LULAC Statement on Cesar Chavez and the Farmworker Movement

The story of the farmworker movement did not begin with monuments, school names, or holidays. It began in the fields, in the dust, the heat, and the long days of exhausting labor endured by men and women whose work fed this country even as their humanity was too often ignored. It was built by Filipino and Mexican farmworkers in Delano who came together in common cause, by families who sacrificed paychecks and security, by organizers who turned a local strike into a national boycott, and by workers whose courage helped win contracts and lay the foundation for legal protections for collective bargaining and the right to organize. That history was never the achievement of one man alone. It belongs to the thousands of farmworkers, mothers, fathers, elders, and young people who gave their labor, their bodies, and their dignity to a movement for justice.

That is why what has now come to light is so devastating. The conduct that has been described is horrifying, reprehensible, and beyond excuse. There is no moral achievement, no political legacy, and no place in our history grand enough to conceal abuse, coercion, or violence. A movement that asked the nation to confront injustice cannot ask us now to look away from it. If we believe in justice, then we must be willing to tell the truth even when that truth is painful, disillusioning, and deeply unsettling.

And in telling that truth, we must begin where we should always begin: with the victims and survivors. We stand with them completely. We stand with those who have spoken publicly, those who shared their pain privately, and those who may never choose to speak at all. Their suffering is not a footnote to history. Their pain is not secondary to anyone’s reputation. Their courage deserves our respect, our compassion, and our unwavering support. They are owed not only belief, but dignity, care, and a community willing to meet this moment with honesty and moral clarity.

We must also say clearly that Dolores Huerta’s legacy stands on its own. Dolores Huerta is one of the great civil rights leaders in our nation’s history. Her work helped build the farmworker movement, mobilize communities, lead boycotts, expand the cause of labor justice, and advance the rights of women and working families across generations. What she gave to this country cannot and should not be diminished. Her voice, her sacrifice, and her leadership have always mattered, and they matter even more now. In this moment, we should uplift Dolores Huerta not only for what she built, but for the courage and moral seriousness she continues to show.

And yes, this moment demands a swift and deserved public reckoning. Murals, schools, streets, scholarships, buildings, and holidays that bear César Chávez’s name should be renamed or reassigned. That is not an attempt to erase history. It is a refusal to celebrate harm. History should be taught fully and truthfully, but public honor must be reserved for those whose lives reflect the values we claim to uphold. A community that believes in accountability cannot continue to enshrine a name without confronting what that name now represents.

But even in this reckoning, we must not allow the legacy of one man to overshadow the sacrifice of millions of farmworkers. The people who rise before dawn, who bend their backs in the fields, who endure heat, uncertainty, and hardship to feed our families and millions of Americans every single day, they remain worthy of our deepest respect. Their labor is honorable. Their struggle for dignity is real. Their movement was larger than any one figure, and its meaning cannot be reduced to the failures and betrayals of one person.

The truth is that the histories of longstanding civil rights organizations are often complicated. As leaders in this community, we are always looking toward the future. Even now, we are thinking about LULAC’s upcoming centennial and what the next hundred years must look like. But we also know that leadership requires us to carry history honestly, not just its triumphs, but also its failures, its blind spots, and its harms. We do not strengthen our institutions by hiding from hard truths. We strengthen them by confronting them, learning from them, and building something more worthy of the people we serve.

And part of that honesty requires us to look inward as a community. The Latino community is full of resilience, generosity, faith, and pride. But we are not free of flaws. We know that colorism exists in our communities. We know prejudice can take root through class, economic status, skin tone, language, accent, education, and immigration story. And we know that those prejudices can also shape how we relate to other communities of color. These may be minority views, but they are real, and they must be addressed more directly and more courageously now than ever before.

Above all, we stand with our sisters, our mothers, our daughters, and all women in this moment. We stand with every person who was ever told to stay quiet for the sake of a movement, an institution, a family, or a man’s legacy. And to the victims and survivors in this case, we want to say this directly: we see you, we believe you, and you are not alone. Your pain matters more than any symbol, any slogan, or any monument. Your truth matters. Your dignity matters. And as a community, we owe you not silence, not defensiveness, and not delay, but compassion, accountability, and care. May you find strength in being heard, peace in being believed, and comfort in knowing that there are people who will stand beside you now and in the days ahead.

In Community and Solidarity,

LULAC National President and Chairman of the Board