Remember, César, when you used to tell us in Spanish, after the marches, to stick together and peacefully go to the rancher’s house to ask for a raise and for better working conditions? Or to go into his office and sit on the floor until he agreed to talk to us and discuss our grievances. And that if we were thrown out of his place, to peacefully return as a group and to again try to talk to the him. As many times as necessary until he agreed to listen to us.
I know that you remember what you told us, César. That was the message that you repeated over and over again during the farmworker movement protests in the Central Valley. I remember your words well.
IMAGE: The late César Chávez speaks after a UFW March in Stockton, California, and at St. Mary’s Church. Summer of 1988.
Do you remember, too, a story you used to tell us, also during those gatherings, about a young boy, a farmworker’s son, that was selling his just-days-old puppies outside a field somewhere along the San Joaquín Valley? It was a great uplifting anecdote, about someone who knew how to negotiate and leverage the value of his product. Remember that story, César?
I’m sure you do. You know, about a rancher who stopped at an intersection just before his land, where that young boy was selling his puppies.
The rancher wasn’t really interested in buying anything, you mentioned; he got off his truck just to look around and to see what the boy was selling. He soon noticed, according to you, the puppies inside a large box, and a nearby sign stating: “Puppies, 1 dollar each.”
I’ve never forgotten the story, César. It had a great message. But, just in case you – and others – have forgotten it, here’s the rest of that inspiring anecdote, trying to quote the actual words you used, but warning you beforehand that there could be some inconsistencies. With the passing of time, it’s hard to remember your exact words.
“Two weeks after having seen the puppies for the first time,” you would tell us, “the rancher again stopped at the same intersection after noticing that the boy still had dogs left for sale. He parked his truck, got out, and said hi to the boy.”
Once near the box where the little dogs were being held, the rancher noticed that the price had changed, you explained. The puppies were now five dollars each, according to a new sign.
“The puppies were only a dollar before,” the rancher told the child, according to the story.
“Today you’re selling them for five dollars; how can you justify such a drastic rise in price?”
“It’s because the puppies already opened their eyes, sir,” the boy replied.
That was an inspiring tale, César. Of course, you said it in Spanish.
“Porque ya abrieron los ojos.”
That I remember well.
We’ve opened our eyes, too, César. We now know of your bad deeds, of the crimes you committed, and about how you sexually abused young girls and others. Some were the daughters of the men and women that believed in you and in the movement, and marched with you and other union leaders.
You abused many women, César, according to credible evidence. Why?
I know why. The cult of power got you.
It’s really hard for me to fathom such a painful turn in the once highly regarded César Chávez legacy. But it is what it is, I must admit. The tragic ending, though, hurts plenty, and it hurts hard. Just like Icarus, you fell from the sky. He got too close to the sun; you, to underage women and other victims of your criminal ways.
I understand, you’re being accused of crimes that supposedly took place more than three decades ago and you’re not around to defend yourself. The corroborating evidence, however, validates the allegations in our eyes, which are now open.
“Ya abrimos los ojos, César.”