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My phone kept going off on Wednesday afternoon with texts from different friends — each wanting to trade thoughts on what felt like the second death of Cesar Chavez. His first death happened on April 23, 1993. He was 66 and died of natural causes. Over 50,000 people attended his funeral in Delano, Calif. And he was posthumously awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 1994.
At that time, I was in elementary school in suburban Chicago, far from California. It was then that I first learned of Chavez and his movement's hard-fought efforts to secure better wages and improved working conditions for farm workers. As a daughter of janitors and a factory worker, I knew what better pay and the right to a union meant for people like us.
Chavez's second death landed on Wednesday after a The New York Times investigation revealed he had been accused of sexual abuse and rape. NPR has not independently confirmed the allegations against Chavez in the Times investigation.
For several years before joining Morning Edition as an editor, I covered sexual violence for ProPublica, an investigative newsroom. My work there was often not about catching the bad guys but rather about listening, for extended periods of time, to the people they hurt. This work took me to places such as Alaska and Utah where I met a broad range of people who were assaulted in recent years and some, who like Huerta, never spoke of their experiences for decades.
Consistent with national statistics, the perpetrators whom I wrote about were often family, bosses, clergy or others in positions of power.
This week, many of the voices of the victims I spoke with hearkened back to the experiences that the New York Times's investigation revealed in telling of the sexual abuse that Ana Murguia, Debra Rojas and Dolores Huerta shared with the publication. I was grateful to learn Murguia's and Rojas' names alongside the much more familiar one of Huerta, the civil rights icon in her own right who co-led the United Farm Workers movement that made Chavez famous.
I've learned that there is no timeline for naming what was done to you by people you trusted. I've learned that justice for many means the world recognizing the harm done to them — and the difficult work they have done to no longer live defined by it. I've learned that people care about protecting others. And that sometimes by sharing their stories, survivors hope to prevent future harm.
My friends and I may be down a hero this week. But, we gained two new heroes in Ana Murguia and Debra Rojas, who, alongside Dolores Huerta, showed us it's never too late to speak up. In fact, it might be the only way out for them and others.
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