There’s a saying: Don’t meet your heroes, you’re bound to be disappointed.
I learned this as a very young kid. One summer, before my mom could ship me to Mexico, she took me to her workplace off Melrose Avenue, where she was a seamstress, and I mostly read amid big rolls of fabric. One day I went out to grab some food, and standing at the corner was Kirk Cameron from “Growing Pains.” Like most preteens at the time, I loved that show and I loved Kirk Cameron. I walked up to him with so much excitement and simply asked, “Are you Kirk Cameron?” He looked at me with annoyance and disdain and said, “NO!” — and walked away.
At that moment, he made me feel so small and foolish. He also taught me something many of us in LA learn early: celebrities are everywhere in this city, and how they treat you when no one is watching tells you everything. Some will surprise you with their kindness. Others will remind you why pedestals are dangerous.
We all want to meet our heroes. As a young Latina growing up in the U.S. — especially in the ’70s and ’80s — I rarely got to see people who looked like me on TV, in movies, on the political stage, or in corporate America. When one of us breaks through, the whole community feels it — the pride in the achievement, the relief of seeing ourselves reflected back, and the knowledge of just how rare both still are. Even more so when those leaders fight for our dignity and equal rights. And César Chávez was an effective movement builder who organized and secured real progress — for farmworkers in particular, but for the broader Latino community too.
But heroes are imperfect. And as we’ve learned over the last two weeks, placing them on a pedestal is unfair to the movement, and to the people who are its true force.
Recent news was especially heartbreaking. Chávez was certainly one of my heroes. In a nation that has always demonized immigrants — Mexicans in particular — he was one of very few Latinos we could find named in textbooks, on streets, in parks and in schools. So the accusations that he sexually assaulted women and girls were devastating to all of us who idealized him. It was also an unfortunately unsurprising affirmation of what every woman I know understands to be true: Men in power — and even men without it — are capable of harm, degradation and exploitation of the women beside them.
The New York Times investigation included Dolores Huerta’s own revelation of assault and rape by Chávez. Most women I know have had at least one, if not multiple, experiences with sexual harassment, assault or rape by a man they knew. Most women keep these experiences to themselves or share them only with their trusted circle — because they know that speaking out will likely cause them more harm and not result in justice. Dolores held this for six decades. And at 95, she chose to tell the truth. That act alone is a form of courage our community needs to sit with.
I have been blessed to know Dolores. I first met her as a young adult and got to work with her in my previous role, where she supported critical policy reforms to expand college access — sometimes in spite of faculty union opposition. She always showed up: to call the governor, to speak at an event, to join a celebration. Over the years, that working relationship grew into something more personal — shared meals, long conversations, and the rare gift of hearing her stories firsthand: about the farmworker movement, about campaigning for presidents, about a life lived entirely in service of others. The first time she came to my house, I remember thinking — if this woman is standing in my living room, I must be doing something right. And when I stepped down from the organization I had led for 20 years, she showed up to celebrate that milestone too, and we danced the night away with the LA city skyline behind us. Because Dolores has never slowed down. She still shows up for immigrants, for Latinos, for candidates she believes in — and to dance at your party — all without skipping a beat.
While I was familiar with the civil rights movement growing up, it wasn’t until college that I began to truly learn about the Chicano and Latino leaders who fought for justice — who led movements in LA, in the Central Valley, and throughout the nation. My sophomore year, newly committed to supporting the UFW and boycotting grapes, Chávez died, and we were devastated. We organized a caravan to La Paz and I walked in his funeral procession with thousands of others. The following spring break, instead of hopping on a plane to Cancún, we drove and camped there — learning about the farmworker movement, about community organizing, and meeting many of the heroes who had fought alongside him. I understood early on that Dolores never received the accolades she deserved as co-founder of the UFW, and I watched her get pushed aside from leadership after he passed. History has a long habit of forgetting the women who built it.
But in getting to know Dolores, I’ve come to understand that she never cared to be personally recognized. Her foundation continues to organize and mobilize across Bakersfield and California to this day. Last year, on June 6 — the day the ICE raids started in Los Angeles — we celebrated her birthday at La Plaza de Cultura y Artes. It was strange and so perfect that we were all convened there in celebration of her, and more than her — in celebration of a movement. That night, she made it clear: The struggle is never completely won. It requires every single one of us. The fight for justice is constant because every victory requires an army to defend it.
In the weeks since the news broke, our community has already begun doing what healthy movements do. Holidays named after Chávez have been reconsidered. His statues have been covered. LA County is exploring renaming schools and parks that bear his name. This is what accountability looks like — not erasing history, but refusing to let harm be consecrated in stone. A movement that can reckon with the truth about one of its icons is a movement that knows its own power — and is worthy of the people who built it.
Chávez’s posthumous downfall should remind us that no movement is bigger than the truth, and no leader is greater than the people who built what he stood on. Dolores Huerta — who carried that truth for 60 years, who danced at my party, reminds us that some heroes are absolutely worth meeting.
