Column: The Chicano Moratorium, then and now

The late 1960s were and continue to be one of the most pivotal in American history. Black and brown Angelenos at the time both lost leaders in what was their collective civil rights movement.

The Chicano Moratorium was a historical moment for the Latino community then and it is still relevant today.

Leaders like Dolores Huerta, co-founder of the United Farm Workers, continue to organize, speak and mentor new generations of activists. Then there's José Ángel Gutiérrez, who helped establish the La Raza Unida Party and remains engaged in political discourse, ensuring that the fight for representation and equity does not fade. Both of their ongoing struggles serve as a bridge between past and present, a living reminder that the struggles for labor rights, immigration reform and political empowerment are far from over. Through mentorship, advocacy and the institutions they helped build, these leaders have cemented their legacies—not as relics of a bygone era but as guiding forces who still shape the future of Latino activism today.

As the LA Times noted back during the 2020 uprisings, “the events and emotions of that chaotic day still reverberate in L.A.’s Latino community 50 years later.” The intergenerational coalition of protestors during this time was explicitly raising awareness over the disproportionate representation of Latinos in the military and comparing their sacrifices to the realities of Chicano and Latino communities at home. During one of the key protests, LA Times reporter Ruben Salazar was killed.

Currently, there are schools, parks, an archive at USC and the Latino Journalists of California, CCNMA Ruben Salazar Award that are named after him. Salazar’s legacy has been adapted into plays, documentaries and so much more, but it remains a story we continue to need to tell because he was one of the few Latino journalists who spoke up directly against injustice, killed by the L.A. County Sheriffs Department while covering the protest.

Ruben Salazar’s legacy as a groundbreaking journalist remains a powerful force that needs to be further taught, understood and celebrated in our community. His story offers a blueprint for truth-telling in the face of injustice. As one of the first Mexican American journalists to cover the Chicano movement from within, Salazar used his platform to expose police brutality, systemic racism, and the struggles of working-class Latinos.

From what some may call his assassination in 1970 or deliberate shooting while covering the National Chicano Moratorium turned him into a martyr for press freedom and civil rights. All of us who protest, whether on the streets, in our classrooms, workplaces and neighborhoods, can learn from his fearless commitment to storytelling, understanding that media is not just a tool for documentation but a weapon against erasure. His work reminds us that amplifying marginalized voices is both necessary and dangerous, yet essential in the fight for justice.

They shamed protestors then, and they shame them now

Just as the Chicano Moratorium faced resistance from within its own community, today’s protests against Trump’s policies and the legacy of deportations have drawn criticism from conservative and moderate Latinos.

In the late 1960s and early 1970s, some Mexican Americans rejected the radical tactics of the Chicano Movement, preferring assimilation and military service over protests that they believed painted the community as anti-American. Similarly, many Latino critics today argue that mass demonstrations against Trump’s policies, such as family separations and border militarization, create division rather than solutions. Yet now, they have meme accounts and podcasts and dance the fine line between conservatism and identity.

Yhe American GI Forum, founded by Dr. Hector P. Garcia on March 26, 1948,was established to address the concerns of Mexican American veterans, focusing on securing veterans' rights and benefits through established political channels. While the organization was instrumental in advocating for MexicanAmerican veterans, it never officially endorsed the Chicano Moratorium against the Vietnam War. Many members believed that military service was a path to integration and acceptance in American society and were cautious about associating with anti-war protests that might be perceived as unpatriotic. The same sentiments can still be shared and sene between veteran Chicanos.

Another key point of comparison is the law and order mentality that has become its own facet and phenomenon. During the Chicano Moratorium, some middle-class Mexican Americans defended police actions, believing that activists were troublemakers rather than legitimate voices for justice or forms of representation for the community.

Likewise, contemporary Latino conservatives often support border enforcement and criticize activists who call for the abolition of ICE, arguing that upholding immigration laws is a necessary part of national security. This internal divide reflects an ongoing tension between protest as a tool for justice and the belief that Latinos should focus on individual success rather than collective resistance.

Another issue is the interpretation of our community self-identifying ourselves as victims and what, to some, has become a “victim-complex” towards our identity. For some, we are victims of this country’s history and continue to live under the guise of being subject to this. While to others, it means we are underneath someone, and we should completely reject what this is.

We must recognize what we’ve inherited in order to move forward, and that is recognizing that we have indeed inherited a society that deems us less than.

We, in the present, will never be victims, but we must honor that the ancestors in our past were victimized, and the only way to honor them is to recognize them.

The Chicano Moratorium, like today’s immigrant rights protests, remind us that Latinos have always been at the center of America’s fight for justice and that our complex community continues to have the same conversations both externally and internally.

Our internal divisions, from the past to the present, show that identity is not a monolith or a simple voting bloc to abuse—it is constantly shaped by struggle, history and power. We must continually question who talks about us as one thing or even as a divided thing.

Latino identity in Southern California—and across the country—does not need to be confused or lost. It needs clarity. We, the Latino community in Southern California, are the only ones who can dictate and editorialize how we talk about each other and how we talk to each other.

The community needs a deep and honest reckoning with where we come from and where we want to go. To honor the past, we must remember that we are not the first generation to ask these questions, nor will we be the last.

We do not need to agree on every issue, but we do need to engage, reflect and refuse to let our history be erased.

The question is no longer whether we fight, but how. Will we continue the legacy of those who marched before us, those who risked everything for dignity and justice? Or will we allow others to define who we are? The answer, as always, is up to us.