu-
querque, New Mexico (315); and Los Angeles, California (328). The 1982 and
1986 panels consisted of 300 of the original 1,040 respondents. The ages of the
respondents were 17 or 18 in 1976 when the study first began and 27 or 28 in
1986. The sample was chosen using stratified and clustering techniques and
provides an even distribution of respondents from middle- and lower-class
backgrounds, as well as an even distribution of males and females. Further, the
sample contained youth who were in the United States without proper immi-
gration documents.
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204 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

The data for the study comes from two sources. First, there was a formal
questionnaire with both structured and semistructured questions. In each of
the follow-up legs of the study, the same questions were repeated that were on
the previous questionnaire, with some new questions being added that were
appropriate for the new time period (1986). Second, all the respondents were
given an in-depth interview with open-ended questions. These open-ended
interviews (which were a part of the questionnaire for each panel) lasted
about ninety minutes each and were important for generating more detailed
information than what was possible with the structured questionnaire. They
acted as a validity check for many of the structured questions as well.7

Nationalism from 1976 to 1986

Table 9.1 shows the number of people who supported Chicano nationalism in
the 1976, ’82, and ’86 panels. It is apparent that there has been a substantial
decline across each city in those who identified with Chicano nationalism.
Table 9.1 reveals that San Antonio had the largest decline in nationalist sup-
port, followed by Los Angeles and then Albuquerque. However, hidden in the
data of the table is another change that occurred: there was a significant in-
crease in commitment to nationalism on the part of those who had remained
its supporters; in other words, those who maintained their support for nation-
alism had become even more committed.
There are two factors that have affected the decline in nationalism among
Chicanos: (1) the type of nationalism that the respondents identified with in
1976, and (2) the type of city they lived in. Latouche, as well as many other
researchers of ethnic nationalism, have assumed that there is a universally
shared view of nationalism by the people they are studying.8 However, this
was not true in the case of the Chicanos in this study and suggests that it may
not be true of other populations espousing support for nationalism as well. In
a previous paper it was reported that in 1976 the Chicano respondents had
two general conceptions toward nationalism: there were those who associated
their nationalism primarily with Chicano cultural institutions (such as Mexi-
can clothing, food, holidays, Catholicism, language, and customs) and thus
were labeled as “cultural nationalists,” and there were those who associated
their nationalism with not only cultural attributes but with political concepts
(such as national self-determination and national sovereignty) as well and
were labeled “political nationalists” (see Table 9.2).9 However, upon further
analysis, it was found that it was necessary to go farther than was previously
done and subdivide those who were identified as cultural and political nation-
alists into four distinct categories of nationalists. The data from the in-depth
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 205

Table 9.1. Summary Numbers of Support for Nationalisma

Chicano Nationalism /
Separatism 1976 1976 b 1982 1986

San Antonio 50 (15%) 15 (15%) 14 (14%) 2 (2%)

Lower class 29 8 8 2
Middle class 21 7 6 0
Albuquerque 94 (30%) 34 (34%) 31 (31%) 22 (22%)
Lower class 78 27 24 12
Middle class 16 7 7 10
Los Angeles 141 (43%) 42 (42%) 40 (40%) 26 (26%)
Lower class 92 29 28 16
Middle class 49 13 12 10

Source: Mártin Sánchez Jankowski, City Bound: Urban Life and Political Attitudes among Chicano
Youth (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986).
a
The numbers in this table represent those who had positive attitudes toward nationalism and
were derived from semantic differential raw scores. Those who were positive toward an ideology
(i.e., those who scored the concept 1, 2, or 3) were included in the positive category, while those
who scored the concept 5, 6, or 7 were included in the negative category. It should be noted that
there is a space (labeled “4”) for respondents to check if they do not care one way or the other,
but no one checked this category. Neither did any of the respondents check the box provided
for those who did not know what a particular concept was. Therefore, every respondent is ac-
counted for in this table. For a description of the semantic differential method, see Charles Os-
good, The Measurement of Meaning (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1957).
b
This is the subsample of the 1976 sample that was selected as the panel to be retested in 1982
and 1986 (and any additional retesting in the future). This category is included in the table to
indicate how this group scored in relation to the entire 1976 sample (i.e., to determine if they
were representative) and in order to compare their scores over time.

interviews indicate that there were actually four different conceptions of na-
tionalism among the respondents in 1976, two each under the more general
cultural and political categories.
I begin first with the cultural nationalists. All of those who were labeled
in 1986 as cultural nationalists did not view nationalism in the same way (see
Table 9.3). The most prevalent view of nationalism from those generally de-
scribing their nationalism in cultural terms was that it was a means by which
people could begin to express pride in who they were. For this group of people
nationalism represented the act of asserting to the dominant Anglo American
culture the position that Chicano culture was not inferior to theirs. This group
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206 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

Table 9.2. Factor Scores for Chicano Cultural and Political Nationalism

Factor 1 Factor 2
Mexican food .65 .30
Catholic church .59 .09
Compadrazgo (godparent system) .66 .33
Curanderismo (traditional folk medicine) .62 .19
Mexican music (rancheras, polkas, etc.) .61 .25
Cinco de Mayo (Mexican Independence Day) .68 .71
Spanish language .72 .77
Mexican War/ Texas independence .19 .72
Chicano colonialization .11 .65
National Liberal Movement .07 .67

Source: Mártin Sánchez-Jankowski, “Change and Stability in Political Attitudes among Chi-
canos: A Panel Study, 1976 –1986,” paper presented at Western Political Science Association,
San Francisco, 1988.

Note: Factor loadings were derived from the semantic differential scores and generated using the
Varimax Orthogonal Rotated Method. Consult Charles Osgood, et al., The Measurement of Mean-
ing (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1957) for description of the semantic differential tech-
nique; and consult Norman Nie, et al., Statistical Package for the Social Sciences (New York: McGraw-
Hill, 1981) for a description of the Varimax Orthogonal Rotated Method of Factor Analysis.

of people saw their support of nationalism as a statement to the Anglo com-

munity (and also to themselves) that they would no longer entertain thoughts
that their culture, or they themselves, as members of that culture, were infe-
rior to Anglos. The comments of Raul, Susana, and Hector express this
view.10 Raul, a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) son of a janitor in San Antonio,
responded:
Anglo society has always put us [Chicanos] down. They think that
Chicano culture is inferior to theirs and then they try to tell us that
we as Chicanos are inferior to them because of our culture. It is a
way to keep us down so they get to keep all the good jobs. I used to
believe that shit! But now things are different, Chicano nationalism
is telling the Anglo that we are as good as anybody and that our cul-
ture is as good as his and we will make something of ourselves. I
know I feel much better about myself and I know a lot of other
Chicanos feel better about who they are because of the movimiento.

Susana, an eighteen-year-old (in 1976) daughter of a house painter in Los An-

geles, said:
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 207

Chicano nationalism has said to the Anglo basta [enough]! We are

no longer going to think that Chicano culture is inferior to other
people’s. Because we come from families that speak Spanish we don’t
have to feel inferior to Anglos. Most of us Chicanos used to feel bad
about who we were, we didn’t think that we were as good as the
Anglo. They [the Anglos] used to make you feel that way, but that’s
changed now, there is some pride in who we are and where we came
from. . . . I know I feel better about myself, and people who feel bet-
ter about themselves are more successful. I think I’ll be more success-
ful now that Chicano nationalism has given us Chicanos pride in
who we are.

Hector, a seventeen-year-old son (in 1976) of an auto mechanic in Albu-

querque, described his feelings this way:
Chicano nationalism says to the Anglo society that we don’t believe
they are superior to us anymore. That we as Chicanos have a culture
that is as good as theirs and we don’t have to feel like ours is inferior
to theirs. . . . Chicanismo is also a help to feel better about who we
are. We don’t have to believe Anglos when they try to tell us we ain’t
as good as they are or when they try to tell us that we’re only good
enough for the low-paying jobs.

This particular form of nationalism was very similar, if not identical, to the
nationalism expressed by the Black Consciousness movement within the Af-
rican American population in the beginning phase of the broader Civil Rights
movement.11 For Chicanos, it was first a reaction to the long period of dis-
crimination that they had experienced in American history, a discrimination
which, similar to the experience of Black Americans, involved psychological
scars from being portrayed as inferior to the white society.12 Thus, this type of
nationalism was used as a resource in order to strengthen a positive self-image
for the pursuit of a better life. The use of nationalism for such purposes was pred-
icated on the logic (with a good deal of empirical support) that people who
have a positive self-image tend to do better than those who do not.13 For that
reason I have designated this type of nationalism “self-image oriented.”
The second view of nationalism that was present among those Chicanos
who were labeled “cultural nationalists” is one that saw nationalism as some-
thing that could be used as a resource to persuade/pressure people in author-
ity to provide more benefits and opportunities to those who held such views.14
This type of nationalism I have designated “self-interest” nationalism. The
people who adhered to this idea of nationalism did so in order to gain concrete
material advantages. The desired advantages most often cited were opportu-
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208 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

Table 9.3. Respondents Identifying with Different Views of Nationalism

by City, Class, and Year*
1976

Cultural Political

Self-Identity Lower Class Lower Class Electoral

Nationalism SA 6 SA 1 Empowerment /
ALB 7 ALB 7 Civil Rights
LA 5 LA 7 Nationalism
Middle Class Middle Class
SA 0 SA 5
ALB 0 ALB 1
LA 1 LA 1
Total 19 Total 22

Self-Interest Lower Class Lower Class Separatist

Nationalism SA 0 SA 1 Nationalism
ALB 0 ALB 13
LA 0 LA 17
Middle Class Middle Class
SA 2 SA 0
ALB 6 ALB 0
LA 9 LA 2
Total 17 Total 33

*Each subject was asked what he or she meant in saying he or she was a nationalist. From their
answers to this question, subjects were assigned to a particular nationalist category. After that was
completed, three independent judges were asked to assign the same individuals to the various na-
tionalist categories. The agreement rate among the four judges (including the author) was .976.

nities for high-paying, high-status jobs; and increased opportunities for ac-
ceptance into the elite higher-educational institutions. The comments of
Alicia and David are indicative of the people adhering to this type of national-
ism. Alicia, a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) daughter of a lawyer in Albuquer-
que, said:
Yes, I think nationalism is very important. . . . I think of myself as a
Chicano nationalist because I think that it can get Chicanos better
jobs. You see, the Anglo authorities feel pressured to do something to
hold down the complaints that they have been racist, so being
nationalist can be used to get opportunities you wouldn’t get other-
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 209

Table 9.3. (continued) Identifying with Different Views of Nationalism

by City, Class, and Year*
1986

Cultural Political

Self-Identity Lower Class Lower Class Electoral

Nationalism SA 0 SA 2 Empowerment /
ALB 0 ALB 2 Civil Rights
LA 1 LA 3 Nationalism
Middle Class Middle Class
SA 0 SA 0
ALB 0 ALB 6
LA 0 LA 2
Total 1 Total 15

Self-Interest Lower Class Lower Class Separatist

Nationalism SA 0 SA 0 Nationalism
ALB 0 ALB 10
LA 0 LA 13
Middle Class Middle Class
SA 0 SA 0
ALB 1 ALB 3
LA 2 LA 6
Total 3 Total 32

wise . . . I believe in Chicano cultural things, but not a lot of the

other nationalist stuff; but I do support it because I think it’s useful.
Yeah, I know this sounds like I am kind of opportunistic, but hey
that’s what you have to be.

David, a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) son of a hardware store owner,

responded:
Well, to me nationalism has been important because it has opened
up opportunities for Chicanos. I believe it will give me more oppor-
tunities because people who have the power over good jobs will want
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210 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

to give more jobs to those Chicanos they think will be active in the
nationalist movement like me, so they can try to stop it [the move-
ment]. I support nationalism partly because I am proud of the cul-
ture, but also because I know that it is useful to get things from
Anglo society like a chance to get into a good college like Harvard
or Yale, which is what I would like to happen.

The people who subscribed to this type of cultural nationalism tended not
to identify strongly with the general symbols or goals of Chicano cultural and
political nationalism per se but rather to identify with its potential as a politi-
cal resource to extract direct personal benefits from the dominant Anglo soci-
ety.15 It is not surprising to see that all of those who expressed this type of na-
tionalism were from the middle class of Albuquerque and Los Angeles. For in
the event that political separation became a reality, the middle class had more
to lose than did their lower-class compatriots, and they were apprehensive
about that. The comment of Juan, the eighteen-year-old son of a dry-cleaning
businessperson in Albuquerque, is a good example of this group’s position and
concerns:

Well, as a nationalist I am for the maintenance of the culture and for

keeping Spanish as the primary language, but some of the things that
the radicals [radical nationalists] want, I am not for. Hell, I’d be crazy
to be for separation because I would end up being a lot worse off than
I am now. I just think that nationalism is good because it can give
me, and a whole lot more Chicanos, a better chance to get a good
education and good jobs.

Support for Political Nationalism

Now let me turn to those varieties of nationalism that were politically ori-
ented. The first of this type I have called “civil rights” oriented. Those within
this category believed that Chicanos had been historically denied their civil
rights and that this occurrence had been responsible for prohibiting them as
a group from having the same opportunities for mobility that other groups have
had. They considered the nationalist ideology an instrument by which Chi-
canos could be mobilized in order to: (1) press the existing authorities to cre-
ate opportunities for socioeconomic mobility and protect their civil rights; or
(2) elect members of their own group to public office in an effort to create op-
portunities and uphold the group’s civil rights.16 In this regard traditional cul-
ture was thought to be important for purposes of mobilization because it
defined the group; and an understanding of the political history affecting the
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 211

Chicano’s condition was thought to be important for purposes of collective

action.17
What differentiates these political nationalists from those who will be dis-
cussed next is their belief that it is undesirable and unrealistic for Chicanos to
think that they would ever be allowed to form a separate country, as the other
group wants. In essence, they believe that Chicanos need to be either elec-
torally empowered and/or guaranteed their civil rights (particularly equal pro-
tection under the law), and if this is done, the U.S. political system affords
Chicanos the best opportunity for a “good life.” The comments of Jorge and
Denise are representative of this type of nationalism. Jorge is an eighteen-
year-old (in 1976) son of an architect in Los Angeles:
I think of myself as a strong nationalist. I think Chicanos should
keep traditional culture because it’s really what makes us Chicanos
and it’s what keeps the community united. We need to organize
around what makes us Chicanos, and culture, like language, is the
one thing that we can do that with. That’s why I’m a nationalist. . . .
Another reason I’m a nationalist is because Anglos have tried to
keep us down. They discriminate against us so we can’t get good jobs,
so we need to organize around culture and community and elect our
own people to office and at the same time pressure the government
to protect us, you know protect our civil rights. Then we will get
what we deserve.

Denise is a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) daughter of a short-order cook in

San Antonio:
Well, yes, I guess I am a nationalist because I am really for us
Chicanos keeping our culture . . . I don’t support political separation
from the United States. I know a lot of Chicano nationalists do, but
I don’t because I think we’d be worse off if that were ever to happen.
Really though, the government wouldn’t let us do that anyway. . . . I
think us Chicanos need to organize because the only way we’re going
to have a chance to get the good things in life is if we get Chicanos
in government and we get the government to protect our rights and
stop the Anglos from discriminating against us. . . . The only way
we’ll be able to get the community involved, you know organized,
is to organize around the culture ’cause that’s the most basic thing
in the community; and you know, if we can do that, we can protect
ourselves politically.

The fourth type of nationalism is also political in its orientation, and I

have labeled it “separatist oriented.” Those who identified with this type of
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212 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

nationalism considered traditional culture to be extremely important in the

lives of Chicanos. They also thought that the only way in which Chicanos
could escape what they considered cultural genocide and socioeconomic in-
equality was to have their own separate country. Most wanted either all, or at
least portions, of the five southwestern states (Texas, New Mexico, southern
Colorado, Arizona, and California) that were once part of Mexico to secede
from the United States and form a separate Chicano country. This group is
quite similar to other separatist groups throughout the world, especially the
Québecois in Canada, the Basques in Spain, and some of the Black nationalist
groups in the United States.18 They see traditional culture as the foundation
of group identity, and the socioeconomic inequality experienced by the group
as the by-product of ethnic /racial discrimination. In their emphasis on the im-
portance of cultural maintenance, this group of nationalists is similar to those
with an electoral empowerment /civil rights orientation, although they differ
from the electoral empowerment /civil rights group in their belief that the only
way Chicanos can hope to maintain their culture and achieve a respectable
standard of living is for them to form their own separate country.19 Of course,
they believe separation is a possibility whereas the civil rights – oriented group
does not. The comments of Sara and Julian are representative of those from
this group. Sara is a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) daughter of a furniture pro-
duction worker in Los Angeles:
Separation from the U.S. is necessary if we Chicanos want to keep
our culture and have a decent standard of living. You see, the Anglo
dominates this system, it’s his system, the one he gave us after taking
our land and colonizing us. There is no way he is going to let us
make a decent standard of living cause he wants us to keep being
poor. You see, that way he gets cheap labor. The only way to get out
of this mess is to get our own country so we don’t have Anglos mess-
ing around with us.

Julian is a seventeen-year-old (in 1976) son of a construction worker in Los

Angeles:
Yeah, I am for a separate Chicano country because unless we get one
we will always be on the bottom of the society. Plus if we don’t get
our own country we won’t be able to maintain our culture. Every-
where you look you see signs that the Anglos want you to give up
your culture like the European groups did and be Anglo American.
If we do that we will be nothing —just poor and with no sense of
belonging. . . . So if we don’t separate we’ll just be poor and Angli-
cized. You know, just poor, brown Anglos!
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 213

Having established that there were four different views of nationalism

within the group that identified themselves as nationalists, let us now turn to
the level of support found for each of these categories of nationalism in the
1986 panel data. As can be discerned from the cell counts in Table 9.3, those
who were identified as being cultural nationalists experienced the largest ex-
odus from nationalism. From 1976 to 1986, there had been an 88 percent de-
cline among those who were identified with political nationalism. As dis-
cussed above, there are four factors that have directly affected this pattern of
attitude change: (1) “air of the times,” (2) “life-cycle,” (3) “generation,” and
(4) the local political culture the individual finds himself or herself in. We
shall discuss the impact of each of these on the general pattern of decline in
nationalist support among the Chicanos in this study.

“Air of the Times,” “Life-Cycle,”

and “Generation” Effects

Those respondents who were identified as “self-identity” nationalists consis-

tently said that they had changed because nationalism was no longer an im-
portant aspect in either their lives or that of their communities. They consis-
tently said that they had been supporters of nationalism because it had been
such an important ideology within the community and among their peers.
They also said they thought it was important at the time because Chicanos in
general (they included themselves) had had a low sense of self-esteem, due
principally to the many years of being told that they and their culture were in-
ferior to that of the Anglo, and nationalism had acted to improve group self-
esteem. However, they also believed that as a result of those times when na-
tionalism was a political force within the Chicano community, conditions
had changed (some even said improved) such that nationalism was no longer
needed as a vehicle for Chicanos to achieve socioeconomic mobility. In
essence, their attitude change was the result of the “air of the times” effect.
Here are two representative statements from those respondents in this group.
Frank is a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) electrician in San Antonio:
Yeah, well, when I was back in high school everybody was into the
movimiento and so was I. Actually everybody just went along with it.
But by saying this I don’t want to sound like it was just a fad or some-
thing, or that all of us just went along for the hell of it because that’s
not right. It was something we needed at the time to shake all the
prejudices that the Anglos had about us. You know, to start to feel
good about being a Chicano and not wishing you’d been an Anglo.
So nationalism was important then for everybody —it definitely was
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214 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

important for me and I supported it. I didn’t support separatism and

all that radical stuff, but I was for being proud of our culture. Now
things are different. We really don’t need nationalism cause we are
proud of our culture and Chicanos are getting better opportunities;
at least that’s the way I feel, so I don’t support nationalism anymore.

Julia, a twenty-eight-year-old (in 1986) bank teller in Albuquerque, responded:

No, I don’t support nationalism anymore, but as you [the author]

know, I did when I was back in high school. . . . Well, back then
there were a lot of people who were real committed to nationalism
and it did make sense then. I mean it was real important in giving us
Chicanos pride in our culture, in our parents who were traditional,
and in ourselves. I know there were times that I was embarrassed
about being a Chicano, I really did believe that I was not as good as
Anglos; and Chicano nationalism helped change that for me and a
lot of others. I think it helped me. . . . Now I don’t support national-
ism because I think we’ve [Chicanos] moved on. We don’t need it
anymore, we need to be proud of who we are and take advantage of
the opportunities that are available now.

For those individuals who had been cultural nationalists from a “self-
interest” perspective, the abandonment of nationalism was the result of “life-
cycle effects.” All but one said that they felt their support for nationalism was
just a stage in their lives and that they had simply outgrown their attraction
to the ideology. In addition, they all said that their support of nationalism was
foolish and a part of being young and naïve. They consistently expressed the
view that the opportunities they had seen for themselves in the nationalist ide-
ology had been largely myths derived from adolescent rebellion, immaturity/
naïveté, and their own psychological drives of wanting to be socially accepted
by their peers. As the quotes will indicate, the prevailing conviction among this
group was that nationalism (of one form or another) was prevalent through-
out the Chicano community, and while they did not completely believe in it,
some went along with it (1) because their parents were against it, (2) to avoid
being socially ostracized by their peers, or (3) because it was something new
that sounded good. Further, they reported that their decision to support na-
tionalism, even though they did not fully believe in it, was made more palat-
able through their effort to find ways that nationalism could be useful to them
personally, irrespective of whether it was useful to Chicanos as a whole. The
comments of Becky and Ron are representative of the views of this group.
Becky is a twenty-eight-year-old (in 1986) lawyer in Albuquerque, who said:
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 215

Yes, I can remember supporting nationalism when I was in high

school. [laughter] That was when I was young and foolish. . . .
Well, the answer to why I supported nationalism is really simple,
I was young and immature! You see, everybody was into this nation-
alist thing when we were in school and I was from a middle-class
family and felt guilty about that, so I went along with. It was crazy,
but I didn’t want my high school friends to look down on me. . . .
I really did not feel comfortable with all the nationalist stuff —after
all, I didn’t even speak Spanish —but I saw that some people who
were militants got some opportunities by accusing the authorities of
being racist, and I thought, maybe I can get something too. I never
did, but it kept me talking the line. . . . Then just when I would get
to the point of totally thinking it was just crazy, my father would say
something against nationalism and I would defend it. . . . I would say
my dropping nationalism was just a process of maturation.

Ron is a twenty-eight-year-old (in 1986) dentist in Los Angeles:

When I was in high school I supported Chicano nationalism. I mean
I was sort of for strengthening the culture and being proud of it and
all that stuff, even though my family was not traditional at all and I
did not speak Spanish myself. I never was for separatism, however,
even though there were a number of people at my school who were
for that too. I really was not that committed to it, but when you’re a
teenager you care what other people think, and I wanted to be part
of the crowd, so I went along with it. I must tell you that I even
thought I could use being a nationalist to get into a good college. Is
that crazy or what?! I wanted to go to any Ivy League school and I
thought that espousing nationalism would put pressure on them to
take me. I was a good student, but I thought this could be the decid-
ing factor for me. I was of course incredibly silly, but then that’s what
you would expect from a teenager. . . . My parents never really did
bother me much about my views, they probably knew I would out-
grow them, but I thought they cared deep down, so part of me
wanted to keep espousing them — Oh the time of youth! . . . What
made me change from supporting nationalism was nothing dramatic,
I just grew up.

As was mentioned earlier, there was not as dramatic a shift away from pro-
nationalist attitudes among those people whose nationalism was more politi-
cally oriented. In fact, among the political nationalists there was a tendency
to become even more committed. Of the two types of political nationalists
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216 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

identified, those who were of the electoral empowerment /civil rights orienta-
tion displayed the largest amount of variability between remaining commit-
ted to their nationalist beliefs and abandoning them.
Among this group two types of effects were found to influence whether or
not they remained supportive or abandoned their nationalist beliefs. Those
who remained supportive of this type of nationalism were influenced most by
“generation effects.” The fact that they were active during the time when Chi-
canos were striving to ensure that they would be guaranteed the civil rights
entitled to all U.S. citizens and to elect Chicanos to public office had left a
permanent impression on not only their political attitudes but their political
values as well. All of them had vivid memories of what they said and what it
was like when Chicanos were being denied their civil rights of equal protec-
tion under the law, the right to vote, the opportunity to pursue good jobs, edu-
cation, and housing free from racial discrimination. All were extremely proud
of the fact that they had contributed toward improving the lives of Chicanos
through their efforts to pressure the authorities to enforce the civil rights guar-
anteed them under the U.S. Constitution, and to get Chicanos elected to pub-
lic office in order to help create more socioeconomic opportunities.
This group also believed that while there had been a good deal of progress
made to ensure that the civil rights of Chicanos were protected, that Chicanos
be elected to office, and to improve the quality of their lives, the work was not
done. It was their contention that there was a definite need to continue to be
vigilant that the civil rights of Chicanos were not being violated and to work
toward ensuring that Chicanos had the same opportunities available to them
that Anglo Americans had. Thus, for those who remained committed to na-
tionalism (a pride in the culture, language, and history and a dedication to im-
proving the group’s overall quality of life), their experience of being a part of
the early effort of the movimiento to obtain and guarantee the civil rights of
Chicanos and acquire some legitimate political power had left them strongly
committed to nationalism.
The comments of Tomás and María are representative of this group’s atti-
tudes. Tomás is a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) head of a social service
agency in Los Angeles who said:
I still consider myself a Chicano nationalist. I am still for the things
the movimiento stood for, things like keeping Chicano culture strong,
seeing to it that Spanish is no longer looked upon as something bad,
and making sure Chicanos [are] treated with the dignity and respect
that other groups [are]. You see, those of us who worked in the
movimiento to improve the community’s condition had to struggle to
get the Anglos to enforce the laws so we could have more opportuni-
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 217

ties — I mean we’re talking about just obtaining our civil rights and
getting a few of us [Chicanos] elected, not anything bold like income
redistribution. . . . We worked hard to get the Anglos to give us what
every citizen is guaranteed, and it was a real struggle, but we did it by
getting the community involved, by emphasizing cultural pride and
identity, and using it to strive for better opportunities and protection
of our legal rights against discrimination. . . . Yeah, we made some
gains, but the experience taught me a lot about the importance of
staying committed to the culture and language and the community.
So I am as much a nationalist today as I was then [1976].

María is a twenty-eight-year-old nurse practitioner in Albuquerque. She

responded:
Yes, I am very much committed to the things I was for when I was
in high school. I was a nationalist then and I still think of myself a
nationalist today. . . . I believe strongly in maintaining Chicano cul-
ture and language, and I am for continuing our struggle to protect
our rights from Anglo discrimination. I tell you one thing, if you
don’t keep an eye out for violations against Chicanos’ rights, Anglos
will start it all over again. . . . Those like myself who lived through
the time when the movimiento was trying to get our civil rights and
get Chicanos elected know what it was like and know they don’t
want to go back.

There were people who supported the electoral empowerment /civil rights
version of political nationalism in 1976 who had abandoned it by 1986. For
these people, their decision to change was influenced most by the effects as-
sociated with the “air of the times.” All but one of the respondents reported
that while they were in high school they thought that Chicano nationalism
was necessary because Chicanos were being discriminated against, but since
that time things had improved to the point that nationalism was no longer
necessary. The comments of Daniel, a twenty-eight-year-old (in 1986) gov-
ernment employee in San Antonio are typical:
I supported Chicano nationalism in high school, but not really any-
more. I mean today it’s not as necessary as back when I was in high
school. Back then we were really discriminated against and we
needed to organize so that we could get the government to protect
our civil rights. We had to demand that our civil rights be guaran-
teed. Today we really don’t need that kind of stuff, because we have
got a lot of our civil rights protected and now we got a Chicano
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218 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

mayor and Chicanos on the city government. I thought it was impor-

tant then because the times were different than they are now; we just
don’t need to have nationalism now ’cause we got a lot of the civil
rights stuff we were after.

Let us now turn to the group that has remained the most committed to na-
tionalism. They are the people who considered themselves separatists. Of the
total number who supported separatism in 1976, only one had abandoned his
support for separatism in 1986. Those who considered themselves separatists
believed that the Anglo society was intent on destroying the Chicanos’ cul-
ture and keeping them poor. They also believed that the Anglo American –
dominated political system was being used to systematically facilitate this plan.
So it was their position that the only way for Chicanos to avoid cultural geno-
cide and constant poverty was for them to secede from the United States and
form their own country.
One of the important developments within this group was the fact that
they had become more committed to their nationalist ideology over the ten-
year period. This had occurred as a result of what Latouche and others have
called “generation effects.” The people within this group all said that the ex-
perience of the movimiento had made an indelible impression on them and
that the events surrounding the struggle to liberate themselves from a racist
Anglo society which tried to take away their culture, discriminate against
them, and leave them impoverished had served as a constant source of
influence on their political attitudes.20 It was their position that things had
not improved for Chicanos in general, and if we look at Table 9.3, we can see
that socioeconomic conditions really had not improved for them. More than
two-thirds (23 of 32) of those who are supportive of this type of nationalism
were of the lower class in 1976 and have remained that way. Thus, their per-
sonal socioeconomic histories and their early political experience in el movi-
miento have been mutually reinforcing. Moreover, there is some additional ev-
idence that “generation effects” was the most important factor in this group’s
retention of separatist ideology. In Table 9.3 we see that seven of the nine
middle-class respondents who consider themselves separatists were lower class
in 1976, and all reported that they remained committed to separatism as a re-
sult of their having lived through the movimiento period, which they referred
to as the “Chicano national renaissance.” The statements of Rafael, Christina,
and Philipe are representative of the beliefs of this group of nationalists. Ra-
fael and Christina are of the lower class and have remained that way for the
ten-year period, while Philipe was of the lower class in 1976 but since then has
joined the middle class. Rafael is a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) worker in
a produce warehouse in Los Angeles:
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 219

I am still very committed to a separate Chicano country, and I really

feel it is even more necessary now than ten years ago. . . . You see,
when I first got involved with separatism, conditions for Chicanos
were bad, and those in the separatist movement gave us Chicanos an
alternative for improving our situation, and since then Chicanos are
still being kept in poverty by the Gabacho [a disparaging term for
Anglos]; and if that ain’t enough, then they try to take our culture
away from us too! The Anglo will always be racist against Chicanos
and try to keep us at low-paying jobs, that’s why we got to get our
own country. . . . I haven’t changed concerning separatism because I
know that what was true ten years ago about racism against us and
the need to take back our land from the Anglo is still true today.

Christina is a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) worker in a clothing factory in

Albuquerque:
Separatism is the only answer for Chicanos if we want all our people
to share in the good life. There is a growing Chicano middle class,
but the majority of Chicanos are still poor or just low workers. And
the Chicano middle class just acts like Anglos, so you can’t really say
that we as a people have improved our status because if you really
look at it, those of us who try to maintain our culture are poor and
those who are well off are not Chicanos anymore, they just be Anglos
with brown skin, if that. . . . I am still strongly for separatism because
my experience during the beginnings for the separatist movement
taught me why it was politically the right thing for Chicanos, and
everything since then has remained the same for Chicanos. . . . I still
think it’s possible with constant work to be able to get a Chicano
country, and my readings about other movements like this have told
me that it just takes time. Like Israel, it took time for the Jews to get
an Israel too. . . . Well, if I were Anglo I would just give us the coun-
try and say don’t bother me anymore. In our group [a political group
she is involved in] we have discussed how the Jews basically said that
to the British and got them to give them Palestine.

Philipe is a twenty-eight-year-old (in 1986) computer programmer for a large

company in Los Angeles:
Well, I know it might sound strange to you, but I am still a separatist
and in many ways even more supportive of it today than I was when
I started some eleven years ago. It’s funny because I am middle class
now, so I have made it, but you know things have not really changed
for my parents or the rest of my family. You see a few people like me
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220 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

make it not just because of hard work, but because we were lucky;
and the rest are left behind. What I learned in the beginnings of the
movimiento is that conditions are not going to get better for Chi-
canos as a whole unless they get their own country separate from
Mexico and the United States. Unless that is done Anglos will
always be willing to keep them poor and be racist against them; and
of course let a few like myself make it.

The Impact of the Local Political Environment

At this juncture it is important to point out that “air of the times,” “life-cycle,”
and “generation” are not the only factors, or even the most important, in in-
fluencing the respondents’ attitudes toward Chicano nationalism. The factor
which influenced all the respondents regardless of the impact of “air of the
times,” “life-cycle,” or “generation” is the type of city they lived in. If we look
at Table 9.3 we see that San Antonio had the smallest number of nationalists
in general and only two who were political nationalists. In addition, over the
ten-year period all but two respondents in San Antonio had abandoned any
nationalist sentiments. Contrast this with Albuquerque or Los Angeles, where
there are both greater numbers of people identifying with nationalist senti-
ments and greater numbers of people distributed among the four types of na-
tionalism described above.
This is not simply a coincidence. Both of these cities have the type of po-
litical culture, nurtured by their particular local economies and social demo-
graphics, which stimulates and tolerates a wide variety of political beliefs, in-
cluding a variety of nationalist beliefs. In San Antonio, on the other hand,
the political culture, nurtured by its unique local economy and social demo-
graphics, has not been tolerant of any ideologies that challenge the status
quo.21 In fact, the administration of sanctions against those who would sup-
port deviant views such as Chicano nationalism is readily believed by the vast
majority of Chicanos who live there.22 Thus, in Albuquerque and Los Angeles
one observes all three factors (“air of the times,” “life-cycle,” and “genera-
tion”) influencing people’s views toward nationalism, while in San Antonio
one would only observe the “air of the times” and “life-cycle” effects. This is
because “generation” effects tend to influence people to maintain their sup-
port for nationalism, and in San Antonio the political culture was so conser-
vative in 1976 that there were few supporters of nationalism to begin with;
hence the effect that one’s “generation” might otherwise have had has been
circumvented by the conservative political culture in the city.23
The notion that San Antonio was more conservative than Albuquerque
and Los Angeles may seem odd given the fact that La Raza Unida Party was
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 221

founded in Texas by a number of individuals who went to college in San An-

tonio. Yet it should not be seen as odd or contradictory for the following rea-
sons. First, the fact that La Raza Unida Party started in San Antonio is simply
a function of the fact that the greatest concentration of Chicano intellectual
elites were living there at the time. Thus, like other places where there are
such elite concentrations, new radical ideas will always be generated. Yet, there
is a large gap between the ideas that emerge out of the academy and those res-
onating from the general society. Likewise, there is usually a rather large gap
between what the general public is willing to support in the way of political
ideologies and what those in the academy are willing to support, and this is
particularly the case when it comes to radical political ideologies. The Raza
Unida Party that began in Crystal City, Texas, was radical in its focus on mo-
bilizing Chicanos to advance their specific interests, but a careful look at the
issues that it began with (e.g., education) demonstrates that the focus was
more oriented toward civil rights and equal opportunity than a profound
change in the structure of the economy or government. In fact, as the Raza
Unida Party spread to other states like New Mexico, Colorado, and Califor-
nia, the focus of the organizations in those states became more radical. In those
states, the Party’s ideology became more separatist oriented, taking on a rheto-
ric similar to that found in Québec, Canada.
This schism in the ideological orientation of the party’s elite was brought
to a head in La Raza Unida’s 1972 national convention in El Paso. At this con-
vention, the Texas delegation, headed by founder José Angel Gutiérrez, pushed
the party to adopt a platform that was more “third party oriented.” That is to
say, it wanted the party to organize around the interests of Chicanos but to
present itself as being a part of the U.S. political system, whereas the delegates
from New Mexico and Colorado, headed by Rodolfo Corky González, were
stressing that the party should adopt a more openly radical position of want-
ing to politically separate from the United States and form a new country. At
this conference, Gutiérrez won both the leadership and the struggle over the
political orientation of the party, but the battle had been so intense that the
party was not able to create the necessary consensus around a platform, nor
the solidarity it would need to continue to be an effective social movement.
This brief and cursory history of the internal ideological orientations in
the Raza Unida Party is offered simply to highlight that even within a political
organization that was considered radical, the Chicano political elite of Texas
adopted a more conservative position because it understood the restraints and
punitive sanctions of the Anglo political culture in which it and its natural
constituents would have to operate.
Likewise, the establishment of the Southwest Voters Registration Project
by Willie Velásquez, one of the founders of the Raza Unida itself, after that
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222 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

organization’s demise, is another example of an effort to mobilize Chicanos to

be active in securing their political interests within a “civil rights orienta-
tion.” That is to say, within Texas there remains a strong tendency to deem-
phasize Chicano nationalism (especially political nationalism) and to stress
political activities that can be associated within the broader, established ori-
entation of American politics. This strategy among Chicano political elites
has been consistent over the years, because in Texas there is a political cul-
ture, developed and sustained by the Anglo population, that is intolerant of
any beliefs or movements that would threaten the status quo. In Los Angeles
and Albuquerque, on the other hand, the political cultures are more diffuse,
and as a result more tolerant. Yet, while such “tolerant political cultures” are
able to accommodate radical political beliefs and movements more easily,
they do not create political environments that are capable of sustaining such
beliefs and movements because there are too many competing ideologies.
The fundamental point here is that each of the three factors (generation,
life-cycle, and “air of the time”) that were found to influence a person’s identi-
fication with any of the subtypes of nationalism described above are themselves
influenced by the political culture of the city in which they are operative.

Views of Nationalism and Party Identification

I now turn our consideration to the question of what, if any, relationship exists
between one’s decision to abandon or remain supportive of a particular sub-
type of nationalism and one’s identification with a particular political party.
As Table 9.4 indicates, among those cultural nationalists who viewed nation-
alism in “self-identity” terms, the Democratic Party was their overwhelming
choice, and this was the case irrespective of whether they had abandoned
their support of nationalism or not. Most said that in 1976 they had been sup-
porters of the Raza Unida Party, but since the demise of that party and their
abandonment of nationalism, they had identified with the Democratic Party.24
They said they supported the Democrats because they believed that the Dem-
ocrats had attempted to: (1) support certain social programs that were sensi-
tive to Latin culture (such as bilingual education); (2) they were instrumen-
tal in developing legislation prohibiting racial /ethnic discrimination (the
various civil rights bills); and (3) they had developed and supported socio-
economic programs that would aid those minority members who were unem-
ployed. In essence, the Democratic Party was the closest to their present ideo-
logical position because it had a record of having supported programs designed
to help Chicanos overcome racial or ethnic discrimination.
The comments of Homer are representative of the attitudes of those from
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 223

Table 9.4. Views of Nationalism and Party Identification in 1986 a

(Raw Number Identifying with Each Political Party)
Chicano d
Demo- Repub- Nationalist
crats licans Party Socialist e

Cultural
Self-Identity Nationalists
Maintained b 1
Abandoned c 18
Self-Interest Nationalist
Maintained 2 1
Abandoned 14
Political
Civil Rights Nationalists
Maintained 13 2
Abandoned 1 6
Separatist Nationalist
Maintained 27 5
Abandoned 1

Notes:
a. Question read: “What political party do you support? Democrat Party; Republican Party; Raza
Unida or some other Chicano Nationalist Party; Socialist Workers Party or some other Social-
ist Party; or no party at all?”
b. Those people who continued to identify with each type of nationalism between ’76 and ’86
waves. For a discussion of how each nationalism was assigned, see note in Table 9.3.
c. Those people who stopped identifying with each type of nationalism between ’76 and ’86 waves.
d. The respondents could choose either the Raza Unida Party or any other nationalist party that
was organized. They could also choose to identify with a nationalist party that was not yet or-
ganized.
e. The respondents could choose either the Socialist Workers Party or any other socialist party.
Socialist Workers Party was offered because it was most often mentioned in the two previous
panels.

this group. Homer is a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) clerk for the local gov-
ernment in San Antonio who responded:
Well, I never was one of those people who was a nationalist that
wanted a separate Chicano country. I was a nationalist because I
thought it was important for Chicanos to have a more positive atti-
tude about themselves, and nationalism did do that . . . yes, I sup-
ported Raza Unida Party, everybody who was a nationalist did
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224 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

because the party did give people a lot of pride in being Chicano,
and they fought Anglo discrimination against Chicanos. But then it
got into financial trouble and just disintegrated, and by that time I
wasn’t into nationalism anymore because I wasn’t for separatism, and
I did have pride in Chicano culture, so I stopped identifying with
Raza Unida and started to be a Democrat. . . . Well, I was a Demo-
crat because I wasn’t a nationalist anymore; Raza Unida was dead
and the Democrats supported a lot of programs that Raza Unida also
supported, like bilingualism and programs to help the poor and
unemployed and antidiscrimination laws. So for me the Democrats
just took up where Raza Unida had left off.

On the other hand, those cultural nationalists who viewed nationalism

along “self-interest” lines were likely to identify with the Republican Party.
Lisa, a twenty-seven-year-old (in 1986) assistant manager of a bank in Los An-
geles, said:
When I was in high school I identified with the Raza Unida Party
because everybody in my high school was excited about Chicano
nationalism then and the Raza Unida Party was a Chicano party . . .
but as I got older and realized that nationalism was not going to help
anybody, I left both Chicano nationalism and the Raza Unida
behind. . . . Now I am a Republican [because] after dropping any
attachment I had for Raza Unida, I didn’t want to support the Demo-
crats because I didn’t think they really help Chicanos, they just get
them to be happy with welfare. But the Republicans had policies
that help people help themselves. I helped myself, and other Chi-
canos should do the same. I think the Republicans help you to do
that and I support them.

Among the political nationalists who remained supportive of the “elec-

toral empowerment /civil rights” type of nationalism, the Democratic Party was
most often identified with. This is because the Democratic Party was viewed
as having the best record of supporting the “civil rights” of minorities in the
United States. Thus, with the demise of the Raza Unida Party, which all of
these nationalists had enthusiastically supported in 1976, they turned to the
Democratic Party as their only alternative.
However, for those who had abandoned their support of “electoral em-
powerment /civil rights” nationalism, the party most often identified with was
the Republican Party. The reason for this is that most of the people who aban-
doned their support of “electoral empowerment /civil rights” oriented national-
ism did so because they felt that the whole effort had been successful and there
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 225

was no more need to work for civil rights or getting Chicanos elected to public
office. It was their position that they could now follow their own personal in-
terests (as opposed to the group’s), and since most were of the middle class, they
viewed their interests as being represented by the Republican Party. Rueben
is a twenty-eight-year-old middle-level manager in a business in Albuquerque:
Back ten years ago I supported nationalism because it was necessary
in order for Chicanos to get their rightful opportunities to improve
their economic position in life. I felt it was very important to pres-
sure the government to see to it that Chicanos were not discrimi-
nated against, that their civil rights were protected, and so I sup-
ported the Raza Unida Party because they were the most active in
pressing for civil rights for Chicanos. But after a while, we had
become successful in guaranteeing that our civil rights would be pro-
tected, and so it was time to do something with these rights. After
the Raza Unida died, I supported the Republican Party because the
Democrats were still stressing civil rights for minorities and we didn’t
need that anymore, and the Republicans were helping business and I
was now involved in that.

When we turn to those individuals who had supported political national-

ism along separatist lines, the data indicate that in 1986 nearly all remained
supportive of a party like Raza Unida, and some were supportive of the So-
cialist Workers Party as well. This pattern emerges as a result of the fact that
for those who remain committed to separatist ideology, few options exist. Only
the defunct Raza Unida Party and the Socialist Workers Party had been at all
sympathetic to a separate Chicano country. Thus, among those individuals
who remained committed to separatist ideology, 84 percent (27) said they ei-
ther identified with the old Raza Unida Party or with some new Chicano na-
tionalist party that they hoped would be formed. Daniel is a twenty-seven-
year-old (in 1986) janitor for a warehouse company in Los Angeles who said:
I used to be a strong supporter of Raza Unida, but it stopped being
active in elections, so I had really no party that I could support. To
this day there isn’t any party for those like me who want a Chicano
country; all we can do is try to start another separatist party our-
selves, like the Québec French did.

The other separatists identified with the Socialist Workers Party because
they said that the party had supported Chicano nationalism as part of their
effort to assist movements of national /ethnic self-determination. Teresa, a
twenty-eight-year-old worker (in 1986) in a garment factory in Los Angeles,
responded:
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226 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

Yes, I now support the SWP [Socialist Workers Party] because

Raza Unida folded and there is no other except SWP that has had
a long record of supporting the national liberation of oppressed
minorities. Plus they have a plan that incorporates the struggle of
people like us to get our own country, to assert our right to national
self-determination.

In sum, the big change among nationalists had to do with the lessening of
identification with the Raza Unida Party and the rise in support for the Demo-
cratic and Republican parties. Part of the reason was due to the collapse of the
Raza Unida Party, which left nationalists no alternatives, and part was due to
the fact that many of those nationalists who were against the U.S. political
system in 1976 were now integrating themselves back into it.

Political Participation and Nationalist Views

We end our analysis of the decline of nationalism among Chicanos by ad-

dressing the issue of how either the maintenance or abandonment of nation-
alist ideology has influenced the mode of participation among those who had
identified themselves as nationalists in 1976. Table 9.5 indicates the relation-
ship between nationalist identification and the number of times the individ-
ual participated in one of these modes of political participation. As one can
see, among those people who continued to identify themselves as nationalists,
there is a preference for working in a political organization and being involved
in direct-action politics. This preference is based on their belief that the only
way to effect the type of political change they want is to both get the Chicano
community mobilized and have them involved in various forms of pressure
politics like strikes, boycotts, and protests. Thus they are active at the local
level, focusing in on issues that directly affect the local Chicano residents.
What the nationalists avoid participating in are those types of politics that
would work to reify the existing political system, such as contacting political
officials or working in the political campaigns of politicians who represent the
traditional Democratic or Republican parties. There was some support among
the Chicano nationalists in Albuquerque toward voting, but for the most part
nationalists refuse to vote, feeling that they do not have a party that represents
their interests and that the act of voting is a symbolic act indicating some level
of systemic acceptance, which they of course do not accept. The reason that
there is some support for voting among the Albuquerque nationalists and not
those from Los Angeles is because in Albuquerque there is a larger number of
“electoral empowerment /civil rights” oriented nationalists who do not in prin-
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 227

Table 9.5. ETA Correlations of Nationalist Identification

and Political Participation
Working for
Political Contacting Direct
Voting Organization Public Officials Action

San Antonio
Nationalism .07* —* —* —*
Albuquerque
Nationalism .13* .32* .05* .28*
Los Angeles
Nationalism .04* .35* .07* .31*

N  85
*P  .05

ciple reject the American political system, whereas in Los Angeles all the na-
tionalists are “separatist” oriented, and they do reject the U.S. political system.
On the other hand, those people who had been nationalists in 1976 and
abandoned their support for that ideology by 1986 had been quite active in
those traditional modes of political participation which symbolized the fulfill-
ment of one’s civic responsibility.25 This included, primarily, voting and con-
tacting public officials to articulate their political interests.26 Basically, they
were engaged in those forms of political activity that acted to integrate them
into the political system.
Interestingly, while ex-nationalists were found to be active in the politi-
cal system, those people who had remained committed to nationalism were
also active in politics. They had not gone into political isolation as some might
have predicted. Rather, they had focused their attention on local Chicano is-
sues and worked to build a base of support among the grassroots of the barrios.
The comments of Pedro, a twenty-seven-year old (in 1986) roofer, are in-
dicative of those who remained committed to nationalism in Los Angeles:
Well, I don’t work for the Democratic or Republican parties because
that’s just telling everybody that the system is O.K., but I still do a
lot of work in the barrio. There is a group of us who help the com-
munity get the services they need from the hospitals. We also help
people get loans for home improvements, and we got a number of
people who will go to people’s houses and fix things for them. We’re
still active in getting people to help themselves and not depend on
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228 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

the government, so we can tell them to go to hell. . . . Yeah, a lot of

people think we’re all [nationalists] dead because we don’t have the
demonstrations that we used to have, but they’re wrong. We just
hanging in there building a community base very slowly. We’ll be
just like termites: you don’t hear from us, but then all of a sudden the
house falls in.

Conclusion

I began this chapter with the question: where have all the nationalists gone?
The present study found that the largest number of those who once supported
nationalism had abandoned it and, for the most part, supported the U.S. po-
litical system. However, it was also found that there was a smaller, but signifi-
cant, number of people who had maintained and/or strengthened their sup-
port of Chicano nationalism. Having established this, I sought to determine
what factors influenced these individuals to either relinquish or maintain
their support of Chicano nationalism. In this pursuit I was guided by the work
of Daniel Latouche, who found in his study of Québec nationalism that main-
tenance or withdrawal from nationalism was related to three factors: (1) the
effects of “air of the times”, (2) the “life-cycle” effects, and (3) the effects of
one’s “generation.” I found that the three factors identified by Latouche for
Québec nationalists did in fact have an impact on the decline and mainte-
nance of support for nationalism among Chicanos, but they did so in associa-
tion with two other factors.
The main argument of this paper is that whether a person decided to aban-
don nationalism or not was influenced by how he/she conceptually perceived
Chicano nationalism in 1976, when nationalism was still an important ideol-
ogy within the Chicano community. Two relatively broad types of nationalist
orientation, with two subtypes within them, were found to be present among
those who identified themselves as nationalists in 1976. Those who perceived
nationalism within a cultural nationalist framework were inclined to abandon
nationalism by 1986, while those who were political nationalists were in-
clined to maintain and/or strengthen their commitment to it over the ten-
year period. Thus, how one originally perceived nationalism had an impor-
tant impact on whether he or she would maintain it. However, an important
factor influencing how a person would conceptualize it had to do with the
type of city which the individuals lived in. Those who lived in the politically
conservative city of San Antonio generally viewed nationalism in its most be-
nign form (the cultural nationalism of “self-identity” or “self-interest”). Those
who lived in the cities of Albuquerque and Los Angeles, with their more lib-
eral and tolerant political cultures, were more inclined to view separatism in
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 229

its more radical forms (the political nationalism of “electoral empower-

ment /civil rights” or “separatism”). In essence, the political culture of the city
was instrumental in influencing people’s perceptions of politics in general and
nationalism in particular.
Most importantly, the type of city which influenced the individual’s par-
ticular view of nationalism also established the environment in which the
effects of “air of the times,” “life-cycle,” and “generation” would have their im-
pact on whether or not an individual maintained his or her nationalist ideol-
ogy. Those who viewed nationalism in cultural terms were influenced most by
the “air of the times” and the “life-cycle” effects, whereas those who identified
nationalism in political terms were influenced by both the “air of the times”
and “generation” effects.
Let us return to a point I made in the beginning of the chapter concern-
ing recent developments in nationalism in Québec. The 1995 referendum in
which the Québec public was asked whether the provincial government should
seek to formally separate from Canada indicated that there had been an enor-
mous rise in nationalist support. Given that the referendum was defeated by
a mere 1 percent of the vote, cross-generational support for separatism was
obvious. How is this explained by the Latouche concepts, and what, if any, are
the lessons for the Chicano case discussed here?
First, nationalism, whether it is cultural or political in orientation, is a
concept that is deeply tied to an individual’s identity, emotions, and socio-
economic condition. As such, unless it is completely extinguished from the
individual’s worldview, conditions can reappear that reignite nationalist pas-
sions. Even those individuals who had seized the ideology as a result of “air of
the times” or “life-cycle” effects can be stimulated to support it again, but two
situations will need to develop in order for this to occur. Socioeconomic con-
ditions will need to worsen for those who had been nationalists in the past.
If this occurs, there will be the tendency on the part of those affected to draw
on ethnicity as a political resource to improve and advance their material
interests. This was clearly the case in Québec, where even though the socio-
economic situation of the Québecois had improved over the years, a significant
number of Francophones had been experiencing difficulty in maintaining their
desired (subjective) standard of living, creating a sense of status inequality be-
tween Francophones and Anglophones. In fact, the Parti Québecois charac-
terized the failure of the Anglophone political leadership to ratify a plan to
give Québec special status within the Canadian Constitution at the Meech
Lake Summit as evidence of Anglophone resistance to rectify in good faith
the structural socioeconomic inequality that was historically instituted by the
Anglophone elite and that had so harmed Francophones over the generations.
As the close vote on the most recent separatist referendum indicates, this line
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230 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

of argument resonated with a very large number of the Québec population be-
cause it rekindled in the older generation feelings of cultural deprivation and
ignited in the younger generation feelings that they would have a better op-
portunity to realize their material goals only when the structural impediments
associated with the formal arrangements of Canada could no longer be a factor.
Likewise for Chicanos, situations could arise in which nationalism would
be reignited across generations. For example, if socioeconomic conditions for
significant numbers of the Chicano working and middle class worsen, nation-
alism among the young and old might be reinvigorated. For the younger gen-
eration, the issues will be the disparity between their rising hopes and desires
on the one hand and their increasingly pessimistic expectations that these
hopes and desires can be obtained in the structural arrangements that they
perceive to be biased against people of Mexican origin on the other. For people
who had been nationalists in the past (i.e., the older generation) and found
that the life chances of their children were significantly diminished because
of prejudice against people of Mexican origin, there could (and most likely
would) be a rekindling of support for nationalism. These factors were no doubt
present among the Francophone population in Québec and help to explain
the rise in cross-generation support for the Parti Québecois’s 1995 “separatism
referendum.”
The second condition necessary for a resurgence of nationalist support
among those who have given up their support of it has to do with the build-
ing of an effective social movement. In order for an effective social movement
among Chicanos, or any ethnic group, to arise, there must be political leader-
ship willing to invest time and resources in using nationalist arguments and
symbols in the formal political arena. This condition is best seen in the cases
of Chicano and Québec nationalism. Chicano nationalism was at its strongest
during a time when the Partido La Raza Unida was actively competing in the
formal arena.27 Although the party was not united in the separatist question,
it was thoroughly nationalist. When it died as a political party, the fire within
Chicano nationalism slowly faded. However, in Québec even when the fire of
separatism had dimmed, the Parti Québecois had remained an active party
within Québec politics. Thus, there remained for the Québecois an official or-
gan to represent their nationalist feelings whenever the time seemed appro-
priate to them.28
In conclusion, let me again return to the question I began with: where
have all the nationalists gone? The answer to this question is that while it is
true that many of those who had been nationalists in 1976 have changed and
now support another ideology, it is equally true that nationalism is not dead
in the Chicano community. There still are individuals who remain commit-
ted to it, including separatism, its most radical form. They may not believe
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 231

that it is possible to realize a separate Chicano nation, but they remain com-
mitted to that vision.
This sentiment was captured in an in-depth interview with Jesús, a twenty-
eight-year-old (in 1986) truck driver in Los Angeles, when he said, “you know
what the Jews used to say before they had Israel, ‘next year in Jerusalem’; well,
my friends and me think ‘next year in a free Aztlán!’” Nationalism’s fire has not
totally burned out; embers ever so few and ever so low remain waiting for the
wind to blow. If socioeconomic mobility becomes stagnant for Chicanos and
the inequality gap between them and Anglos widens, or if anti-Mexican im-
migrant sentiment and actions continue to grow such that they severely impact
Chicanos, or if the number of Chicanos incarcerated reaches epidemic pro-
portions, the winds of discontent will increase, and like the mythical phoenix,
Chicano nationalism is likely to rise from the depths of Chicano society and
reassert itself as a challenging force within American politics.

Notes
1. See Claybourne Carson, In Struggle: SNCC and the Black Awakening (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1981); and Doug McAdam, Political Process and the Development of
Black Insurgency, 1930 –1986 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982).
2. Juan Gómez-Quiñones, Chicano Politics (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press,
1990); Carlos Muñoz, Jr., Youth, Identity and Power: The Chicano Movement (London: Verso, 1989);
Stan Steiner, La Raza: The Mexican Americans (New York: Random House, 1969).
3. Rodolfo Acuña, Occupied America: A History of Chicanos (New York: Harper & Row, 1981);
David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836 –1986 (Austin: University of
Texas Press, 1987).
4. Harold Isaacs, Idols of the Tribe: Group Identity and Political Change (New York: Harper &
Row, 1975); Leonard Doob, Patriotism and Nationalism: Their Psychological Foundation (New York:
Harper & Row, 1964); Karl Deutsch, Nationalism and Social Communication (Cambridge: M.I.T.
Press, 1966).
5. Daniel Latouche, “Jeunesse et Nationalisme au Québec: Une Ideologie Peut-Ille Mourir,”
[Youth and Nationalism in Quebec: Can an Ideology Die?] Revue Francaise de Science Politique 35
(1985): 240 –244.
6. While for Chicanos the period of el movimiento was one of critical significance, in the case of
Québec it was either the period of “le revolution tranquille” (the quiet revolution) in which the
Québecois began to assert their self-identity as Francophones and their interests in politics and
economics; or the period of national independence, in which significant segments of Québec soci-
ety pushed for a separate country. For a general discussion of these periods see Marcel Rioux,
Quebec in Question (Toronto: James, Lewis, and Samuel, 1971).
7. A more detailed description of the data-gathering procedure used for this survey can be
found in Martín Sánchez Jankowski, City Bound: Urban Life and Political Attitudes Among Chicano
Youth (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1986), pp. 237–240.
8. Most studies, like Isaacs’s Idols of the Tribe and Anthony Smith’s The Ethnic Revival in the
Modern World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979) that have dealt with nationalism
proceed on an assumption that all those who support this nationalism conceptualize it in the
09-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 232

232 / Mart í n Sánchez Jankowski

same way; or they simply do not think it matters that there are a number of conceptions of
the ideology within the movement they are analyzing because the process they are studying is
the same.
9. See Martín Sánchez Jankowski, “Change and Stability in Political Attitudes among Chi-
canos: A Panel Study, 1976 –1986,” paper presented at Western Political Science Association,
San Francisco, 1988.
10. All the names used are pseudonyms that have been substituted for the respondents’ real
names. The other information about the individuals quoted in this paper is accurate.
11. See Martin Kilson, “Blacks and Neo-Ethnicity in American Political Life,” in Nathan
Glazer and Daniel Patrick Moynihan, eds., Ethnicity: Theory and Experience (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1975).
12. Antonio De Leon, They Called Them Greasers: Anglo Attitudes Toward Mexicans in Texas,
1821–1900 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1975).
13. Much of the literature concerning school achievement has found “positive self-image” as
the variable with the most impact. In fact, much of the argument in overturning “separate but
equal schools” in Brown v. The Board of Education of Topeka was based on the precept that sepa-
rate schools affected a young person’s self-image, which in turn affected the student’s ability and
willingness to learn. See T. Lucas, R. Henze, and R. Donato, “Promoting the Success of Latino
Language-Minority Students: An Exploratory Study of Six High Schools,” Harvard Educational
Review 60 (1990): 315 –340. The work of Elliot Liebow in Tally’s Corner: A Study of Negro Street-
corner Men (Boston: Little, Brown, 1967) is an attempt to expose the negative parts of low self-
esteem.
14. This view of nationalism made the ideology a tool to be used to extract a desired socio-
economic goal from those with the power or authority to provide it. Those who would use na-
tionalism in this way assumed a posture that Tom Wolfe described as “mau mauing the flak catch-
ers.” In brief, nationalism was used as a form of political pressure. See Tom Wolfe, Radical Chic
and Mau Mauing the Flak Catchers (Toronto: Collins, 1970).
15. See Orlando Patterson, Ethnic Chauvinism: The Reactionary Impulse (Cambridge, Mass.:
Harvard University Press, 1978).
16. R. Shingles, “Black Consciousness and Political Participation: The Missing Link,” Ameri-
can Political Science Review 1 (1980): 76 – 91; Rufus T. Browning, Dale R. Marshall, and David H.
Tabb, Protest Is Not Enough: The Struggle of Blacks and Hispanics for Equality in Urban Politics
(Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984); McAdam, Political Process.
17. J. Shockley, Chicano Revolt in a Texas Town (South Bend, Ind.: University of Notre Dame
Press, 1974).
18. See Anthony Smith, “Toward a Theory of Ethnic Separatism,” Ethnic and Racial Studies 2,
no. 1: 21–38; and his The Ethnic Revival in the Modern World.
19. This is similar to the differences one finds between the Black nationalists on the one
hand, and those Black politicians and civil rights activists on the other. See R. Hall, Black Sepa-
ratism in the United States (Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1978).
20. For the definitive studies on “generation” effects, see Glen Elder, Children of the Great
Depression (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1974); John Clausen, American Lives (Berke-
ley: University of California Press, 1993); and Doug McAdam, Freedom Summer (New York:
Oxford University Press, 1988).
21. See Jankowski, City Bound, pp. 77–122.
22. See Jankowski, City Bound, pp. 80 –122; and “Change and Stability in Political Attitudes
among Chicanos.”
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Where Have All the Nationalists Gone? / 233

23. The conservative nature of politics in San Antonio, as well as Chicanos’ own conserva-
tive response to this particular political culture, is not only supported by the attitudes displayed
in City Bound, but also, ironically, in the conservative analysis of Mexican American politics pre-
sented by Peter Skerry in his Mexican Americans: The Ambivalent Minority (New York: Free Press,
1993), pp 23–58.
24. See Armando Navarro, “The Evolution of Chicano Politics,” Aztlán: International Journal
of Chicano Studies and Research 5 (Spring and Fall 1974): 57– 84; and Ignacio García, United We
Win: The Rise and Fall of La Raza Unida Party (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1988).
25. See Gabriel Almond and Sidney Verba, The Civic Culture (Boston: Little & Brown,
1965).
26. See Nelson Polsby, Community Power and Political Theory (New Haven: Yale University
Press, 1980).
27. See García, United We Win.
28. See Maurice Pinard, “The Dramatic Reemergence of the Quebec Independence
Movement,” Journal of International Affairs 45, no. 2 (Winter 1992): 471– 497.
10-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 234

Conclusion

On the Future of
Anglo-Mexican Relations
in the United States

D av i d M o n t e j a n o

n this essay I speculate on the nature of Anglo-Mexican relations in the

I twenty-first century, with an emphasis on the southwestern United States.

My speculations are based primarily on a consideration of domestic U.S.
economics and politics. Although I do not consider events or conditions
within Mexico that could affect these relations, it will become clear that the
questions of Mexican political stability and economic development, espe-
cially as these affect emigration to the United States, figure critically in any
future scenario.
The current situation of Mexican Americans can be described in contra-
dictory ways. On the one hand, from a historical perspective, one must rec-
ognize a form of political inclusion, in the sense that most structural obstacles,
such as the poll tax, at-large elections, and gerrymandered districts, have been
removed. One must recognize that Mexican Americans have been granted ef-
fective citizenship and that this marks a departure from historical experience.
At the state legislative level, Mexican American elected officials today repre-
sent significant subregions of the Southwest, an unthinkable proposition in the
1950s and 1960s when the Mexican American electorate was routinely de-
scribed as “a sleeping giant.” In the past twenty-five years, Mexican Americans
have become important players in California and Texas politics, and thus in
national politics. Their strategic prominence becomes especially visible in
any U.S. policy discussion concerning Mexico, as demonstrated in the recent
debate over the North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA).1
On the other hand, it is clear that such political inclusion has not been a
paneacea, a general solution, to the economic problems of most Mexican
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 235

Americans. In fact, a controversial question in the current public policy lit-

erature concerns whether or not a significant “underclass” exists among Mexi-
can Americans.2 Against the backdrop of political inclusion stands the con-
trasting evidence of persistent and isolated poverty. In 1990 one of every four
Mexican American families lived in poverty. Residential and school segrega-
tion of Mexican Americans has actually increased in most cities during the past
two decades. Likewise, while the number of Mexican Americans twenty-five
years and older completing college has remained “frozen” at the 5 – 6 percent
level since 1975, the number failing to complete high school has increased
several points, to 56.4 percent.
The evidence suggests that the Mexican American community has been
split into a socially incorporated middle class and a socially segregated lower
class. The excluded sector is not limited to first- or second-generation immi-
grants. One source estimates that perhaps 40 percent of third-generation-plus
Mexican Americans may comprise something like a Chicano underclass.3 Po-
litical inclusion, in other words, has not signified the “economic assimilation”
or any other kind of assimilation of the Mexican American community. What
is clear is that inclusion has been quite partial.
Nor does the notion of “inclusion” imply a static condition. Indeed, such a
state of affairs is characterized by a constant struggle between exclusion and in-
clusion. As in previous periods of change and anxiety, in the 1990s there exists
a growing literature that speaks about a “Mexican problem,” a literature that
blames Mexican “immigrants” for every misfortune possible, from the “undo-
ing” of America to crime and traffic jams. These views may sound like hyper-
bole, but they circulate plainly in both popular and scholarly circles.4 Bluntly
put, the present limited degree of inclusion may be less permanent than it ap-
pears. As I have argued elsewhere, the current integrative climate is “not an
unchanging condition,” for “social forces can move a society in several differ-
ent directions.” 5 I wish to expand on these observations and explore the vari-
ous possible futures we may face and make.
In the following, I assume that one possible future is that the present-day
inclusion, with all its contradictions and unevenness, might continue. As his-
torian Paul Kennedy has aptly put it, we might “muddle through” the twenty-
first century.6 Since I am more concerned with demonstrating the possibility
of alternative scenarios — that inclusion might fall apart due to pressing new
circumstances —my discussion will center around the factors that might lead
to exclusionary policies and practices. This kind of pessimistic speculation
will serve to emphasize that even the present state of partial inclusion is based
on a continuing struggle to protect gains and increase opportunities.
In short, I aim to provide an “ideal type” sketch of an exclusionary trajec-
tory. The notion of “trajectory” emphasizes the presence of competing forces
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236 / David Montejano

or pressures that shape or move a society in a certain direction. The method-

ology for such speculation about the future is provided by the forecasting meth-
ods of economics and demography and mediated by the hindsight of history.
Forecasting while keeping a sharp memory will suggest the contours of pos-
sible futures.7

The following discussion focuses on three complexes of contingent factors that

may jeopardize the limited and modest advances of Mexican Americans over
the last thirty years. The first has to do with the changing global economy, that
is, with the projection that, by many accounts, the United States today is in
a period of relative economic decline. What impact might such a decline have
on ethnic-race relations in the United States, and specifically in the South-
west? The question of U.S.-Mexico economic relations figures critically in this
regard.
The second complex of contingent elements that must be discussed are
the demographic projections that envision a “browning” or “Latinization” of
the United States; more specifically, that within the span of a generation the
Mexican-origin population will form a plurality, if not a majority, of the popu-
lation of the southwestern United States. The most recent awareness of this
growing “Latin American” presence has generated much concern and even fear
in some quarters of U.S. society, especially over the question of immigration.
The third complex of contingent elements I consider is the intervening
process of politics, which basically interpets and articulates responses to chang-
ing conditions. While any number of responses or “racial projects” may be
entertained in the political arena, the policies envisioned by the traditional
political parties are the most critical. Political parties are responsible for gen-
erating public support for race relations policies that may be either inclusion-
ary or exclusionary. The electoral arena determines the direction for such
policies.
One possible outcome of the interplay of these three complexes of factors
is an exclusionary trajectory of social relations (see Figure 10.1). The rise of
nativism and scapegoating is a likely political response to the convergence of
economic decline and a “browning” demographic pattern. Given sufficient
popular support, politicians in a competitive electoral arena will propose mea-
sures that restrict or reverse the perceived “unfair advantages” of a distinct
population. In the case of Mexicans and Mexican Americans, as we will see
shortly, such proposals range from the closing of the U.S.-Mexico border to re-
moving them from the protection of the Voting Rights Act.8
Before describing a negative scenario for the future of ethnic /race relations
in the Southwest, I will sketch in very brief strokes the recent history of in-
clusion. This will clarify what I mean by the “politics of inclusion.”
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 237

External and InternalD

Factors

U.S. Decline in R
World SystemR
Intervening D Political D
R
Process Consequences
R
Weak DomesticR
Electoral PoliticsR
Economy
(campaign rhetoric, R ExclusionaryR
etc.)R Policies (rescindingR
R rights, closing R
Rise in Nativism andR borders, etc.)
Demographic PatternsR
Scapegoating
(birth rates and R
immigration)R
R
R
"Latinization" of U.S.

Figure 10.1. A Hypothetical Exclusionary Trajectory

A Material Base of Inclusion

The current “politics of inclusion” were not just the result of an “awakening”
or social protest, although the civil rights movements of the 1950s and 1960s
were clearly necessary.9 As important were the class structural changes that
weakened the foundation of Jim Crow segregation. Whether one speaks of Af-
rican Americans or Mexican Americans, the structures of inequality they con-
fronted were essentially the same, especially in the southern and southwest-
ern sections of the country. At least through World War II, a dominant grower
or planter elite maintained low-wage labor through a variety of labor and po-
litical controls.10 Pervasive social segregation of the “races” was the social and
cultural manifestation of such elite control. In this setting, any movement
“from below” was generally defeated.
The context for successful protest politics was set by the class structural
changes accompanying World War II.11 The move toward integration was cata-
lyzed by the great civil rights protests of the 1950s and 1960s, but its “success”
was fundamentally the result of shifting class politics during the post-World
War II economic boom. The context for Mexican-Anglo relations was trans-
formed from that of a segregated order that bound Anglo growers and
Mexican farmworkers through the mid twentieth century to a present-day in-
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238 / David Montejano

clusion based on an understanding between Anglo urban business elites and

middle-class Mexican Americans. The understanding is based on a trade-off:
the Anglo business elite desires political support for its development plans,
while the Mexican American middle class desires political entry and economic
opportunities.
In short, the current integrative situation essentially reflects an inter-
ethnic alignment of key organizations from these class groups.12 This align-
ment in some places is the result of explicit discussion and agreement; in other
places, it merely represents uncoordinated parallel interests. Regardless of
which, this represents a pro-development configuration that cuts across parti-
san and ethnic loyalties.
At one point in the late 1960s, I might note, there was a possibility for a
different kind of inclusion based on a broad populist multicultural movement.
The failure of the People’s March (1972) because of mistrust, lack of knowledge
about each community’s struggle, identity politics, and perhaps poor leader-
ship, highlighted the difficulties in creating a “rainbow coalition.” By the mid
1970s, such efforts had largely dissipated. “Inclusion,” in other words, could
conceivably have issued from some broadly defined multiethnic middle- and
working-class alliance. Instead, the direction beyond Jim Crow was influenced
by an interesting alignment between white business elites and the emerging
“minority” middle classes.13
Perhaps the best example of this present-day alignment between Anglo
businessmen and middle-class Mexican Americans was the mayoral tenure of
Henry Cisneros, the first San Antonio mayor of Mexican origin since Juan Se-
guín in the 1840s. The success of Cisneros as mayor in the 1980s did not come
about simply because of a mobilized Mexican American electorate, although
this was certainly a critical factor. An equally important factor lay in his un-
derstanding with the business community. Cisneros promised a “new attitude”
toward economic development and expansion, one that would include his ac-
tive solicitation of new industry. During his eight years as mayor (1981–1989),
developers benefited greatly from Cisneros’s popularity and the city govern-
ment’s willingness to accommodate their plans. Local voters approved eight
bond issues totaling more than half a billion dollars and approved a special sales
tax to generate another $180 million for a domed stadium. In turn, the busi-
ness community supported, however reluctantly, Cisneros’s public works pro-
grams (involving mainly flood control, sidewalks, and parks) in parts of town
where they didn’t have an interest. Moreover, citizen pressure groups like Com-
munities Organized for Public Service (COPS), representing many of San
Antonio’s poor neighborhoods, were included in the city’s decision-making
process. Cisneros believed that such inclusion represented “the formula needed
to build unity.” 14 It remains to be seen how much actually “trickled down”
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 239

from such pro-development policies to the impoverished Mexican American

sections of San Antonio. But one clear benefactor has been the city’s Mexican
American business and professional class.
That in brief is my argument about the current condition and likely future
of inclusion: that it is based on a pro-development understanding between an
Anglo business elite and a Mexican American middle class. Such politics have
long been evident in border cities (Laredo, El Paso, Nogales, for example) and
in the state of New Mexico, where an accommodation between Anglo and
Hispano elites has historically made for a more relaxed ethnic /race situation.
Today these influences are evident in most Southwestern cities but can also
be seen at the regional and national level if we analyze the support for the
North American Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), about which I shall say
more later.
In the Southwest, then, inclusion is presently contingent on the strength
of this political alignment between prominent Anglo and Mexican American
class groups.

A Global Focus— The United States in Decline?

Having described the present integrative climate in terms of its internal

configuration, I can now ratchet the analysis up another notch and consider
its external framing. The “integration” of the post –World War II period was
also made possible in part because the United States was a rising world power.
Indeed, this ascendancy as a world power, secured with victory in World
War II, brought with it unparalleled wealth and political confidence that
made Jim Crow social policies seem irrelevant and backward. The ideology of
democracy, honed in the fight against Hitler and Aryan supremacy and fur-
ther developed in the Cold War fight for non-aligned Third World nations,
provided the cultural base for challenging race segregation. The national
elites proved willing to abandon a Jim Crow system when pressured to do so.
Meaningful change was embarrassingly slow, however, and was largely cata-
lyzed by domestic protests and crises. Prosperity alone was an insufficient con-
dition; a social movement was necessary to demonstrate the contradictions of
American race policy.
In sum, the weakening of race segregation occurred in the context of the
nation’s rise as a world power. The converse, that race tensions and conflict
increase during periods of decline, also appears to be an axiomatic thesis. This
is the prospect I wish to address.
This question of a relative decline of the United States has been discussed
so extensively that it has been dubbed the “declinist school.” I will focus on
one prominent work, the best-selling book The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers,
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240 / David Montejano

by historian Paul Kennedy. Briefly stated, Kennedy argues that the United
States today faces the dilemma of all great powers, that of preserving a rea-
sonable balance between the nation’s global defense requirements and its
technological and economic bases of power. As Kennedy puts it, the United
States runs the risk of “imperial overreach,” a situation in which a strong mili-
tary posture throughout the world provides for the emergence of new eco-
nomic centers that in turn undermine the economic standing of their military
protectors.15 In the present pax americana, it is generally agreed that these
emerging competitors are centered in Asia and Western Europe and particu-
larly in the defeated nations of World War II, Japan and Germany.
In his book about the great powers, Kennedy has little to say about Mex-
ico, except to note that if a major international debt crisis is to occur any-
where in the world, it will most likely begin in this region, with very serious
consequences to the global credit system, and especially to American banks.
Indeed, argues Kennedy, the Polish crisis of the USSR— the crisis that set off
a chain of events that ultimately led to the collapse of the Warsaw Pact and of
the Soviet Union itself —would “seem small by comparison” with a Mexican
crisis: “There is simply no equivalent in the world for the present state of
Mexican –United States relations. Mexico is on the verge of economic bank-
ruptcy and default. Its internal economic crisis forces hundreds of thousands to
drift illegally to the north each year. Its most profitable trade with the United
States is becoming a brutally managed flow of hard drugs, and the border for
all this sort of traffic is still extraordinarily permeable.” 16
Unfortunately, this single ominous paragraph contains all that Kennedy
has to say about U.S.-Mexico relations, which are obviously critical for under-
standing the future of the Southwest. Kennedy, in fact, pays very little atten-
tion to American domestic politics in this book, but he does warn that high
birth rates among American minorities, coupled with the loss of well-paying
manufacturing jobs, make it “unwise to assume that the prevailing norms of
the American political economy would be maintained if the nation entered a
period of sustained economic difficulty.” 17 In other words, the forthcoming de-
cline will portend serious difficulties —difficulties of a racial nature —in pre-
serving the U.S. political consensus.
In his sequel, Preparing for the 21st Century, Paul Kennedy is more explicit
about the matter. Describing the implications of the “browning” of America,
the result of differential birth rates and immigration, Kennedy points out, in
a characteristically grim assessment, that “the mass migration at the moment
is only the tip of an iceberg. We have to educate ourselves and our children to
understand why there is going to be trouble.” 18
Critics of the declinist thesis have pointed to the demise of the Soviet
Union, the end of the Cold War, and the quick Gulf War victory as powerful
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 241

contrary evidence. The declinists have countered that the “New World
Order” may be an attempt to reestablish the “American Century” on military
terms just as American economic dominance is being lost.19 Whatever the
case, the election defeat of President George Bush, who at the time of the
Gulf War was seen as infallible, by the economic-oriented campaign of Bill
Clinton, demonstrated how short-lived the war-related euphoria was. The
initial euphoria following the Persian Gulf War was dissipated by the anxiety
of an American public concerned about an uncertain economic future. More
relevant to our discussion, such anxiety has also stirred economic protection-
ist sentiments that threaten to worsen U.S.-Mexico relations over the ques-
tions of trade and immigration.

A Southwestern Focus—
A Dissolving Consensus?

What, then, does such long-term decline mean for the Southwest and for the
United States in general? In the American Southwest there exists an abun-
dance of commentators who have painted very explicit scenarios, especially
when the discussion shifts to birth rates and immigration. The public com-
mentaries on Mexican immigration, many of which group Mexican Ameri-
cans with recent immigrants, illustrates the ambiguous status of Mexican
Americans as a “legitimate” citizenry in American society. The practice of the
Border Patrol of targeting individuals on the basis of physical appearance un-
derscores this ambiguity dramatically: in San Diego, one-third of the four
hundred victims of serious Border Patrol beatings between 1988 and 1992 were
U.S. citizens, and in El Paso a federal judge ruled (in 1992) that the Border
Patrol was engaging in “excessive force” and “illegal and abusive conduct”
against U.S. citizens of Mexican descent “solely because they look Latino.” 20
In short, in the context of a “Mexican problem,” physical appearance or “race”
rather than citizenship easily becomes the salient criterion for public percep-
tion and policy.
National security reasons have long been used to support the practice of
aggressive border control. In 1975, for example, Immigration Commissioner
Leonard Chapman, former commandant of the Marine Corps, warned of “a
vast and silent invasion of illegal aliens” numbering some twelve million. In
1978 former Central Intelligence Agency Director William Colby asserted that
Mexico was a greater threat than the Soviet Union, with up to twenty million
illegals in the country by the year 2000.21 Likewise in 1983 Governor Bruce
Babbitt of Arizona (now U.S. Secretary of the Interior) observed that “the
Southwest is being Hispanicized,” that “in the War of 1848, we annexed the
Southwest and now the Mexicans are taking it back.” According to Babbitt,
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242 / David Montejano

the border has become more and more a juridical figment; it has dissolved in
real terms. The Southwest today points to new realities: to problems of popu-
lation pressure, to massive movements of peoples across uncontrolled borders,
to the problems of birth control and cultural levels in education. In fact,
warned syndicated columnist Georgie Anne Geyer, if these ominous prob-
lems are not dealt with rationally and creatively, we will have “our very own
Lebanon right here.” 22
In 1985 another governor, Richard Lamm of Colorado, issued similar
warnings in a more strident tone. Speaking of blacks and Hispanics, Governor
Lamm argued that these two groups contribute to extraordinary crime, job-
lessness, and illiteracy rates. In his view, “We are heading for an America in
which we will have two angry, under-utilized and under-educated, frustrated,
resentful, jealous, and volatile minority groups existing unassimilated and un-
integrated within our borders.” 23 Given the failure of the American melting
pot, Lamm urged that we regain control of our borders and our inner cities.
In the 1990s such political assessments about an American inability to as-
similate Latino immigrants are commonplace. The “crowded lifeboat” has be-
come the metaphor of choice for anti-immigrant pundits. In the arch-conser-
vative National Review, an assessment of U.S. immigration policy argues that
the “melting” dynamics of the past no longer apply: “Just because a danger has
been averted in the past does not mean it cannot happen in the future. Many
passengers might have climbed aboard the lifeboat safely; one more may still
capsize it.” Indeed, the assessment warns that “the American ethnic mix has
been upset. In 1960, the U.S. population was 88.6 per cent white; in 1990, it
was only 75.6 per cent white —a drop of 13 percentage points in thirty years.” 24
The alarmist assessment concludes, with particular reference to Mexicans, that
it may be time to announce that the United States is no longer an immigrant
country.25
The social science literature describes a no less gloomy scenario. Demog-
raphers warn that the combination of “browning” with some “graying” may
pose a “troublesome mismatch” for states like California over the next forty
years, at which time half of all children are forecast to be Hispanic and whites
will compose 60 percent of the elderly. The consequence will be that any fiscal
crisis, brought about by the exhaustion of Social Security and health care funds,
will have an ethnic /racial cast.26
This worst-case scenario may come to pass, according to David Hayes-
Bautista, Werner Schink, and Jorge Chapa, even if we assume no additional im-
migration. Hayes-Bautista et al., in warning of the consequences of failing to
invest in education, predict that by the year 2030, the U.S.-born Latino pop-
ulation in California, and generally in the Southwest, will nearly equal the
Anglo population.27 This, combined with a long-term failure to reinvest in
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 243

education and create well-paying employment opportunities, will result in a

new social division along generational ethnic lines; specifically, a situation in
which a young, undereducated Latino population will find itself supporting a
well-educated, retired Anglo generation.
In this future, according to Hayes-Bautista et al., the young Latino popu-
lation begins to see its predicament as one of exploitation. Huge amounts of
their paychecks are eaten up to fund Social Security and health care programs
for the elderly. Yet, in spite of high payroll taxes, the young workers see little
in the way of benefits returned to them. The school system is failing, and ex-
penditures for roads, water systems, and public programs have dwindled to al-
most nothing. In time, incendiary literature calls on the younger generation
to rebel, to refuse to pay taxes. Strikes break out in assembly plants, security
walls are set afire and toppled, and the sale of guns soar in the elderly areas:
The younger Latinos painted the elderly as parasites, who had
enjoyed all the benefits of society when those benefits were free and
now continued to tax the workers to maintain their style of living
without a thought to the damage it was doing to them. The elderly
painted the younger Latinos as parasites, as foreigners who were
soaking up benefits that should go to the elderly, as non-Americans
who were threatening to dilute American culture as crime-ridden,
disease-ridden, and lawless people.28

Hayes-Bautista et al. conclude, “Civil revolt was only months away.” Thus
ends their grim “fin de siecle” vision, essentially a portrayal of a repressive so-
ciety on the brink of anarchy.
The disturbing aspect of this pessimistic forecast is that many of its fea-
tures — declining social services, increasing violence, a domestic arms race,
frayed ethnic and racial tensions — are already present. In many ways, the Los
Angeles riot of April 1992, when more than one-half of those arrested were
Latino, appears to have been a preview of the worst scenario portrayed by
Hayes-Bautista et al. One immediate consequence of the Los Angeles riot has
been the rise of a nativist perception that Latinos, along with African Ameri-
cans, represent an undesirable element.29
The alarmist public discussion of uncontrolled borders and uncontrolled
streets clearly reflects the anxiety that surfaces every time the United States
enters a period of economic difficulty. The contrast between recession-wrecked
California and economically stable Texas is instructive in this regard. In 1990
the arch-conservative Federation for American Immigration Reform (FAIR),
which has been lobbying Washington to restrict non-European immigration
for nearly two decades, ran commercials on six Houston radio stations linking
immigration to such problems as homelessness, drug smuggling, and traffic
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244 / David Montejano

congestion. The radio commercials, aired as a test for a national campaign,

were withdrawn because of public protests. But in depressed California, FAIR
found an enthusiastic audience. Three-quarters of Californians, according to
a 1992 Roper poll conducted for FAIR, believe that the state has too many
immigrants, that they are a financial burden, and that steps should be taken
now to limit the population.30 Leaders from both Republican and Democratic
political parties now regularly cite FAIR literature and use FAIR proposals as
a basis for their own.
In short, the English-only movement, the anti-immigration campaign,
the anti – civil rights sentiment, the reaction to multiculturalism, and so on,
all manifest a conservative “lifeboat” reflex to the changing demographics of
the United States, and of the Southwest in particular. These views, however
strident or exaggerated, should not be discounted, for they suggest a definite
political response that gains support in a climate of economic crisis and un-
certainty.31 These groups lack only a legitimizing moment, that time when one
of the two major political parties embraces their cause as an element of a cam-
paign platform.

Party Politics and Race

According to the classic work of V. O. Key, Jr., on Southern politics, nativism

and racial demagoguery were supposed to fade in importance in the context
of an effective two-party system.32 Key’s argument held that the Democratic
southern elite was able to maintain political control and to redirect economic
class tension among whites through the use of the race issue. This elite gen-
erally ruled through a “one-party” Democratic structure, which essentially
provided the groundwork for the “politics of disorganization.” “One-partyism”
thus benefited the Southern ruling class. On the other hand, Key predicted,
with industrialization and urbanization and the subsequent emergence of a
two-party system, a modified, democratized class conflict would become insti-
tutionalized. A two-party system would compete over alternative public pro-
grams, mobilize voters, and negotiate the legislative particulars. By so doing,
economic issues would come to the fore and the race question would no longer
be effective as a diversion.
Or so went the theory. In practice, the results have been mixed. On the
one hand, a two-party system has emerged in the South in the 1960s and
1970s, and Jim Crow segregation is legally dead. Yet, on the other hand, ap-
peals to the race issue, or “race-baiting,” remain a fundament of American po-
litical life. Why has this been the case?
Political sociologist Chandler Davidson argues that this is so because
“Race, rather than class, turned out to be the driving force behind party re-
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 245

alignment.” Beginning with the Goldwater campaign of 1964, a Republican

party “bent on capitalizing on the white backlash” endowed the race issue
with new life. Nixon’s modified use of Goldwater’s Southern strategy worked
successfully in 1968, and this provided the basis for an explicit statement on
the matter by Republican theorist Kevin Phillips.33
Phillips identified the key to an “emerging Republican majority” in the
United States as a white backlash to minority rights. In fact, Phillips cynically
argued that Negro voting rights, so closely associated with Democratic Party
policy, should be maintained in order to pressure white conservatives into
switching to the Republican Party. A successful Republican strategy for hold-
ing their subcoalitions together would play up family and racial issues by im-
plying that street crime, poverty, unemployment, and welfare programs are es-
sentially minority problems. Essentially, Phillips provided a handbook for
Republicans on how to encourage racial polarization along party lines with-
out appearing to be racists. The strategy proved successful in the victorious
presidential campaigns of Reagan in 1980 and 1984, and the 1988 Bush cam-
paign was infamous for its “Willie Horton” television ad, which played on the
fear of African American criminality.34
Through the 1980s, much of the “race baiting” was directed at African
Americans, with Latinos occupying an ambiguous and contradictory place in
Republican strategy. The George Bush –Jim Baker wing of the GOP seemed
bent on recruiting Hispanics, who were seen as receptive to a “family values”
platform, while other factions of the Republican Party — the English-only,
anti – affirmative action, fundamentalist wing — readily identified them as un-
American. The Bush-Baker wing, moreover, was characterized by a strong lib-
ertarian or “free market” tendency, which supported “open borders” for labor
as well as for capital, while the cultural conservatives were basically “neo-
isolationists.”
This division of opinion between economic and cultural conservatives
finally flared into the open in the 1992 and 1996 Republican primaries over
the question of immigration and free trade. The presidential candidacy of Pat
Buchanan, who explicitly opposed immigration that might “dilute” America’s
European heritage and who called for tightening the U.S.-Mexico border,
brought the conservative unease with “free markets” out into the open. One
Buchanan supporter, describing Hispanics as a “strange anti-nation” within
the United States, blasted Republican courtship of Hispanics, noting that
“Republican success with Hispanics, as with other minorities, is often at the
expense of conservative principles.” 35
There is, of course, no need for racist scapegoating to be limited to a par-
ticular minority or be contained within one party, especially if this results in
electoral success. California, once regarded as the most liberal of states in the
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246 / David Montejano

country, provides an excellent, contemporary case in point. In California the

rise in anti-Mexican sentiment had been evident for some time. In San Diego
County the most spectacular example of Mexican-bashing had been the “Light
Up the Border” campaign, dating back to November 1989, which attracted
more than a thousand who parked at sundown and trained their headlights on
the border. As the California economy worsened in the early 1990s and un-
employment reached near 10 percent, “citizen groups” began to spring up
throughout the state to protest “street hiring” and to urge the INS to conduct
raids. Incumbent Governor Pete Wilson, up for reelection in 1994 and with
one of the lowest popular ratings in memory, sensed a winning issue. Seizing
the immigrant issue to blame for the state’s budget difficulties and for prob-
lems with the schools, hospitals, and community services, Wilson rallied to
easily defeat Democratic challenger Kathy Brown. Proposition 187, the mea-
sure championed by Wilson to deny educational and health benefits to “ille-
gal immigrants,” also coasted to an easy victory, with nearly 60 percent of the
state vote.36
On this question of immigration, however, there was little difference be-
tween “conservative” Republican and “progressive” Democrat. Republican
Governor Wilson called for a constitutional amendment that would deny cit-
izenship to U.S.-born children of illegal immigrants; in response Democratic
U.S. Senator Barbara Boxer called for a stationing of National Guard troops
along the border. Other Republican and Democratic notables joined in as
each side attempted to outdo the other in calling for the closing of the border.
The top politicians of both parties, according to policy analyst Andrés
Jiménez, engaged in “Willie Horton politics” by making undocumented im-
migration the central issue in the 1994 elections: “This time, instead of using
a single criminal personality to foster a climate of discrimination, political
ambitions are causing an entire population — California residents of Mexican
ancestry — to be dehumanized and criminalized.” 37
In the span of two short years, 1992 –1993, the alarmist anti-immigrant
rhetoric was elevated to a commonsense political position. The easy passage
in 1994 of the “Save Our State” Proposition 187, which denies health and
educational services to undocumented immigrants, and the “Three Strikes —
You’re Out” Proposition 184, which mandates lengthy sentences for three-
time felons, suggested the general unease in California about its “racial mi-
norities.” In 1995 –1996 this unease gained sharper political clarity. Spurred
this time by Governor Wilson’s need to galvanize support for a presidential
campaign, affirmative action policies were first banned in the University of
California system and later statewide through the passage of Proposition 209,
the California Civil Rights Initiative. By the mid-1990s the anti-immigrant
campaign had become generalized into a sweeping anti-minority one.
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 247

The new respectability of the anti-immigrant, anti-minority sentiment

can be seen in the pages of the mainstream national media. Imagine, as com-
mentator Jack Miles does for The Atlantic Monthly, the specter of school fund-
ing collapse in a severely depressed economy — specifically, that the Los An-
geles Unified School District, faced with a $400 million cutback in state
funding, could conceivably go into receivership: “In such an unthinkable cri-
sis unthinkable remedies might suddenly be thought of.” 38 In such a climate,
Miles notes, the imposition of a citizenship requirement for elementary and
high school education acquires the aura of civility. Indeed, we see, with
Governor Wilson’s call for denying citizenship to U.S.-born children, that the
“unthinkable” has become conceivable.
Thus V. O. Key’s prediction (or hope), so common in American social sci-
ence thought, that economic or class issues would prevail over racial ones was
too simply put. These are mutually exclusive only in laboratories or “ideal-
type” constructions. In the real world of competitive politics, they compete
for attention or salience, and generally they intermix. In California, Gover-
nor Wilson was able to redirect the sense of economic malaise to mobilize anti-
immigrant and anti-minority sentiment for a successful reelection campaign
(a strategy that fell flat in the presidential campaign). In Texas, on the other
hand, economic prosperity and significant Texas-Mexico economic ties have
moved Republican Governor George W. Bush on various occasions to defend
immigrants, Mexico, bilingualism, and so on.
Class and race issues can at times intermix to provide for strange bedfel-
lows. The unexpected arrangements can be seen in the politics of immigra-
tion and free trade, where conservative and liberal distinctions quickly break
down, as seen already in the apparent consensus between Republican Gover-
nor Wilson and Democratic Senator Boxer. Organized labor and right-wingers,
for example, found themselves allied in efforts to scuttle the North American
Free Trade Agreement (NAFTA), and both continue to call for a tightening
of the border. Labor unionists are concerned about competition with Mexico
while “groups with thinly veiled racist agendas blame Mexicans for everything
from water shortages to the decay of American values to suburban sprawl.” 39
Whether the Mexican threat is identified as economic or cultural, the response
calls for protection from Mexico and Mexican workers.
On the other side, again in spite of reservations, some Chicano advocacy
organizations — the National Council of La Raza, the Mexican American
Legal Defense and Education Fund, the Southwest Voter Research Institute,
for example —and Anglo business conservatives found themselves allied to
promote NAFTA, and both continue to support a flexible “open border” pol-
icy. The Chicano advocacy organizations are motivated by a range of con-
cerns —human rights, border development, improved U.S.-Mexico rela-
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248 / David Montejano

tions —while for business people “open borders” are the logical extension of
the open shop. “Too many business interests,” as one commentator observed,
“have been served by cheap immigrant labor for any Buchananesque, shoot-
to-kill sealing of our southern border to gain much Republican support.” 40
Indeed, on the bitterly fought issue of NAFTA, it was business rather than la-
bor that staked out an internationalist and historical position, as seen in the
statement of Clyde Prestowitz, president of the Economic Strategy Institute:
“It is not in our interest to have an impoverished and embittered nation with
a rapidly growing population on our southern border. If the Israelis can shake
hands with the PLO, surely the United States can take the outstretched hand
of Mexico which, after all, has been more sinned against than sinning in the
history of our mutual relations.” 41 Again the Anglo business –Mexican Ameri-
can middle class nexus, the pro-growth political alignment that has shaped
the present form of domestic inclusion, can be seen at work.
In the immediate future, U.S. policy toward Mexico and Mexican immi-
grants faces a difficult crossroads between providing developmental assistance
or increasing the policing of the border, between a “Marshall Plan” or martial
law. The debate over NAFTA, in this sense, was basically a debate over a busi-
ness-sponsored economic development plan. If NAFTA and other initiatives
fail to address the problems of Mexican underdevelopment — or worse, if they
excaberate these problems —“we might be forced,” according to Atlantic
Monthly’s Jack Miles, “into the martial-law [alternative], and into a particu-
larly severe form of it along our southern border.” 42

Sealing the Border—A First Step?

U.S. border control polices already point in the direction of martial law. The
Immigration Reform and Control Act (IRCA) of 1986, which granted am-
nesty to long-term illegal residents, has collapsed, and the number of illegal
crossings may have increased to pre-IRCA levels. The Immigration and Natu-
ralization Service (INS) estimates that the number of undocumented residents
has climbed back to four million, although some scholars disagree, placing the
number closer to two million. In the context of such perceived loss of control,
the border has become increasingly militarized. The Border Patrol more than
doubled in size between 1979 and 1988, with staff increasing from 2,580 to
5,531. The overall INS budget jumped nearly 200 hundred percent, from
$304 million to $859 million. Under the Clinton Administration, the INS
budget has nearly doubled again, to approximately 1.5 billion dollars. An addi-
tional one thousand agents have been placed on active border duty, and ad-
ditional significant increases are foreseen.
The militarization of the border is most evident in the innovations bor-
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 249

rowed from the Vietnam War: in the proposal to create a “DMZ” (ironically
meaning “demilitarized zone”) or buffer zone and in the deployment of so-
phisticated, military-related technology. Additionally, the U.S. Congress has
altered the legal code to allow U.S. military personnel and equipment to play
a greatly expanded role in law enforcement activities along the border.
Finally, in the event that the president declares an “immigration emergency,”
the INS has quietly organized a multiagency govenment group charged with
drawing up plans to seal off the border and to control and remove “alien ter-
rorists and undesirables.” In essence, this militarization process, concludes so-
ciologist Tim Dunn, amounts to “the implementation of a counter-insurgency
doctrine within the United States.” 43
Again the unthinkable has become conceivable. In this sense, U.S. Sena-
tor Boxer’s proposal to station National Guard troops along the border repre-
sents the next logical step to begin the sealing of the border. William Lange-
wiesche, writing in The Atlantic Monthly, comments on these proposals in the
following way: “This could be done, but only with enormous manpower—for
instance, with a large-scale deployment of the U.S. armed forces and the crea-
tion of free-fire zones. It would not require much killing: the Soviets sealed
their borders for decades without an excessive expenditure of ammunition.
The simple fact that there existed a systematic policy of shooting illegal im-
migrants would deter most Mexicans.” 44
Langewiesche’s analogy is not so far-fetched. With the end of the Cold
War between East and West, the tensions between the developed North and
the underdeveloped South have come into sharp focus. Any new “Iron Cur-
tain” that might be erected in the post – Cold War era would probably be de-
ployed along an increasingly tense U.S.-Mexico border. In the 1990s the sta-
tioning of U.S. Marines along the border for the purpose of deterring drug
traffickers hints at the outlines of such a militarized barrier. The social costs
have become apparent in several controversial shootings —including the
1997 killing of American teenager Ezequiel Hernández of Redford, Texas —
that have involved Marines. The problem stems, evidently, from the difficulty
armed soldiers have in distinguishing the “drug running” enemy from the
peaceful civilians of both countries.
The blockade of the El Paso – Ciudad Juárez border begun in 1993 by the
Border Patrol suggests a possible preview of a tense, militarized zone. On Sep-
tember 19, the Border Patrol launched “Operation Blockade” (later renamed
“Operation Hold the Line”) with a massive show of force. Four hundred agents
were stationed around the clock along the Rio Grande from Ysleta to Sunland
Park, a distance of twenty miles. Illegal crossings, mostly of Juárez day com-
muters, immediately dropped from an estimated 10,000 a day to 2,000. In the
ensuing days nearly a thousand Juarenses protested, chanting “queremos tra-
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250 / David Montejano

bajar,” blocking international traffic and burning U.S. flags. The National
Chamber of Commerce and the Chamber of Industry in Juárez joined the
city’s politicians and radio disc jockeys in calling for a complete boycott of El
Paso. The boycott was named “Operación Dignidad.”
On the El Paso side, downtown businesses reported losses in retail sales of
80 percent and protested the blockade. The Catholic Church hierarchy, not-
ing the “serious economic, social and civic consequences in our sister cities,”
condemned the blockade. Fort Bliss soldiers were ordered not to venture into
Juárez because a U.S. military presence might inflame emotions further. But
the emotions in El Paso easily matched the resentments in Juárez. The block-
ade provided an excuse, as the Catholic diocesan newspaper reported, for some
“to express their fanaticism, intolerance, racism and even disrespect to church
authorities and to whoever disagrees with the operation.” In the meantime,
Border Patrol officials acknowledged that immigrants appeared to be moving
into the U.S. from new points beyond the blockade line, and the best they
could hope is that the crackdown had cut down on crime and transients in El
Paso itself. One El Paso resident with relatives in Juárez commented: “If it [the
blockade] continues, I guess I’ll know what people in east and west Germany
felt like when families were separated by the Berlin Wall.” 45
Not surprisingly, despite the questionable effectiveness of such a blockade
and the worsening of international tensions, California politicians clamored
for a similar blockade along their border with Mexico. Operation Gatekeeper
in San Diego and Operation Safeguard in Arizona were launched in response.46
Adding to the tensions of border control is the “cowboy” image of the
Border Patrol itself. As the nation’s busiest police force, the Border Patrol
makes more than one million arrests per year. Despite this level of activity, the
agency has — shockingly — no internal review apparatus for handling com-
plaints or incidents of improper conduct on the part of its officers. Unresolved
cases of abuse or brutality number in the hundreds. The Los Angeles Times, in
a special report, noted that the patrol’s record includes “persistent reports of
abusive behavior by agents, improper shootings and crimes including drug
smuggling, sexual assault and theft.” The border in fact already resembles a
war-zone in places.47
Perhaps more disturbing, from a policy perspective, is the easy manner in
which the anti-immigrant sentiment spills over into other areas. One recent
line of reasoning in the popular and scholarly literature pits “browns versus
blacks,” assumes that Mexican Americans are immigrants or “recent” immi-
grants, and then concludes that they are not as worthy of entitlement pro-
grams. Peter Skerry, in his much-publicized Mexican Americans: The Ambiva-
lent Minority, for example, holds that the protections of the Voting Rights Act
should be withdrawn from Mexican Americans because in his view they are
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 251

basically immigrants.48 Invariably negative American views of Mexico and

Mexicans are translated into domestic policies that define a subordinate place
for Mexican Americans. American citizens, because of appearance and eth-
nicity, become identified as immigrants so that the sting of the backlash, as
one California newspaper put it, is felt also by descendants of Mexicans,
Chinese, and Japanese who came to California generations ago.49
Historically the pattern is rather evident: in times of economic duress, na-
tivism and racism rise. Such sentiments, while always present in a few groups,
are taken up in times of economic difficulties and afforded legitimacy by poli-
ticians attempting to capitalize on public discontent. Unthinkable policies
become conceivable, and people of color, whether native born or immigrants,
become transformed into scapegoats for a variety of social ills.

A Concluding Note

In light of this negative assessment, what possible futures await us? We must
keep in mind that key elements of this pessimistic scenario may not come to
pass. There is considerable disagreement, for example, on the notion of an
American decline in the world system. With a successful conclusion to the
Cold War, some argue that the United States is now in a process of “renewal.” 50
Yet the difficulties of plotting a constructive course are shown in the paradox
of California. The end of the Cold War has provided an opportunity to reori-
ent national expenditures away from military ends to regenerative economic
projects; but that reorientation, signifying the decline of the defense industry,
has resulted in an economic recession that has fueled a vicious anti-immigrant
campaign. Such campaigns in turn may determine how the United States
deals in the future with increasing international trade competition, whether
it withdraws into protectionism or organizes a hemispheric common market.
In a similar vein, the near-term economic dislocations produced by
NAFTA may set off serious political difficulties on both sides of the border.
The Zapatista rebellion in Chiapas may pale in comparison with other move-
ments if the post-NAFTA Mexican economy continues to deterioriate. One
study predicts that NAFTA will add, primarily as a result of the restructuring
of Mexican agriculture, an additional 50,000 to 100,000 immigrants per year
in the United States. This, of course, would only aggravate an already tense
domestic climate in California and elsewhere in the Southwest. To make mat-
ters worse, the burden of economic restructuring on the U.S. side will likely
fall on its agricultural and textile workforce, which is comprised in large part
of Mexican and other minority workers. Indeed, unless employment training
and adjustment programs are in place, NAFTA may contribute “to growing
class divisions within the Mexican American population.” 51
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252 / David Montejano

What of the futuristic domestic nightmare pitting elderly whites against a

resentful Latino work force? One scenario for avoiding such a polarizing fiscal
crisis calls for investing in education and job development programs that can
significantly expand the ranks of the “minority” middle classes. Essentially this
strategy envisions a strengthening of the pro-development alignment between
the “minority” middle classes and the Anglo business elite, the alignment that
has shaped the politics of inclusion in the late twentieth century. Given the
significant influence of Mexican American legislators in Texas and New Mex-
ico and their growing influence in California, this pro-development inclusion
strategy has powerful support in the Southwest.52
Another possible scenario would envision the rise of a broad multiracial
working-class and middle-class coalition that could serve as the basis for a
populist form of inclusion. This alternative appears somewhat utopian given
the increasing tensions between working-class whites, Blacks, and Mexicans,
tensions that weaken whatever base may exist for an effective “rainbow” coali-
tion. Latinos and African Americans in Los Angeles, Houston, and Chicago,
for example, generally compete for the same jobs, the same rental units, con-
trol of the same voting districts, and, according to some conservatives, the same
advantages afforded by racial entitlement programs (civil rights, voting rights,
affirmative action). On the other hand, the politics of exclusion, evident in
the latest anti – affirmative action campaigns in California and throughout
the country, may ultimately forge such a coalition. NAFTA and “free trade”
with Mexico could likewise compel binational labor organizing.53
The worst-case and best-case scenarios, by reminding us of the indetermi-
nate or “open” nature of the future, force us to keep our perspective — to make
us realize that despite the advances of the last forty years, the struggle between
inclusion and exclusion continues. With the hindsight of history, we know
that such sudden shifts in domestic relations are possible, that Mexican Amer-
ican and African American communities as well as white allies are vulnerable
to the kind of hysteria and backlashes that erupted during the 1950s. That was
a time of reaction to the young civil rights movement, a time of loyalty oaths,
job blacklists, book bans and burnings, of raids on ghettos and barrios, of po-
lice roundups of “disloyal” and “foreign” elements, even of lynchings and as-
sassinations; in short, of fanatical reaction to desegregation. The same sort of
reaction occurred in the 1960s and 1970s during the second civil rights move-
ment. Such a pessimistic scenario is not a fantasy. All these things have al-
ready happened, and indeed they are still part of a “living memory.”
Society can be pushed along many different trajectories, and the impetus
for one or another path comes not just from the larger forces and circumstances
I have sketched here, but from our actions and reactions with regard to these
forces and circumstances — to decisions made or not made, to policies formu-
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 253

lated or not formulated, to organizations formed or dissolved. Politics comprises

the critical intervening process for understanding the contrary pull of inclu-
sion and exclusion. Our involvement in that process may decide whether the
political inclusion of the late twentieth century was a partial, passing moment
or whether it did in fact represent a break from a past history of exclusion.

Notes
Author’s Note: This paper was completed while I was in residence at the Center for Advanced
Study in the Behavioral Sciences (Stanford, California) and with support from the Andrew W.
Mellon Foundation. I wish to thank Neil Foley, Veronica García-Contreras, Diana Montejano,
Ken Bollen, and Norma Chávez for their comments and contributions.

1. The Mexican government reached out directly to Mexican American organizations and
politicians to secure support for NAFTA. The responses divided along business-labor lines, with
advocacy organizations attempting to forge a “Latino consenus” for a revised NAFTA that in-
cluded environmental and labor side agreements and a North American Development Bank. See
“Mexican Government Lobbying Latinos,” Borderlines, February 1992; The Tomás Rivera Cen-
ter, Debate Series 2 (Summer 1993); “The Latino Consensus on NAFTA,” position paper, South-
west Voter Research Institute, October 1993; “Hispanic Americans Fail to Unite in Support of
Free Trade Agreements,” Austin American Statesman, October 3, 1993.
2. Raquel O. Rivera and Joan Moore, eds., The Effects of Economic Restructuring on Latino Com-
munities in the United States (New York: Sage Press, 1993). On the African American underclass,
see William J. Wilson, The Truly Disadvantaged: The Inner City, the Underclass, and Public Policy
(Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987).
3. Joan Moore, “An Assessment of Hispanic Poverty: Is There an Hispanic Underclass?,” pa-
per presented at the Tomás Rivera Center, Trinity University, San Antonio, April 8, 1988; Jorge
Chapa, “The Question of Mexican American Assimilation,” LBJ School of Public Affairs Com-
ment, Spring 1989; National Council of La Raza, State of Hispanic America 1991: An Overview,
February 1992; “Deepening Segregation in American Schools,” Education Daily, April 8, 1997.
4. During the 1920s, there also was a “Mexican problem” literature that blamed Mexicans for
every social ill possible. See David Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836 –
1986 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987), pp.179 –196; also Carey McWilliams, North From
Mexico: The Spanish-Speaking People of the United States (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1949),
pp.206 –226.
5. Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans, p. 306. This paper basically extends my argument in
Chapter 13, “A Time of Inclusion,” pp. 288 –307.
6. Paul Kennedy, Preparing for the 21st Century (New York: Random House, 1993), p. 324.
7. As Max Weber used the concept, an “ideal type” referred to a pure condition and not an
empirical one. Used properly as a tool —when it points to relevant things to study rather than to
conclusions to be drawn —it may be valuable. See S. M. Miller, Max Weber (New York: Thomas Y.
Cowell Co., 1963).
8. Sociologically speaking, exclusionary public policy is what transforms an ethnic situation
into a “racial” one. In this sense, Mexican Americans can be considered both an ethnic group and
a racial group. See Michael Omi and Howard Winant, Racial Formation in the United States (New
York: Routledge, 1986).
9. The theme of “awakening” was a popular one in the literature of the late 1960s. A classic
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254 / David Montejano

statement is contained in Leo Grebler, Joan Moore, and Ralph Guzman, The Mexican American
People (New York: Free Press, 1970), pp. 3–11. In this regard, one should note the interesting dis-
sent of Joan Moore from her co-authors in her article “Colonialism: The Case of the Mexican
American,” Social Problems 17, no. 4 (Spring 1970).
10. V. O. Key, Jr., Southern Politics in State and Nation (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1949).
11. For an excellent elaboration of this argument, see Stanley Greenberg, Race and State in
Capitalist Development: Comparative Perspectives (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1980).
12. See Montejano, Anglos and Mexicans, pp. 259 –307.
13. See Manning Marable, Race, Reform, and Rebellion ( Jackson: University Press of Missis-
sippi, 1991), for a discussion.
14. In the jargon of development studies, this type of alliance between business elites and a
middle class is known as the “bourgeois road” to social change. See Barrington Moore, Jr., Origins
of Democracy and Dictatorship (Boston: Beacon, 1966) for a general treatment. For more details
on San Antonio politics, see Rodolfo Rosales, “Personality and Style in San Antonio Politics,”
in this volume; also “The Prince of the City,” Hispanic Business, April 1993, pp. 52 – 61.
15. Paul Kennedy, The Rise and Fall of the Great Powers: Economic Change and Military Conflict
From 1500 to 2000 (New York: Random House, 1987), p. 515. Kennedy explicitly distances him-
self from Immanuel Wallerstein and others, but his argument is essentially the same. For a simi-
lar argument about U.S. decline, see Daniel Chirot, Social Change in the Modern Era (San Diego:
Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986). For the most recent addition to the declinist thesis, see Don-
ald W. White, The American Century: The Rise and Decline of the United States as a World Power
(New Haven: Yale University Press, 1996).
16. Kennedy, Rise and Fall, p. 517.
17. At another point, Kennedy states that the lack of class politics in the United States has
been helped by the fact that the poorest one-third of American society has not been mobilized
to become regular voters. In other words, limited democracy has been a good thing. Kennedy, Rise
and Fall, p. 531.
18. Kennedy, Preparing for the 21st Century; also “The Internationalization of Yale,” Yale
Alumni Magazine, February 1992, p. 20, summarizing the faculty presentations at the 39th As-
sembly of Yale Alumni, October 17–19, 1991.
19. See Jim Mann, “Bush’s Gamble to Decide U.S. Future,” Austin American Statesman, Janu-
ary 17, 1991; Peter Applebome, “After the War: National Mood; War Heals Wounds at Home,”
New York Times, March 4, 1991; William Pfaff, “Gulf War Brought U.S. to Turning Point,” Albu-
querque Journal, April 1, 1991.
20. Patrick McDonnell and Sebastian Rotella, “When Agents Cross over the Borderline,”
Los Angeles Times, April 22, 1993; also William Langewiesche, “The Border,” Atlantic Monthly
(May 1992), p. 73.
21. William Langewiesche, “The Border,” Atlantic Monthly (May 1992), p.68.
22. Governor Babbitt is quoted by Georgie Anne Geyer. See Geyer, “States Conduct Own
Foreign Policy,” Houston Post, November 10, 1983.
23. Richard D. Lamm, “Two Volatile Groups Threaten to Boil Over Melting Pot,” Albuquer-
que Journal, September 23, 1985. The “lifeboat” argument is elaborated in detail in Richard D.
Lamm and Gary Imhoff, The Immigration Time Bomb: The Fragmenting of America (New York: Tru-
man Talley Books, 1986).
24. Peter Brimelow, “Time to Rethink Immigration?” National Review, June 22, 1992,
pp. 31, 36.
25. Brimelow, “Time to Rethink Immigration?” p. 46. Kennedy adds, “The root of these ten-
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 255

sions lies in foreignness, or, to use another word, race. White Americans have no problem in wel-
coming to their shores many thousands of well-educated professionals from Scandinavia, Britain,
and Germany.” Kennedy, Preparing for the 21st Century, p. 43. Also see Lawrence E. Harrison,
“America and Its Immigrants,” The National Interest, Summer 1992, p. 45.
26. Kennedy, Preparing for the 21st Century, pp. 313, 322 –325. In a speculative vein, the
Clinton administration forecasts that the average net tax rate for future generations would even-
tually reach 82 percent of their lifetime earnings unless there is serious reform in health care and
Social Security. “How We’re Conspiring to Bury Our Children in Taxes,” San Jose Mercury News,
February 20, 1994.
27. David E. Hayes-Bautista, Werner O. Schink, and Jorge Chapa, The Burden of Support:
Young Latinos in an Aging Society (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1988).
28. Hayes-Bautista, et al., Burden of Support, pp. 5, 9.
29. One consequence of the riot was a marked acceleration of the domestic arms race among
the citizens of Los Angeles. Legal guns sales alone jumped 64 percent after the riot. The National
Rifle Association ran large display ads in the newspapers offering free instruction to new gun own-
ers. See Jack Miles, “Blacks versus Browns: The Struggle for the Bottom Rung,” Atlantic Monthly
October 1992, pp. 41, 48, 50, 52; also see “Return of the Nativist,” The Economist, June 27, 1992;
also “Legacy of Riots in Los Angeles: Fears and Hope,” New York Times, April 27, 1997, pp. 1, 16.
30. Austin American Statesman, January 22, 1990; Miles, “Blacks versus Browns,” p. 63; also
see “Return of the Nativist.”
31. According to Elizabeth Martínez, the right’s strategy follows six points: the English-only
campaign; undermining Affirmative Action; blocking any new civil rights legislation; creating a
buffer of colored elite; teaching whites that any gain by people of color is a white loss; and pitting
Blacks against Latinos against Asians against Arab Americans. Elizabeth Martínez, “When No
Dogs or Mexicans Are Allowed,” Z Magazine, January 1991, pp.37– 42.
32. V. O. Key, Jr., Southern Politics in State and Nation (New York: Knopf, 1949); also see
Chandler Davidson, Race and Class in Texas Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1990),
pp. 3–10.
33. Davidson, Race and Class, pp. 230 –231, 239.
34. See Kevin P. Phillips, The Emerging Republican Majority (New Rochelle, N.Y.: Arlington
House, 1969), pp. 204 –206, 467– 474; also Davidson, Race and Class, pp. 223–239, 256. In 1992
Republicans had intended to go after white working-class votes by tarring the civil rights bill of
1991 as a “quota bill,” but the Los Angeles riot of April 1992 apparently made such a strategy too
risky and divisive. See Jim Fain, “GOP Knows Racism Works, and It Will Be Back in ’92,” Austin
American Statesman, April 24, 1991; also “Return of the Nativist.”
35. Patrick Buchanan, “America First Means Chopping Foreign Aid,” San Antonio Express-
News, October 26, 1991; Brimelow, “Time to Rethink Immigration,” p. 44; Miles, “Blacks versus
Browns,” pp.56 –58; “Return of the Nativist.”
36. “Immigration Number One Election Issue, Local Voters Say,” and “State’s Diversity
Doesn’t Reach Voting Booth,” Los Angeles Times, November 10, 1994.
37. Andrés E. Jiménez, “Six Million Californians Can’t Be All Wrong,” Los Angeles Times,
October 27, 1993. Columnist Dan Walters compares the rhetorical “overkill” to the pre – civil
rights South when “politicians tried to ‘out-seg’ each other in opposing integration.” See Dan
Walters, “Verbal Overkill on Immigrants,” Sacramento Bee, August 18, 1993.
38. Miles, “Blacks versus Browns,” p. 67.
39. Langewiesche, “The Border,” p. 69.
40. Miles, “Blacks versus Browns,” pp. 56 –58. The generally supportive Mexican American
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256 / David Montejano

response to NAFTA stemmed from the belief that free trade would boost the economies of the
border states, open new opportunities for Mexican American business-people and professionals,
and generally improve the standing of Mexicans within the United States. See “Mexican Gov-
ernment Lobbying Latinos,” Borderlines, February 1992.
41. Clyde Prestowitz, “NAFTA: Why We Hafta,” San Jose Mercury News, September 26,
1993. For a free-market argument for open borders, see Julian L. Simon, The Economic Conse-
quences of Immigration (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989).
42. Miles, “Blacks versus Browns,” p. 68; also see the San Jose Mercury News, October 30,
1993.
43. In a historical sense, the U.S.-Mexico border, as the creation of war between these two
countries, has always been militarized. Timothy J. Dunn, The Militarization of the U.S.-Mexico
Border, 1978–1990: Low Intensity Conflict Doctrine Comes Home (Austin: Center for Mexican
American Studies, 1996); also see Paul Salopek, “La Migra: The Border Patrol’s Wall of Silence,”
Texas Observer, March 12, 1993; Miriam Davidson, “Militarizing the Mexican Border,” The
Nation, April 1, 1991; “Policing the Border —A Military Approach,” Borderlines, February 1992;
“Clinton’s New and Improved Immigration Strategy,” Network News, Newsletter of the National
Network for Immigration and Refugee Rights, Jan.–Feb. 1994; McDonnell and Rotella, “When
Agents Cross Over.”
44. Langewiesche, “The Border,” p. 69.
45. El Paso Times, September 20, 1993– September 29, 1993; The Rio Grande Catholic, El
Paso Diocese, November 1993. The El Paso Police Department noted that petty crime and auto
thefts have declined about 30 percent, but violent crime, including robbery and assault, has in-
creased. A police spokesperson commented: “We’re a city of half a million and we can generate
our own crime.” See “The New Border Order,” San Jose Mercury News, November 21, 1993.
46. In response, the governor and other officials of Baja California urged Baja residents to
boycott all San Diego businesses. As in Ciudad Juárez, the campaign was called Operation Dig-
nity. Esther Schrader, “State Eager to Copy Border Blockade,” San Jose Mercury News, Octo-
ber 25, 1993.
47. Along the Arizona-Mexico border, the reckless shootings by agents have been attributed
to a “war-zone or drug-zone mentality,” in spite of the fact that the overwhelming majority of un-
documented immigrants are unarmed and nonthreatening. In the El Paso area, the violence at-
tributed to the Border Patrol between 1988 and 1992 has involved eight shootings (five fatal), a
drowning, sporadic beatings, illegal deportations, and even a case of arson. One reporter described
El Paso as “a dog-eared variety of Dodge City on the Rio Grande.” See McDonnell and Rotella,
“When Agents Cross Over”; Salopek, “La Migra.”
48. Skerry argues that Mexican Americans consider themselves a racial minority only be-
cause of the incentives offered by civil rights legislation. See Peter Skerry, Mexican Americans:
The Ambivalent Minority (New York: Free Press, 1993); also Miles, “Blacks versus Browns,” esp.
pp. 52 –55.
49. More pernicious have been the armed attacks and sniper shootings of Mexican workers
by U.S. civilians and soldiers. One well-known case involved six Marines from Camp Pendleton
who were tried, in 1984, for conducting armed “beaner raids” on undocumented farmworkers. In
recent years such crimes have become a main agenda item of the Ku Klux Klan, Nazis, violent skin-
heads, and even a high school paramilitary hate club, “The Iron Militia.” Martínez, “When No
Dogs or Mexicans,” p. 38; “State Leads Anti-Immigrant Wave,” San Francisco Chronicle, March 29,
1994; “INS Arrests Spur New Rights Group,” San Jose Mercury News, February 20, 1994.
50. The well-known conservative scholar Samuel P. Huntington has argued that doomsaying
seems to be part of a regular political and academic ritual that serves to revitalize an American
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On the Future of Anglo-Mexican Relations / 257

resolve to remain competitive. Huntington notes that there have been five such waves of “de-
clinism” in the past thirty years. See Samuel P. Huntington, “The United States: Decline or Re-
newal?” Adelphi Papers 235 (Spring 1989), pp. 63– 80.
51. It was this scenario that motivated many Mexican American politicians and organiza-
tions to withhold support of NAFTA until commitments to such retraining programs had been
secured. “The Impact of the North American Free Trade Agreement on Latino Workers in Cali-
fornia and South Texas,” Southwest Voter Research Institute Latin American Project Paper 2,
September 1992; “How Would Trade Pact Affect State’s Hispanics?” Austin American Statesman,
September 22, 1993; also “Borderline Working Class: Texas Labor Is Feeling Trade Pact’s Pinch,”
New York Times, May 8, 1997.
52. Hayes-Bautista et al. have described such a best-case scenario. Drawn together through
“enlightened self-interest,” the Latino middle class and the aging Anglo Baby Boomers realized
that the best guarantee of support for the elderly would be social investment in the younger
Latino population. Unfortunately, Hayes-Bautista et al. rest their argument for such an alliance
on hope, especially in the “selfless” aging Anglo baby boomers, rather than on any basic material
interest. See Hayes-Bautista et al., Burden of Support, pp. 145, 147–148.
53. Thus, as a recent issue of The Economist put it, “The easy assumption that Latinos and
blacks are both minorities and therefore natural allies must be reexamined.” See for example,
Miles, “Blacks versus Browns”; also “Return of the Nativist.” On the other hand, minority bash-
ing can easily mobilize minority communities, as evidenced in the surprising Latino victories in
the 1996 California legislature. See “Latino Turnout a Breakthrough Election: Group’s Heavy
Balloting Could Signal a Historic Pivot Point for Political Relations in L.A.,” Los Angeles Times,
April 10, 1997.
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11-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 259

About the Authors

Teresa Córdova is Associate Professor of Community and Regional Plan-

ning at the University of New Mexico. She has written extensively about com-
munity development, global restructuring, and Chicana studies. She co-edited
Chicana Voices: Intersections of Class, Race and Gender and is currently study-
ing Chicana grassroots activism in the environmental and economic justice
movement.
Margarita Decierdo is a Ph.D. candidate in Sociology at the University of
California, Berkeley. She is completing a study of farmworkers titled “Testi-
monies of Farmworkers in California Agriculture: The Social Construction of
Courage and Survival.”
Antonio González is Director of the Southwest Voter Research Institute
based in Los Angeles. He continues to organize human rights work in the U.S.
Southwest, Mexico, and Central America.
Phillip B. Gonzales is Associate Professor of Sociology and Director of the
Southwest Hispanic Research Institute at the University of New Mexico. His
interests include ethnic identity and political mobilization, urban poverty,
and interactional sociology. He is currently working on a history of Hispano
ethnic politics in New Mexico.
David Montejano is Associate Professor of History and Sociology and Di-
rector of the Center for Mexican American Studies at the University of Texas
at Austin. His book, Anglos and Mexicans in the Making of Texas, 1836 –1986,
was awarded the Frederick Jackson Turner prize by the Organization of Ameri-
can Historians.
Mary Pardo is Full Professor of Chicana/o Studies at California State Uni-
versity, Northridge. Her work focuses on women of color and urban politics.
Her recent book is titled Mexican American Women Activists: Identity and
Resistance in Two Los Angeles Communities.
Rodolfo Rosales is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the Univer-
sity of Texas at San Antonio. His interests include comparative urban politics
11-T0159 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 260

260 / About the Authors

and political theory. His forthcoming book is titled The Illusion of Inclusion:
The Political Story of San Antonio, Texas, 1951–1991.
Martín Sánchez Jankowski is Professor of Sociology at the University of
California, Berkeley. His book Islands in the Street: Gangs and American Urban
Society won the Robert E. Park award given by the American Sociological
Society. He recently co-authored Inequality by Design: Cracking the Bell Curve.
His next project concerns social change in poor neighborhoods.
Christine Marie Sierra is Associate Professor of Political Science at the
University of New Mexico. She has published extensively on U.S. Latino pol-
itics, Chicana and Latina women, and Mexican American political activism.
Her current book project focuses on Mexican Americans and the politics of
immigration.
Roy Eric Xavier received his doctorate in Sociology and Mass Communi-
cations from the University of California, Berkeley. He writes about culture
and new technologies. Currently he is the chief telecommunications officer
for Richmond, California, and the web site manager for KCRT Television in
the San Francisco Bay Area.
12-T0159-IDX 9/28/2001 5:33 PM Page 261

Index

Acuña, Rudy, 62 Berman, Howard, 147

advocacy organizations, xii, xvii, xxii, 247; Berriozabal, María Antonietta, 21
and immigration reform, 131, 133–137, Bilandic, Michael, 34
138 –139, 145 –149; oppose Nicaraguan bilingual education, xii, xv
contras, 154, 156, 160 –165 bilingualism, 69, 247
affirmative action, xi, xii, xiii, xxi, 252. See Bird, Rose, 90
also University of New Mexico Black Panthers, 35
African Americans: and civil rights move- Blasinski, Jim, 45
ment, xvii, 35, 201, 238; coalition with Bonilla, Rubén, 135, 140
Latinos, xx, 31, 32, 42, 51, 252; compari- Border Patrol, 96, 241, 246, 248, 249, 250
son with Latinos, xii –xiii, xvi, xxv, 207, Boxer, Barbara, 246, 247, 249
242, 245; competition with Latinos, xii – Bracamonte, Lidia, 38, 52
xiii, xiv, 250, 252; politics of, 24, 35 –36, Bracero Program, 137
39, 49, 149 –150 Brady, Frank, 46
agendas: organizational, 6 –7, 23; personal, Brecher, Kenneth, 190
6 –7, 12, 21–23 Brown, Jerry (Gerald), 86, 90, 93, 103
Alatorre, Soledad, 133 Brown, Kathy, 246
Albuquerque Journal, 117 Brown, Michael, 110
American Friends Service Committee, 135 Brown Berets, 37
American GI Forum, 15, 163 “browning” of America, xi, xiv, xix, xxiii,
American Jewish Committee, 142 236, 242
Anaya, Toney, xix, 112, 114 –118, 120, 122, Broyles-González, Yolanda, 198n.2
123, 161, 163, 164 Buchanan, Pat, 245
Andrade, Juan, 168 Burke, Edward, 48, 49
anti-immigrant sentiment, xi –xiii, 235, Bush, George, xix, 167, 241, 245
236, 240, 241–244, 246 –247, 248 –251. Bush, George W., 247
See also Mexican immigration business class, Mexican American, xviii, 63;
Apodaca, Jerry, xix, 86, 113–126 in San Antonio, 4 –7, 12, 14, 19, 21, 23–
Arango, Carlos, 38 25, 238 –239; in Southwest, xxiii, 238 –
Arizona, 135, 241, 250 239, 247–248, 250, 252
Asian Americans, xiii, xvi, 251 Bustamante, Albert, 140, 159, 163, 164
Atlantic Monthly, xii, xiii, 247, 248, 249 Byrne, Jane, 34, 39, 44, 47, 48

Babbitt, Bruce, 241 California, xvi, xvii, xix, xxiv, 73, 74, 75,
Baker, Jim, 245 133, 156, 234, 242 –247; state of, 59, 83,
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262 / Index

85, 87, 91. See also Los Angeles; politics of, 36 – 40, 46 –52; under Mayor
Sacramento Richard M. Daley, 33, 35, 36, 37; under
California Agricultural Labor Relations Mayor Harold Washington, 41, 42, 46, 47
Act /Board, xvii, xxi, 83– 87, 90 –103 Chicago Sun Times, 44, 45, 48, 49
California Agricultural Labor Relations Chicago Tribune, 45, 48
Workers Union, 98 Chicano: arts, 14, 18; identity, xvii, 184,
California Assembly, xix, 62, 74, 92 205 –207, 213; movement, xiv, xvii –xviii,
California Department of Corrections, 60 – xxii, 108, 175 –189, 201, 221; national-
63, 69 –70 ism, xv, xvii, xxii –xxiii, 22, 180, 182,
California Senate, 62, 72, 73 201–210, 213–231. See also El Teatro
California Superior Court, 73 Campesino; Mexican American; protest
Camp, Bill, 105 politics
Canada, 202, 212, 221, 229, 230 Chicano Moratorium, 182
Cantor, David, 38 Chicanos against Military Intervention in
Cárdenas, Gilberto, 137 Latin America, 163
Carruthers, Garry, 125 Cisneros, Henry G., xiv, xix, xx, 7–13, 16,
Carter, Jimmy, 15, 132, 158 17, 20 –23, 158, 159, 238
Carter, Marlene, 46 citizenship, first class, xvi, 241; gendered, xiv,
Carter Plan, 132 –137 59. See also voting rights
Casey, Rick, 9 Clinton, Bill, xix
Castells, Manuel, 5, 25, Clurman, Harold, 192
Castillo, Aurora, 66, 74 Coalition against the Prison (Los Angeles),
Castillo, Leonel, 135 58, 73
Catholic Church, 16, 60, 64 – 66, 123, 158, Cockrell, Lilia, 8, 9
184, 250 Cohen, Jerry, 87
Cavazos, Eddie, 164, 166 Colby, William, 241
Cavazos, Lauro, xix Collazo, Migdalia, 44
Central America, xv, 154, 156. See also El Sal- Colorado, xix, 179, 182, 221, 242
vador; Nicaragua Communities Organized for Public Service
Central American policy, xii, xxiii, 154 –155; (San Antonio), 6, 9, 10, 16, 238
and Nicaraguan contras, 155, 157, 159, community organizing, xxiv, 37, 63, 70, 71,
164, 167–168; and Sandinistas, 158, 159, 74 –75. See also Communities Organized
166, 167–168, 170 for Public Service; Mothers of East Los
Central American refugees, 155, 156, 162 Angeles
Central Intelligence Agency, 241 Corona, Bert, 133
Centro de Acción Social Autónoma Corrada, Baltasar, 140
(CASA), 37, 133–134, 136 Crusade for Justice (Denver), 179, 182
Centro de la Raza (Seattle), 159 Crystal City, Texas, 221
Centro Legal de la Raza (Oakland), 134 culture and politics, xv, xxii, 21, 175 –177,
Cermak, Anton, 33 195 –197
Chamorro, Violeta, 167–168
Chapa, Jorge, 242 Daley, Richard J., 31, 33, 34, 35, 36
Chapman, Leonard, 241 Daley, Richard M., xx, 39, 44, 50, 52, 54
Chávez, César, xxi, 85 – 86, 91, 95 – 96, 100, Davidson, Chandler, 244
104, 177–178, 180 Davidson, Gordon, 190 –193
Chiapas, Mexico, 251 Davis, Danny, 50
Chicago, xv, xvii, xx, xxiv; electoral politics de la Garza, E. Kika, 140, 143, 159
of, 32, 34, 39, 40, 42 – 46, 48 – 49; Latino de la Garza, Rodolfo O., 155
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Index / 263

Delano, California, 104, 177, 178, 182 Ford, Gerald, 132

Delizonna, Harry, 99 Frente Democrático Revolucionario (FDR),
del Valle, Miguel, 52 158
Democratic Party, xix, 6, 15, 59, 73, 92, 113,
134, 179, 182, 224, 226, 227; in Chicago, Gallo Wineries, 95 – 97
31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 40, 41, 43, 52; and race, García, Guadalupe, 43
244 –247 García, Jesús, 38, 40, 43–52
Deukmejian, George, xxi, 60, 62, 73, 99, 100, García, Robert, 140, 141, 142, 143
104 García Lorca, Federico, 178
Díaz, Jose, 190 gender: identity, 60 – 61, 66 – 67, 74, 75;
Douglass, Frederick, 49 issues, xiv, xxi, xxv, 59, 60 – 61
Duarte, Dolores, 70 Geyer, Georgie Ann, xii, 242
Du Bois, W.E.B., xi Goldin, Amy, 110
Dunn, Tim, 249 Goldwater, Barry, 245
Dunne, George, 34 González, Domingo, 135
González, Henry B., 140, 159, 163, 164
economy: development of, 3, 4, 5, 12, 19 –20, González, Rodolfo “Corky,” 179, 183, 221
21, 22, 24; global, xxiii, 3, 5, 234, 236, Good Government League (San Antonio), 6,
237, 239 –241, 243, 246, 247, 251 8 – 9, 11–13, 23
electoral politics, xviii –xix, 236, 244 –247; Greenpeace, 74
in Chicago, 32, 34, 39, 40, 42 – 46, 48 – growers, 83– 87, 90 – 93, 100 –103, 237
49; in San Antonio, 7– 8, 11, 13, 15, 17, Guadalupe Cultural Arts Center (San
20. See also political representation Antonio), 18
El Paso, 182, 239, 241, 249 –250 Gutiérrez, José Angel, 182, 221
El Salvador, 157, 158, 159, 162, 165 Gutiérrez, Juana, 64, 66, 68, 69, 71, 74
El Teatro Campesino, xv, xxii, 175 –177; and Gutiérrez, Luis, xx, 40, 42 – 46, 47, 48, 49, 50,
Chicano movement, 177–189; as profes- 51, 52, 54
sional troupe, 189 –195 Gutiérrez, Ricardo, 64, 71
El Teatro Nacional de Aztlán (TENAZ),
183–184, 188 –189, 190 Haider, Don, 47, 48
Epton, Bernard, 39, 40 Hampton, Fred, 35
Eureste, Bernardo, xx, 7, 13–23 Hanrahan, Ed, 35
Evans, Timothy, 49, 50 Hayes-Bautista, David, 242 –243
exclusion: history of, xv –xviii; material base Henderson, Lenneal, 149
of, 239 –241; politics of, 5 – 9, 22, 244 – Herms, Dieter, 195
248, 252; sentiment behind, 241–244. Hernández, Ezequiel, 249
See also inclusion “Hispanic” issues, xii, xv, xxiv, xxv. See also
advocacy organizations
Farer, Tom, 113, 114, 115 –126 Hispanics for UNM (Albuquerque), 126
Faribundo Martí Liberación Nacional Horton, Willie, 245, 246
(FMLN), 158 –159 Houston, Texas, 243, 252
farm workers, xiv, xvii, xxi, xxiv, 83, 87, 90 – Hubbard, Les, 86
92, 94, 95, 98 – 99, 101–104, 177–179, Huerta, Dolores, 97, 104
250 –251, 252
Federation for American Immigration Reform identity, ethnic, xvii, xxiv, 53, 59, 60, 184,
(FAIR), 243–244 205 –207, 213; and gender, 60 – 61, 66 –
Figueroa, Raymond, 48, 49 67, 74, 75
Fonda, Jane, 193 Illinois General Assembly, 36
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264 / Index

Immigration and Naturalization Service, 96, La Raza Unida Party, 136, 179, 182, 185,
246, 248 –249 220 –221, 222, 224, 225 –226, 230
immigration reform, xv, xxi; Roybal bill, 142 – Latino lobbyists, 131, 149. See also advocacy
144; Simpson-Mazzoli bill, xxii, 138, 140 – organizations
141, 142 –144, 145; Simpson-Rodino bill, Latouche, Daniel, 202 –203, 218, 228
138, 146 –148 League of United Latin American Citizens
Immigration Reform Control Act, 148, 156, (LULAC), 15, 66, 115, 126, 135, 136,
248 138, 142, 147, 160 –161, 162, 163
inclusion: material base of, 237–239; ques- Lindsay, John, 12
tion of, xiv, xv, xvii –xix, xxiii –xxiv, 4, Lipsitz, George, 195
22, 149 –150, 234 –236, 252. See also elec- López, Elsa, 75
toral politics; protest politics Los Angeles, xx, xxii, 74, 134, 182, 190, 192,
Incorporated Mexican American Govern- 193, 247, 252; County of, xix, 61, 65;
ment Employees (Albuquerque), 124 Eastside, xxi, 58 –70; and riots (of 1992),
Israel, 231, 248 xi, xii, 243; Westside, 62, 192. See also
Mothers of East Los Angeles
Jackson, Jesse, 18, 49 Los Angeles Herald Examiner, 62
Jarrett, Vernon, 44, 49 Los Angeles Times, 62, 63, 92, 190, 191, 194,
Jiménez, “Cha Cha,” 38 250
Jovanovich, William, 19 Los Lobos, 194
Juarez, 249 –250 Los Profesores (Albuquerque), 111–112, 123
Lozano, Rudy, 38 –39, 40
Kanellos, Nicolas, 189 –190 Luján, Manuel, xix, 140, 143, 159
Kasten, Steve, 60 Luna, Al, 163–164
Katznelson, Ira, 23
Kennedy, David, xii Maloof, Colleen, 118
Kennedy, John F., 111 Martínez, Joseph, 44
Kennedy, Paul, 235, 240 Martínez, Matthew, 140, 159
Kennedy, Robert, 181 Martínez, Vilma, 135, 140
Kennedy, Ted, 15, 135 Marzullo, Vito, 38, 40, 42
Key, V.O., Jr., 244, 247 Mazzoli, Romano, 138, 140
Kissinger, Henry, 158 McCartney, Mary, 102
Kistler, Alan, 92 Mexican American Democrats, 15
Klitch, Richard, 19 Mexican American Legal Defense and Educa-
tional Fund (MALDEF), xvii, 53, 70, 135,
La Bamba, 194 136, 138, 141, 142, 145, 147, 148, 160, 247
labor organizing, 83, 252; and unfair prac- Mexican American Legislative Caucus, 163,
tices, 90, 91, 92, 95 – 97, 101; union elec- 164
tions, 86, 91, 92, 95 – 97, 98 – 99. See also Mexican American Political Association
United Farm Workers (MAPA), 66, 134, 135, 163
La Gente (Los Angeles), 65 Mexican Americans: in business, xviii, 63;
La Hermandad Mexicana Nacional (Los and Central American policy, 158 –165;
Angeles), 133 consumer market of, xviii, xxii; and immi-
Lamm, Richard, 242 gration reform, 132 –138; middle class of,
Langewiesche, William, 249 22, 210, 235, 238 –239, 248, 252; politics
La Opinión (Los Angeles), 62 of, xii, xvii –xix, 7–21, 36 – 40, 46 –52,
La Prensa (Nicaragua), 158 238 –239; population of, xviii; underclass,
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235; women in politics, xxi, xxv, 58 –59, Nixon, Richard, 245

63– 65, 70, 74, 75; working class, 13, 16, Nogales, Arizona, 135, 239
59, 61, 188, 190, 238, 243, 252. See also Noriega, Manuel, 169
Chicanos; farm workers North American Free Trade Agreement
Mexican American War, xv, xvii (NAFTA), 234, 239, 247, 248, 251, 252
Mexican immigration, xii, xiii, xvi, xxiii, 156,
240 –242, 246, 247, 248, 249 –250. See Obledo, Mario, 160, 161, 164
also anti-immigrant sentiment; Border O’Connor, James, 84
Patrol Offe, Claus, 84
Mexico, xiii, xv, xvi, xviii, 104, 161, 236, O’Neil, Thomas P. “Tip,” 141, 142
240, 241; and border with U.S., xiii, 132, Ortega, Daniel, 159, 166, 167
248 –251; and trade with U.S., 234, 239, Ortiz, Rudy, 12, 13
247, 248, 251, 252 Ortiz, Solomon, 140, 159
Midwest, xvii. See also Chicago
Midwest Voter Registration Project, 40, 50, Paez, John, 113, 119
168 Parti Québecois, 202, 212, 229 –230
Miles, Jack, xiii –xiv, 247, 248 Peña, Federico, xix,
Miliband, Ralph, 84 Perot, Ross, 20
Milsap, Sam, 17 Peterson, Paul, 4
Molina, Gloria, xix, 59, 62, 63, 69 Phillips, Kevin, 245
Molina-Aviles, Martha, 64 Picker, David, 194
Mondale, Walter, 11, 18, 144 Polanco, Richard, 73
Morales, Jorge, 38 political representation, 139 –140, 234; and
Moretta, Father, 64, 67– 68 redistricting, 41– 42, 52, 53; and single-
Mothers of East Los Angeles (MELA), xxi, member districts, xiv, xx, 3– 4, 5 – 6, 8 –10,
59 –75 12, 15, 21–22. See also voting rights
Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán Presley, Robert, 73
(MEChA), 159 Prestowitz, Clyde, 248
multiculturalism, xviii, 238 protest politics, xvii, xxi, xxiii, 58, 68 –70,
72, 237, 238, 252
Nardulli, Michael, 42, 45 Puerto Ricans, xx, 37, 40, 42, 43
National Council of Churches, 142 Puerto Rico, xvi
National Council of La Raza (NCLR), xvii,
133, 136, 138, 142, 147, 160, 247 quality of life issues, xxiii, 24, 59, 73; and
National Interest, xi prison sites, 58, 60 – 63, 68; and public
National Labor Relations Act, 85, 87, 90 services, 3, 4, 11, 14, 47, 48, 51; and water
National Review, 242 supply, 10, 12, 14, 21, 24
Nedza, Edward, 44, 45 Québec, xii, 202 –203, 221, 228, 229
New Mexico, xvii, xix, xxiv, 119, 162, 180,
182, 221, 252. See also University of New Rabkin, Gerald, 192
Mexico Race question, xi, xviii; fear about, xi –xiv,
New York City, 192 –193 xix, xxiii, xv, 241–247, 251, 252; media
New Yorker, 192 on, xi, xii, xix, 68, 70, 247; and race con-
New York Times, 191, 192 sciousness, xi, xiii –xiv, xvi; and segrega-
New York Times Magazine, xiii tion, xvi, xvii, 237, 238, 239, 244. See also
Nicaragua, 154, 156, 161, 163, 164, 165 –168, anti-immigrant sentiment; “browning”
170 of America
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Rakove, Milton, 34 Sleepy Lagoon case, 190 –191

Ramos, Lucy, 68 – 69 Smith, Michael Peter, 4
Reagan, Ronald, xxii, 70, 111, 137, 148, 155, Snow, David A., 111
158, 162, 164, 167, 197 Socialist Workers Party (SWP), 136, 225 –
Redford, Texas, 249 226
Republican Party, xix, 35, 39, 47, 60, 73, 85, Soliz, Juan, 38, 43, 46, 47, 48, 49, 52
125, 180, 224, 225, 226, 227; and race, South Africa, 75, 113, 154
244 –248 Southwest, xvii, xviii, 154, 156, 157, 179,
Richards, Ann, 21 182, 212, 221, 234, 236, 239, 240, 241,
Richardson, Bill, xix, 140, 142, 146, 159 242, 244, 251–252. See also Arizona;
Rivlin, Gary, 43 California; Colorado; New Mexico; Texas
Roberti, David, 73 Southwest Organizing Project (Albuquerque),
Robles, Erlinda, 67, 72 163
Rodino, Peter, 138, 140, 141, 146 Southwest Voter Registration Education Proj-
Romo, Jesús, 135 ect (SVREP), xvii, xxii, 18, 157, 160, 162,
Rosado, Benjamin, 44 163, 221
Ross, Fred, Jr., 95 Southwest Voter Research Institute (SVRI),
Roti, Fred, 38 156, 157, 162, 163, 167, 168, 247
Rowstenkowski, Dan, 40 state, theory of, 83– 85
Roybal, Edward, 132, 139, 140, 142, 144, Stemberk, Frank, 38, 40, 42
145, 159 Sullivan, Dan, 191
Roybal, Valentín, 72
Teamsters Union, 84 – 87, 90 – 92, 95 – 96, 99,
Sacramento, 56, 64, 71, 85, 98, 103, 104 102, 103, 182, 185
Sahagun, Joe, 101 Texas, xvi, xvii, xix, 163, 222, 234, 247, 252.
Salinas, California, 90, 104 See also San Antonio
San Antonio, xiv, xix, xx, xxiv, 3, 5, 136, Thompson, Bill, 13
168, 238, 239; and city council elections, Thompson, Bob, 13
7– 8, 11, 13, 15, 17, 20; and water ques- Tijerina, Reies López, 179
tion, 10, 11, 12, 14, 21, 24 Time, xi
San Antonio Express-News, 9 Torres, Art, 73
San Antonio Light, 15 Torres, Esteban, 140, 146, 159, 161, 163
Sánchez, Guadalupe, 135 Torres, Manuel, 43– 46
Sánchez, Robert, 113, 115, 118, 121, 122, 126 Turner, Art, 38
San Diego, 135, 241, 246, 250
San Francisco Examiner, 101 United Farm Workers (UFW), xxi, 83– 87,
San Francisco Mime Troupe, 101 90 –104, 133, 138, 177, 179, 181, 182,
San Juan Bautista, 183, 186, 190 185, 196
Santiago, Miguel, 42, 43– 44, 47 United Neighborhood Organization (Los
Santiescoy, Hector, 14 Angeles), 63
Sawyer, Eugene, 49 United States Congress, 131, 136, 138 –139;
Schink, Werner, 242 Black Caucus of, 141; Hispanic Caucus
Schneider, Chris, 101 of, xv, xix, xxii, xxiv, 132, 136, 139, 140,
Sea World, 19 –20, 23 143, 144, 159, 160, 164
Seguin, Juan, 238 United States foreign policy, 154 –155;
Simpson, Alan K., 138, 140, 145, 146 Monroe Doctrine as, 155, 169 –170
Skerry, Peter, xii –xiii, 250 United States Justice Department, 8, 9
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United States Marines, 241, 249 Vietnam, 180, 182, 249

United States Select Commission on Immi- Vigil, James, Jr., 63
gration and Refugees, 137, 138, 140 Vigil Girón, Rebecca, 165, 167
University of California, Los Angeles, 65 – 66, Villalobos, Frank, 60, 63
191 voting rights, xii, xvi, xxiii, 245. See also
University of New Mexico, xiv, xxi; conflict political representation
at, 118 –127; context of, 111–118; dispu- Voting Rights Act, xvii, 9, 41, 53, 236, 250
tants of, 109 –110 Vrdolyak, Edward, 32, 36 –37, 41, 43– 46,
university policy making, xxi, xxiv. See also 47, 49
University of New Mexico
Washington, D.C., xii, xv, 131, 134, 138, 158
Valdez, Avelardo, 168 Washington, Harold, xiv, xx, xxiv, 31–33, 36,
Valdez, Jesse, 17 39, 40, 43, 46 –50, 54
Valdez, Luis, xv, xxii, 175 –177; and Chicano Williams, Raymond, 176
movement, 177–189; as professional play- Wilson, Pete, 72, 73, 103, 246, 247
wright, 189 –195 Wilson, William J., xviii
Valens, Richie, 194 –195 Wright, Jim, 164
Van Dyke, Robert, 11, 14
Varela, Delfino, 135 Yañez, Linda, 164, 166
Vásquez, Arturo, 38 Yzaguirre, Raul, 133
Velásquez, Juan, 38, 40, 43
Velásquez, William C., 18, 156, 162, 163, 164, Zoot Suit, 190 –193
166, 169, 221
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