Opinion
In March 2000, two friends and I were driving back to Grand Rapids from the east side of Michigan, where we had attended a birthday event honoring Cesar Chavez.
Somewhere along that drive in the middle of the night, a simple but powerful idea took hold: our city should honor his legacy by naming a street after him.
Within a week, we formed a committee and submitted a proposal to the City of Grand Rapids to rename Grandville Avenue, a road that runs through one of the most vibrant and concentrated Hispanic communities in the city.
We quickly learned that naming a street is never simple. Part of Grandville Avenue was a state trunk line, which meant we needed approval not only from the city, but from the state of Michigan as well. It took persistence, organization, and belief. But after meeting every requirement, the effort succeeded. The street was renamed Cesar E. Chavez Avenue.
Our work didn’t stop there. We pushed for the renaming of Hall Elementary School in his honor. We established a scholarship fund bearing his name—one that, over time, has raised more than $1 million to support Hispanic students pursuing their secondary education. Each of these efforts was rooted in a shared purpose: to recognize Chavez’s lifelong fight to secure dignity, fair wages, and humane working conditions for the farmworkers who plant and harvest the food that sustains us—workers who remain among the most overlooked in American society.
Two years ago, I attended an art event hosted by Olympic gold medalist Billy Mills in a downtown Sacramento park. It was pouring rain, but when I learned there was a statue honoring Chavez nearby, I walked over to see it. I remember standing there in the rain, reflecting on his legacy and what it meant—not just to history, but to people like me who had tried, in our own way, to carry it forward.
Then came this past Wednesday.
I was in Washington, D.C., attending a hearing for Sen. Markwayne Mullin (R-OK) to become the secretary of Department of the Homeland Security when I received a text message. It described deeply disturbing allegations of sexual misconduct involving Chavez and minors. I sat there, stunned. Disbelief gave way to a need to understand. I read the New York Times article referenced in the message. Then I read the statement from Dolores Huerta, who co-founded the United Farm Workers union with Chavez. Now 96 years old, she alleged that Chavez raped her twice — saying she had remained silent for more than 60 years to protect the movement they built together.
In that moment, everything shifted.
Within 24 hours, the reputation of a civil rights icon was shaken to its core. Calls emerged to remove his name from public spaces. For many of us who had spent years—decades—fighting for justice and lifting up his legacy, it felt like the ground had given way beneath our feet.
My emotions were not simple; they were tangled, heavy, unresolved. I know this much: had I known then what has now been alleged, I would not have taken part in the effort to honor him in 2000. That truth sits with me.
And yet, another truth sits alongside it.
I felt a deep unease watching how quickly a Mexican American civil rights leader’s legacy was dismantled in the public square. It forced me to think about how this country chooses which histories to confront—and which to leave standing.
Consider Christopher Columbus. For many Indigenous communities and historians, he is not a hero, but a symbol of brutality and colonization. His arrival in the Americas set off a wave of violence against the Taíno people — marked by enslavement, forced labor, torture, and impossible demands for gold. Historical accounts also document acts of sexual violence committed by his men against Indigenous women, part of a broader system of dehumanization that devastated entire populations and shaped centuries of oppression.
If we are to reckon honestly with history, we cannot be selective. We cannot hold one figure accountable while ignoring another whose actions led to widespread suffering.
If Chavez’s name is to be removed from public places, then the same standard must be applied elsewhere. The names, symbols, and holidays tied to Columbus deserve that same scrutiny.
And while we are confronting hard truths, accountability cannot stop with history. It must extend into the present — wherever abuse of power and exploitation exist, regardless of politics or status. I am referencing the Epstein files.
As one of the original members of the committee that worked to honor Cesar Chavez in Grand Rapids, I now believe his name should be removed from the street and the school. The scholarship fund that has helped so many students should continue—but under a new name that reflects the values it was meant to uphold.
I also find myself in agreement with the statement released by Chavez’s family:
“As a family steeped in the values of equity and justice, we honor the voices of those who feel unheard and who report sexual misconduct. These allegations are deeply painful to our family.”
They are painful for many of us.
For those of us committed to the struggle for justice, this moment cuts deep. But it also reminds us of something essential: no movement is defined by a single person. The work—the fight for dignity, equity, and truth—is bigger than any one individual.
And it must go on.
Thayék gde nwéndëmen — We are all related.