39th Anniversary of Chicano Moratorium, August 29, 1970

UN DIA ESPECIAL, a very special day! A day to commemorate la comunidad, people power, and El Chicano Movimiento—which surely has grown out of its 60s roots but lives on in this blog, in this bloguero, in my many compas, in all the hearts that beat and the brass that sounds and the streets that still fill with feet from Chi-town to Michoacán!

Thirty nine years ago—not long after my own birth—thirty thousand Chicanos and Chicanas took to the streets to protest the Vietnam war and how it was eating up our community. The police came down on us, as they still do, and in many ways.

Today we remember and celebrate the spirit that flows through and connects all of us, the history that teaches us why we came from where we have and what that means to us today, and the present moment, which sees our community growing larger and coming into its own more and more each day. No amount of time, tasers, billy clubs, bars, tear gas, or faked-out history books can stop us.

Thirty-five years later, I still vividly remember what happened to me personally and politically in Los Angeles, California on August 29, 1970. Thirty thousand Chicanos from throughout the U.S. marched in the streets to protest and call for an end to the war in Vietnam. A war, much like Iraq today, that was destroying our most precious heritage…our youth. On that day, a police riot ensued and Los Angeles Times Reporter Ruben Salazar, along with citizens Angel Diaz and Lynn Ward were killed. Numerous persons were wounded and hundreds were jailed by the L.A. Police and Sheriff’s Department, including national Chicano leader, Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales.

By 1965, President Lyndon Johnson had declared Vietnam a police action. Dark and foreboding war clouds were present in every Chicano barrio throughout the Southwest. While many young white males received college deferments, white controlled draft boards systematically recruited poor people, blacks and especially Chicanos, in record numbers to fight the war in Vietnam. At the time, Chicanos comprised 6% of the nation’s population, but were 20% of the wars causalities. Many of my own friends served and died in Vietnam.

After five years of this war, reality finally hit the Chicano community. Young Chicanos were dying in obscene numbers and ‘body bags’ were being returned to the homes of grieving families throughout the U.S.

The Chicano Movement recoiled in anger and called for protests against the government’s policy of sending its young people to die in foreign wars. The movement’s political position had always been that the white, racist system had made Chicanos strangers in their own land by placing them last in jobs, education and rights, while placing them first to die in its wars.

Read on,
By Herman Baca

I truth, I would love to include many pieces of art and links on this day to further draw out our unity, beauty of culture, variety of voice, and numbers, but lacking time this day, I am going to leave you with two more notes.

One, this poem, always. Always!!!

Two, I give you a poem from an new amigo who is, like my old man, a true old-school vato from the first wave of nuestro movimiento.

Cat’s name is Lorenzo Roberto Almada, here’s the story behind the poem in a few brief (his) words, and the poema itself:

…the story behind the poem is that I wrote it for a fellow activist names Roberto Alaniz who was killed for helping a group of Mexicans that were being illegally evicted from their homes by a greed driven slum lord.

Alma de Aztlan

Yo soy aquel que dijo —
“Ando Sangrando”
— de mi alma,
tanto —
como de historia.

Cuyos venas se han vaciados,
como el oro
de las minas —
o lo dulce de la vida,
sin valor interno.

Mi pesadilla …
la de los Aztecas —
recurrente
en la sangre indigena …
que se me esta acabando —
Morira mi cultura?

Ya no puedo respirar
el humo de fabricas …
tan traicioneras a mi cultura
natural!

Yo soy la voz
y el espiritu de Aztlan —
desconocido
en mi propria tierra —
y en los ojos
de mi enemigo —
Me puedes ver?

Yo soy la vida —
libre y alegre,
como Aguila en vuelo —
y ya casi tan extinto.
Me mataras con tu mirada —
sin conocerme?

Otros me llaman
borracho,
porque canto mi dolor —
Me echan en la carcel,
porque se pelear/amar
verdaderamente —
y no conozco leyes,
sin corazon.

Mi sangre grita
pa volver a conocer … la risa
de los ninos sin dureza —
pa volver acariciar
a mi mujer —
la madre
de mis hijos … y mi vida,
con corazon
alegre.

No lloro
por mis experiencias …
porque yo naci
de la tierra —
y volvere a nacer —
cuando la sociedad se destruja,
y renazca —

Yo soy
el espiritu indigena …
sobreviviendo en mis recuerdos
de Aztlan —

Hermano de la luna …
e
hijo del Sol —

Yo soy Chicano!

In Special Appreciation to
The Unapologetic Mexican
For Remembering…
Viva La Raza

x

Gracias, my friends! Let’s keep on. ¡Hasta la Victoria Siempre!