Aztlán Arizona: Mexican American Educational Empowerment, 1968–1978 9780816529841, 2013038699

Table of contents :
Cover
Title Page, Copyright, Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
1. Occupied Arizona: Mexican Americans and the Parameters of a Pedestrian People
2. A Measure of the Marginalized Mexican American: A Scholastic Survey of Spanish-Surnamed Strangers
3. Bias, Boycotts, and Battling Barriers Mexican Americans in Public Schools
4. Activists of Academia: Students, Scholars, and Staffers at Arizona State University
5. The Promise and Peril of Protests: Undergraduates and Underrepresentation at the University of Arizona
6. A Part, Yet Apart: (Re)Arranging Academic Arizona from Hocus-Pocus to Horne
Notes
Bibliography
Index
About the Author

Citation preview

aztlán arizona

Aztlán Arizona Mexican American Educational Empowerment, 1968–1978 darius v. echeverría

tucson

The University of Arizona Press © 2014 The Arizona Board of Regents All rights reserved www.uapress.arizona.edu Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Echeverría, Darius V., 1974– Aztlán Arizona : Mexican American educational empowerment, 1968–1978 / Darius V. Echeverría. pages cm Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-8165-2984-1 (hardback) 1. Mexican Americans—Education—Arizona—History—20th century. 2. Mexican Americans—Arizona—Politics and government—20th century. 3. Chicano Movement— Arizona. 4. Educational change—Arizona—History—20th century. I. Title. LC2687.A6E45 2014 371.829’68073—dc23 2013038699 Publication of this book is made possible in part by the proceeds of a permanent endowment created with the assistance of a Challenge Grant from the National Endowment for the Humanities, a federal agency.

Manufactured in the United States of America on acid-­­­free, archival-­­­quality paper containing a minimum of 30% post-­­­consumer waste and processed chlorine free.

19 18 17 16 15 14  6 5 4 3 2 1

This body of work is dedicated to Victor W. Echeverría for imparting to me the value of education, being a committed father and friend, setting an example as a passionate public school pioneer, and always believing in me when no one else did. This book also acknowledges Mexican Americans and all other students who were deprived of equal educational opportunities and those who selflessly sought to help change discriminatory and destructive educational policies, school programs, and pedagogical practices.

Contents Acknowledgments  ix Introduction  3 1. Occupied Arizona: Mexican Americans and the Parameters of a Pedestrian People  10 2. A Measure of the Marginalized Mexican American: A Scholastic Survey of Spanish-­Surnamed Strangers  25 3. Bias, Boycotts, and Battling Barriers: Mexican Americans in Public Schools  42 4. Activists of Academia: Students, Scholars, and Staffers at Arizona State University  68 5. The Promise and Peril of Protests: Undergraduates and Underrepresentation at the University of Arizona  93 6. A Part, Yet Apart: (Re)Arranging Academic Arizona from Hocus-Pocus to Horne  107 Notes  125 Bibliography  159 Index  177

Acknowledgments

A book of this kind is not the product of one individual but, rather, a collective synthesis of the ideas, struggles, and conditions of a given historical moment. This modest work is nonetheless founded on three years of seemingly nonstop efforts, exploring source material from a variety of public archives, private collections, and published works. The use and availability of these resources is greatly appreciated, for without these academic assets, this book would lack a solid factual basis and this narrative could have never come to fruition. Beyond those three foundational years, the process from concept to various stages of peer-­review editing to print production spanned approximately four years. Those responsible for the conduct of any study that is dependent on the involvement and participation of others quickly learn to appreciate the value of cooperation. As such, I would like to respectfully acknowledge a small community of meaningful people. Since the concept for this book originated in a graduate seminar at Temple University, I will begin here. My first deep gratitude must be extended to former graduate school dean Aquiles Iglesias for his generosity, encouragement, and unwavering confidence that I would complete sound scholarship that reflects the integrity and ingenuity of the Temple tradition. Because of Dean Iglesias’s support as well as administrative vision, I was the recipient of university scholarships, fellowships, and grants that allowed me to not only work full-­time on what was then a dissertation but also be economically sustained over my five years at Temple University. Just as important, a select number of faculty members from Temple University have proven to be helpful throughout my graduate experience. Indeed, many made signal contributions to this manuscript, and I thank them for their advice and support. This reassuring group of scholars include Dr. Wilbert L. Jenkins, Dr. Herbert J. Ershkowitz, Dr. Teshale ix

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Tibebu, and Dr. Jacqueline C. Tanaka. These scholars responded to each draft with the perfect balance of praise and constructive criticism. More important, their substantive interest in my intellectual and professional development was matched only by their collegial nature and infectious passion for historical inquiry. I also must add a special note of thanks to former dean of Ambler College and professor emeritus Dr. James W. Hilty. His ongoing insight, support, and generosity have enhanced the quality of this work, and he has taught me a great deal about mentorship. Other scholars who introduced an interdisciplinary approach to my research and saw the power and potential of this project include Dr. Gregory J. W. Urwin, Dr. William W. Cutler III, Dr. David Harrington Watt, and Dr. Arthur Schmidt. Whether directly or indirectly, these scholars have provided intellectual guidance and incisive criticisms that has benefited the content of my scholarship and the quality of my writing. Their examples of fact-­checking, researching, writing, transcribing, and translating are reflected in this work. Others outside of academia, yet still within the Temple University community, who were either helpful with manuscript advancement or encouragement include Dean Margaret M. Pippet and Catherine Meaney, former supervisor of interlibrary loans. I also thank Coach John not only for our few personal conversations, but also a lifetime of lessons. Coach Chaney influenced me to become not only a better athlete but also, more important, a better human being. Aspects of the material appearing in these pages were also rehearsed in graduate courses in American history, so I am grateful to the handful of colleagues in these classes whose spirited queries sharpened the arguments and exposition that they encountered. Thus, aspects of this book are a conduit for the ideas of select students and scholars. I must point out, however, that the impetus for this study was born at Rutgers University while writing my senior thesis in 1999. As such, a handful of Rutgers professors either helped to engineer this study or supported my interests leading to this book. They include Dr. Rodney P. Carlisle, Dr. Edward Rice-­Maximin, Dr. Allen Woll, Dr. Robert Fishman, Dr. Joan C. Wells, and Dr. Caren Addis. I am deeply grateful to these scholars for aiding my academic and professional growth while providing timely encouragement and advice. At my present home campuses, Rutgers University–New Brunswick and Montclair State University, I have to thank two departmental colleagues: Dr. Aldo Lauria Santiago and Dr. Tony Spanakos. Aldo and Tony have been amazingly generous and supportive from the beginning of my tenure at each respective university. More broadly, I must thank my peers at the aforementioned universities and beyond because my arguments herein

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have benefited tremendously from faculty research workshops, scholarship colloquiums, and conferences where aspects of my writings evolved into chapters in this book. In addition, I must extend profound gratitude to my current colleagues at Columbia University. Although not having a direct influence with this book, several well-intentioned deans were helpful for putting me at ease while I worked on final revisions. For those selfless individuals, their enthusiastic support and camaraderie has been a timely resource, and serve as a constant reminder of just how fortunate I am to work with such kind hearts and meaningful minds. Equally important, my professional government experience after graduating from Rutgers University and prior to arriving at Temple University was invaluable to fortifying my political and academic consciousness. Having the opportunity to work for the public good in the White House, the US Senate, and the Office of the New Jersey Governor as well as the Office of the New Jersey Attorney General proved to be privileges beyond measure. Many individuals in these respective offices, although not having a significant impact on this study, were nevertheless largely responsible for putting me in a position to assume such a project. Their public and personal leadership has been not only an ongoing inspiration, but has also helped me gain a greater appreciation about the powerful forces of community service and public policy. While having the honor of working with and learning from these individuals, I discovered that the weight of responsibility that public service brings requires an individual with experience, ability, and fortitude, with an understanding of life, and above all, with a heart and mind imbued with a pledge for justice. For this lesson and many others, I am eternally grateful. Many materials used in this study could not have been gathered without the assistance of several individuals. Thus, I wish to thank all the historians, librarians, and archivists who have helped me with this work. Special appreciation goes to Dr. Christine (Chris) Marín, curator/archivist and historian of the Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts at Hayden Library, Arizona State University. Chris believed in the project from the start and directed me to countless sources. She also took time from her busy schedule to answer many questions and showed me around central and eastern Arizona so I could learn Mexican American Arizona history first-­hand—duties that were not in her job description, yet she performed them with efficiency and great kindness. As a woman who was in the eye of the storm of Chicano agency, her valuable input helped me think through my ideas in the manuscript. For this and much more, I am sincerely thankful. Other able people at Arizona State

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University’s Department of Archives and Manuscripts who were accommodating include Robert P. Spindler, Kathryn Odle, Elizabeth H. Bentley, Patricia A. Etter, Joyce Martin, Rose Minetti, Marilyn Wurzburger, Roann Monson, Michael Lotstein, and Maria N. Villamar Phalen. I must also mention the handful of Arizona State University (ASU) student workers who enthusiastically retrieved archival source material for me while I waited in the Luhrs Reading Room. This supportive group includes Suzanne McNamara, Neil Millican, Andrea Wallace, Kevin Brushes, Mark Truman, Don Grossmiller, Jessica Brown-­Velez, Elizabeth Maben, Michael Redhouse, Liz Strahan, Brian Davis, and Josh Choi. Their patience and generosity never ceased to amaze me. I would also like to thank Dr. Cordelia Candelaria, former professor and chair of the Chicana and Chicano Studies Department at ASU for her time, advice, and generosity. Likewise, a word of appreciation goes to Dr. Miguel Montiel, also from the ASU Chicana and Chicano Studies Department, because he provided sound historical insight that helped in the early stages of this undertaking. University of Arizona (UA) staff, faculty, students, administration, and individual departments were also helpful and hospitable to me. Among the graciously supportive UA community, I would like to thank in particular special collection archivists Shan C. Sutton and Linda Whitaker, who were absolutely wonderful in pinpointing and providing rich source material. Other UA Special Collection and Photocopy Service staffers who were courteous and considerate include Mina Parish, Verónica Reyes, Bonnie Travers, Roger Myers, Deborah A. Quintana, and Danielle Rexach. At UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center Library, an exceptional thank you must be extended to Michael Stone, manuscripts processor, for both his time and patience while personally guiding me through the university holdings pertinent to this work. Beyond the academy, Mr. Bill McCune deserves special mention for sharing his Arizona wisdom, wit, and windmill of history with me. Furthermore, I would like to thank the people of the Phoenix metropolitan area and the broader Tucson community, as well as locals in numerous mining towns, who opened their homes and minds to me as I sought to assemble this history. This work would have been impossible had it not been for the dozens of scholars, writers, journalists, analysts, and historians who trailblazed the path. This book also recognizes those who fought for social justice and those who have been deprived of it. A special acknowledgment goes out to the University of Arizona Press, for without them, my words are not possible. Thank you eternally for thinking this work was worthy of publication. In particular, a heartfelt thank you goes to Kristen Buckles, an outstanding editor who

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believed in this book from the beginning. I also sincerely thank Kathryn Conrad, Lela Scott MacNeil, Amanda Piell, Leigh McDonald, Abby Mogollón, and Scott De Herrera, among others. Naturally, I thank the array of anonymous peer readers through four rounds of manuscript reviews. Furthermore, I must recognize the resources that helped create this book. Therefore, much of the data used were mined from manuscript collections, executive government documents, state and local surveys, legislative reports, congressional hearing testimonies, private and public papers, organizational records, oral history transcript collections, biographical files, vertical files, computer files, ephemera files, archived newspapers, digital resources, and ethnographic studies. Other source material came from Chicano Press Association papers, pamphlets, newsletters, letters, articles, journals, photograph collections, and countless other fugitive material. The lion’s share of these primary sources came from Arizona State University Charles Trumbull Hayden Library, Department of Archives and Manuscripts. Other institutional bodies that proved equally helpful in unearthing original source material and insight include the History and Archives Division of the Arizona State Capitol in Phoenix; the University of Arizona Library and Department of Special Collections, Tucson; University of Arizona Division of Decision and Planning Support, Tucson; Northern Arizona University’s Cline Library, Flagstaff; Arizona State Museum at the University of Arizona, Tucson; Arizona State Library, Archives and Public Records, Phoenix; Arizona Historical Society Library, Tucson; Arizona Historical Foundation, Tempe; Bisbee Mining and Historical Museum, Bisbee; Bob Jones Museum, Superior; Bullion Plaza Cultural Center and Museum, Miami; Gilbert Historical Museum, Gilbert; Mesa Southwest Museum, Mesa; Phoenix Public Library, Arizona Collection; Pima Community College, Tucson; Chandler Public Library; Glendale Public Library; Mesa Public Library; Scottsdale Public Library; Tempe Public Library; Arizona State Department of Education; UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center Library, Los Angeles; National Center for Education Statistics, US Department of Education, Institute of Education Sciences, Washington, DC; and the Library of Congress, Washington, DC. Yet still more of the aforementioned primary sources came from nonprofit organizations both nationally and regionally based. Some of these organizations include National Association of Latino Elected and Appointed Officials Educational Fund, Washington, DC, and Los Angeles; Mexican American Legal Defense and Educational Fund, Los Angeles; National Council of La Raza, Washington, DC; League of United Latin American Citizens Foundation, Laredo, TX; Congressional Hispanic

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Caucus Institute, Inc., Washington, DC; Tomás Rivera Policy Institute, Claremont, CA; Chicanos Por La Causa, Inc., Phoenix; and the National Association for Chicana and Chicano Studies. In good faith, I must also acknowledge the access of select FBI files obtained through the Freedom of Information Act and the courtesy from the Office of the Secretary of Defense, which provided timely data. To supplement these rich archival databanks and to add to the generalizability of the study, I use a host of secondary and additional primary sources found mostly at Temple University Samuel L. Paley Library, Temple University Ambler/Fort Washington Library, Temple University Law Library, Rutgers University Paul Robeson Library, Rutgers University Mabel Smith Douglass Library, Rutgers University Kilmer Library, Rutgers University Archibald Stevens Alexander Library, Rutgers University Camden Law Library, Princeton University Firestone Library, Columbia University Butler Library, and other Northeast university and public libraries. Finally, I want to express my unconditional love and profound thanks to my family for their support and model of integrity, initiative, and impartiality. Their selflessness in sharing a flake of their lives with me has enriched my life. I especially thank my grandmother Georgina Dorila Echeverría-­ Kubica, whose strong human spirit serves as a constant reminder of my responsibility to those who proceeded me and to those who will follow. She has shown me that whether or not a challenge achieves its main goals, those who live through it emerge with ideals and values that cannot be undermined. I would also like to thank my uncle George for his venerable model of public service throughout both his personal and professional life. I draw intellectual and moral inspiration from him, and he has contributed greatly to my accomplishments. I thank also my brother, Edrik, and my sister, Nivana, for their faith in my facility to never be bound by the limits of convention. To my nieces and nephew, Cienna, Samara, Zoe, and Ezra (none of whom were born when I began this project), thank you for being a welcomed distraction. Shooting hoops, swimming, living-­room “spins,” and backyard barbeques were much more fun than writing; they helped keep me balanced while reminding me what is most important in life. My mother, Nancy Echeverría, also deserves meaningful mention for her efforts to support this project. Regrettably, there are many other friends and extended family I would like to credit, but space does not allow personal recognition of such special people. I will, however, acknowledge your love and support with a generic, yet genuine “thank you.” All of these individuals understood and accepted that time devoted to this endeavor meant time taken away from being with them.

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Above all, I thank God, and I thank my father, Victor W. Echeverría, to whom I dedicate this book, for the opportunities he provided me through his determination, dignity, and discipline. Our unending friendship has proved to be the single most important resource for me. As my greatest teacher, he has taught me how to lead a life as a humble, honorable, and highly motivated individual. With an emphasis on hard work, self-­reliance, and resourcefulness, my father has prepared me for almost any seemingly insurmountable challenge. Indeed, I appreciate the courage to follow a dream, the willpower to overcome disadvantages, the readiness to work hard, and the determination to never give up. His intellectual questioning and our fruitful discussions gave shape to this book during the early days when it was only an idea. His generous time and talent, moreover, in helping me to plan and execute the study served as a sounding board for various thoughts about how to interpret and implement the data. On a closing note, I could not have completed this book, and accomplished much of what I have, without those who encouraged, as well as discouraged, me throughout my first thirty-­five years of life. To all, mentioned and not mentioned, thank you.

aztlán arizona

Introduction

Out of the ashes of Arizona’s 2010 ethnic studies law, which eliminated four aspects of teaching (purportedly anchoring the Tucson Unified School District’s Mexican American Studies Program), Mexican American studies were ultimately barred in the K–12 curriculum.1 This ban prompted students to stage walkouts throughout the Tucson Unified School District to express their deep-­seated disapproval. This modern student resistance was reminiscent of roughly forty-­five years earlier when students across Arizona, especially in Tucson and Phoenix, engaged in political awareness, tactical organizing, and intentional yet thoughtful activism. In the spirit of preserving Mexican American culture, history, and life within the larger framework of the Arizona educational narrative, students both past and present created critically conscious staunch social movements. These protest movements, designed to fight for ethnic educational equality and representation, are connected for several reasons. First, both movements were characterized by major local media outlets and, by extension, opponents as reactionary efforts essentially orchestrated by parents and “outside” agitators. In each case this is simply untrue: students not only championed a balanced curriculum for years leading up to each movement but also were the leading force behind redefining their education. Second, each movement created alternative educational space while students were absent from their traditional public school during the weeks of boycotts. Third, each generation of students stormed educational and governmental administrative buildings, along with taking over school board meetings, in an effort to delay adverse voting decisions. Fourth, both 3

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movements gained not only national attention but also across-­the-­board support from various constituencies that included numerous civil rights organizations and community leaders. Fifth, within each movement, law enforcement officials attempted to discreetly infiltrate student activism plans, and police investigations often included degrees of intimidation. Sixth, high-­ranking administrators from both eras dismissed student concerns while maintaining that widespread walkouts were more about skipping class than about sending a meaningful message concerning growing educational challenges. Finally, teachers, professors, and countless K–12 support staff served as crucial resources for each movement. Overall, both periods of agency are intrinsically linked for not only these reasons but also because Mexican Americans in Tucson, and across Arizona, are still among the lowest-­performing students with the greatest high school dropout rates. More than this, Mexican American students remain among the most likely to be assigned to special education programs and the least likely to be selected for gifted-­student curricula. Notwithstanding half a century of student activism, little has changed. Indeed, a forty-­year challenge formally pursued by the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund (MALDEF) underscores this point. In 1974, MALDEF filed a desegregation lawsuit against the Tucson Unified School District on behalf of Mexican American students to have the school district end segregation and improve the educational experience for Latino/a and African American students. By 1978, the court determined a series of steps that the district needed to take in order to remedy educational inequalities. Unfortunately, those steps were never fully implemented. As a result, in 2013, Judge David C. Bury reached a ruling that required the Tucson Unified School District to devise once again a plan to help eradicate segregation and provide equal educational access to learning programs and culturally relevant courses.2 Naturally, the latter contradicts the recent ban on Mexican American Studies, so how that curriculum is potentially reintroduced will likely cause more conflicts between advocates and oppositional forces. Yet, before prospective challenges unfold from both sides, understanding how Arizona reached this point is pivotal. Bearing this in mind, we need to look at Arizona’s educational history broadly, and then Mexican American life therein. Therefore, the aim of this book is to examine the educational experiences of Mexican Americans in Arizona during the 1960s and 1970s.3 It explores the connections of second-­ class citizenship with Chicano Movement reform efforts, especially within the public school system and higher education institutions in Arizona. In important ways, this book

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demonstrates that “Arizonan-­Mexicans” orchestrated their own Chicano Movement, illustrated principally through educational agency that was the product of social, political, cultural, and historical inequalities.4 Thus, Arizona’s epic battles to gain justice and fair play in high schools and on university campuses were largely led by its youth, who sought their own version of the American dream: equal education. A growing body of literature exists on the Chicano Movement, especially exploring academic challenges and subsequent triumphs, yet those studies have largely neglected the Arizona experience. Appreciating this void, the heart of this study surveys how many Mexican Americans found themselves in a highly exploited educational context that compelled them to renegotiate the terms of their circumstances through various instances of activism. In doing so, I seek to understand how the majority of Mexican Americans in Arizona endured long-­standing educational discrimination similar to ethnic Mexicans across the nation, and how they were equally as active in combating such discrimination as their Chicano counterparts.5 The notion that “discrimination against Chicanos in Arizona . . . appears to be somewhat less than in other parts of the Southwest” has been a standing misconception by both scholars and layman for the last twenty-­five years.6 Although this study centers on Arizona, it also provides an overview of how educational obstacles affected Mexican Americans in their pursuit of equal membership in the US polity. Arizonan activism among Hispanic subgroups, namely, Mexican Americans, is often overshadowed by other historical forces and figures within the classical era of the Chicano Movement—the period from roughly 1965 to 1975.7 Indeed, well-­known leaders such as César Chávez, Reies López Tijerina, Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles, and José Angel Gutiérrez helped shape the contours of the Chicano Movement and contributed greatly to its success; however, the essence of the Chicano Movement did not rest solely on their leadership. Rather, it was equally fueled by movimiento trailblazers in Arizona, such as Salomón Baldenegro, Joe “Eddy” López and his wife Rosie López, Gustavo Gutiérrez, Alfredo Gutiérrez, Justo Alarcón, Manuel Patricio Servín, Tony Gabaldon, Jose Colchado, Cecilia Teyechea Denogean de Esquer, Jess Lopez, Raúl Grijalva, Frank de la Cruz, Maria Urquides, Lupe Castillo, Daniel Raúl Ortega Jr., Rep. Bernardo “Nayo” Cajero (D-­Pima), Governor Raúl Héctor Castro, and countless others, including high school and college students hailing from Tempe, Tucson, Flagstaff, and beyond. These educational and community leaders are seldom included in Chicano activist scholarship, while the premise that Arizona experienced

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its own legitimate Mexican American civil rights activities is not readily explored or acknowledged. Most scholars either pay scant attention to Arizonan-­Mexican activists or provide merely a broad brush of generic information that haphazardly interprets the impact of Chicano activism in this key Southwest state. Often, Arizona Chicano activism, in relation to the Mexican American civil rights campaign, is dismissed as an anomaly that quickly came and went. While most scholars are aware of Chicano Movement footprints in Arizona, there is nevertheless no systematic research or empirical data dealing with Mexican American activism in Arizona. Most researchers focused on either Californian or Texan Chicano activism instead, because these states possess the highest concentration of Mexican Americans in the United States. Some scholars justify this approach because both states are at the center of regional media coverage. And so, the calculations and characteristics that each state depicts are often rationalized as capturing the national Mexican American experience.8 Colorado and New Mexico have been given greater attention as the years have passed, however, mainly because of large-­scale Mexican American activism in concert with the emergence of two primary national figures: Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles and Reies López Tijerina. Arizona, however, has remained seemingly in academic Siberia when considering Mexican Americans. Indeed, the social contributions that “Hispanics have made in Arizona since 1900, whether in the 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, 1950s,” or any decade since the 1960s, have been little documented.9 Arizona historian Guadalupe Castillo crystallized this mindset in 1973, noting that “we have to uncover our documents and build from there. We are now getting most of our information from existing histories.”10 It comes as no surprise that a year later in Tucson “few people in the city government were even aware” that it was National Hispanic Heritage Week, despite the proclamation made by President Ford a week earlier.11 In this spirit, a Pima County historian reflected, “Because of our oppression, we were nobodies without a past. We were a conquered people as the Indians were.”12 An Arizona State University history professor agreed, noting: “During 1945–68, the Mexican American in Arizona made little progress. The Mexican American communities were still unrepresented. It was not until 1968 that a significant change took place.”13 It is, moreover, important to note that the Arizonan-­ Mexican story has been absent not only from Chicano Movement scholarship, past and present, but also from most texts narrating general Arizona history. Graduate research dealing with Mexican Americans and Arizona on any level of substance prior to 1970 is also nearly nonexistent.14

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The Chicano Civil Rights Movement in Arizona, especially its educational reform dynamic, was born in places like Phoenix, Tucson, and Yuma, eventually spreading throughout the broader “Grand Canyon State.” This movement gained momentum as young and old became increasingly determined to resist local and regional systems of domination and discrimination. Even though this groundswell agency storyline is consistent with numerous Chicano Movement case study trajectories, the Arizona story is incomparable simply because, unlike California (César Chávez), Texas (José Angel Gutiérrez), New Mexico (Reies López Tijerina), and Colorado (Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles), Arizona did not have one predominant leader who helped Mexican Americans band together. And yet, Arizona nevertheless mounted a campaign for educational change that ultimately mirrors the aforementioned southwestern states.15 I am not suggesting that Arizonans were not influenced by César Chávez’s nonviolent approach as a union organizer for the California farm workers; Reies López Tijerina’s confrontational actions while fighting for land grant rights with the Alianza Federal de Pueblos Libres; Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles’s cultural nationalism philosophy with the Crusade for Justice; or José Angel Gutiérrez’s political inclusion platform and social change agenda through La Raza Unida Party. Rather, I posit that Arizonans, notably of Mexican descent, coalesced around regional interests, especially educational concerns. From reform to revolution, the Chicano Movement and, by extension, educational agency ran the gamut from traditional, conservative social protests to cultural nationalism and threats of violence. Indeed, as Arizona activist Roberto Enrique Pastor warned in 1970, “We [Mexican Americans] have yet to use violence, be we don’t exclude it. If the time comes when we are forced to use violence to achieve our purposes, we won’t hesitate to use it.” Asked specifically “under what conditions would you resort to violence,” Pastor responded, “Our Chicano brothers are being denied entrance to [Arizona State] University. If our only answer to remedy this is to use violence, we will use it.”16 Many Arizonan-­Mexican college students generally supported these set of attitudes. At a Chicano student conference that brought together Mexican Americans throughout the state of Arizona, several declared: “We the Chicano students support the human and political right to defend ourselves and our people with arms if need be against para-­military attack police and other repressive groups in the United States.”17 Similarly, during a fall 1970 Arizona Chicano college workshop, a presenter asserted: “Mexican American problems could only be solved by revolution, not necessarily excluding armed insurrection.”18 By the mid-­1970s, however, many more Arizonan-­Mexicans tempered

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their enthusiasm for the threat of violence. Gus Gutierrez, a United Farm Workers union representative and former Arizona State University activist, stated in 1976: “No one should be afraid to go to jail for something that is morally right. But nonviolence is more effective. Their [the Arizona establishment] system doesn’t know how to cope with it.”19 As widely known, the Chicano Movement also took inspiration from heroes and heroines from indigenous Mexican and American history. Arizona was no different, as Arizona social worker Lupe Castillo remarked in 1971: “The Chicano movement is not new and Chicanos must go back to their heritage as a basis for their movement.”20 After centuries of ridiculing any form of indigeneity or “Indian-­ness,” many Arizonan-­Mexicans found the sudden affirmation of indigenismo difficult to accept. Others, including sitting congressman Raúl M. Grijalva, embraced and emphasized their “Mexican non-­whiteness,” often using it as a vehicle to organize the Arizonan-­Mexican community. Grijalva asserted, “Far too many Chicanos voraciously claim their noble Spanish heritage, while conspicuously ignoring their equally noble if not more meaningful Indio ancestry.” He explained: “Our indio past is a heritage that must be fully recognized, explored, and genuinely admired. . . . The contributions of the Indio to the Western Hemisphere are vast in quantity and quality, and ones which demand our admiration and pride for we too are a part of the historical chain of events of the Americas.” 21 The following chapters trace how the Mexican American community in Arizona metamorphosed into a united front, demanding equal education access and opportunities. Aztlán Arizona is divided into six chapters, each providing material directly pertinent to Mexican American educational discrimination and activism.22 Chapter 1 in part chronicles the uncomfortable Mexican American educational experience in Arizona, with a concentration on how intimidation and discrimination shaped Mexican American pre-­1960s life. In order to fully appreciate the momentum of 1960s and 1970s Chicano reform efforts, an unequal historical educational framework must be explored. Chapter 2, in contrast, using mostly Arizona-­based demographic data, profiles both K–12 and higher education inequalities throughout the 1960s and 1970s. In particular, education inequalities at Arizona State University (Tempe), Northern Arizona University (Flagstaff), and the University of Arizona (Tucson) are underscored. Chapters 3–5 have interrelated themes and so complement one another. Chapter 3 evaluates the Mexican American struggle to create an equal education environment in the public school system in both Maricopa and Pima Counties, whereas chapters 4 and 5 review how college injustices

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galvanized Mexican Americans to challenge higher learning obstacles at Arizona State University and the University of Arizona, respectively. As such, chapters 4 and 5 rely on a twenty-­year review of both universities’ student newspapers (State Press at Arizona State University and Arizona Daily Wildcat at the University of Arizona) and the records of each university’s Mexican American student organizations.23 In chapter 6, the short-­and long-­term consequences of Arizonan-­ Mexican educational activism are put into proper perspective. A first step in this analysis, therefore, is to examine the many interwoven factors that shaped the relationship of Mexican Americans, educational discrimination, and activism.24 Thus, I inventory what was ultimately accomplished while grappling with what still needs to be achieved, in part demonstrated through the recent dismantlement of Tucson’s Mexican American studies program. Overall, this concluding chapter outlines the efforts of key Mexican American individuals and organizations that become politically active in order to address Chicano/a educational concerns. The chapters that follow delineate how many Mexican American communities fostered a togetherness that ultimately modified larger Arizona society by revamping the educational history of the region.25 This Chicano unity, reflected in student, parent, and community leadership organizations, helped break barriers, dispel the Mexican American inferiority concept, and create educational change that benefited all Arizonans.

chapter one

Occupied Arizona Mexican Americans and the Parameters of a Pedestrian People

The cultural, economic, and educational contributions of Mexican Americans have figured prominently in the history of Arizona.1 To envision Arizona not influenced by Mexican Americans is to imagine a state without several of its traditions, much of its industry, educational pluralism, and an indefinite number of its accomplishments. For example, mining, agriculture, and both the railroad and cattle industries owe much of their growth to ethnic Mexican labor. Arizona’s baroque Spanish characteristics of symmetry and ornamentation influenced the architecture of the entire state, including countless churches, community centers, and other buildings.2 This “Spanish flavor,” however, was considered “too Mexican” for many, prompting Arizonans to create “buildings of fired brick, wood, and stone . . . [that] replaced the Mexican adobe structures constructed in the early years.”3 Despite this effort, the very name of the state itself, along with numerous streets and towns, has an ethnic Mexican–derived Spanish designation.4 The mixture of Mexican, Spanish, African, Asian, Native American, and Anglo heritages has created a rich tapestry of culture and art in Arizona. An aura of sentiment, history, and romance has often surrounded the Arizona Mexican American population, successfully obscuring many educational hardships. As with any racial group, there are unique elements that influenced their social condition, educational inequality, and subsequent agency. With African Americans one naturally begins with slavery. With Mexican Americans “it is that the Southwest once represented an internal colonial empire to the United States. Those

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persons who first peopled the region . . . were regarded as [occupied] subjects and were dealt with as such.”5 Arizona is a young state in an old land, an adage that has been said and written throughout American history.6 Built on the five Cs—cattle, copper, cotton, citrus, and climate—Arizona began to thrive economically after 1880 with the establishment of the Southwestern Pacific Railroad. The newly formed railroad weaved the Cactus State into the rest of the country.7 As with many US territories, Arizona has been inhabited for thousands of years, including mining and missionary activities. The earliest Mesoamerican cultures in Arizona were the Paleoindians, going back nearly thirty thousand years.8 Spaniards crossed the region in the early 1600s.9 The first footprints of Anglo Americans into the Arizona unknown, in contrast, were the “mountain men” during the John Quincy Adams administration.10 During the 1840s, the United States, by war and diplomacy, acquired Mexico’s territories in the Southwest and on the Pacific, as well as title to the Oregon country up to the 49th parallel. Thus, the history of the ethnic Mexican community illustrates that they have engaged in different struggles of opposition since the Mexican American War of 1846–1848. In Arizona, the struggle can be traced directly to this conflict, and the subsequent Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, resulting in the US gaining all of Texas and the area west of Texas, comprising present-­day New Mexico, California, and parts of Arizona. As a result, the US obtained a vast expanse of land—530,000 square miles—called the Mexican Cession. In addition to the land, which equaled almost a third of prewar Mexico, the United States added to its population significant numbers of men, women, and children already living in the region. Negotiated by Nicholas Tris and signed on February 2, 1848, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo aroused conflicting opinions among Americans. Yearning for more land in the spirit of Manifest Destiny, US president Franklin Pierce, a Northerner sympathetic to the Southern position on slavery, encouraged the US ambassador to Mexico, James Gadsden, to negotiate a treaty in 1853 for the purchase of as much of northern Mexico as possible.11 After several unproductive meetings with Mexican president Antonio López de Santa Anna, the United States leveled several threats, leading to an eventual deal.12 Overseen by Jefferson Davis, the US secretary of war, Mexico ceded nearly thirty thousand square miles of deserts and mountains. With it came southern Arizona, which included Tucson and towns later to become Yuma, Bisbee, and Douglas, for $10 million.13 The US secretary of treasury gave a check for $7 million to an official of

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Santa Anna—it has been alleged that this sum never reached the Mexican treasury—while the remaining $3 million balance was withheld by the US until all particulars of the treaty were complete.14 In short, the US paid little for this land, taking advantage of a vulnerable and frightened Santa Anna. Not long thereafter, Arizona would become part of the United States. This became official on June 29, 1854, when the US House of Representatives ratified the deal known as the Gadsden Purchase.15 With this swift stroke of ink, the birth of racial tension between ethnic Mexicans and Anglo Americans began. Thus, ethnic Mexicans became “citizens” not by immigrating across an ocean or “being brought to this country as a subordinate people, but by being conquered.”16 Without moving a single step from their ancestral land, Arizonan-­Mexicans became an immediate threat because of their sheer numbers, which adversely influenced the economic, social, political, and educational roles not of Anglos but of Mexican Americans. Since America was going through a period of rapid transition that included the developments of railroads, the factory system, and more efficient farm production, the US military did not take possession of Arizona until 1856. Arizona formally became a US territory in 1863, when President Abraham Lincoln signed the Organic Act.17 During the early territorial period and running through the Great Depression, xenophobic ideas and practices began to exert greater force throughout Arizona. People were defined ever more sharply on the basis of their nationality, language, religion, and phenotype. They were increasingly limited in their legal status, voting privileges, educational opportunities, and jobs they could obtain. Indeed, degrading images of legally vulnerable groups such as African Americans, Native Americans, Asian Americans, and various Latino subgroups, especially Mexican Americans, became part of popular culture in the songs people sang, the products people bought, and the illustrations they saw in books, magazines, and other media. Thus, many Americans remained outside of mainstream culture, thereby relegated to second-­class citizenship mired in educational pitfalls, which caused them to remain in the underbelly of both the Arizona and US economies. Many Anglo men sought to achieve or preserve the most stable, best-­ paying, and most appealing jobs for themselves, while the privilege of education remained mostly the providence of “whites.” By advancing ideas related to inferiority of African Americans, ethnic Chinese, and Mexican Americans, Anglos could justify barring these groups from the rights of citizenship and landownership, elected government positions, and equal

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educational opportunities. Characterized as “cheap labor” that needed little money for survival, ethnic Chinese supposedly could subsist on a strict diet of rice, ethnic Mexicans on beans and tortillas, and African Americans on the “fatback” of the hog. Such prejudice prevented many ethnic Arizonans from reaching the limits of their own talents during territorial years and beyond. The proximity to the border, moreover, reemphasized to many the purported failures of Mexican values—Mexico’s struggles with poverty and governmental corruption reminded Arizonans just where the so-­called Mexican problem evolved.18 The racial perspective that Mexican Americans were natural mongrels and savages due to their “Indianism” only compounded the rationale that Arizonan-­Mexicans must be segregated educationally and throughout larger society. Despite the fact that Arizona promptly became a recognized part of the United States, it did not become a state until more than half a century later. It entered the union as the forty-­eighth state in 1912, the same year that Arizona women won the right to vote. The reluctance to admit Arizona as a state was based on “skepticism as to the advisability of granting full civil rights to a people largely illiterate and of an alien culture.”19 According to Arizona historian Marshall Trimble, Congress was reluctant to grant Arizona statehood status because there “was too much of a Hispanic population.”20 As with New Mexico and Hawaii, statehood was delayed mainly because the vast majority of the population was not considered “American” enough in either appearance or alleged aptitude.21 Guided by the philosophy of “no self-­government for peoples who have not yet learned the alphabet of liberty,” Albert J. Beveridge, Indiana senator from 1899 to 1911 who chaired the Senate’s Committee on US Territories, maintained that states such as Arizona were comparable to the “Negro section of the south.” Like his viewpoint on imperial possessions, Beveridge staunchly argued that ethnic Mexicans were inherently incapable of making meaningful contributions to societal institutions and were thereby unsuitable for state citizenship.22 Despite detractors, Arizona became the last state added in the continental United States, and the newly minted state degraded Arizonan-­ Mexicans almost immediately in both legal statute and practice. Indeed, they were often deemed a group of people that must be controlled. The best way to accomplish this was through a continued policy of segregation. Whether in public or private space or by de facto or de jure segregation, Mexican Americans often found themselves separated in places as wide-­ranging as movie theaters, restaurants, cafés, barbershops, swimming pools, churches, dance halls, social and country clubs, hotels, housing

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accommodations, recreational parks, hospitals, drinking fountains, public lavatories, cemeteries, courthouses, jails, university cafeterias and dormitories, city government facilities, and throughout the public educational system.23 Wherever ethnic Mexicans lived or worked in large numbers, segregation was the rule rather than the exception, a dynamic that existed as late as the 1960s. As one woman who grew up in Arizona put it, “There was a separate everything.”24 Denial of accommodations or public space was a denial of status, which many Arizonans manipulated with regularity for personal comfort and control. Like African Americans, Mexican Americans were singled out for discrimination in housing, education, political representation, and public services. Despite widespread evidence, many within Arizona’s business and political elite refuted that any separation of the “races” existed or that ethnic exploitation subsisted. Senator Barry Goldwater, a Phoenix native, and lifelong Arizonan, for instance, declared in 1969, “There has never been any problem of segregation [in Arizona]. They [Mexican Americans] can go as high as they want and do what they want. They never had the problem [of segregation or discrimination].”25 Challenging this sentiment, Enrique Pastor countered, “Segregation was a way of life here. . . . just ask anyone around here. The gringos sent us to segregated schools and even at the Catholic church!”26 Undeniably, segregation and discrimination in and beyond educational venues were barriers that greatly affected Arizonan-­Mexican life, whether others recognized it or not.27 Indeed, the continuation of prejudice found its most fertile ground in educational situations. Public education is the brick and mortar of Arizona democracy, and the Cactus State has developed in proportion to the power structure’s commitment to it. Mexican Americans, the largest minority group in Arizona, and the second largest in the United States, have been and continue to be denied equal education opportunities. Compared with their fellow Arizonans, Mexican Americans have higher dropout rates and lower levels of educational attainment and are subject to an education of distinctly inferior quality. The educational disenfranchisement of Arizonan-­Mexicans has been a notorious historical fact because the deprived are scattered throughout the four corners of a very large state. The educational troubles of Arizonan-­Mexicans have long been deeply embedded and all-­pervasive, permeating almost every scholastic institution, inevitably serving as a destructive stimulus for the social and economic structure of the state. The first interest in the education of Arizonan-­Mexicans goes back to preterritorial days during missions in southern Arizona. Arizonan-­Mexicans

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have since endured either outright segregation or an assortment of creative discriminatory practices while trying to pursue the most fundamental right of equal education. Although the territorial legislature in 1909 passed a proposal that gave Arizona school districts the authority to segregate students of African ancestry, there was no mention of how to address students of Mexican heritage.28 When Arizona became a state in 1912, the state constitution explicitly prohibited African Americans from attending school with Anglos, while once again Mexican Americans were not openly discussed. This ambiguous attitude toward Arizonan-­Mexicans broadly resulted in Mexican Americans being segregated less on a legal principle but more by popular custom. Unlike African Americans, who endured de jure segregation throughout the South before 1960, Mexican Americans, particularly in the Southwest, were more likely to experience de facto segregation rather than legal segregation, based on common practice instead of statutory authority. In the matter of school segregation, however, legal constraints imposed maintained a meaningful role, notably on the local level. More than this, Mexican Americans endured de jure segregation beyond the academic settings, but it was both less pronounced and not as prevalent as what the African American community experienced.29 In effect, territorial law became state law, and so school districts established separate elementary and high schools for its racially diverse children. Citing the “separate but equal” doctrine articulated in the 1896 US Supreme Court case of Plessy v. Ferguson (163 US 537), the Arizona Supreme Court solidified the constitutionality of racial segregation. The Arizona Democrat supported this dynamic by cautioning, “The people of Arizona are in favor of this segregation of the races in our public schools and they propose to have such segregation; and protests will only result in making the demand for it persistent.”30 Education segregation is most commonly considered a barrier historically affecting only the African American community, yet Mexican Americans endured alarming segregation rates in US public schools as well. Gaining its widest acceptance in states such as California, Texas, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, Mexican American school segregation began before the turn of the twentieth century and continued through the 1970s.31 Unlike many of its southern neighbors that carried out stringent segregation laws affecting mostly African Americans, in Arizona legal education segregation affecting Mexican Americans was not uniform but varied “from community to community.”32 As a consequence of this inconsistent application of racial segregation, school separation in the Southwest has been largely neglected in mainstream scholarship, while segregation

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in the Southern and Northern United States is well documented. Despite the fact that legal education segregation against Arizonan-­Mexicans was town or region specific, many top education officials (both Anglo and Mexican American) argue that it was more legally enforced than what present-­ day history books reveal. Lending credence to their claim, former district school superintendent in Ajo, Clarence Brown, asserts, “It [segregation of Mexican American students] was common all over the state.”33 More broadly, by 1930, 85 percent of ethnic Mexican children in the Southwest were in either separate classrooms or exclusively segregated schools.34 Before segregation on pseudopedagogical grounds became vogue, Mexican Americans were generally isolated in part on the premise of pigmentocracy (superiority of light over dark skin color), in conjunction with historical falsehoods associated with Mexican ancestry. Seen as part of both an alien and an adulterated race of a distinguishable hue, potential learning interaction between Anglos and ethnic Mexicans was considered biologically illogical. As one school executive declared, “We segregate for the same reason that the southerners segregate the Negro. They are an inferior race, that is all.”35 Districts that encouraged this sense of racial superiority generally established separate schools, universally dubbed “Mexican schools.” These Mexican schools lacked adequate indoor and outdoor resources, teachers, classroom space and materials, special services, facilities, and up-­to-­date gymnasiums. For example, Glendale’s Mexican School lacked water fountains, crosswalks, crossing guards, and, as late as 1976, restroom stall doors and a regular supply of toilet paper.36 Arizona Mexican schools were also overcrowded, with classrooms typically holding more than sixty students, while in Anglo schools they held between twenty and twenty-­five students.37 Students from Mexican schools also had little room to stretch and play during recess. Anne Marie Rosales Hernandez, a one-­time mayor of Guadalupe and a former Gilbert Mexican School student, remembered, “[During recess] we had no swings, no ball field, no shade trees, no nothing.”38 Anglo schools, on the other hand, enjoyed access to lush open land with an assortment of games and playground facilities to safely satisfy nearly every whim. From practically every perspective, therefore, Mexican schools were inferior to Anglo academic institutions; on average the former held students back a minimum of three years in first grade.39 Some Arizona communities even practiced segregation when the district did not support it and even if Arizonan-­Mexicans lived in a district that did not enforce segregation policies. These communities openly transported Mexican American youngsters across town to Mexican schools and then sent Anglo students,

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Figure 1.  Class Picture at the Mexican School in Gilbert, Arizona (ME CHI RM-­166), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe.

who lived close to these Mexican schools, past these schools on the way to all-­Anglo schools.40 One such example was in Pinal County, where “all Mexican kids had to attend school in Sonora, while one mile away [Anglo] students had to attend school in Ray.”41 In many instances local school board decisions were directly responsible for persistent education segregation. Assuredly, students in segregated schools lost out on the well-­ documented academic and social benefits of integration. The earliest challenges against education segregation in Arizona occurred in 1925 with Romo v. Laird (Tempe School District no. 3, Arizona). Led by Adolfo “Babe” Romo and other Mexican American families in Tempe, these desegregation advocates encouraged the district to integrate a new grammar school on Tenth Avenue rather than sending all ethnic Mexican students to the Eighth Street Elementary School. A father of four children, Romo believed as an American citizen that “segregation was not America.”42 Ultimately, Romo’s mindset won out. Interestingly, however, Romo and his supporters did not challenge the legality of segregation. Instead, they charged, and the court concurred, that in this instance segregation was illegal not because of racial concerns but because the schools were separate yet not equal. For example, the Eighth Street School did

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Figure 2.  Mexican Americans at Bullion Plaza Segregated School (MSS-­168, box 2, folder 14:2), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe. Buillion Plaza operated as a segregated grammar school as early as 1923. The school was closed in 1994 due to its eroding physical structure. In 1997 the town of Miami purchased the building and transformed it into a cultural center and museum. This is a very powerful place, and I am grateful to have been there in a different era.

not have state-­certified teachers as faculty. In the end, the judge enforced a 1913 Arizona civil code that called for school districts to ensure that all students have access to the same brand of education. In effect, this case actually did not help eradicate education segregation because the board of trustees simply complied by employing certified teachers at the all-­Mexican Eighth Street School. This led to continued school-­board-­ sanctioned segregation of Arizonan-­Mexicans in this region until the mid-­1950s.43 The next public protest against segregation occurred in 1938 when a Latin American club in Gila County submitted a petition to the state attorney general requesting that “an opinion in regard to this question” of separating Latin American high school students from those of Northern and Eastern European parentage be addressed. More directly, the Latin American organization summoned a committee to the state

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convention that convened in Phoenix in July 28–31, 1938, demanding that the “problem be given utmost attention.”44 Even though the pleas of Mexican American parents were ignored, a greater awareness about education discrimination surfaced. When formal segregation policies were not employed, schools nevertheless habitually harassed Arizonan-­Mexican children for “associating with Anglo students.”45 Even after formal segregation policies were forbidden, purported “integrated schools” still voluntarily prohibited various forms of interracial contact. Whether positioning Arizonan-­Mexican students in separate rows or limiting interracial interaction at school functions, there was curbed interaction. In a newly integrated Phoenix high school, to cite one example, racially “mixed” dancing at school social gatherings was barred. The school principal recalls, “One of the first actions taken . . . occurred at the first student dance. Mixed dancing couples were called off the floor and told that mixed dancing was not permitted!”46 The partial rationale for segregation, therefore, was the belief that if Anglo and Mexican Americans were permitted to socialize, they would eventually marry. If this occurred, Anglos would no longer be a seemingly “pure” ordained race. Even without (un)official segregation mandates, other subtle methods were just as effective in denying equal education access. Scholastic strategies such as special education, ability and discipline grouping, curriculum tracking, linguistic lessons, and “Americanization” classes were unremittingly used to separate Arizonan-­ Mexican students from their Anglo classmates. In addition, “beginning English classes” were established throughout Arizona, particularly in Tucson, beginning in 1919 and lasting through 1965.47 Arizonan-­Mexican students as young as age six were placed in such classes in order to help “Americanize” them.48 These classes, although sometimes housed on Anglo school property, segregated Mexican Americans by establishing “Mexican buildings,” “Mexican rooms,” “Mexican sections,” and “Mexican facilities.” This practice was enforced to acculturate Arizonan-­Mexicans while emphasizing the concept that they were not only different but also unworthy of equal status with Anglos. Arizonan-­Mexicans, moreover, were usually separated from their Anglo classmates on the playground and during extracurricular activities. From the perspective of Euro-­centered schools “American” and “Arizonan” meant being “white,” ideally middle class; anything else was simply perceived as “foreign.” In many ways, Arizona’s educational system in concert with the larger Arizona establishment defined a true-­blue Arizona citizen as white, assimilated, culturally linked to European ancestry, and racially devoid of Mexican, Native American, Asian American, African

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American, and Hispanic Caribbean heritage. Accordingly, if one was nonwhite yet wanted to be a part of Arizona society, one was expected to learn and adapt to a new set of mores. Ethnic Mexicans could acquire such “mores” through special school programs like “beginning English” and “Americanization” classes. These loosely defined areas of study concentrated on civics, hygiene, home economics, and anything else associated with making Arizonan-­Mexicans disciplined, domesticated, and docile. Jorge Lespron, a product of beginning English classes at Manzo Elementary School in the 1950s, bewailed, “What was wrong with it [beginning English classes] was a lot of kids didn’t pass it . . . and they [were labeled] retarded and had to go to a special class . . . and they weren’t retarded, they were totally normal . . . but this would brand them for life.”49 In the spirit of the “Americanization” or, rather, the “de-­Mexicanization” of Mexican Americans, this stigmatism at its broadest level unjustly placed pupils in both “beginning English” and “Americanization” classes because they brought culture differences that some Anglos deemed as substandard.50 This downgrading by placing Arizonan-­Mexican students in assimilation-­ driven classes or courses for the neurologically challenged, such as special education, as well as ability and discipline grouping, curriculum tracking, linguistic lessons, and “Americanization” programs, because they could not meet the standards and bias expectations of predominantly Anglo-­run schools, implicates the entire Arizona education system. The questionable assumption that Arizonan-­Mexican students must conform to an Anglo agreed-­upon image (which most resembled the ideal of the Arizona middle class) in order to be successful was wrong. Under such an assumption, Arizonan-­Mexicans were educable only to the extent that they could conform to such an ideal. If they did not meet the expectations and standards of the ideal Anglo-­like student, the theory held, then Arizonan-­Mexican students were solely accountable for their inability to succeed, and not the education system or the individual schools. In the long run, the fault lies mainly with the personal bias on the part of many administrators, teachers, guidance counselors, and support staff, as well as with the prejudicial assumptions upon which the whole Arizona educational system was built. Because many Anglo educators felt that their models of work, morality, and hygiene were superior to ethnic Mexican ones, they attempted to indoctrinate Arizonan-­Mexican children in “American” values. Clearly, failing to compete with Anglos on an unequal “playing field” became another segregationist tool for school officials. These “separating” tools, sometimes called “academic resegregation,” allowed towns to continue to segregate its schools and students despite

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lacking legal education segregation policies. Throughout Arizona, school officials justified these “separating options” by drawing upon educational surveys, legislative mandates, and legal and quasi-­legal rulings by local and state administrators. Moreover, these separation tools were especially instrumental throughout the 1970s in sustaining segregation because overt measures such as “Mexican schools” and “Mexican rooms” that were created pre-­1950 to avoid interracial academic interaction were obsolete. Naturally, since many Arizonan-­Mexicans were segregated, some Anglo youngsters developed an attitude of superiority, resulting in the intensification of discriminatory practices in schools settings. Whether isolating Arizonan-­Mexican students on the grounds of cultural differences or on the false façade of intellectual capacity, Mexican Americans experienced varying degrees of resegregation despite the eventual eradication of Mexican schools.51 It is important to point out that the abolition of Mexican schools was not done quickly or quietly. In fact, desegregation efforts were difficult to monitor and even more complex to quantify because school officials were often reluctant to take affirmative action on the matter. Frequently, desegregation efforts, whether orchestrated in the 1950s, 1960s, or 1970s, were conducted poorly because school boards, parents, and even faculty were not fully informed of how integration was going to unfold in a given school. For instance, integration reports and official district recommendations were often withheld from school boards, while Arizonan-­Mexican parents at times were not aware of desegregation committee meetings.52 Nationally, the ruling to end segregation in the public school system was supposed to take place “with all deliberate speed” as a consequence of Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka (347 US 483) in 1954. Despite the fact that the Arizona educational experience was taken into consideration in the Brown case, Arizonans interpreted this vague definition for implementation to mean at a later undetermined time.53 In fact, in the election of 1950, the desegregation of Arizona’s public schools was placed on the ballot, but it was defeated.54 Many prominent Arizonans felt that governmental action was unnecessary to create an integrated Arizona. Phoenix mayor Samuel Mardian Jr. proclaimed in 1962 before the US Commission on Civil Rights, “It seems to me that minority groups would accomplish more on a voluntary basis than by looking to legal remedies.” Likewise, Robert L. Aden, a Phoenix restaurant owner, suggested, “We [speaking on behalf of other Arizonans] believe legislation to force what is freely given would be a backward step.”55 Perhaps post-­World War II– era George Washington Carver High School principal W. A. Robinson

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conveyed Arizona’s sentiments toward eventual integration best: “[Arizona maintained] a sort of belief that desegregation can be carried out successfully without greatly disturbing the former pattern of school attendance and teacher employment.”56 On the brink of the Brown decision, in order to continue to successfully separate Mexican Americans from Anglos, Arizona education officials conjured up a solid judicial rationale to prolong racial exclusion that went beyond the concepts of racial differences to incorporate supposedly needed cultural immersion programs. Throughout the late 1940s and early 1950s it became incrementally challenging to simply segregate students on the basis of national origin or racial heritage because this once socially accepted practice became increasingly complex to justify. Thus, supporters of segregation found solace in federal court cases between 1948 and 1955 that allowed the separate placement of Mexican American children in different facilities if they had so-­called educational or linguistic challenges. Although these groundbreaking cases considered it unconstitutional to separate Mexican Americans on solely racial grounds, they did concede to segregation that was purely for “educational” purposes. As underscored, while the practice of segregating Arizonan-­Mexicans for “educational” purposes was done throughout the first half of the twentieth century, federal or state law did not protect it. As such, court cases like Gonzáles v. Sheely in Tolleson School District no. 17 served as the legal impetus for education resegregation ruses. The Arizona court summarized the legal foundation established by Gonzáles v. Sheely and other court cases in 1951: The only tenable ground upon which segregation practices in the respondent school districts can be defended lies in the English language deficiencies of some of the children of Mexican ancestry as they enter elementary public school life as beginners, but such situations do not justify the general and continuous segregation in separate schools of the children of Mexican ancestry from the rest of the elementary school population as has been shown to be the practice in the respondent school district.57

Interestingly, court case testimony of this suit reveals that Anglo students who exhibited “deficiencies” in English expression and comprehension comparable to or worse than those displayed by some Arizonan-­Mexican students were not segregated into separate classrooms or schools. Under the pressure of cross-­examination, Superintendent Kenneth Dyer admitted

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that Mexican American students were not given any tests to determine their level of English proficiency but were placed into “Mexican schools” because of their racial makeup.58 Dyer also echoed other school principals’ beliefs that mixing Mexican Americans and Anglos would “retard the intellectual growth of Anglos.”59 Former Tolleson Elementary School student John Camacho remembered a conversation with Dyer about segregation: “We had a very fiery discussion. He said, ‘Over my dead body will I desegregate the school.’ ”60 The Gonzáles v. Sheely case affected the civil rights of roughly three hundred ethnic Mexicans, but it stands out for two major reasons. First, the activists were a small group of locals who simply believed that segregating by race was wrong. Second, the case helped pave the way for the Supreme Court decision in Brown v. Board of Education in 1954.61 Overall, it was a national victory for the Mexican American community, despite having adverse future implications for all Arizonan-­Mexicans. Because school officials were allowed to continue determining whether Mexican Americans possessed educational “handicaps,” they could still segregate ethnic Mexican children under the pretense that separate placement was for only educational purposes that benefited all. Wasting little time, school officials immediately placed Maria Elena Gonzáles and her sister Gloria, the daughters of the family that galvanized the Gonzáles v. Sheely lawsuit, in a “low-­ability” group with other Arizonan-­Mexican classmates, even though they maintained a distinguished record of academic excellence.62 Following the precedent of court cases such as Gonzáles v. Sheely, the practice of segregating students of Mexican heritage was almost exclusively rationalized on the supposedly best interests of Arizonan-­Mexicans in order to meet their “special educational needs” without impeding their Anglo peers. Many Arizonan-­Mexicans clearly understood this double standard, for as Anna Marie Rosales Hernandez points out, “If language was the real reason for segregation, then why was the Rosales family sent to the Mexican school? My brothers, my sisters and I could speak, read and write in English. We spoke English around our house all the time [yet, we were still segregated.]”63 Similarly, Wayne McFrederick, a Mexican school teacher for more than a decade, wonders: “In theory, it [segregated schools for children of Mexican descent] was to help them become fluent in English so they could compete with native English speaking children in regular school. I could understand why the beginning pupils were segregated, but could never understand why it was continued through sixth grade.”64 Furthermore, the occasional assignment of African American children to Mexican schools, as well as the intermittent placement of

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Mexican Americans in schools intended for African Americans, suggests that segregation was fueled more on pigmentocracy rather than on the complications of learning challenges. Margaret Bernal Sepulveda, a former Gilbert Mexican school student, revealed, “I didn’t have [as many] problems in school . . . [because] my skin was lighter. But I know a lot of kids did, and it made me sad.”65 In short, segregation was often driven on the premise that Arizonan-­ Mexicans were of another race and therefore should not mix with Anglos. Even so, Arizonan-­Mexicans did not wait for state government to end the humiliation of education segregation. Fifty years before Gonzáles v. Sheely, Arizonan-­Mexicans laid the foundation of a powerful social movement that would challenge the edifice of Anglo authority. Overt and covert discriminatory practices against Arizonan-­ Mexicans, which widely included their informal and sanctioned educational segregation, ultimately contributed to poverty rates, societal prejudicial practices, and increased powerful oppositional forces that blighted the lives of roughly one-­fifth of Arizonans for much of the twentieth century. Inescapably, then, some Arizonan-­Mexicans harbored a suspicion of and hostility toward social institutions such as government entities, law enforcement bodies, and the public school system. Steeped in past traditions, the Arizonan-­Mexican community held a deep conviction that those institutions “belonged” essentially to other Arizonans. The notion that access to quality public education belonged to others was a reality that compromised the social, cultural, and political development of Arizonan-­Mexicans. Arizona, as with the rest of the United States, was founded on the affirmation that all men are created equal, yet rampant educational inequities compromised the state’s integrity and eroded the moral foundation that represented Arizona’s constitution. Arizonan-­ Mexicans, especially students by the late 1960s, saw their futures more clearly than ever because the hypocrisy of inferiority within supposedly libertarian institutions was constantly being unraveled, and thus challenged. Their collective efforts allowed many within the Arizonan-­Mexican community to become successful business, educational, political, cultural, and community leaders who realized that mañana es hoy (tomorrow is today). Yet, before the watershed of 1960s and 1970s agency, the impact of educational deception and discrimination described in this chapter, and the dire disparities reflected in chapter 2, rendered the Arizonan-­Mexican impotent in many areas of life, creating confusion in his or her view of the role he or she was to play on the Arizona landscape.

chapter two

A Measure of the Marginalized Mexican American A Scholastic Survey of Spanish-­Surnamed Strangers

Historically, the Mexican heritage population has been the largest and oldest of the Hispanic subgroups. They consistently represented more than three-­fifths of the total US Latino population and, more meaningfully, comprised one-­fifth of Arizona’s population by 1970.1 As a result of unique settlement patterns, a range of acculturation rates, and immigration trends, Arizonan-­Mexican numbers have grown in absolute terms as they have settled across the state and established an array of resources and organizations to meet their varied educational needs. Yet despite their omnipresence, Arizonan-­Mexicans have been mostly seen as a manageable labor force consigned to toil in factories and fields. In its widest scope, Arizonan-­ Mexicans found themselves in the anomalous position of living in a state of plenty, yet to which they were denied access by their race and ethnicity. Indeed, throughout the 1960s and 1970s, many Arizonan-­Mexicans lived in both a material prison of poor educational conditions and an ideological prison of prejudice. Since Arizonan-­Mexicans averaged four fewer years of education than Anglos, this only heightened their disillusionment. More broadly, from 1950 to 1970, the national Anglo education attainment median increased from the “mid-­point in the senior high school year to the end of the first quarter in college,” while the Mexican American education median increased from the end of elementary school to the completion of junior high school.2 Whether rural or urban, Mexican Americans were underschooled throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Using 1970 as a barometer, in all urban areas Mexican American young men averaged approximately 25

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9.7 years of schooling, and their female counterparts averaged 8.9 years of education. In rural regions, Mexican Americans both male and female averaged about 8.7 years of learning. Worse yet, rural farm areas maintained an even lower Mexican American average.3 Similar to Mexican Americans throughout the nation, Arizonan-­Mexicans also had a propensity either to not complete middle school or to graduate high school. Arizona’s educational system is an important agent in shaping both individual and collective expectations of the state’s youth because, like the rest of the country, Arizonans are exposed to formal education from the ages six to sixteen, with the majority enrolled for even longer periods. Schools have the capacity to transmit beliefs, ideas, and patterns of behavior that are most consistent with social stability, which prepares students for full participation in society. It is generally acknowledged, moreover, that an effective education is a vehicle for moving and motivating groups of people from rejection, deprivation, and alienation to acceptance, financial prosperity, and inclusion. Like others, Arizonan-­Mexicans sought the benefits of public education and resisted exclusion and segregation. In the face of protective citizenry statutes reflected in both the US and Arizona constitutions, Arizona educational efforts at the K–12 and collegiate level have a shameful history. Arizona public schools have failed to meet the needs of their Mexican heritage children. This lack of guidance on behalf of the educational system either indirectly or directly discouraged Arizonan-­Mexicans from completing both grammar school and high school, so enrolling in institutions of higher education was rare. In fact, among Arizonans twenty-­five or more years of age, most Anglos generally reached college-­level education, while many Arizonan-­Mexicans averaged a seventh grade education. Most Anglo youth fourteen or more years of age in Arizona earned at least a high school degree, whereas the average Arizonan-­Mexican only reached the eighth grade.4 Whether central or southern Arizona, these statistics were virtually the same. In Phoenix, for example, the median years of school completed for Arizonan-­Mexicans was 5.3 in 1950 and 6.1 in 1960. By the same token, Tucson’s Arizonan-­ Mexican community averaged 6.5 years in 1950 and less than a junior high degree a decade later. At the same time, in both cities, the average education for Anglos in 1960 was college level.5 Equally important, Phoenix and Tucson have a comparable school segregationist past, with each school federally mandated to desegregate in 1973.6 According to the Arizona Department of Education’s racial-­ethnic sample survey, 77 percent of Arizonan-­Mexican sophomores in 1970–1971 failed to reach their senior year.7 Not even one of every one hundred

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Arizonan-­Mexican students who entered first grade made it to college in the early 1970s.8 All other Arizonans generally earned a high school diploma and went on to experience some college-­level education.9 By the mid-­1960s, 35 percent of Arizonan-­Mexicans had less than a fourth grade education. Furthermore, over 50 percent of Arizonan-­Mexicans in 1969 did not complete grade school.10 The notion that the “higher the percentage of Mexican American students in a school, the lower the reading average of its students” was a common reality in Arizona. For example, one Arizona school with a 98 percent Mexican American student body had 84 percent of its third graders scoring significantly below that grade level in reading and listening comprehension.11 Perhaps Arizona Daily Star reporter Adolfo Quezada best surveys this reality: Take 100 American Mexicans who belong to the class of 1978 and go back 16 years to when they were beginning their education in the first grade. You will find that 30 of them dropped out of school before reaching the eighth grade. Another 30 dropped out of high school. Of the remaining 40, half ended their schooling after high school to go to work, 10 went to community colleges and the rest to four-­year colleagues. Of the 100 students who started out, only five completed four years of college.12

This scenario is actually better than for the class of 1972, because then “not even one of every 100 Mexican American students who enter[ed] first grade in Arizona eventually finish[ed] college.”13 Going further, Weldon P. Shofstall, Arizona state superintendent of public instruction, noted in 1971: “At least one-­half (and in some areas of the state as much as 68 percent) of Mexican American children entering the first grade do not graduate from high school.”14 Throughout the late 1960s and early 1970s, the Arizona public school system produced youngsters that were undereducated and overaged for each given grade enrolled. Nearly 44 percent of all Arizonan-­Mexican fourth graders were below their grade level, with many repeating both the first and fourth grades. This resulted in three times as many Arizonan-­Mexicans as opposed to Anglos that had to repeat grade levels. Likewise, approximately 66 percent of all Arizonan-­Mexican eighth graders were doing coursework below their grade level. Once seniors, these same eighth graders were more than ten times more likely than Anglos to be engaged in coursework below their grade level, and more than one out of every ten was over the age of twenty. Unsurprisingly,

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more than 60 percent were two or more years below their grade level while pursuing their program of study.15 In comparison, schools with primarily Anglo students averaged above their grade level. In fact, many Anglo students were reading two years above their grade level.16 As a whole, 75 percent of Arizona Anglo fourth graders in 1969 were either at or above their grade level, with only 1 percent forced to repeat that grade level. The same can be noted for Anglo eighth graders, with 1 percent over age, indicating that the vast majority were either at or above their grade level. In direct contrast, 75 percent of Arizonan-­Mexicans were reading well below the twelfth grade level by their senior year, with 50 percent reading at three levels below twelfth grade.17 Arizonan-­Mexican middle school children, moreover, were as much as seven times as likely to be overage for their given grade level as their Anglo peers.18 In addition, Arizonan-­Mexican third graders were reading appreciably below their grade level, especially when compared with state and national averages.19 Interestingly, the Arizona state school board acknowledged in 1971 that the socioeconomic status of a student did make a difference in reading ability. Indeed, the worse the reading level of a given student, the poorer the family. Naturally, then, the greater a family’s annual income, the higher the reading level of a student, a reality that affected mostly Anglo Arizonans.20 Since many Arizonan-­ Mexicans were already economically challenged, the burden to pay for textbooks and other school materials exacerbated the community’s dropout rate. With no state funding available to students above the eighth grade, the vast majority of the truant students in grades K–12 during the early 1970s were of Mexican origin.21 Indeed, in Maricopa County, nearly 70 percent of all Arizonan-­Mexicans in 1970 did not finish high school.22 An Arizona State University (ASU) professor lamented: “The school dropout rate among Chicanos in Maricopa County is a national disgrace.”23 Not to be outdone, the dropout rate in Tucson in 1970 was more than 50 percent, and “about 75 percent of Mexican Americans work[ed] as unskilled laborers.”24 Collectively, the dropout rate in Arizona in 1973 for “high school levels and above is 75.7 percent for Mexican Americans, compared to 37.3 percent for all [other] ethnic groups combined.”25 Aside from students, parents experienced the most frustration when grappling with the school system process. To begin with, labeling and placing Arizonan-­Mexican children in classrooms that undermined their abilities and intelligence were at times done without the knowledge or consent of parents.26 It was easy to keep parents uninformed because

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most were not kept abreast to their children’s academic development, and being estranged from the school system did not help. Complicating matters, most Arizonan-­Mexican parents averaged less than seven years of schooling themselves, so many were oblivious to academic matters. In Pima County, for instance, 16 percent of Arizonan-­Mexican fathers and 8 percent Arizonan-­Mexican mothers completed high school. By the same token, in Maricopa County, a sample survey in the Glendale Union High School District (district no. 205) revealed that the average education of Arizonan-­Mexican citizens was 7.2 years.27 This education gap impeded parent-­teacher interaction. In fact, throughout the 1960s and 1970s, teachers and administrators rarely contacted Arizonan-­Mexican parents to discuss either the progress or dropout likelihood of students.28 A further fact undermining parent-­teacher relations was that a handful of parents preferred communicating in Spanish rather than English. Although doing so maintained the Arizonan-­Mexican community’s identity as bilingual and bicultural, it also presented challenges because throughout the 1970s, Arizona schools that sent notices home in both Spanish and English were virtually nonexistent. Indeed, secondary schools provided them less than 1 percent of the time. And school notices or letters in English were also sometimes absent from Arizonan-­Mexican mailboxes.29 Arizonan-­Mexican parents, moreover, were from time to time discouraged from attending Parent Teacher Association (PTA) meetings, with either parents not properly notified or school officials deemphasizing the importance of such meetings.30 Without Arizonan-­Mexican parents present at important school functions or board meetings, it was fairly easy to unwittingly or otherwise ignore and dismiss their needs because they were not part of any decision-­making process. Given these considerations, many students and parents felt alienated from teachers and the overall social-­ educational process of schools. Taught by largely well-­meaning but ethnocentric Anglo teachers, the school curriculum was designed to eradicate culture, social relations, and a sense of racial heritage. The one-­dimensional dynamic of public education in Arizona was reflected in not only “Anglo-­centric” teaching methods and a narrow scope of Arizona history books but also the overarching emphasis of an English-­only policy. This policy not only advocated English as the tool of instruction but also discouraged, suppressed, and prohibited the use of Spanish. Those caught speaking Spanish, especially before 1960, during elementary schooling years were embarrassed, punished, and possibly expelled. More damaging, however, was that textbooks often excluded or devalued the cultural contributions of ethnic Mexican

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history, while the events and interpretations of the dominant Arizona Anglo population were championed. Even without these variables, teachers were generally not prepared to teach a diverse demographic. According to one Arizona professor who submitted a study to the national conference of the American Association of Teachers in 1970, “Teachers are not prepared to teach Juanito” because they lack “professional knowledge about the barrio, culture and customs of the Chicano child and a competent understanding of his psychology and social attitudes.”31 Although Arizona teachers were supposed to be trained and qualified for immediate teaching responsibilities upon state certification, they did not experience any multicultural workshops or sensitivity training. Bearing in mind that the vast majority taught in classes or schools with a large percentage of Arizonan-­Mexicans, diversity training would have been helpful. In addition, 1 percent of course offerings in teacher preparation institutions pertained to either the education or demographics of Mexican Americans.32 Those courses that did exist nevertheless generally reinforced racial stereotypes and reiterated ethnic shortcomings. To be sure, Dr. C. Nelson’s 1973 ASU education course, “The Disadvantaged Child,” promoted the philosophy that Arizonan-­Mexicans “differ from their Anglo teachers in attitude, morals, beliefs, and values.” The professor further argued, “Disadvantaged children tend not to speak good, standard English, and the abstract school English is too hard for them to follow. If schools would legitimize a ghetto or barrio dialect then it’d be OK.” He adds, “The middle class [Anglo] has no problem. They can get by in school with the dialect they use at home.” Not only did Nelson promote racially insensitive differences that promoted stigmas, but he also administered “ethnic intelligence tests,” which asked such questions as, “Eating watermelon and drinking beer simultaneously is, according to barrio lore: a) sexually stimulating, b) bad for one’s stomach, c) not an ethnic diet.”33 Even if a district offered a teacher preparation course of study accurately reflecting Mexican American norms, Arizonan-­ Mexicans had disproportionately low representation in “positions which control or influence teacher preparation programs.”34 Thus, newly ordained teachers entered classroom situations surrounded by students who did not manifest the typical “Arizona-­American” attitude they were taught to expect, which sometimes led to racial, cultural, and class biases against Arizonan-­ Mexicans. Some of these biases translated through classroom conduct in which teachers were selective in providing praise and encouragement to students. This sort of neglect was difficult to document prior to the late 1960s. In its absence, anecdotal and impressionistic accounts suffice. In

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a 1974 Phoenix classroom, for example, government officials reported that “several Chicanos kept raising their hands eagerly at every question. Mrs. G repeatedly looked over their heads and called on some of the same Anglo students over and over. After a while, the Mexican Americans stopped raising their hands.”35 Phoenix teacher aide Miguel Burciaga knows from personal experience that “a teacher’s encouragement can help failing students develop a sense of pride.”36 Even after such detailed findings were exposed by the US Commission of Civil Rights in Arizona and other states across the country, high-­level state educational officials still doubted the Commission’s conclusions. In 1975, to cite one example, when the Commission investigated Arizona for the second time in five years to determine if the “special needs” of Mexican American schoolchildren were being met, Gus Harrell, Arizona deputy superintendent of public instruction, was highly skeptical. He protested, “I don’t think it’s [sic] [US Commission of Civil Rights] going to uncover much in Arizona at all.”37 Equipped with US government reports citing rampant inequalities in Arizona, Harrell still failed to fully grasp the gravity of public school injustices. As a result, more and more Arizonan-­ Mexican students became increasingly frustrated with being “pegged as a man under a cactus or a person who is mentally retarded.”38 Mexican American students throughout the 1960s and 1970s not only dealt with inconsiderate administrators and teachers but also were subjected to a curriculum that rarely reflected their culture and contributions, as mentioned previously. By the early 1970s, 1.3 percent of ethnic Mexican elementary school students and 0.6 percent of Mexican American secondary school pupils throughout the United States were enrolled in courses offering Mexican American history.39 Arizona public schools mirrored this national trend. For example, 0.5 percent of Arizonan-­Mexicans were participating in Mexican American history courses, while 1.4 percent were registered for such courses at the high school level. Given the fact that nearly one out of four students in Arizona were of Mexican descent, this was a growing concern. Arizonan-­Mexican students also rarely studied subject matter dealing with Mexico itself: 2 percent were engaged in such curricula. These numbers do not necessarily reflect apathy for these courses, but rather indicate that Arizona public schools seldom offered such courses of study. In fact, Mexican American history was on the curriculum docket in 0.5 percent of the elementary schools and in barely more than 10 percent of high schools by 1972. Similarly, Mexican history was available in 1.4 percent of primary schools and 5.9 percent of high schools.40 Reflecting an indifference to ethnic Mexican culture,

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non–Arizonan-­Mexicans ignored these course offerings, with 0.5 percent taking Mexican American history at the elementary school level and 0.8 percent enrolled at the secondary level. Courses in Mexican history were equally dismissed by Arizona students, with an average of 0.5 pupils in grades K–12 taking such classes. The omissions and distortions of Mexican American heritage and folklore from Arizona school textbooks were devastating because neither Arizonan-­Mexican nor Anglo students could fully appreciate Mexican American contributions to Arizona. When the ethnic Mexican presence in Arizona was noted, the characters of those mentioned were often denounced while their works were trivialized. In direct contrast, Anglo Arizonan coverage frequently emphasized integrity and ingenuity for their cause. Along with this, the absence of Arizonan-­Mexicans at all levels of the public school system encouraged a one-­dimensional brand of education. According to the Mexican American education study carried out by the US Commission on Civil Rights in 1970, of roughly 325,000 teachers in the Southwest, about twelve thousand, or 4 percent, were Mexican American, while nearly 20 percent of the total Southwest enrollment was Mexican American. Of this 4 percent of teachers, one-­third were in schools whose enrollments were 80 percent or higher Mexican American.41 This 4 percent was an increase from 1.5 percent two decades earlier, when most Mexican American educators were consigned to teaching only Spanish.42 Underscoring this trend, during the 1968–1969 school year Arizona employed close to eighteen thousand teachers, yet just 650, or 3.4 percent, were of Mexican descent.43 In a sampling of 125 Arizona schools, there were 138 Mexican American teachers in 1969—barely one per school.44 More specifically, in the Phoenix school district, which had twenty-­ five separate schools, there were thirty-­eight Arizonan-­Mexican teachers. African Americans had seventy-­eight teachers, more than twice as many as Arizonan-­Mexicans within this school district. A few years later, Arizonan-­Mexican teacher representation was still lagging behind other racial groups. In 1978, for instance, the Phoenix school district had 5 percent Arizonan-­Mexican teachers, while the district itself had more than a 20 percent Arizonan-­Mexican student population.45 In the same year, the Roosevelt School District had fewer than forty Arizonan-­Mexican teachers, yet more than four thousand of the district’s 9,689 children were of Mexican heritage.46 Tucson public schools, or district no. 1, also ignored Arizonan-­Mexican teacher candidates in its recruitment process by either exclusively assigning Arizonan-­Mexican faculty to schools with

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predominantly Mexican heritage student bodies or providing limited promotional opportunities. About 70 percent of the approximately 150 non-­ Anglo teachers in Tucson in 1969 taught at predominately non-­Anglo eight Arizonan-­ Mexican faculty schools. By 1970, there were seventy-­ members out of more than 2,200 employed by the district. This translates into 3.5 percent Arizonan-­Mexican faculty, while nearly 30 percent of the district’s students were of Mexican heritage.47 Similar to an insufficient number of Arizonan-­Mexican teachers, Mexican Americans in school leadership positions, particularly principals, assistant principals, and assorted administrators, was highly irregular in Arizona and throughout the broader Southwest. Of about twelve thousand school principals in the Southwest, fewer than four hundred, or 3 percent, were Mexican American. Of this percentage, two-­thirds of these principals headed schools where Mexican Americans represented more than half the student body.48 In Arizona, out of more than one thousand principals, fewer than forty were of Mexican origin in 1970. The few that did assume these leadership positions rarely oversaw any public school where Anglos comprised a significant portion of the overall student enrollment.49 Promotions, moreover, were nearly nonexistent for Arizonan-­Mexican administrators. During the 1968–1969 Tucson public school year, for example, the district employed five Arizonan-­Mexican principals out of seventy-­two. By the same token, assistant school principals were greatly underrepresented. In fact, in schools with a student composition of nearly half Mexican American, only 1.6 percent had Mexican American assistant principals.50 Added to this, district no. 1 had no assistant principals or counselors of Mexican descent.51 The paucity of Arizonan-­Mexican midlevel administrators at both the elementary and secondary school levels was also a concern. The 1969– 1970 statistics reveal that out of a total of 1,044 midlevel administrative positions at the elementary level in Arizona’s public schools, thirty-­two were held by Arizonan-­Mexicans.52 In addition to teachers, principals and superintendents, counselors, librarians, and other professional positions were seldom held by Arizonan-­Mexicans.53 During the 1969–1970 school year, for instance, the ratio of ethnic Mexican counselors to Arizonan-­ Mexican students was 1 in 1,530 students.54 This ratio was the worst in the United States.55 Those few that did occupy leadership positions were overwhelmingly assigned to predominantly Arizonan-­Mexican schools. Over time, Arizonan-­Mexicans did gain decision-­making positions, but as late as 1973 they were still not represented on Arizona state boards of education.56

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Arizonan-­ Mexicans were also underrepresented on local boards of education. In fact, throughout the entire state, Arizonan-­Mexicans represented less than 5 percent of all Arizona school board positions. As expected, the majority of these school board members hailed from school districts with a high Arizonan-­Mexican population.57 Although Arizonan-­ Mexicans gained access to local school boards during the 1970s, they were in many ways powerless. Sharing decision-­making responsibilities was difficult for some Anglo incumbents, as they believed that their position in the Arizona educational system guaranteed them categorical authority. To complicate matters, Arizonan-­Mexicans accounted for less than 10 percent of Arizona’s State Department of Education staff throughout the decades of the 1960s and 1970s.58 With one out of five students of Mexican heritage during these decades, this lack of representation at both the local and state level was unacceptable to the Arizonan-­Mexican community. From a broader perspective, it is important to point out that Arizonan-­ Mexican districts had a much greater number of unqualified teachers and administrative personal than did Anglo-­dominant districts.59 “Unqualified” generally meant that employees lacked a college teaching degree or administrative certificate granting them legal authority to oversee public school activities or students. In 1972, for instance, less than 4 percent of Arizonan-­Mexican school employees had an accredited degree, yet they were teaching Arizonan-­Mexican youth at some level. The Arizonan-­ Mexican, therefore, who did manage to earn a high school diploma usually did so in the poorest of school systems, which were understaffed with underpaid and sometimes incompetent teachers. In sum, then, Arizonan-­ Mexican students were repeatedly tardy, attended irregularly, dropped out completely, or, if they were fortunate, received an inferior education. Thus, after their high school years, Arizonan-­Mexicans had little opportunity to pursue higher education because they lacked the requisite college preparatory coursework and skill sets. In fact, the University of Arizona (UA) assistant dean of students asserted in 1973: “Eighty percent of Chicano students graduating from high school do not have marketable skills.”60 All told, as of 1972, Arizona had roughly 37,722 school employees, of whom 87 percent were Anglo. Of the 37,722 personnel directly affecting the classroom (teacher, teacher aides, etc.), over 92 percent were Anglo, leaving a small number of all ethnic “others.”61 Arizona public schools, therefore, failed to meet the special needs of children of Mexican descent, and Anglos were preferred over Arizonan-­Mexicans in filling teaching and administrative positions.

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Due in part to residential segregation, Arizonan-­Mexican elementary and secondary schools were inferior to Anglo-­dominated schools in curricula, facilities, general services, materials, teachers, and administrators. This dynamic is certainly reminiscent of “Mexican schools” and “Anglo schools” during the era of socially accepted education segregation. From Cameron to Catalina, Arizonan-­Mexicans throughout the decades of the 1960s and 1970s were predominantly in schools populated by ethnic Mexicans. According to one high-­level official in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People in 1964, “De facto segregation exists in Phoenix, and children suffer brain damage when they are forced to attend segregated schools.”62 Using 1968 as a signature year, roughly thirty thousand, or 41 percent, of Arizonan-­Mexican students were enrolled in elementary, intermediate, and secondary schools that were at least 50 percent ethnic Mexican in student composition, including Dysart, Kyrene, Littleton, Theba, Tolleson, Union, and Wilson, to name a few.63 Another one out of four Arizona-­Mexican students were in either an elementary or intermediate school that had a Mexican heritage population that exceeded 80 percent. In percentage terms, Arizona was more educationally segregated than both California and Colorado throughout the 1960s and 1970s.64 From the late 1960s until the mid-­1970s, three out of four Mexican-­descent students in Tucson were in schools that had Mexican American student populations that surpassed 50 percent. More than half of these students were actually in schools that were more than 80 percent Arizonan-­Mexican.65 As expected, school segregation had many drawbacks for both Arizonan-­ Mexicans and Anglos, yet the former felt this downside more. For instance, Catalina High School, which was over 90 percent Anglo, and Pueblo High School, which was nearly 70 percent Arizonan-­Mexican, had sharp differences in curricula, facilities, general services, materials, social settings, and the caliber of its teachers and administrators. Pueblo High School had a significant number of students enrolled in vocational subjects, whereas Catalina High School enrolled most of its students in college preparatory courses.66 Also, Pueblo High School did not offer a full four-­year sequence in any foreign language and had over 80 percent of its students in “special” or “low-­ability” mathematic and biology courses. Conversely, Catalina High School provided a full four-­year sequence in at least five languages, and 15 percent of its students were in advanced math and biology classes. Deemphasizing college track courses, Pueblo High School geared its students almost completely toward industrial and vocational education. At

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Catalina High School, the focus was college oriented, as verified by the fact that its mostly Anglo student body took college courses for college credit while still in high school. Catalina students were also afforded the privilege of enrolling in courses at the UA if the subject matter was not offered at Catalina High School. These options were not considered at Pueblo High School, which as of 1970 was still operating (for its sixth consecutive year) with double sessions. Tucson High School, another school with a majority of Arizonan-­ Mexican students, also outlined a non–college-­ oriented curriculum, stressing instead vocational training. The practice of steering Arizonan-­ Mexican students into nonacademic curricula occurred throughout the state in all periods. Whether boys or girls, they were encouraged to fill their school days with artwork, handicrafts, gardening, needlework (e.g., knitting, crocheting, rug weaving), cooking (e.g., applesauce making), and other manual arts. This instructive thrust was largely supported because popular opinion argued that Arizonan-­Mexicans’ innate abilities were more visible and productive through “activities” rather than “abstractions.”67 Consequently, Arizonan-­ Mexican students accounted for 75 percent of all students in lower or basic track courses at Tucson High School.68 At Phoenix Union High School, moreover, Arizonan-­Mexicans and African Americans comprised the overwhelming majority of vocational students throughout the 1960s and 1970s.69 Along with other violations, the Phoenix school district itself during the 1970s was “among the 100 worst civil rights offenders in the nation.”70 As a result, the district was severely scrutinized for civil rights abuses by the US Justice Department and the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s Office of Civil Rights. These departments often scrutinized other school districts throughout Arizona for a variety of infractions. The pinnacle of these violations, however, concerned the practice of (mis)placing Arizonan-­Mexican students in classes for the mentally handicapped, an injudicious practice that had footprints tracing back as far as the turn of the twentieth century. From Tempe, to Winslow, to Tucson, many Arizonan-­Mexican youngsters were placed in a curriculum that constantly demeaned and damaged their aptitude.71 In 1968, roughly half of all Tucson school district students enrolled in classes for the “mentally retarded” were of Mexican ancestry. Despite misgivings from Tucson psychologists, the district impetuously placed Arizonan-­Mexican students in special education classes. According to Arizona law, competent psychologists were the only individuals authorized to determine if a student was a candidate for “mentally retarded” classes.72 Nevertheless, many Tucson superintendents

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entrusted themselves with this sole decision-­making power, thereby declaring countless Arizonan-­Mexican students admissible into “mentally retarded” classes throughout the 1960s and 1970s. This was done even after state-certified psychologists insisted that these students did not have developmental disabilities and so were deemed ineligible for “mental retarded” classes.73 It was apparent to many in the Arizonan-­Mexican community that intelligence testing was not consistent or reliable but was dependent upon the “right” superintendent and senior special education personnel overseeing the process. Education troubles of Arizonan-­Mexicans were a complicated situation, for which no easy or ready-­made solution was in sight. Arizonan-­ Mexicans contended with inferior facilities and educators along with inadequate counseling, which reflected little or no encouragement from staff. In addition, they experienced a curriculum that was second-­rate with long-­term destructive implications. In view of this dispiriting yet representative outlook, relatively few Arizonan-­Mexicans completed high school let alone college. Those making it through high school despite these obstacles usually halted their education there. The small number that did continue “schooling” often had options that included only trade and technical schools. The foremost educational consequence of structural inequalities and inferior schooling in Arizona was a pattern of low achievers that barely managed to make it to high school. Those that advanced through high school despite often being channeled into slow-­learning classes at an elementary level eventually faced unfavorable socioeconomic circumstances. In the end, the Arizonan-­Mexican school experience in many cases reinforced their subordinate standing by reasserting their lack of success in larger society. In Arizona society, which places a high premium on formal higher education, many Arizonan-­Mexicans found themselves at an educational disadvantage during the 1960s and 1970s because they lacked both a high school diploma or college degree. In 1968, Arizona had a total 9,500 college graduates throughout the state. Of this 9,500, 160, or about 1.5 percent, had Spanish surnames. Aside from California, this percentage was the worst in the nation.74 Despite the fact that non-­Anglos represented more than a quarter of Arizona’s entire population in 1969, less than 4 percent of the twenty-­five thousand students at ASU were members of a minority group.75 In fact, during the 1969–1970 academic year at ASU, fewer than five hundred Arizonan-­Mexicans were enrolled.76 A year earlier, ASU with a total student population of around twenty-­four thousand, had about a 2 percent Arizonan-­Mexican enrollment. By the 1971–1972 school year,

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ASU had a student population approaching twenty-­seven thousand but only 3.0 percent were Mexican heritage students.77 The UA had an Arizonan-­Mexican enrollment ratio slightly better than ASU’s. During the 1967–1968 calendar year, UA, with a total student population of roughly eighteen thousand, had a Arizonan-­Mexican student body of about 850, or 4.8 percent. Four years later, however, the presence of Arizonan-­Mexicans on this Tucson campus decreased to 3.6 percent; meanwhile, 85 percent of university groundskeepers were Mexican heritage.78 This prompted a visiting university professor to ponder: “Why were there so few Chicanos going to this university, when there should be so many more in this area of the country.” Evelia Martinez, a UA junior, argued that money was the main problem: “This [UA] is a rich man’s university.”79 More important than enrollment numbers are the graduation rates of Arizonan-­Mexican students. In all Arizona colleges and universities during the 1960s and 1970s, graduation rates for Arizonan-­Mexicans were exceptionally low. Only a few Arizonan-­Mexicans ever completed postsecondary education, with Mexican heritage men representing less than 1.6 percent of all Arizona college graduates.80 Compared with Anglos, many Arizonan-­ Mexicans entered college with relatively poor test scores. Those students that did manage to make it to college and eventually graduate were few. In 1972, for instance, all three of Arizona’s state universities had no more than eighty Arizonan-­ Mexican graduates. ASU had twenty-­eight “Spanish surnamed” graduates, and Northern Arizona University (NAU) in Flagstaff accounted for fourteen. The UA, on the other hand, had the most Arizonan-­Mexican graduates, with a modest number in the 70s. In 1973, the UA increased their Arizonan-­Mexican graduates to 103, yet the University had more than six thousand graduates overall.81 One-­third of the graduates from all three universities during 1972 earned their degrees in either engineering or another “technical” field.82 About 5 percent of the degrees awarded by UA from 1973 to 1978 went to Arizonan-­Mexicans.83 This low percentage prompted one university professor to declare: “In view of the fact that the university has been around for about a century, the number of Mexican Americans who have graduated here is somewhat embarrassing.”84 Overall, the number of Mexican American college graduates across a generation increased very little in Arizona: from 1.8 in 1960, to 2.5 in 1970, to 4.9 in 1980, to 5.4 in 1990. Arizonan-­Mexicans with college degrees were an anomaly throughout the twentieth century.85 The underrepresentation of Arizonan-­Mexicans in the state’s three top universities is clear

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when comparing the ethnic Mexican student population and the overall Arizonan-­Mexican state population. Despite the fact that Arizona ranked first in the nation with full-­time students in colleges and universities throughout the 1970s, Arizonan-­ Mexicans were still underrepresented in undergraduate classrooms during the decade and well into the 1980s.86 In a 1978 report issued by the assistant dean of students at UA, Arizonan-­Mexicans at the university accounted for 4 percent of the total student population. By 1982, all three senior universities had Arizonan-­Mexican enrollment rates that were under 6 percent. NAU had a 4.8 Arizonan-­Mexican student ratio; ASU had 4.1, and the UA led the way with a 5.3 ratio.87 According to the US Office of Civil Rights, the number of Hispanics enrolled in Arizona colleges increased 1 percent from 1968 to 1978. Several Arizonan-­Mexican college students felt “that those who attend school are quickly driven out by the existing school system.” One former UA student declared, “Few Chicanos get to the University [level] and if they do it is a high price to pay . . . [because] he had to identify with [a] white system to gain the benefits of it.”88 For the few Arizonan-­Mexicans on college campuses, the sense of being “in” a college but not “of ” the college permeated Chicano/a student life. Since the Arizonan-­Mexican population was more than 20 percent, state universities were far from achieving equal representation for its Mexican heritage citizens. On top of this, those Arizonan-­Mexicans that registered for college classes sometimes had to “overcome the racist attitudes evidenced by University teachers.” Bernie Jackson, a former ASU ombudsman, complained about “institutionalized racism” and shared how one professor even called all his Arizonan-­Mexican students “bandito people.”89 Indeed, members of ASU’s Educational Opportunities Program (EOP) warned, “[Often] a minority kid [will] walk into class and the teacher will assume that he is a D or E, or if he really hustles, a C student. They [ASU teaching faculty] assume he’s got to be a dummy and this just isn’t the case.”90 A university adviser added, “Some ASU teachers seem to think C stands for Colored and Chicano and grade accordingly.”91 Scant Arizonan-­Mexican representation was also a concern with college faculty and administration. Indeed, the College Coalition Against Discrimination at the UA claimed that of more than two hundred professors hired for the 1973 school year, only one was Mexican American.92 Two months after the coalition’s findings, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC) investigated UA’s policies on “minority employees,”

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which revealed inconsistent hiring practices.93 In the fall of 1973, “people with Spanish surnames” at UA accounted for 1.6 percent of administrative positions and 1.4 percent of all teaching positions. Jennie Morales of the Arizona Mexican American Human Resources Coalition pointed out that Arizonan-­Mexicans accounted for less than 3 percent of university staff.94 Eight years later, the problem had yet to be thoroughly addressed. As a result, the US Department of Education looked into charges that UA was “negligent in meeting academic advising needs of Mexican American students” because the university employed no full-­time Hispanic academic advisers.95 Despite being among the state’s largest employers, the university rarely hired Arizonan-­Mexicans in any capacity. Likewise, ASU produced a poor representation of Arizonan-­Mexicans in both faculty and administrative positions. In 1975, of their 4,800 employees, 4 percent were Arizonan-­Mexican. Of this 4 percent, thirty-­one were in faculty positions. Four years later, this percentage remained the same.96 More specifically, out of two hundred ASU Arizonan-­Mexican employees in 1975, four were in administrative positions. Furthermore, Arizonan-­Mexicans never held such positions as president, vice president, dean, director, or department chair. Arizonan-­Mexicans were at the professor-­supervisory level. And the small number of Arizonan-­Mexican faculty, staff, and administrators that existed earned minimal salaries and low classification ranks.97 According to a 1977 report produced by ASU’s Department of Quantitative Systems, minority women were paid up to $2,700 less than Anglo men, while minority men earned about $2,000 less.98 This resulted in “minorities” “suffer[ing] the most anxiety regarding job stability.”99 These salary deficiencies also existed at UA.100 To many within the Arizonan-­Mexican community, it was curious how a university could employ about 175 professors in business, yet could not make it its business to hire more than three Arizonan-­Mexican professors in that department. In spite of ASU’s plan for recruitment and placement of “qualified minority personnel,” as mandated by an executive order from President Nixon in 1973, Arizonan-­Mexicans were still overlooked for faculty and staff vacancies throughout the 1970s.101 As a result, Arizonan-­Mexicans filed several class action suits, charging ASU with discrimination in hiring, salaries, promotions, and job privileges. These plaintiffs accused the university of violating Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 because ASU employed considerably fewer Mexican Americans proportionally than was represented in Arizona’s population. Another common charge alleged that ASU

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was “tailoring” job descriptions to match qualifications of “preselected” persons.102 All told, Arizonan-­Mexicans as faculty members or in meaningful administrative positions in higher education were an anomaly. In a state where education was the main gateway to earning a higher income and better quality of life, such an astronomical absence and amount of uneducated Arizonans inevitably strained the entire state economy. Whether one looks at students’ skill sets, years of school completed, or performance in the classroom, Arizonan-­Mexican students have fared worse than any other racial or ethnic group in the state’s one hundred year history. It is clear that Arizonan-­Mexicans have not achieved equal representation at any level in the education pipeline and that representation declined with the level of education. From the first year of high school through graduate and professional school, Arizonan-­Mexicans were increasingly underrepresented. The quantitative, historical, and educational disparities highlighted herein suggest the scope and significance of Arizonan-­Mexican educational problems. The Arizonan-­Mexican educational profile, and ensuing financial challenges, paints a portrait of human capital investment lost. This outline of underachievement and dysfunction was difficult to change, taking years to undo, some of which has yet to be accomplished. Thus, with an interrupted or ineffective education, Arizonan-­Mexicans were generally doomed for low-­income jobs with little room for advancement and were therefore mired in financial desolation. From severe overcrowding to inadequate attention to the specific cultural needs of Arizonan-­Mexicans, most deemed dropping out an exit strategy. The condition of Arizonan-­Mexicans provoked one high-­level Arizona economic adviser to argue in 1970: “The Mexican American is the worst off since he is poorer, his housing is more crowded, his unemployment rate is higher, his educational level is far lower and he is the most discriminated against in the United States.”103 Educational setbacks, coupled with poor health, hard work for low wages, high unemployment, poverty, “barriozation,” and overall societal indifference leading to cultural ignorance created an unstable social position for Arizonan-­Mexicans, inspiring many to break the cycle their parents experienced. As such, Arizonan-­Mexicans felt an urgency to challenge educational institutions that acted by omission or commission to discourage and devalue Mexican American thought, culture, and heritage. Chapter 3 focuses on the continuity and character of those challenges among high school students throughout the late 1960s and 1970s.

chapter three

Bias, Boycotts, and Battling Barriers Mexican Americans in Public Schools We knew that we had a school board and superintendent that basically ignored [us] and at best neglected this community and population so it was just a question of time. . . it was kind of a renaissance period for us. There was urgency for us to make a statement here in Tucson, and the statement was the walkouts. . . the only consequence we cared about is we are going to push the system somewhere [from] distribution of resources [to] staffing [and] bilingual education [to] Chicano Studies. Like any group of young people our expectations are high, and these next four or five years we are going to fundamentally change the way this world is and how we’re treated; obviously we are still at that. This problem [a 50 percent Mexican American high school dropout rate and a small proportion of Hispanic college graduates] has aggregated over four generations. Raúl Grijalva, US congressman (D-­AZ), 2011

The academic struggles of Arizonan-­Mexicans shook up the educational equilibrium, which set into motion unremitting activism. And based on events in recent years, with the shutdown of the Tucson Unified School District’s Mexican American Studies curriculum, student activism not only abounds but also is still needed. Yet, before awareness campaigns and agency efforts by students of today, their grandparents from a generation ago sought to educate and ultimately persuade their own versions of Arizona governor Jan Brewer, state attorney general Tom Horne, state superintendent of public instruction John Huppenthal, former state senator Russell Pearce, and Maricopa County sheriff Joe Arpaio, among others. Since the Arizona public school system and, by extension, their faculty did not address the problems encountered by Arizonan-­Mexican youth (e.g., poor reading/math achievement scores, grade repetition, inadequate 42

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attention to cultural considerations, dropout rates, truancy, deplorable higher learning acceptance ratios), students and parents took matters into their own hands. Consequently, the Arizona story of ethnic youth activism begins in the 1960s and 1970s, when a small number of Arizonan-­Mexican students began to complete high school and eventually enter universities at a modest rate.1 This youthful and energized Arizonan-­Mexican student community was important not merely for their increased visibility, but because their cultural capital translated into a movement against establishment mores. Many students began to believe that the political mindset of moderation, accommodation, and reasonable cultural awareness of their parents’ generation was ineffective and ultimately passé. Rather, Arizonan-­ Mexicans born after 1950 embraced the ideas of the times that called for self-­determination, ethnic pride, and direct action strategies. By doing so, they developed tactical politics of opposition and denounced old-­guard Arizonan-­Mexican community leadership that emphasized patience, integration, and hopeful reform. Arizona Chicano education activism developed to combat oppressive school conditions and to contest the myopic mindset that curricula should remain Euro-­centered. With few exceptions, Arizonan-­Mexican elementary and high school students had their culture degraded both in textbooks and in classroom practices. They not only endured insensitive attitudes from administrators and teacher aides but also were often tracked into “Americanization classes,” special education programs, and vocational and industrial studies rather than college preparatory courses. By focusing on developmental instruction, Arizonan-­Mexican students not only missed out on rich academic subjects that have the capacity to shape critical thinking skills but also then were limited in their eventual employment opportunities. This lopsided curriculum also often eliminated the notion that higher education was possible. Part of the problem faced by Arizona’s public school system emanated from the structure of the state’s economy, which had limited opportunities for full employment for partially educated people. Arizonan-­Mexicans believed that the difficulty many faced in securing gainful employment was the fault of the educational system because low achievement scores, high dropout rates, unbalanced curricula, and the overall poor caliber of education did not properly prepare them to compete equally for jobs. To challenge and change public school conditions, activists confronted countless Arizona districts with demands for educational reform. Eventually a groundswell of high school strikes developed all over Arizona, with the largest and most effective taking place at Phoenix Union High School

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(PUHS) in October 1970.2 Frustration and friction with PUHS, however, was expressed well before Arizonan-­Mexican students, parents, and community leaders banded together to orchestrate a month-­long boycott in October 1970.3 Therefore, in this chapter Phoenix community activism leading up to the historic PUHS blowout is discussed first, because this mounting agency gave impetus to the month-­long boycott at PUHS. In 1968, concerned parents established the Citizens Committee to Discuss Phoenix Union High School Problems. One of their first initiatives was to hire experienced consultants who could “help develop a program more responsive to the needs of [Arizonan-­Mexican] Phoenix Union students.”4 Second, in order to bring attention to educational concerns, committee members proposed “pray-­ins” in which activists would camp out in front of different PUHS administrators’ homes. Third, committee members wanted to organize a district-­wide boycott that was parent majority approved.5 Next, the Citizens Committee argued that Arizonan-­Mexican students needed individualized attention focusing on improving reading skills. The parent alliance recommended special teacher workshops while championing various supportive innovations, such as tutorial programs and policy-­making parental committees. The group presented its proposals to the school board in September 1969 only to have their suggestions met with a “noncommittal” attitude.6 Some high-­ level officials also were dismissive. For example, state superintendent of public instruction Weldon P. Shofstall believed that the parent organization was “very subversive and communistic in its actions and thinking.”7 As a result of an unwillingness to consider community interests, hundreds of Arizonan-­Mexicans staged protest marches throughout Central Arizona. Indeed, on September 15, 1969, more than three hundred students and parents marched to city hall in an effort to have Mayor Milton H. Graham acknowledge and address their growing educational concerns.8 Again, less than two weeks later, on September 27, 1969, seven hundred Arizonan-­Mexicans marched to PUHS, city hall, and the capitol in order to negotiate a meeting with the district board of education. Trevor G. Browne, school board president, who strongly rejected the idea of meeting with Arizonan-­Mexican parents and community leaders, reluctantly met with picketers. Outside the capitol, Browne stated: “We can’t meet at the beck and call of every group of people who think they have a grievance.”9 This was met with unrelenting chanting of “viva la raza” (“long live the race”). Next, deputy superintendent of public instruction Gus Harrell addressed the crowd. Although Harrell conceded agreement to serve as a neutral intermediary between the Arizonan-­Mexican community and the

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district school board, he refused to pressure district officials to “grant the Chicanos’ demands.” In front of the peaceful yet anxious activists, Harrell, equipped with a bullhorn, declared, “We will not use pressure, and we will not be pressured into anything.” Jeers swept the crowd; prompting Harrell to retreat to the capitol building, complaining, “You can’t talk to them.” A few minor incidents erupted, yet they were mostly related to students “breaking ranks to get drinks of water.” In fact, the demonstration was so orderly that Mayor Graham remarked, “I’d like to commend you [Arizonan-­Mexican activists] for the very fine way that you have participated in this march.”10 Feeling that its commitment to Arizonan-­Mexican students was being questioned, the school board released a public statement maintaining that “we do take the challenge of educating our minorities seriously . . . [and] we also take seriously any interruption of that process.” The board concluded: “We will resist vigorously any attempt to disrupt our schools.” Supporting these sentiments, the board challenged the Citizens Committee’s proposal. For instance, the school board deemed unnecessary the Citizens Committee plan to hire more Arizonan-­Mexican staff and to involve parents in the screening selection and hiring process, pointing to the recent growth in Arizonan-­Mexican faculty, especially in counseling.11 The school board also highlighted funds spent and funds pledged to improve the physical plant at PUHS. While the school board demonstrated a partial willingness to consider parent proposals, it did, however, also make it abundantly clear that outside advice and assistance “were not to be confused with final decision making.” To emphasize this, high-­level school officials reiterated that it was not “appropriate for those outside the profession to consider themselves qualified to judge concerning the professional qualifications of applicants or present [school] employees.”12 In the end, the Citizens Committee to Discuss Phoenix Union High School Problems helped shed light on PUHS’s education shortcomings. In addition, the parent association’s 1960s protest efforts paved the way for the eventual month-­long Chicano boycott at PUHS in October 1970.13 As with many public schools, PUHS needed programs and people more responsive to the needs of Arizonan-­Mexicans, who comprised the majority of the school’s enrollment and accounted for the overwhelming number of dropouts. An estimated 88 percent of the PUHS freshman class failed to reach the national reading norm, and based on past performance, at least one out of four students who entered PUHS during the 1968–1969 school year dropped out before the year was over.14 With an average of thirty students per teacher, individualized attention was atypical at PUHS.

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As a consequence, a considerable number of students were either in “programs for slow learners” or in special education. In fact, PUHS led Central Arizona with the most students in such programs. High school preparation was so poor at PUHS that only 2 percent of their graduates who entered Phoenix College completed the two-­year program.15 Roughly 20 percent, moreover, of all PUHS seniors did not graduate in 1968, and close to 10 percent of all PUHS students were not promoted. These grim realities were consistent throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Of equal significance, more than half of Phoenix Union’s students were from families that fell below the poverty line, which further complicated an already difficult learning environment.16 It has been argued by educational specialists that the ultimate test of a school system’s effectiveness is the performance of its students. Using this barometer, PUHS in particular and Arizona schools in general were failing during the 1960s and 1970s. These academic failings, coupled with the efforts of the Citizens Committee to Discuss Phoenix Union High School Problems, created a pinnacle of public student activism on October 9, 1970. This culmination of Chicano high school agency resulted in a large, unified group of Arizonan-­ Mexican students boycotting the PUHS campus until their demands were at least acknowledged. More than one thousand students did not attend classes on October 9, and about 1,600 out of 2,552 PUHS students did not go to school on October 10, day 2 of the boycott.17 On day 4, about 1,595 students were absent from PUHS.18 During the first week of the boycott, approximately 1,300 students on average did not attend classes at PUHS each day.19 While out of school, hundreds of students marched and picketed regularly, usually equipped with protest signs and American flags.20 Collectively, an average of eight hundred students daily did not attend school throughout the duration of the boycott. Even after the boycott was discontinued, roughly six hundred students a day continued to boycott for another two weeks.21 This average daily attendance loss was substantial given that PUHS averaged a 91 percent attendance rate prior to the boycott.22 In order to deter activists, PUHS officials made threatening phone calls during the middle of the night warning anyone who supported the boycott that they would be “dropped from school by the administration.”23 This intimidation was reinforced through a series of mailed notification letters officially informing students that they were dropped from the school roles. As a result, many students were concerned they would flunk because they were participating in marches and thus supporting the boycott. The city of Phoenix was astounded by the mass marches and public protests. Why

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should high school students, a group of young citizens that were usually easy-­going and avoided politics, risk jail or expulsion and perhaps endure police insensitivity in order to demand a better quality of education? In short, Arizonan-­Mexican students looked to their future and saw nothing but despair and degradation. Even students from other area schools volunteered their support in order to raise awareness about similar conditions occurring in their own inadequate schools.24 For example, young activists from South Mountain, Carl Hayden, North Phoenix, East, and Central High Schools, participated in the boycott and picketed alongside PUHS protestors on numerous occasions, shouting, chanting, and demanding better education.25 This was anticipated since these five high schools geographically surrounded PUHS.26 Nevertheless, this regional camaraderie added timely support and was characterized as “nonviolent guerrilla warfare,” a type of protesting that was marked with rapid mobilization and surprising synergy. These ordinary students pulled together for an extraordinary reason, marching hand in hand, reciting, “HELL YES, WE PROTEST. HELL NO, WE WON’T GO.”27 Schools throughout the Phoenix metropolitan area became aware of the boycott through the media, but even more so through a blitz circulation of leaflets and word of mouth.28 This public protest, according to the press in Phoenix, was initially galvanized by the inability of school administrators to properly address and ultimately prevent student-­to-­student racial tension.29 For instance, Mexican Americans and African Americans from time to time harassed each other, periodically leading to violent altercations. Arizonan-­Mexican parents complained that the PUHS administration ignored student bickering and aggression. But in fact, several Arizonan-­Mexican parents pointed out that the concern was not with African American students but with the negligence of school faculty and administration.30 One Arizonan-­Mexican student claimed that when he sought out Principal Robert Dye in order to report a racially motivated attack against him, the principal went to get some “Anacin” for his headache, never to return, leaving both the student and his mother in his office unattended for well over an hour.31 Eventually, the student and his mother went home, with no course of action in place to address the attack. Another student in a written sworn statement claimed that multiple student assailants assaulted him and his sister in several incidents, yet “nothing has been done by the administration to improve conditions.” Despite the paralysis on the part of school officials, this student filed criminal charges against his alleged attackers, causing the student aggressors in question to level threats against the victim. School

Figure 3.  Phoenix Union High School Boycott Day 11 October 23, 1970 (MP SPC 289-­58), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe.

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personnel ignored these incidents and so dismissed these warning signs of student antagonism. As a result, parents, students, and community leaders took matters into their own hands by forming a ten-­member Citizens’ Curriculum Committee.32 Parents looked to Joe Eddie López, chief executive officer of Chicanos por la Causa (Mexican Americans for the Cause), for assistance by making him chairman of the steering parent committee.33 Lopez’s identity as a Mexican American was continually awakened by social injustices. A natural leader, he was active early in his life, protesting what he believed to be unfair treatment toward Arizonan-­Mexicans. In many ways, his identity was formed and fostered as much from affirming himself in his culture and class as a Mexican American as from rejecting what the Arizona establishment thrust upon him. Even though Lopez did not arrive in Arizona until the age of nine, his experiences at Peoria High School in Arizona and later Arizona State University helped fuel a commitment to righting past wrongs. Indeed, Lopez first made inroads as a sheet-­metal worker, supervising many contracts, eventually becoming a union official. In addition to safeguarding the rights of his fellow employees, Lopez advocated for migrant farm worker grievances throughout the 1960s. By the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s, Lopez helped establish and expand the aforementioned Chicanos por la Causa, a community service agency.34 Lopez refutes the press’s assertion that the boycott developed solely because of student body racial strife. He explained, “The situation has been around for many years. There are deeper causes of polarization than just racial tension. The fights are just what started it with the parents. I think that they are realizing that the main problem is a school system which has failed Black and Chicano students.”35 In agreement, Pete Bugarin, president of the Arizona Association of Mexican American Educators (AMAE), asserted, “Ineffective school administration, rather than racial conflict, was responsible for the frustrating conditions in the school.”36 Similarly, PUHS student Virginia Vila shared, “Getting bothered by the blacks here is not our only compliant. We want a better school. People here are reading on a third-­grade level.”37 These were dangerous signs, greatly concerning Lopez. He stated, “I’d hate to think they [PUHS administration] aren’t paying any attention to us. I’d hate to think what would happen if the parents were denied an opportunity to participate in their children’s education. . . . The frustration would have to be channeled in some other direction and I don’t want to think about what might happen, but somebody sure should be.”38

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With the support of the Citizens’ Curriculum Committee, Lopez prepared an outline of demands that needed to be met before students would consider returning to the classroom.39 In almost a matter of hours, a meeting between the ten-­member committee and PUHS officials was arranged through the phone and press. Besides committee leadership, more than four hundred students and numerous community organizations were present at this impromptu meeting to offer both support and counsel. Superintendent Howard Seymour, PUHS principal Robert Dye, Phoenix mayor John Driggs, PUHS school board member-­elect John T. Hansen, and other school and elected officials were also at this meeting. As spokesman, Lopez presented the demands, which included that Arizonan-­Mexican students be protected from unruly elements within the school. Lopez also lobbied for an assurance that parents and community leaders gain a “voice in policy-­making matters.” “What we really want,” one parent told the Arizona Republic, “is not so much community control of the schools. . . . it’s schools that are responsive to the needs of the community, the needs of the children.”40 In other words, activists championed curriculum changes that would make them comparable in standard and significance to those in the more affluent, Anglo school districts in Arizona.41 Denied “immediate action,” Lopez and more than fifty parents walked out of the meeting. Lopez declared, “Your answers up to now have been unsatisfactory, so we’re leaving.” He then turned abruptly, raised his arm, and decisively said, “Vámonos [Let’s go].”42 Other demands that were presented to the school board included that (1) all negotiations be directly between the board and representatives of the parents’ committee, without administrators being present; (2) students not be punished for participating in the boycott, “including dropping from athletic teams, school office or any other activity”;43 (3) PUHS implement programs in order to tutor students “who may have become behind while assisting their community by boycotting”; (4) the ten-­member committee and, by extension, parents be given some power to “hire, fire, evaluate and implement curriculum and establish security”; and (5) a new position at the district level be created for an Arizonan-­Mexican to serve as, among other things, a “direct link between the administration and Chicano community.”44 This last demand was essential for Arizonan-­Mexicans because many felt that there was no connection between the Chicano community and PUHS. In fact, altogether there were thirteen Arizonan-­Mexican certified staff members at PUHS in 1969. Bearing this in mind, Seymour, who was both district superintendent and president of the state board of education, acknowledged: “We do not have as many Mexican Americans

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Figure 4.  Joe Eddie López (MPSPC 289-­151), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe.

in front of Mexican American students as we should have. . . . We have made efforts to recruit them. Maybe we have not done enough.”45 Arizonan-­Mexicans believed that fundamental change could not occur until the biased and bureaucratic block within the school system was eradicated. Therefore, Arizonan-­Mexicans young and old insisted that PUHS Principal Dye and District Superintendent Seymour resign. In addition, many supported a recall election for the entire school board.46 A feeling of frustration befell many Arizonan-­Mexicans as their aims and attempts to make the education system more equitable were discouraged

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and ultimately dismissed. Martha Castaneda, a campus monitor at PUHS, said: “I’m tired of seeing kids come to school and get put in retarded classes because they can’t read. I’m tired of teachers pushing Chicanos into vocational schools when we [the Arizonan-­Mexican community] need people in professional fields.”47 Despite this frustration, the Phoenix populace realized that the troubles riddling Arizonan-­Mexican students represented a convoluted problem that required the concerted efforts of PUHS, as well as district, county, and state officials. In effect, many were responsible because of long-­standing ignorance and negligence. District, county, and state public and educational officials were ignorant because they “did not know how to cope with the problems facing Chicano students, and negligent because they were not willing to seek out those who could cope with the problems.”48 Although a dialogue developed once all demands were presented, Superintendent Seymour, assistant superintendent John C. Waters, and Principal Dye “could not give final answers” in addressing both short-­ and long-­term reform requests.49 In fact, Superintendent Seymour sums up the impasse between education officials and Arizonan-­Mexicans by saying, “Apparently, we are not communicating.”50 At the very least, the boycott and subsequent protest meeting were indicators that Arizonan-­ Mexicans were no longer going to automatically accept inferior school circumstances that included learning in “inadequate buildings.”51 Nearly three-­quarters of a century old, PUHS was in a state of deterioration. Criticized and condemned by the fire department, the school suffered from weakened structural pillars, awkward-­sized rooms, poor acoustics, and inoperative air conditioning.52 Since African Americans were beset by similar troubles, the Phoenix African American community applauded the efforts of Arizonan-­Mexicans in both diagnosing and addressing the problems hampering their community.53 Many PUHS officials, including public relations spokesperson Tom Thompson, blamed ethnic activism at PUHS on other high school boycotts across the country.54 Surely national Chicano picketing and protesting fervor influenced students in the Phoenix metropolitan area, but to maintain that Phoenix students did not have legitimate problems that could provoke community organization and school strikes at PUHS was to dismiss Arizonan-­ Mexican education woes.55 Additionally, leveling the blame of Arizona Chicano activism on outside forces allowed movement detractors to assert that its leaders were outside agitators who came “here [Arizona] to stir things up.”56 This was far from the truth, as most of the visible leadership of Chicano activism, according to Frank Hidalgo,

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youth coordinator for Leadership and Education for the Advancement of Phoenix, were “long-­time residents, either of Phoenix, [Tucson], or other Arizona communities.”57 A Syracuse University study supported Hidalgo’s statement, suggesting that outside agitators creating social disorder is an “absurd and dangerous claim.” Conducted by Syracuse University’s Policy Institute in 1970, the study cogently argued that unrest and ethnic activism in US high schools were directly related to the inadequacies in the school systems themselves.58 Arizona educational woes were so entrenched that many Arizonan-­ Mexican leaders advocated for the “setting up of their own schools in the barrios.”59 Although many parents supported this possibility, several believed that “Chicano schools” should be established only during the boycott, not for the long term. The former sentiment won out, as a makeshift school was set up for student boycotters at Immaculate Heart Church. Despite differing opinions about this “temporary school,” applications for accreditation were prepared and submitted in case of a long-­term boycott.60 On the fifth day of the PUHS boycott, school classes were in full gear at Immaculate Heart Church. These classes were organized and orchestrated by teachers, as well as undergraduate and graduate students. Most of the teachers were available through the AMAE, which backed the boycott “in principle” because educational leadership was their pledge.61 The majority of college students came from Arizona State University.62 The makeshift school was supervised by appointed “principal” Alfredo Gutierrez, who confirmed that more than four hundred students registered for classes during the first two days of the boycott.63 Courses such as English, mathematics, history, Spanish, and art and drama were offered on a daily basis. In addition, discussion classes on current events and cultural awareness were provided, including a course called Mexican American Political History. This course was taught by volunteer Carlos McCormick, a management consultant who saw the boycott as a potential catalyst in “getting changes in the public school curriculum.”64 Coupled with guest speakers, such as Chicano movement pioneering activist Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales, who was responsible for organizing the first-­ever national Chicano youth conference in March 1969, students enrolled in the provisional Chicano school were provided a balanced education. Gonzales underscored the significance of the PUHS boycott and the development of a “Chicano school” by sharing with students, “You are making history because you are taking a stand. In the six days of the boycott you have come together as a people. The seed of Chicano power is planted across the Southwest and is coming up like blades of grass.”65 Naturally, the interim

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school instituted rules and regulations that prohibited loitering and smoking, while demanding general respect for the premises.66 The temporary school could not have been successful without the public and private efforts of various community organizations, such as the Barrio Youth Project, Valle del Sol Institute, and Chicanos por la Causa.67 All told, the PUHS boycott persisted nonstop for nearly a month and cost the school district $73,561 in state aid and $135,377 in spending authority. The boycott resulted in the reduction of roughly 50 percent of the daily budget for the duration of the strike, costing the district $6,000 a day.68 It was, according to the Bureau of Educational Research and Field Services, one of the “more disruptive and costly public high school boycotts ever [to] occur in the United States.”69 Indeed, the boycott took a tremendous toll on school officials. While the boycott was going on, several PUHS teachers and counselors acknowledged their culpability in contributing to the plight of Arizonan-­Mexican students. Sue Malpede, a counselor in PUHS’s Freshman Images Program, pleaded, “We want your kids back. We know we’ve made lots of mistakes, but we want to improve the curriculum.”70 The boycott officially ended on November 2, in part because the school administration agreed to a working number of “nonnegotiable” demands. The school board also agreed to sanction an investigation of administrative procedures by PUHS officials.71 Students returned on a “moratorium basis” to ensure that the administration followed through on its oral long-­range commitments.72 Some of the most important demands met by school officials included the opportunity for an Arizonan-­Mexican liaison to serve the Chicano community, as well as for the community to have a voice in the hiring of minority personnel.73 Perhaps most noteworthy, however, was a top-­level investigation of administrative procedures and practices that was carried out by Assistant District Superintendent Waters, district administrative assistant Paul J. Plath, and assistant district superintendent in charge of administrative services James S. McAllister.74 As a result of the PUHS boycott, “minority studies courses” were offered in the fall of 1971 at four Phoenix district schools.75 Even though these minority studies courses were limited in perspective and content, it signified growth in the district’s awareness of cultural differences. These courses helped both minority and majority students learn about the contributions and concerns of ethnic Arizonans. These district concessions compelled many Arizonan-­Mexicans to believe that activism created the “feeling of familia [family] in the community.”76 These concessions were achieved through political mobilization, community empowerment, and cultural

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revitalization. In fact, Chicanos por la Causa and other community organizations played a major role in securing education reform measures. Chicano por la Causa director Ronnie Lopez noted, “Chicanos por la Causa has developed an image that all it can do is just go to the streets. We have the sophistication that demonstrates we can deal in [the] streets, in negotiations, or at the conference table.”77 Before the dust settled, a suit was filed in superior court on behalf of students, citing as defendants PUHS Principal Dye, District Superintendent Seymour, and every member of the school board. This court case drew national headlines, statewide feature articles, and local editorials for more than a month. In all, the PUHS boycott challenged the bedrock of education in Arizona and allowed the Arizonan-­Mexican community to demand their own education reform initiatives. The PUHS boycott also inspired many high school students to get involved not just with educational reform activities but with other community and national empowerment initiatives. Kathleen Gutierrez, an activist who helped organize the PUHS boycott, was an example of this: she volunteered in the Phoenix headquarters for Senator Edmund S. Muskie’s bid for the presidential nomination in 1972.78 Nevertheless, dramatic change was slow to unfurl. A year after the boycott, Joe Eddie López remarked, “The administration is still viewing the [Arizonan-­Mexican] community as basically ignorant and not being able to assist the school in any way. This has got to change.”79 Committed to this cause, in 1970 Lopez sought a seat on the Phoenix board of education. This school board controlled the educational lives of nearly thirty thousand students and was responsible for a $29.5 million annual budget. At the time, Lopez was a thirty-­year-­old steam fitter with two years of higher education from Arizona State University. Lopez said he decided to run “at the urging of parents in the community” and vowed, “I’m going to make sure that the real issues are brought out.”80 Although Lopez was endorsed by Local 1010 of the American Federation of Teachers, he lost his bid by a wide margin of more than 3,485 votes.81 While Lopez lost his bid, another Mexican American, Elias Yescas Esquer, in neighboring Tempe was successful for the same post. The thirty-­three-­year-­old Esquer, a social studies teacher and graduate of Arizona State University, narrowly won a position on the Tempe School Board, by seven votes. Equipped with a master’s degree in Spanish, Esquer stated that he decided to run because “our district’s population should be adequately represented.”82 With a similar mindset, Richard M. Valdez, a product of Phoenix public schools and Arizona State University, sought a coveted seat on the Wilson

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School Board that same year. Valdez did not win, but his candidacy at least provided exposure to Arizonan-­Mexican educational concerns.83 Overall, an increasing number of Arizonan-­Mexicans were motivated to run for school board positions because then they could influence policy and address their growing concerns of discrimination and neglect. Commenting on Arizonan-­Mexicans running for public office, Edward Escobar, an associate professor at Arizona State University, noted, “These are the people who don’t look back. They don’t think of Mexico as their home. The U.S. is their home. This is where their lives are . . . and they understand their rights. They understand the American Dream. And they expect to achieve that dream.”84 Despite modest success, Lopez and others believed that education progress was suspect and slight. For example, roughly ten years later, Lopez recounted, “At first, there was a lot of concentration on education and things got better for awhile. But now [fall of 1981], when you look at the dropout rate, the number of kids going to college, the minority recruitment at Arizona State University, you see that the problems we faced in the 60s and 70s are still the same.”85 Lopez was not alone with his convictions as Chicanos por la Causa, Mexicanos-­Americanos Unidos, and three Hispanic representatives on the PUHS district’s Citizen’s Advisory Council (a small group, mostly parents, focused on protecting the interests of students) submitted a joint letter in June 1978 condemning education practices and policies of the school district. In short, the group suggests that more Arizonan-­Mexicans must “be placed in top-­level jobs in the Phoenix Union High School System and education for minority children needs to be improved.” As of 1978, Arizonan-­Mexicans comprised less than 5 percent of teachers, while about one out of four students was Mexican American. What was perhaps most disconcerting to parents, students, and community activists was that many of the same endemic problems that existed a decade earlier were still more the rule than the exception. In a similar vein, the responses and rhetoric issued from school officials was virtually the same. The district secretary, for example, advised, “It’s [education reform] a tremendous, tremendous thing to have to go into. . . . It’s going to take awhile to get the ball moving.”86 Ten years earlier, Arizonan-­Mexicans listened to similar coaxing words. Surely, some concessions were met, thereby partial progress developed, but more education evolution was sorely needed. Over the long run, the Phoenix regional boycott raised awareness about the intricate problems facing Arizonan-­Mexican students throughout the state, but tangible change occurred only in small, yet meaningful steps.

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Joe Eddie López declared, “The boycott served one basic good. It brought to the attention of the general public the existing inadequacies for all minority students in every school.”87 In ensuing years, enrollment at PUHS saw no large upswing, and the dropout rate, notably among Arizonan-­ Mexicans, experienced no great downturn. One month after the boycott ceased, the AMAE met with the PUHS district administration in order to submit a reform proposal. The proposal was that PUHS evolve into a model school “in which black and Mexican American students could be brought into the mainstream of society.”88 Despite this ambition, PUHS officials rejected the proposal and called it racist toward the abilities and intentions of Anglos. The school administration in part was reluctant to review any proposal because they strongly believed they were “rapidly moving in the direction of model school status.”89 Although the education of Arizonan-­Mexicans remained a problematic issue at PUHS throughout the 1970s, parents and students gained some valuable concessions, such as more Arizonan-­Mexican guidance counselors, greater attention to Mexican American history, and overall curriculum revisions. The boycott left an indelible impression that the school district should not overlook Arizonan-­Mexican needs and so was obliged to consult with Chicano students and parents more seriously. Unlike Arizonan-­Mexican education activists from the previous generation, those throughout the late 1960s and 1970s consistently criticized and challenged age-­old school practices and sought to rigorously recommend reforms targeted at problematic academic settings rather than the student themselves. Student boycotts were not limited to the central part of the state. Just 120 miles southeast in Tucson, and more than a year and a half earlier than the PUHS boycott, a joint-­school rally occurred on February 14, 1969. Protestors came from both Tucson High School (THS) and Pueblo High School (PHS), while the rally itself was organized by the Mexican American Liberation Committee (MALC).90 In order to address educational inequalities at THS, especially a nearly 60 percent dropout rate among Arizonan-­Mexicans, members of the high school student organization MALC tried on several occasions to arrange a meeting with THS Principal George Hunt.91 Since unsuccessful, student leaders submitted a list of reform demands to the THS principal in hopes that he would reconsider their standing invitation to meet at St. Margaret’s Church.92 The Tucson educational concerns that translated into demands were similar to the demands crafted by PUHS students, largely because both regions faced comparable obstacles in their quest for recognition and inclusion. The top five THS student priorities were (1) the dismissal of Lorette

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Brinegar, dean of THS girls; (2) the implementation of Mexican American history classes; (3) the hiring of least four Arizonan-­Mexican counselors by the next school year; (4) a process that recruits more Arizonan-­Mexican teachers and administrators so a proportionate number of authority figures reflects the majority Arizonan-­Mexican student body; and (5) the acceptance of the Spanish language established through Spanish language courses for both advanced and elementary speakers. In order to fully grasp the insistence for these demands, the impetus for each request must be explored. First, the call to remove Brinegar from her post was motivated by various student and parent testimonials that reflected her culturally offensive beliefs. At a human relations meeting, an Anglo parent commented, “My daughter ditched school and she was suspended, and I went in the next day to the Dean of Girls at THS and the Dean [Brinegar] said to me, Well it wasn’t so bad when your daughter ditched with the girls last year, but I knew you would want to know that she was off campus for 2 hours with a Mexican, and what’s more, he was a Basic!”93 Clearly, Brinegar’s off-­color remarks carried negative racial and cerebral connotations. Second, the incentive for Mexican American curriculum was requested to “show the Chicano as a definite and positive contributor to the development of the U.S., especially the Southwest.”94 Third, an effort to recruit trained and qualified Arizonan-­Mexican counselors was suggested because “Chicanos make up over 50 percent of the school population, [so the more Arizonan-­Mexican counselors, the greater likelihood they will be] familiar and sensitive to our culture and background.” Fourth, the desire to increase the number of Arizonan-­Mexican faculty was important because they “will see to it our people [Arizonan-­Mexican] get educated to the fullest extent of their capabilities!” Finally, Spanish must be accepted as an accredited language because “the Chicano must be proud to speak and understand his mother tongue” and come to terms with the fact that “Spanish is not inferior to English.” Overall, Tucson-area Arizonan-­ Mexican students protested because they wanted “somebody to put a stop to a 50 percent drop-­out rate for Chicano students, an average education of 8.2 years for Mexican Americans, [and] only [a] 1.5 percent Chicano student ratio at UA [University of Arizona].”95 Since Hunt dismissed the demands and showed no interest in discussing student concerns, THS activists were prepared to appeal to public opinion. By organizing a walkout in order to stage a protest rally at historic downtown Oury Park, students were determined to use their only recourse. On February 14, 1969, at the last minute (9:15 a.m., to be precise),

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as students prepared to walkout of class at 9:30, Hunt reconsidered. At last he agreed to meet with students and parents at St. Margaret’s Church on a mutually convenient date—the principal changed his mind when the reality set in that the majority of his student body was going to abruptly walk out of school. Assuredly, though, the last minute pleading by students and the fair-­minded words of Father Albert Carrillo, the spiritual adviser to MALC, also helped persuade Principal Hunt. The most important consideration in changing the principal’s attitude was the promise by MALC members “to tell the high school students not to walk out for the rally” if Hunt would at least meet with students and parents.96 Despite keeping their pledge to cancel the protest, the word to call off the rally did not reach many students in time, especially at PHS, where about 250 students walked out in support of their “carnales at THS.”97 Altogether, more than three hundred students, who were unaware of the suspended public protest, marched to Oury Park on February 14, 1969. Even with a degree of disorganization, there were no incidents of violence: the protest was professional, pleasant, and peaceful. Several activists, including college students, gave speeches outlining reform measures. One college student who stood out among his peers was Salomón Baldenegro, co-chair of MALC and a senior at the University of Arizona.98 Baldenegro, who is discussed at greater length in chapter 5, often said that he felt there were two Tucsons—“the one the tourists see, the downtown area and the university, and the neglected Tucson.”99 In spite of the efforts made by Tucson area students to raise awareness about schooling ills and the “promise” they secured from Principal Hunt, a meaningful meeting never materialized. When approached ten days after the Oury Park rally, Hunt said he “was too busy to meet with them.” Instead, he met with another group of Arizonan-­Mexican parents that rivaled MALC. Adalberto Aguilar, a THS shop teacher who fervently opposed MALC, organized this “other” meeting. Aguilar invited to this meeting his friends who were also against MALC and its walkout tactics and demands.100 In a curious move, Aguilar also summoned Salomón Baldenegro and Herminio Hios (co-chairs of MALC) “at the last minute, one hour before the meeting—so they didn’t have time to invite the other MALC members and parents who are pressuring for changes at THS.” The meeting, which was alcohol-­friendly, was so informal that it was conducted in a room at the Cocio-­Estrada Legion Post, with pool playing and uncouth jokes dominating the agenda. Between guzzling beer and chalking pool sticks, Baldenegro, Hios, and a handful of THS students were able to ask only one education-­related question. They asked Principal Hunt if he was

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willing to consider some of the initial reform suggestions presented to him weeks earlier. Hunt emphatically replied in a series of “no’s,” while Aguilar, acting as bartender, cheered and applauded along with his friends in support of the principal. Aguilar and company clapped their hands and bellowed, “You tell ’em Mr. Hunt. . . . Thatta boy [sic] Mr. Hunt!”101 In no uncertain terms, Hunt abused his power and undermined his position as high school principal. Arranging to meet in a nonacademic setting to discuss serious problems with sincere students was poor judgment. Teenagers in an alcohol-­serving establishment condoned by the principal sent a horrible message to both the Tucson community and the education system at large. No productive outcome evolved from this meeting. The only development was that youngsters were humiliated in public while being exposed to dreadful leadership. Disappointed, but not undaunted, these THS students, along with more than three hundred of their peers, staged a walkout on March 20, demonstrating the serious nature of their concerns. The Tucson struggle for equal education was brought to regional and national attention by this student walkout. THS students left school at 9:30 a.m., walking to Oury Park for yet another protest rally. Afterward the students, led by Johnny Brito and Jose Vasquez, began a prearranged three-­mile march to the headquarters of School District no. 1 at 1010 East Tenth Street. In doing so, these activists formed a unified picket line while carrying liberation flags and protest signs that read: “Never Underestimate a Lazy Mexican,” “Anglo Justice Equals Just Us,” “Education Not Eradication,” “Mi Raza Primero [My Race First],” “Chicanos at Tucson High Support Their Chicano Brothers at PUHS,” “Teachers Sí, Bigots No,” and “Chicano Power.”102 Upon their arrival, students were denied access to the district offices and were thereby unable to visit with Superintendent Thomas Lee. As a consequence, THS students picketed in front of the building chanting, “We want Lee” while singing the liberation song “Los Valientes de Tucson” (“The Brave Ones of Tucson”). Lee declared that he would “not deal with students who are ditching school” and indefinitely suspended the students who were involved in the “public spectacle.”103 This suspension, however, was short-­lived because the Mexican American Legal Defense Organization (MALDO) intervened, securing an injunction against the school district. With an impregnable case, MALDO was prepared to argue the against superintendent’s action, but at the last minute Lee, along with his team of advisers decided that, instead of having a legal, constitutional confrontation, it would be best to modify the suspension decree. Thus, when the case went to court, the term “suspended”

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was changed to “restricted.” Within this context, “restricted” meant that a student could return to school at any time if a parent accompanied him or her. As a new concept, this “restricted” status was not in the school district handbook. In fact, the district policy called only for “suspensions” and “expulsions”—that is, until moments before the preliminary hearing, when THS administrators realized they had to draw on another term that both protects their course of action and reasonably disciplines student demonstrators. Therefore, without following protocol, district officials changed the bylaws of the handbook to reflect this newly conceived status. With few alternatives, MALDO was forced to drop the suit, and so the case was dismissed.104 Two days after MALDO dropped the lawsuit, about 150 parents and local community leaders gathered to discuss their children’s uncertain fate. The first matter of interest focused on what measures could be taken to get “restricted” students back in school and in good academic standing. It was decided that it was best to have the suspended students return as a collective group rather than go back individually. Next, parents and their supporters focused on how the community could come together to tactically pressure the district into addressing the reform demands. They also debated why some students were indefinitely suspended for protesting while others were not suspended or admonished for their protest participation.105 The group of activists agreed that a meeting with both Superintendent Lee and THS Principal Hunt was necessary. Like their civic-­minded children, they too had difficulty arranging a meeting with the top education officials. For more than a month, phone calls were placed and telegrams were sent to the superintendent and principal, yet these efforts led only to responses that “they were too busy” to meet. As with administrators in Phoenix, Tucson officials blamed student and parent protesting on “outside” elements. Indeed, Superintendent Lee stated on several occasions that school protesting occurred because it was the “in” thing to do.106 Steve Wangsness, a Rincon High School junior, remarked, “I am not a simpleton who can be swayed by every sweet-­t alking outside agitator that comes along. I like to think, Mr. Lee, that my opinions and beliefs are my own and nobody else’s. I would appreciate it Mr. Lee, that you not make statements saying I do not believe, or even comprehend, the statements I make or the opinions I hold.” Disgruntled, activists decided to dispatch a delegation to the offices of Hunt and Lee. The delegation of three parents, four high school students, and the co-chair of MALC first visited with Lee. Superintendent Lee, unenthusiastic about arranging a formal meeting,

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implied that the Arizonan-­Mexican “is where he is because of where he lives and how he lives.” Failed attempts to formally meet with Hunt added to the growing frustration. Yet, after a brief encounter with Hunt, the delegation was “disgusted with Hunt’s attitude and profane language.”107 After Lee’s insinuation and reluctance to discuss Arizonan-­Mexican educational woes, parents and local leaders organized once again. Without much debate or dispute, the group decided to stage a walk­in: they walked into the THS auditorium unannounced and demanding that Lee, Hunt, and the school board address their questions and growing concerns. Lee did not interact with parents “except to tell them they had no business being there and that this [THS] was Mr. Hunt’s school.” Hunt, however, did agree to provide “excused absences” to those students who participated in the boycott.108 Other school board members, who at times maintained that Arizonan-­Mexicans should “cross the line in Nogales, [Mexico,] if they were unsatisfied with District One policies,” mirrored Lee’s attitude. After this, parents and students continued to campaign for a meeting with Hunt, Lee, and the school board. Eventually public pressure became too great: on May 2, 1969, Lee agreed to hold a public forum dealing with Arizonan-­Mexican concerns. Those that attended were greeted with an unexpected surprise, leading to Lee and the “Board tell[ing] students and parents to get out [because] they will not meet with parents and students unless they [the Board and Lee] choose the parents and students who are to be at the meeting.”109 Discouraged and downright furious, students and parents walked out of the meeting, led by Father Carrillo. Influenced by increased protests throughout Arizona, as well as broken school board promises, the Tucson Arizonan-­Mexican community unified in an unprecedented rally on May 9, 1969, in order to “tell the nation that the Chicano will no longer stand for this [education exploitation]!” They vowed, “We will be telling this town [Tucson and its surrounding communities] that we will no longer allow school systems to destroy our children, because they are Mexican [American].”110 The day’s agenda unfolded as follows: 3:30–4:15 p.m.: All parents, students, and children from all area schools met at THS; 4:15–4:30: the group of activists marched to the Education Center at 1010 East Tenth Street; 4:30–5:30: the group marched down Broadway, Congress, and Main Streets en route to city hall; 6:30– 6:45: once organized, the activists protested at city hall; 6:45–7:30: After the City Hall demonstration, the protesters marched to St. Augustine’s Cathedral; 7:30–8:30: once at the cathedral, the group attended a Mariachi mass; 8:30–12:30: following a day of protest and prayer, the marchers enjoyed food and festivities at the All Saints Church, located on the corner

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of Sixth and Fourteenth Streets—one block south of the Tucson Public Library.111 The student and parent demands were first met with great resistance. For instance, demands such as greater representation of Arizonan-­Mexican guidance counselors and “Chicano History [courses] were not fully considered,” but eventually the grievances were partially addressed.112 Despite a lackluster response to pressing school concerns, most activists believed that demonstrations and public protests were worthwhile measures. John Brito, a THS senior, reflects, “It [student walkouts] showed the administration that Chicano students are aware of the discrimination that exists in our schools and that they can and will challenge the administration and anyone else who oppresses the Chicano people.” Brito added, “All we lost was a couple days of school, but we gained much. We gained a deep pride in being Chicano and a genuine self-­respect.”113 Overall, reform at THS was slow to develop, but with consistent activism, coupled with the fact that the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare investigated School District no. 1 for its discriminatory practices, progressive change did emerge. Perhaps the greatest demand that was met by Lee and the school district was the transfer (prior to the 1969–1970 academic year) of Brinegar, dean of THS girls. While school officials acknowledged the culturally offensive nature of Brinegar’s comments, many students remained pessimistic about her replacement. Elinor Mosteiro, the new dean, had a reputation as a harsh disciplinarian with limited people skills. With an aggressive philosophy in enforcing school policy, Mosteiro made it clear that she would not tolerate insubordination, emphasizing she was only “an American who happened to have a Spanish surname.” One example of Mosteiro’s controlling ways was punishing students “by forcing them to put their chewing gum on their noses.” Because of the school board’s decision to hire Mosteiro, many believed that the “faces change, but the attitude towards the students will be no different.”114 As a consequence of limited educational reform, Tucson Arizonan-­ Mexicans continued to press their case throughout the 1970s. In October 1979, their efforts came to a climax as Tucson Unified School District students insisted on a sit-­down meeting with Superintendent Merrill A. Grant. As with previous Tucson Unified School District superintendents, Grant was bombarded with “hard questions about district practices,” yet he “had few answers, and avoided making promises.”115 Students vented their frustrations, from overpopulated classrooms to a lack of ethnic heritage courses. Aileen Contreras, a Rincon High School senior, contended, “Ethnic groups were being spread around for desegregation but nothing

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was being done to teach understanding of their heritage.” To his credit, though, Grant did propose that students devise a subcommittee that could oversee the development of an effective ethnic studies course. Grant promised to add it to the curriculum as long as it was a balanced course offering. Although problems still existed, a progressive shift in administrative thinking seemed to take shape. In other words, Tucson area school officials were more receptive to addressing the conflicts and concerns of Arizonan-­Mexican students. The observation of Sahuaro High School student Tom Frankman highlights this perception: “He’s [Superintendent Grant] obviously a very sincere man. From what I’ve heard that’s the total opposite of last year.”116 The troubles at PHS were equally challenging as those at Rincon High School and other schools in the Tucson Unified School District. With a dropout rate twice that of THS, PHS students created their own school demands. Guided by Wencie Cant, MALC spokesman at Pueblo, Arizona, students negotiated a meeting with the PHS administration to discuss the programs plaguing students. As such, a coordinating council of students submitted a list of suggestions they wanted to be incorporated by the next academic school year. Some of these demands included that PHS establish a full-­time Human Relations Office to investigate discrimination against Arizonan-­Mexicans. Students also insisted that PHS conduct a fact-­finding study on the involvement of Arizonan-­Mexicans in school activities (e.g., athletics, student government, clubs). PHS students also urged school officials to create a Student Grievance Board in order to listen to student complaints, which ran the gamut from school district intransigence to broader school official insensitivity. This board was not intended to be affiliated with the school student council and so was to reflect the racial makeup of PHS. With the exception of firing Brinegar, the same reform initiatives that were championed at THS were also tendered to PHS faculty and administration.117 Although education reform in cities such as Tucson and Phoenix were modest, the change ushered in served to inspire students throughout Arizona to press their case for academic reclamation. In Douglas, for example, approximately one hundred Arizonan-­Mexicans walked out of a school board meeting after the education leaders failed to appoint an Arizonan-­Mexican high school guidance counselor. Parents and community leaders attended the meeting in an effort to persuade board members to hire an Arizonan-­Mexican counselor, something “they contended should have been done three years ago,” not in 1974. The walkout was provoked when the reality set in that the community would have to legally

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wait until the 1975–1976 school year to raise this issue again. Emundo Rabago, parent activist, felt that several members of the school board did not want an Arizonan-­Mexican counselor. “It seems to me,” he asserted, “that this board has known the needs of these people [Arizonan-­Mexicans] for two or three years and nothing has been done about it. I wonder why.”118 Despite setbacks, Arizonan-­Mexicans continued to march, protest, and organize in a variety of ways well into the late 1970s.119 As a whole, public education reform in Arizona would never have developed if students, parents, community leaders, and everyday citizens had not banded together to protest, promote, and protect the equalization of educational opportunity. Speaking at an event sponsored by the AMAE, a representative from the US Civil Rights Commission declared: “The Chicano student movement [in Arizona] has forced educators to redefine both Mexican Americans and democracy.” In commenting about the perpetual Mexican American stereotype, the commission official suggested: “I doubt if many Anglos still stereotype Mexican Americans as passive, fatalistic, semi-­citizens. People who demand recognition and change by sit-­downs, strikes, boycotts, and marches are well on their way to full political participation. They are citizens in the best democratic tradition of the United States.”120 Young student activists also recognized the value of their efforts. Susie Nuanez of Wakefield Junior High School acknowledged in 1972 that “I am for the Chicano movement and the way we do things. This is the way we fight for what we want. For a long time, we have been taking a lot from the Anglos and now were fed up.”121 Just as meaningful, Canyon del Oro Junior High student Patti Rodriguez asserted, “The Chicano movement is good in many aspects since this is the only way we [Mexican Americans] have ever been heard, and the only way a race can elevate themselves is to unite and fight for one cause.”122 There was finally an upswing of momentum to end monocultural Arizona education. This momentum helped alter the political control of education, fostered the reformulation of educational thought, paved the way for innovative educational learning methods, and promoted pedagogical change. Arizonan-­Mexican activism during the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s made a vital contribution by improving educational standards. Perhaps for the first time in Arizona, the culture, tradition, and history of Arizonan-­Mexicans entered the formal curriculum in a meaningful way. Out of this call for change, a few programs and institutions emerged with new curriculum designs resembling a more pluralistic model of education. As such, Arizonan-­Mexicans made an important contribution to education reform by their commitment to and involvement in all phases of

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education activism. Schools became somewhat more representative of the communities they served in the ratios of Arizonan-­Mexican administrators, teachers, counselors, and school board members. Without a doubt, the increased awareness of Arizonan-­ Mexican educational needs was spawned by walkouts, school board confrontations, litigation, legislation, recall efforts, advocacy organizations, parent councils, individual leaders, political demonstrations, and community workshops.123 Overall, though, despite positive educational change since the late 1960s, more has been proposed than actually accomplished. The Arizona school system was sluggish to react to social pressure, and curricular changes have not been exceptionally significant or lasting. In many ways, the adapted changes were corrective rather than substantive, trend-­setting modifications. The Arizonan Chicano Movement with its focus on education reform made some marked advances, but the lower academic achievement of Arizonan-­Mexican students in relation to their Anglo counterparts remained unaffected. According to a survey conducted by the US Civil Rights Commission, headed by Arizona State University professor Morrison Warren, after eight years of awareness and activism, Arizona school districts were “still failing to provide adequate educational options for Spanish-­speaking [Arizonan-­Mexican] children and their parents.”124 The report, which was aided by an Arizona advisory commission, indicated that districts employed a much smaller proportion of Arizonan-­Mexicans than the proportion of Mexican heritage students enrolled. The Anglo majority that supervised and taught these students, moreover, often were devoid of cultural sensitivity training, as noted in chapter 2. In addition, classes intended for the “educable mentally retarded” were “filled with a disproportionate share of Mexican American youngsters who have been placed through inaccurate evaluations.” Finally, the history and culture of Arizonan-­Mexicans were still noticeably absent from public school curricula at both the elementary and secondary levels.125 As a result of continued setbacks, and the fact that various districts were still assigning Arizonan-­Mexican students to schools on the “basis of race, color, or national origin,” the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare had withheld millions of dollars in Emergency School Aid Act funds by 1980. The Tucson Unified School District, for example, was ineligible for up to $5.2 million in desegregation aid because it did not discontinue “discriminatory practices against minority students.”126 Put another way, throughout the late 1970s and 1980s, many Arizonan-­Mexicans still attended many de facto segregated schools—that is, schools that, due to residential segregation and school attendance zones, were highly

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segregated by race. In 1979, Arizonan-­Mexicans still endured many of the same education inequities that they dealt with a decade earlier. There was a consistent unresponsiveness from the education establishment that reacted rather than acted on Arizonan-­Mexican school concerns. Despite countless protests and campaigns, many districts and school board members were impervious to the problems facing Arizonan-­Mexican students. Martha Castaneda, a twenty-­five-­year-­old PUHS hall monitor, stated, “It’s the same old hassle, year after year. We [Mexican Americans] present a list of demands, we all go to the tables and talk and nothing happens. Big deal.”127 Arizonan-­Mexicans, as with all Americans, just wanted a reasonable chance to improve their lives while allowing their multicultural background to be a bridge to better education rather than an obstacle to it. From Phoenix to Tucson, those districts’ inability to fully appreciate institutional patterns of discrimination only fueled disillusionment among Arizonan-­Mexican youth. Indeed, disappointment after disappointment ultimately laid the groundwork for their further radicalization and mobilization, which intensified at the college level, as reflected in chapters 4 and 5.

chapter four

Activists of Academia Students, Scholars, and Staffers at Arizona State University En la eduación hay la fuerza. Y asi como hay fuerza en la educación, tambien hay en la union. Y si concentramos en combinar estas dos fuerzas, nuestra Raza tendrá exito en todas su esfuerzos. (In education there is power. And just like there is power in education, there also is in a union. And if we concentrate on combining these two powers, our race will be a success in its efforts.) —Arizona State Representative Daniel Raúl Ortega Jr., Arizona State University’s MECHA President, 1972–1973.

The Arizonan-­Mexican student movement of the late 1960s and 1970s was rooted in dissatisfaction with not only high schools but also college campuses. As a powerful, unifying force, Chicano students in colleges and universities alike became politicized, mobilizing into coalitions in order to protest discrimination against all Arizonan-­Mexicans in every level of education. As part of the larger dynamic of the Chicano Movement and as students became increasingly aware of additional societal inequalities, however, they also challenged injustices in foreign wars, for farm workers, in political arenas (e.g., the establishment of the Raza Unida Party, the recall effort of Arizona governor Jack Williams), in corporate spheres, and in society at large.1 Despite their long-­standing patriotism, students were especially uneasy about the disproportionate number of Mexican American causalities throughout the Vietnam conflict.2 By 1970, 20 percent of all causalities in Vietnam were Mexican Americans, and nearly 30 percent of this group of casualties comprised Arizonan-­Mexicans.3 As sociologist Todd Gitlin noted, “A tremendous unraveling and rethinking of basic values took place during this period. This tumultuous era significantly transformed politics, society, culture and even foreign policy.” 68

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By 1968, a new sense of ethnic worth manifested among Mexican American youth, giving them what historians Matt Meier and Feliciano Ribera describe as the “impetus to demand recognition from the middle-­class educational system.”4 Even though the upsurge of agency was born from the many inequities on Arizona campuses, Chicano students who came from mostly working-­class backgrounds felt compelled to “directly contribute to affect social, political, and economic change for our people.”5 As a whole, Arizonan-­Mexicans were chiefly protesting educational inequalities but were also aware of generational discrimination that included eliminating poverty and preserving ethnic Mexican culture. Young activists at both the University of Arizona (UA) and Arizona State University (ASU) gained a voice in campus and community affairs by coming together to establish student organizations.6 In the fall of 1968, students from the UA and ASU, and out-­of-­state students, from mostly California, met with the intention of creating a supportive organization. The main aim of this organization, of which each college had its own adaptation, was to create a politically active student association concerned with promoting the best interests in the Mexican American community on campus and across the United States. These student groups also set out to “sensitize Mexican Americans to the Chicano movement.”7 ASU students called their group MASO (Mexican American Student Organization), and the UA from the outset housed two Chicano student organizations, named one MASA (Mexican American Student Association) and the other MALC (Mexican American Liberation Committee).8 At the UA, MASA elected Edmond Marquez as its first president, while MALC appointed Salomón “Sal” Baldenegro as its original chairman. ASU’s MASO selected Alfredo Gutierrez to initially hold this post. The two Chicano student factions at the UA sought comparable educational reform but espoused conflicting strategies to achieve such reform. MASA was considered the more “moderate” of the two student groups, and so MALC, as the so-­called aggressive group, left its activist mark first. Whereas MASA was committed to working within the system to develop tutorial programs and scholarships, MALC sought to challenge the system in order to be more advocacy oriented for both community and campus concerns. In essence, each organization acted independently of the other and failed to create an alliance against university-­wide discrimination. In the spirit of statewide and national solidarity, however, a few years later the membership of all these groups merged under the name MECHA (Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán), a designation still in use today.9 This unification allowed the newly formed UA MECHA “to have room

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for the activist and the more moderate student.”10 Supporting an alliance, a student activist shared: “The establishment has tried to divide the Chicano groups into factions, giving them inferiority complexes. We are not a divided people but we are being divided. They [select Anglos] divide us into good Mexicans against bad Mexicans, conservative Mexicans against militants. They know how to do it very effectively. To accomplish anything we [Mexican Americans] must be united.”11 Viewed as an arm of the Chicano Movement, MECHA’s primary goal, according to ASU member Ronnie Martinez, was to exercise the actions of “political consciousness, political mobilization, and tactics.” He added, “MECHA is a first step to tying student groups throughout the Southwest into a concerned and responsive group of activists who will respond as a unit to oppression and racism and will work in harmony when initiating and carrying out campaigns of liberation for our people.” Baldenegro agrees, asserting: “A Chicano activist in Arizona should identify with the Chicano in California (or any other state), and if he is in a position to help the Chicanos in another state to alleviate a problem that is besetting them, he has a moral obligation to do so.”12 MECHA, then, at least in the minds of both Martinez and Baldenegro, reflected unity and a sense of “brotherhood.”13 This outlook was passed on year after year by other MECHA members, such as ASU’s Tony Zuniga.14 By 1976, this unity culminated in the first Arizona statewide MECHA meeting that discussed the common concerns facing Phoenix, Tucson, Flagstaff, and other Arizona cities.15 With the assistance of some Arizonan-­Mexican faculty members serving in mostly advisory positions, students defined the priorities needed on their campuses. Some of these priorities included the development of Chicano studies, expansion of higher education fellowships and support services, and the improvement in the ratio of Arizonan-­Mexicans in the student body and in faculty positions. An open-­door relationship with the larger Chicano community was also important in order to safeguard the rights of all Arizonan-­Mexicans in “barrios or colonias.”16 This relationship extended far and wide to include such national leaders as César Chávez. As friends of Chávez, who himself was deprived of a proper education, Arizona students supported the California grape boycott by pressuring university food services to discontinue the distribution of grapes on college campuses. At ASU in 1968, students held protests against Saga Foods and Fry’s Food Stores until the food services vowed to comply with the boycott. As the contracted food service of ASU, Saga Foods was responsible for serving nearly three thousand students per meal as well serving as the chief catering service for sanctioned campus activities. Fry’s Food

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Stores of Arizona, Inc., on the other hand, maintained a highly visible presence throughout Maricopa County by owning and operating supermarket chains despite lacking an official relationship with the university. ASU student Agustín Cardona emphasized the sentiments of many, stating: “We are supporting the boycott against California grapes in an effort to obtain good working conditions for Farm workers.”17 The boycott was broad based, as individuals from various heritages were welcome. An ASU student confirmed, “We are not interested in just any Mexicans. We want active [ethnic] Mexicans and any gringos [Anglo Americans] who are concerned.”18 This commitment of Arizonan-­Mexicans to the grape boycott was not short-­lived but persisted to some degree for as long as the strike lasted.19 In fact, the following academic year, MASO picketed Mesa Safeway stores in an effort to recognize International Boycott Day in 1969. These kinds of boycotts, which also included protesting Gallo wines, continued into the 1970s as well, especially on Fridays and Saturdays.20 In observance of the ongoing grape boycott, Albert Galindo, ASU sophomore and cochair of MASO, announced, “It is time that the University students take a stand on this issue which deals with the basic human rights of a minority that has been oppressed for the past 200 years.”21 Students who did in fact “take a stand on this issue” were at times subject to undue harassment from both local police and campus security.22 Despite occasional incidents of vengeance against outspoken Arizonan-­ Mexican students, they nevertheless banded together to establish the University Friends of the Farm Workers. Created to help the grape boycott, University Friends encouraged all Arizona high school and college students to boycott grapes, cease shopping at all “Smitty’s, Safeway and El Rancho stores, and to join the farm workers in their struggle.” As a subsidiary of the Arizona United Farm Workers organizing committee, University Friends coordinated a four-­day, fifty-­mile march culminating in an Easter Sunday Mass. The march began in Tolleson and went through small towns in western Phoenix until finally reaching the capitol building.23 This march was similar in spirit to a march staged by Chávez four years earlier in 1966, although not comparable in scope. The march was organized to promote legislation that could help farm workers. According to several Arizonans, “Such legislation is essential [because farm workers] have no running water, only a central faucet, no heating during the winter and no cooling during the hot summer.” In addition, “as many as three [migrant] families live in one hut.” The farm worker family annual income in 1970, moreover, was $1,800, while the recognized poverty level was $3,000.24 University Friends also urged consumers to avoid non-­union-­picked lettuce.25

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Energized by Arizonan support, and determined to raise awareness that 80 percent of farm workers had one or more symptoms of pesticide poisoning, Chávez spoke at several Arizona colleges and universities throughout the 1960s and 1970s.26 Indeed, on December 5, 1969, he spoke in Abel Hall at ASU, a day after speaking to UA students in Tucson. The presence of Chávez at ASU brought out “university students, high school students, Chicanos from South Phoenix, farm workers from the Valley,” and a handful of African Americans. Dozens of supporters chanted “Viva la Huelga” (Long Live the Strike) and “Viva la Raza” (loosely translated as Long Live the Cause). Highlighting unity, a native Yuman noted, “The Chicano is organized, and anybody who hurts one of [us], hurts all of us.” Alternately speaking in English and Spanish, the forty-­two-­year-­old Chávez reminded the audience that more than “100 people have died in the strike in California. The leaders have been jailed, but the movement is growing in spite of that.” He added, “We don’t hate the Anglos . . . yet we don’t love them. . . . Hatred [can] drain our energy.”27 Amidst cheers, Chávez concluded, “Human beings are a helluva lot more perishable than grapes.” As the concern over Chávez’s influence grew and the intensification of farm worker grievances spread, Arizona passed a law preventing farm workers from boycotting or striking at harvest time.28 As a result of lost political leverage, Chávez began a fast on May 12, 1972, in Phoenix. Clearly, Chávez was committed to restoring one of the most important nonviolent tools farm workers had in achieving justice. Chávez denounced the act of the Arizona legislature as he led a protest march of more than four hundred supporters, including many ASU students, to the state capitol.29 He noted that the “new” law was the only of its kind in the nation and that it would not “stop the union” but would, rather, advance unionization in Arizona. Physically weakened and unable to stand, Chávez officially ended his twenty-­four-­day fast on June 4.30 After farm worker support efforts, both ASU and UA Chicano student organizations focused on discriminatory issues on their campuses. With this aim, MASO at ASU turned its attention to a dispute between a South Phoenix commercial laundry company and its mostly Mexican heritage employees. Charging the company with racial discrimination, substandard wages, and inferior working conditions, MASO members insisted that ASU terminate its $8,000 a year contract with the Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. and its laundry division, Bell Laundry.31 To expedite this process, MASO held a campus-­wide rally distributing petitions and proposals. In these petitions, which included more than five thousand

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signatures, MASO denounced unfair practices in supervisory positions. The group maintained that: 83 percent of the workforce is Mexican American, [yet] in the past 36 years one [ethnic] Mexican has been promoted to a supervisory position. [Of the company’s] 28 employees in sales, clerical, and professional classifications, there is one Negro and one Mexican American. In the history of the company [which was incorporated in 1932], not more than one Mexican American or Negro has been represented in the office at one time . . . and never has a Negro or Mexican American held the position of a delivery truck driver. [Further] 78.6 percent of the employees are earning from $1.15 to $1.25 per hour [whereas the average Anglo employee earns $2.15 an hour]. There are no eating facilities for workers; there is no refrigerator for workers to store their lunch; no lockers are provided for worker’s belongings; the laundry atmosphere is depressing; the plumbing is in poor condition; the floor is littered and wet; the un-­plastered brick walls have need of paint; the equipment is old and run-­down in appearance; and the rest rooms for workers are both dirty and inadequate. [Finally] the working conditions are unsafe due to the littered and wet floors and locked doors.32

After failed efforts by local churches and unions to get the attention of laundry management, MASO formed an investigative committee to substantiate their charges. Once verified, MASO gained the support of more than one hundred campus organizations that passed resolutions “asking that the University take immediate action on [terminating] the contract.”33 To ensure continued protection of the Phoenix laundry firm, MASO reached out to the leadership of Students for a Democratic Society, Young Democrats, Young Socialists Alliance, and the ASU Civil Rights Board.34 Eventually, MASO held a rally on the ASU Mall and “stormed the administration building . . . demanding to confer with President Durham” about the Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. injustices. MASO demanded that workers get a twenty-­five-­cent raise across the board, three paid holidays, a five-­day vacation, three-­day sick leave, sanitary working conditions, better air ventilation, and an end to discrimination. An estimated crowd of three hundred students sat on the floor of the administration offices, marching the halls carrying such signs as “Viva la Revolutión” (The Revolution Lives), “Venceremos” (We Will Conquer), “Basta” (Enough), “Let’s Support La Raza,” “By Any Means Necessary,” “Durham Condemns

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Injustices of Phoenix Linen & Towel Supply,” and “Chicanos Are Also God’s Children.”35 The sit-­in was a last resort after a month-­long drive by MASO and other campus organizations to improve working conditions and pay for Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. employees. While waiting for ASU president G. Homer Durham, several MASO students chanted, “We Shall Overcome,” “We Shall Break the Contract,” “We Shall Raise the Bail,” and “ASU Will Change.”36 Some, such as Reverend Robert Nesby and Rev. Frank Yoldi, spoke out against laundry worker injustices.37 Rev. Nesby accused the laundry firm of keeping its employees “shackled and bound in poverty because they have a natural sun tan.” And ASU, he added, “contributes to this radical oppression and discrimination.” He concluded, “It is morally right for the university, by a simple act of economic withdrawal, to help slay the dragon of oppression.”38 In the end, President Durham did not arrive, so after much debate between ASU vice president Gilbert Cady and MASO students, the activists agreed to return the following day. Students left raising their fingers in a “victory sign” and sang hymns while waving a variety of liberation-­themed banners, such as a red flag with an insignia of revolutionary Ernesto Che Guevara.39 With this enthusiasm, activists that numbered more than “100 MASO members gathered and went to the laundry company” in order to further voice their concerns. Protestors shouted in unison, “WE WANT ATWATER” (a high-­level company official) while distributing grievance fliers to patrons to discourage local businesses from using the laundry service.40 Some laundry service management came across as highly insensitive. For instance, in response to student charges that “no Mexican American held administrative jobs,” one remarks, “When you can’t add two and two, how in the hell are you going to make him a manager?” Another representative proclaimed, “I know the charges [of racial discrimination against the Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply, Co.] are untrue.”41 Contrary to this manager’s contention, the Arizona Civil Rights Commission confirmed that two dozen cases of job discrimination existed at the Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co., which was supported by US Equal Employment Opportunity Commission findings as well.42 This unified student and community front proved successful. Indeed, President Durham announced the day after the two-­day sit-­in that ASU would launch an investigation of alleged racial discrimination and “not renew its contract with Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. if working conditions there remained unchanged.”43 To guarantee this promise,

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Alfredo Gutierrez and fellow MASO executive board members Frank Rosales and Maria Martinez met with President Durham privately to make certain he understood the serious nature of the issue. At one point, Gutierrez asserted that “we are going to continue to embarrass this University until some action is taken.”44 Another MASO member declared, “Chicanos no longer will sit by and let discrimination occur without rais[ing] a voice in anger or dispute.”45 After this meeting, Durham stressed that ASU (1) did not condone discriminatory practices; (2) would confer with the company regarding the charges; (3) would suggest to the proper authorities that the allegations on working conditions be checked; (4) would study the legal aspects of the contract; and (5) request the Special University Committee to Aid the Disadvantaged to give attention to the situation.46 By July 1969, the US Equal Employment Opportunity Commission confirmed that the Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. and its laundry division, Bell Laundry, violated federal law by practicing job discrimination against Mexican Americans. The commission found cause “to believe that an unlawful employment practice within the meaning of Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 has been committed.”47 As a result of MASO’s efforts, Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co. increased employee wages and improved overall working conditions for Arizonan-­Mexicans.48 This had wide-­ranging effects, for it caused other Phoenix area firms to not only acknowledge but also address “the plight of laundry workers.” In addition, the efforts of MASO provoked several churches to terminate accounts with negligent laundry companies.49 With this campus crusade, MASO established itself as a student organization that was willing to demonstrate unwavering support for causes they deemed important to the overall Arizonan-­Mexican community. By doing so, MASO not only attracted attention from the ASU board of regents but also set the political mood for any future actions concerning Arizonan-­Mexican injustices.50 In its second year, MASO not only grew substantially in membership but also organized a campus conference to inform the community of “different aspects of the Chicano Movement.” In doing so, MASO vowed to “influence and/or implement legislative, educative and informative programs in the state.”51 According to Dora L. Rendon, chairperson of the symposium, five speakers were recruited for “their knowledge of the historical and contemporary role of the Chicano in the Southwest.”52 The panelists discussed the Chicano intellectual and civil rights movement and “provide[d] the audience with an educational experience.”53 Following this successful summit, in December 1969

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students and staff called for a Mexican American studies program. Teaching assistant Francisco Rosales was one of the first to support such a priority. Rosales asserted: It is about time the University had a Chicano Studies Program that reflects the Mexican[-­American] community that exists in Arizona . . . [because] in the 84 years of the University’s existence, it has been ignoring the Chicano. It’s been ignoring him not only culturally and academically, but also it has ignored the recruitment of Chicanos to come here. The present curriculum denies the history of the Chicano, as if though our existence was cut off after the United States acquired the Southwest from Mexico.54

Although ASU department heads and administrators were at first reluctant to endorse Rosales’s recommendation, they eventually reconsidered. In January 1970, a campus-­wide course was designed “to sensitize and educate social welfare students to the problems of the Chicano.” This course, titled “An Approach to Chicano Problems,” featured guest speakers who were “knowledgeable in the problems of the Chicano.” The class was taught by Naomi Harward, an associate professor of sociology, and coordinated by Albert Galindo, a mathematics education major. The instructional and lecture material was partly produced by Rosales and Agustín Cardona, a Spanish education senior. Much of the course was cultural history, yet a portion dealt with “contemporary education [and] political currents” as they affected Arizonan-­Mexicans. Many enthusiastically endorsed the course. Galindo argued, “This is a vanguard course, which hopefully the University will imitate to form a Chicano studies center to encompass all areas, such as psychology, education, history, and language.” Similarly, Cardona questioned, “The university already has an Indian center, a Latin American center, an Asian studies center, so why not have a Chicano studies center?”55 He underscored, moreover, that statistics from the registrar’s office clearly “indicate a need for such courses.”56 These efforts to highlight the need for quality Chicano courses helped usher in support within the larger ASU Arizonan-­Mexican community. A few months after the foundational Chicano course proposal, Quino Martinez and Manuel H. Guerra, both professors of Spanish, issued a public notice in the State Press seeking six Arizonan-­Mexican students “to help formulate plans for an institute dealing with a Mexican American studies program.” Prepared to pay a reasonable stipend, the professors

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were looking for students with experience interacting with the Arizonan-­ Mexican community.57 Martinez and Guerra believed in careful planning and prescience before moving forward. Martinez warned, “Some university programs are running the risk of failing because of inadequate courses and inadequate faculty.” Most administrators did not support the ideas from Martinez and Guerra, causing them to shelve their plans.58 Unsuccessful with getting a Chicano studies program on track, students demonstrated outside the Grady Gammage Auditorium in April 1970 during the inauguration of ASU president Harry K. Newburn. With both MASO representation and non-­MASO student presence, this protest featured activists with picket signs and leaflets. The leaflets, which outlined six grievances, had a heading that read: “Abajo con Newburn” (Down with Newburn).59 After the inauguration, six protestors gave grievance leaflets to President Newburn and Governor Williams, the latter being accused by a Phoenix nun of “keeping poor people poor.”60 The list of grievances charged that Dr. Newburn and ASU personnel (1) delayed the development of the Chicano studies program and courses relevant to the problems of the Chicanos; (2) made no effort to recruit more Chicanos to attend the university; (3) made no effort to establish ties with the Chicano barrios; (4) refused to take a stand on the recruitment of Chicano professors; (5) refused to inform the state legislature of the present needs of the Chicanos (thus excluding Mexican Americans from budget appropriations); and (6) neglected the need for funding the Education Opportunity Program.61 The circulars also suggested that while Newburn was acting president, MASO initiatives were deterred, dismissed, and in due course dropped. William Anderson, an ASU associate professor of sociology, warned, “Activism on the part of university Chicano students will continue to develop.”62 True enough, activism continued to increase throughout the 1970s. For example, an exploratory three-­day institute was held in July 1970 at ASU to brainstorm ways to develop Mexican American studies programs throughout the Southwest. This institute was the first of four to be organized during the summer of 1970. The others convened in Austin, Texas; Denver, Colorado; and Long Beach, California. The ASU institute was directed by Quino Martinez and consisted of a host of contributing speakers such as Juan Martinez, professor of Chicano studies at the University of California at Berkley, and Armando Rodriguez, director of the Office of Spanish Surnames in the US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare (HEW). In addition, the institute featured panels and workshops covering an extensive agenda for studying “Mexican American coursework at western universities.”63

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By October 1970, several MASO members spoke out about campus discrimination and ASU’s inability to establish a Chicano studies program. MASO member Robert Pastor declared, “The University has resisted establishing a Chicano studies program . . . [which] has not allowed the barrio people and the Chicano students here to initiate or have any input into any University programs, classes, or curriculums.” He added, “A good Chicano studies program is essential to solve the over-­all spectrum of discrimination against Chicanos.” Likewise, Gus Chavez, another MASO member, stated: “By not instituting an active Chicano studies program, the University has built a wall between itself and the Chicano community. Another thing—this University has a reputation as a teacher’s college, [yet the Arizonan-­Mexican educational needs are neglected].”64 Since many believed that a Chicano studies program would help recruit, retain, and graduate more Arizonan-­Mexicans at both undergraduate and graduate levels, Chavez and Pastor received community support. Increasing the chances of Arizonan-­Mexicans earning college degrees was essential for not only the betterment of the Chicano community but also for the entire Arizona social and economic structure. MECHA member José Saul expressed the importance of education by writing: Today’s Chicano is La Raza’s future. He will be the teachers, doctors, lawyers and lawmakers for Aztlán. He will be the one teaching other Chicanos, defending Chicanos in the courts, implementing laws not just for Chicanos but for all, and of course, always fighting the oppressors of our gente [people]. Our gente’s future lies in today’s Chicano that continues his education in the institutions of higher learning. The Chicano will not be satisfied with just a bachelor’s degree, but will get his masters and then his doctorate, as long as El Espiritu [the spirit] of the Chicano lives, he will strive for better and greater things for his gente. The Chicano will continue his fight against his gente’s oppressor wherever there is Raza. El Espiritu of the Chicano will always be as long as the Chicano strives for his education.65

In spite of the potential positive aspects of a Mexican American studies program, most university administrators refused to yield. In response, MASO continued to carry out programs, as well as operate with a political purpose to “promote closer and fuller relationships between Chicanos and all people.” This was done in a variety of ways, notably as part of the activities scheduled for Chicano Cultural Week (later known as Semana de la Raza—Week of the People).66 In 1970, in collaboration with the College

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of Liberal Arts and Education, MASO arranged a fashion show, entertainment in the form of folklore dancers, satirical skits, and original songs from assorted musicians.67 Guest speakers from the university community and throughout the Southwest served as presenters. Corky Gonzales, head of the Crusade for Justice in Denver, discussed Chicano mobilization in Neebs Hall, and other hosts identified why the “Chicano community [is] an integral and positive component in the University.”68 Graciela Oliveraz, the first woman graduate of Notre Dame Law School, emphasized that “Chicano students must establish priorities and present a united front to obtain economic and political power.” Oliveraz also cited the inability to coalesce as a major concern in the Chicano movement.69 Chicano Cultural Week was the first effort by ASU to celebrate Mexican American life. Appreciating this point, a student proudly asserted, “ASU has never had any activities relating to the Chicano before cultural week.” The week attracted people beyond the academic community throughout the state.70 Chicano cultural presentation “weeks” that included entertainment, history, and guest speakers remained a fixture throughout the 1970s at ASU, despite facing ethnocentric opposition.71 These presentations allowed MASO to collect donations in order to establish a scholarship fund for underprivileged yet highly motivated Arizonan-­Mexicans committed to furthering their education.72 By the early 1970s, MASO/MECHA was issuing more than thirty $50 scholarships per semester to eighth graders from fourteen elementary schools in Phoenix, Mesa, Guadalupe, and Queen Creek. The awards were usually presented at school assemblies and at “a banquet MECHA held for donors and recipients.” Local community and corporate leaders funded the program, and others concerned with the educational problems facing Arizonan-­Mexicans like Chicanos por la Causa lent their support as well.73 Students were selected on the basis of teacher recommendations, academic achievement, and application essays. MECHA was committed to “reaching average, would be college students who, lacking funds or encouragement, might otherwise not further their education.” MECHA secretary Frances Rodriguez stressed this sense of commitment, noting that “the road to success is sometimes a rather hard climb, but el orgullo [pride] can move mountains. Therefore, what makes one feel more justified than to meet the needs of Chicanos through other Chicanos. Thus we initiated this program, which, though primarily geared toward Chicano eighth-grade students, is open to all.”74 Area elementary school and high school students also benefited from MECHA’s tutoring program that especially “worked with grade school children.”75

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The scholarship program was an overall success, receiving positive responses from the Arizonan-­Mexican community and administrators as reflected from a surplus of “thank you” correspondence.76 Even when students received either MECHA aid or federal assistance, however, Arizonan-­Mexican high school seniors at times were denied admission. Erolinda Yolanda Rosales of Tempe High School, to cite one example, was denied provisional admission despite earning a federal scholarship of $1,100, while being highly recommended by her principal, John E. Sinclair. As a result, Rosales was picketing outside ASU instead of starting freshman orientation at the university. Rosales, along with other university students, claimed that she was denied admission because “she is a Mexican American.”77 The case was eventually brought to the attention of HEW, resulting in a class action suit (Rosales v. Arizona) filed by the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund.78 In addition to scholarship programs, MECHA also created a recruitment program that served to introduce, inform, and expose high school students to ASU. The program was established largely because ASU’s campaign “to reach minority high school graduates” was widely considered ineffective. ASU Arizonan-­Mexican students found the university’s “letter-­writing program” underfinanced and impersonal. Indeed, circulating letters to recent high school graduates with a generic recruitment pitch proved highly ineffective not only because the timing of such letters was often far too late for potential students to consider applying but also because the letters, distributed randomly, came across as indifferent. Arthur Garcia, an Education Opportunities Program staffer at the university, pinpointed the flaws in this approach: What they’re [university administration] doing is sending out a letter, and if they get a response, they’re recruiting an individual, but that’s the wrong way to go about it. The person-­to-­person contact is necessary first to show them [Mexican Americans] that college is not a dream, that it can be a reality. Otherwise the letter doesn’t make any sense. . . the program has no coordination among the offices of Public Relations, Admissions, Financial Aid and the Education Opportunities Program. The program is being oversold when it’s a nothing, and it’s our biggest fear that people outside who don’t know this will think that ASU is doing something when it is not. Anyone can write a letter.79

Garcia’s criticisms had merit: out of four hundred letters sent to minority high school graduates, twenty responses were received.

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The MECHA recruitment program continued to thrive in the early 1970s.80 In 1972 students from ten area high schools explored opportunities at ASU through its recruitment program, and the following year students from eleven schools visited.81 The objective of on-­sight visits, according to MECHA member Frank Preciado, was to recruit Arizonan-­ Mexican students to the university so they could see what the campus was like from a classroom and facility perspective. Another MECHA member asserted, “We, as a Chicano organization feel an obligation to our brothers in the high schools. We feel the University is not maximizing its recruitment efforts and we hope this program can serve as an example in the recruitment of Chicano students.” Yet another MECHA member stated, “Many of these students have never seen ASU. We hope to inspire them to continue their education and see what educational opportunities are available at ASU.”82 MECHA members conducted campus tours and provided lunch and entertainment for the students. MECHA also arranged for faculty and staff to be available in order to field questions from parents and students.83 By 1973, the MECHA recruitment program was in its fourth year, bringing more than five hundred Arizonan-­Mexican high school students annually to ASU.84 Regardless of the success of MECHA’s recruitment program, it did not lead to the creation of a Chicano studies program. Arizonan-­Mexican students continued to advocate for the creation of a studies program dedicated to Mexican American history. By January 1971, MASO/MECHA leadership charged the College of Liberal Arts and Education with failing to cooperate in “hiring Chicano employees in their departments and developing a Chicano studies program.” The assistant coordinator of MASO claimed that several meetings with George Peek, dean of the college, were unproductive. According to one MASO leader, “Dr. Peek has not agreed to anything. He just shrugs the questions away.” The larger problem, however, was that the college “refuse[d] to hire Chicano professors and will not add important Chicano classes which are relevant to education.”85 Refuting these charges, Peek argued that an American studies program (also called minority or ethnic studies), which offers one section each of Mexican American, African American, and Native American studies, was “passed last spring and is being considered now [as of January 8, 1971] by the vice-­president of academic affairs and University President H.K. Newburn.” He continued, “If it is [approved] it will go into effect next fall [September 1972] and will allow students to obtain a minor in Chicano, Black or Indian studies. . . . if you don’t like the program don’t participate in it.”86 This proposal proved inadequate to most Arizonan-­Mexican students, so

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they denounced and boycotted it throughout the early 1970s.87 MASO, now MECHA, continued its struggle to get the American studies program, with a Chicano component, approved. Their long-­term goal was to establish a Chicanos studies program, leading to an independent Chicano department. In the meantime, however, Arizonan-­Mexican students and staff channeled their efforts to ensure that at least some Chicano courses could be offered under the umbrella of the American studies program. They experienced some success: on May 20, 1971, the university finally agreed to have an American studies program with a Chicano element. Coordinator of the American studies program was Manuel Patricio Servín, who openly emphasized that the “class list is now inadequate.”88 Wasting little time, Servín requested Chicano material from the National Caucus of Chicano Social Scientists until 1974.89 Thereafter, the program amassed enough materials on their own merits that it was no longer necessary to request materials from external resources. Most students and scholars agreed that the American studies program needed quality instructors to teach Chicano classes. Servín observed, “The approach to ethnic [or American] studies must be academic so that both the minority and majority cultures have an understanding of the different cultures and heritages.” An ethnic studies class “is not a rap group,” he added, but a “good, solid course based on facts and sound interpretation. That’s where awareness comes from.90 Raul Leyba, associate professor of sociology, agreed, noting: “Transmitting knowledge to students of ethnic groups—who they are, what makes them tick and how they relate to their society—should be an educational goal.” “Bringing a change in attitude,” Leyba continued, “for those without healthy attitudes [is also an important goal].” He concluded, “Interaction among races in the classroom gets out misconceptions that students have . . . once they are out in the open, we talk them over and students’ ideas are then modified or reinforced.”91 With the groundwork in place for modest course offerings available in Chicano history, sociology, political science, religion, art, and remedial Chicano English classes, students, scholars, and staffers continued to champion change through an array of activities.92 Much of their work involved finding adequate material to research, write, and teach Mexican American culture and history. For example, Christine N. Marín, a 1971 bibliographer for Chicano studies at the university library, contributed substantially in this endeavor. At the youthful age of twenty-­six, Marín compiled a “comprehensive bibliography of material relevant to the Mexican American community.” Her primary contribution to the Arizona Chicano movement was building an ASU bibliography in the southwest corner of

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the library’s main floor that reflected books, microfilm collections, pamphlets, newspapers published by or for Mexican Americans, newspaper clippings, dissertations, and theses.93 Since she often collected research and term papers written by students that dealt directly with Arizonan-­Mexicans, Marín was able to build an original archival body of the Arizona Chicano experience.94 Efforts by Marín, along with work-­study students such as Gustavo Chavez, Norma Fontes, Manuel Hurtado, Zela Luna, Josie Vender, Julio Zapata, Orlando R. Villa, and Maria Garcia, established the framework for a Chicano studies library “section” and eventually a Chicano research collection, a unit today of the Department of Archives and Manuscripts at ASU. The genesis of a Chicano research collection actually began in 1967 while Marín was a student at ASU, building a “private” Chicano repository. In 1969, after the insistent of Arizonan-­Mexican students, a “Chicano section” was created, but it “took time to get off the ground because of unaware and insensitive educators.”95 Once established, however, in the fall of 1970, the Mexican American material available for research to undergraduate and graduate students in the Hayden Library proved to be successful. Affectionately called the “Chicano Library Project,” the collection started with about forty Mexican American newspapers and approximately four hundred books. By September 1972, it expanded to more than one thousand books with an array of Spanish-­language newspapers and transitory information.96 The collection’s growing success prompted mail inquires throughout the Southwest as university educators sought to design a novel project of their own.97 Marín, with a bachelor’s degree in English, went beyond her duties as the creator and caretaker of the Chicano studies section. Often she met with regional college instructors and high school teachers in order to introduce them to the “course background material she had in stock.” She noted, “I want to make the [Chicano research] material available not only to students, but to teachers and anyone interested in Chicano studies.”98 While visiting local high schools, Marín regularly observed the neglect by some teachers. “If your cultural background is ignored or put down by your teachers, you can’t help but get a feeling of inferiority,” explained Marín in 1973. She continued, “Teachers are not trained to meet the needs of these people [Mexican Americans].”99 Even with Marín’s efforts to create and maintain a Chicano research archive, she refused to take all the credit, despite being the lone staff member for the archive. Indeed, she emphasized that the success of the library project was “due to the efforts of ASU Chicano students” and people such

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as university librarian H. William Axford and Manuel Servín.100 Additionally, she attributed its long-­term success to the students “who were influential in getting their specific needs across that the program was needed to administrators who thought it wasn’t important.”101 Yet before Arizonan-­ Mexican students voiced their concerns for library books “by and about them,” Axford and Servín anticipated this demand. And so they enlisted the assistance of Marín in order to address such an inquiry.102 By the 1990s, the Chicano research collection was one of the Southwest’s largest and most progressive.103 Once reasonable actions were in place to address the absence of a Chicano curriculum and research material, MECHA broadened their agency brush to include campus politics. As part of its campaign to bring awareness about Arizonan-­Mexican campus concerns, MECHA sponsored a ticket of candidates for student body positions. The slate consisted of nine nominees, which included eight men and one woman from the College of Liberal Arts and Education. In the end, MECHA’s political efforts proved largely symbolic because they did not yet have the influence to win campus-­wide elections. Nonetheless, by running its own candidates, MECHA was optimistic that it could improve its negotiating position with the student body government, a political body that historically was mostly Anglo. A MECHA member pointed out, “We [MECHA] are sure that things will be different in the [Student] Senate next year because at last the Chicanos have a strong voice and our affairs will no longer be manipulated by insensitive gringos [Anglos].”104 Seen as a growing force, MECHA members took it upon themselves to tackle university housing bias. MECHA charged that a qualified Arizonan-­ Mexican applicant for the position of Hayden resident assistant was not hired because of his racial heritage. Housing department officials claimed that the applicant in question was not highly considered because “as a first semester transfer student, he was not familiar with campus facilities.”105 Although meeting the requirement with the “ability to relate to others,” the student was dismissed for employment.106 The ASU Arizonan-­Mexican community thought this was odd since there was no stipulation about being familiar with the campus in the original hiring notice. More important, a MECHA survey revealed nine instances in which resident assistants and unit managers were hired before ever setting foot on campus. After the MECHA complaint was lodged, Gayle Shuman, director of university housing, suggested that perhaps the “Chicano” could fill a desk position that would allow him to learn dorm procedures so he might possibly “work his way up to resident assistant.” Shuman also gave credence to MECHA’s

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concerns by saying, “MECHA had made some valid criticisms. . . . I think MECHA’s investigative actions are to be commended.”107 His words did not, however, placate MECHA officials; therefore, they released a statement that read: “[The Housing department’s] actions are representative of the institutionalized racism present in the University.”108 One MECHA member added, “When we [Mexican Americans] apply for menial jobs, our qualifications are not scrutinized. When we apply for a better position, the Administration seeks for any means possible to screen us out.”109 MECHA remained undaunted and continued its quest for Arizonan-­ Mexican student rights on campus. Indeed, they launched another protest rally when John Schwada was inaugurated as president of ASU in March 1972. Chanting “raza sí, Schwada no,” “Chicano power,” and “manana is today ya basta,” about eighty students staged a demonstration against what they termed “discriminatory policies of ASU.” In addition to chanting, demonstrators held protest signs declaring: “ASU Is Not an Equal Opportunity Employer,” “Chicanos Want a Better Chicano Studies Program at ASU,” “ASU Discriminates,” “Smash Schwada,” And “Hire Chicanos— Try It, You’ll Like It.”110 “Our main concern is that we want a meeting immediately with Schwada to work out problems of the Chicanos on this campus. . . . we are taking our rights as citizens,” said MECHA member Danny Ortega. Despite a peaceful protest, some in the media, especially at the ASU’s State Press, belittled participants. Indeed, self-­proclaimed liberal journalist Billy Norman called the protestors “worthless demagogues,” who were “hot little beady eyed people who appeal to emotion and prejudice to achieve their aims.”111 Similar to the inaugural protest against President Newburn two years earlier, MECHA members passed out grievance notices to bystanders and participants in the inauguration.112 The demands, which are comparable to the concerns presented at the previous presidential inauguration, were as follows: (1) university encouragement and implementation of recruitment programs to increase the number of Chicano undergraduate and graduate students on campus; (2) dismissal of plans to raise admission standards at ASU; (3) an end to what MECHA called discriminatory hiring practices by ASU; (4) a Chicano studies program to stress the contributions of the Chicano to the development of the United States; (5) the establishment by President Schwada of a date for a meeting with MECHA in an effort to address Chicano issues; and (6) rejection of House Bill 2134, which proposed to establish an agriculture employment relations board.113 Even though these demands were not met by the fall of 1972, MECHA redirected its attention on securing a minority cultural center to replace

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the Chicano cultural center that was demolished.114 Without a cultural center, there was no place for “Chicanos to meet to exchange information and ideas.” According to an executive MECHA member, “A cultural center would aid in recruiting, counseling and tutoring Chicano students.” He continued, “Today those services are housed in overcrowded and inadequate facilities, and counseling sessions are continually interrupted.” MECHA blamed Leon Shell, dean of students, for a lack of university cooperation. Although Shell acknowledged the need for a Chicano cultural center, he “has been completely unresponsive to our [Mexican American] needs.” Another MECHA member asserted, “We [MECHA] see this lack of response as his inability to relate to and handle minority problems.”115 In fairness to Shell, his office searched for viable space for two months, but nothing was available. As a result, Shell suggested that “minority students” use the meeting rooms in the Memorial Union. In response, Samuel Ruiz, vice president of MECHA, argued that this arrangement would not be satisfactory because “we want something we can consider our own. And we wouldn’t have access to an MU room at night or on weekends.” Frustrated by limited progress, MECHA’s vice-­president warned administration officials that “[we] may employ more disruptive means to obtain a minority cultural center if its efforts to work through the University system continue to fail.” Ruiz also pointed out that when following university bylaws, MECHA was consistently confronted with “red tape and bureaucratic buck passing.”116 By 1973, MECHA added litigation proceedings to their efforts to bring about educational change. In contrast to the late 1960s, when the Arizonan-­ Mexican ASU community relied on confrontational tactics for gaining equal education opportunities, the mid-­1970s reflected a more legislative and judicial agency approach. As such, students and scholars began to fully realize that they could gain power, and thus affect educational history, through several reform strategies. This is evidenced in March 1973 when MECHA filed a class action suit against the ASU administration for allegedly perpetuating a “pattern of discrimination” against Arizonan-­ Mexican employees. Spearheaded by Lupe Sosa, MECHA vice president, MECHA filed the first ever class action suit against a university with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), which had jurisdiction in cases involving educational institutions. The legal charges against the university revolved around discrimination practices in recruitment, hiring, promotions, transfers, and job placement.117 MECHA also accused the university of setting unrealistic minimum qualifications while

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not disseminating job information to the Arizonan-­Mexican community.118 While EEOC investigators conducted a department-­by-­department investigation, MECHA secretary Frances Rodriguez verified that local attorneys were working in conjunction with the EEOC and Justice Department. In addition, MECHA asked HEW to conduct an inquiry into the channeling of funds away from “minorities” that ASU received from HEW. According to Sylvia Arellano, MECHA treasurer, EEOC had the authority to issue subpoenas and seek injunctions in the process of its investigation. This was a concern for Arizona Republican senators Barry Goldwater and Paul Fannin, prompting them to draft letters asking the EEOC to refrain from “further scrutiny of ASU’s employment policies.”119 In May 1973, MECHA charged that ASU breached its equal employment opportunity program guidelines when a job opening for associate director of financial aid was filled without any prior advertising of the vacancy. The regulations for the federal Affirmative Action Plan state that “all job openings must be advertised in the University Bulletin or posted on billboards for campus-­wide distribution so all employees are aware of the vacancy.” The director of financial aid proposed that he did “not have to publicize the opening if he didn’t want to.” He further said, “[I] already had a very good prospect as candidate.” These revelations compelled MECHA President Danny Ortega to file a formal complaint with Jack Penick, ASU’s Equal Employment Opportunities officer. As a result, the director of financial aid conceded that the job opening should not have been filled until it was properly advertised. Penick acknowledged that the complaint was under investigation, and a “recommendation for corrective action will be made by him . . . to University President John Schwada.” Nevertheless, this did not satisfy Ortega, who blasted the Affirmative Action Plan as a “perpetuation of racist-­sexist hiring practices by the administration and specifically by George Hamm, the dean of student affairs,” whose department provided the prospective candidate to the director of financial aid.120 Due to protest and litigation efforts, the number of minorities hired at ASU increased 2.1 percent from the spring of 1972 to the spring of 1973. According to the university’s personnel office, this translated into 122 “more persons of minority races working for the University.” Despite this gain, however, only 5.7 of the Arizonan-­Mexican community received a service check from the university. And those that did receive wages did so on the lower “steps of the salary scale.” There was no increase, moreover, in the number of Arizonan-­Mexican faculty as they continued to represent 1.3 percent.121

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MECHA students were not alone in pursuing legal recourse against ASU. The ASU Chicano Faculty and Staff Association (CFSA), in conjunction with various Mexican American organizations, sought legal action against ASU for discriminatory employment practices in March 1975. In a press conference, CFSA president Justo Alarcón stated: “If ASU is unwilling to comply with state and federal laws voluntarily, then legal recourse will be brought through the courts, and the U.S. Attorney General will be asked to file a legal suit against the University.” Faculty and staff agreed that state agencies “hire more Chicanos at higher levels than Arizona State University.” Not pleased with the reaction from the administration after the press conference, Alarcón submitted a letter to President Schwada and eventually forwarded it to the press, as well as various Arizona dignitaries. An excerpt from the memorandum reads: “We found the statements made by this representative [Schwada] to be condescending, patronizing, and totally evasive in regards to the critical concerns regarding the under-­utilization of the Spanish-­speaking minority at Arizona State University.”122 At the same time, MECHA drafted another complaint against ASU that was filed with HEW’s Office for Civil Rights, charging ASU with violating Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.123 Both campus groups emphasized that Arizonan-­Mexican [faculty and student] underrepresentation “hurts the possibility of Chicano courses and therefore hurts student education.”124 Perhaps most alarming to Arizonan-­Mexicans was the fact that just twelve professors of Mexican heritage were employed by ASU out of fifteen hundred. After repeated attempts by both MECHA and CFSA to address this stark reality, these organizations concluded that their “suggestions have been received in a manner which can only mean refusal.”125 By 1975, little or no change had taken place at ASU in the areas of recruitment, employment, and placement. Thus, in addition to legal proceedings, CFSA considered creating change through (1) the state legislative by producing political or economic pressure; (2) the intervention of Arizona governor Raúl Castro; (3) the investigations by federal agencies to determine the degree of noncompliance with affirmative action programs; and (4) the possibility of stopping the distribution of federal funds to ASU.126 Community organizations supporting CFSA included the Migrant Opportunity Program, National Economic Development Association, Valle del Sol Institute, United Farm Workers Organizing Committee, AFL-­CIO (Labor Local 383), Chicanos por la Causa, Labor Council for Economic Advancement, Chicano Business Students Association, El Grupo, Los Hijos del Sol, and MECHA.127 Furthermore, educators

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throughout the state showed their support by drafting letters to ASU officials, highlighting university irregularities.128 Regardless of pending legal cases, the Arizonan-­Mexican community continued taking their fight against university inequities to the streets. In April 1975 a group of 130 Arizonan-­Mexicans brandished picket signs, with raised arms and clasped fists, chanting “we want justice” and “down with Penick” in front of the administration building. The demonstrators acted out skits mocking Schwada and Penick. Wearing pointed nose masks and clad in black cape costumes, the protestors portrayed Schwada as “Master Schwastica” and Penick as “Master Pendrick.” Onlookers, which numbered more than 250, consisted of mostly students and faculty members.129 University police chief John Duffy characterized the hour-­long protest as “very orderly and very well organized.” ASU administrators remained indoors watching from windows while demonstrators made no effort to meet with them. In particular, activists objected to the underrepresentation of Arizonan-­Mexicans in academia and their restriction to lower-­paying positions. The protest led to an investigation, which concluded: “As of April 17, 1975 and continuing, Arizona State University, by its president, vice-­presidents, agents and representatives have engaged and continue to engage in a pattern of discrimination based on national origin against Chicano or Mexican American employees.”130 Similarly, in late May 1975, the EEOC verified that ASU “has engaged in a pattern of discrimination based on national origin against Chicanos or Mexican Americans.”131 The EEOC confirmation of discrimination was the most powerful tool “they [Mexican Americans] had in negotiating with Jack Pennick [sic] . . . for ironing out differences between MECHA and ASU administrators.” In light of EEOC findings, MECHA demanded, under the stewardship of state senate majority leader Alfredo Gutierrez, that ASU create a community advisory board “that would be campus based” to inform ASU officials of the improvements needed on campus. By establishing an advisory board, Amalia Candelaria, MECHA’s president, believed administrators would be directly “attuned to the needs of minority representation on campus.” MECHA, moreover, wanted to be part of the process to select a new affirmative action officer.132 This last request consumed MECHA for several months, culminating in a late July rally inside and outside the university administration building. Demanding representation on the screening committee for a new affirmative action officer, MECHA activists were unyielding in their protest march until granted permission to speak with President Schwada.133 Students protested when their repeated requests to be part of the selection process

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for an affirmative action officer were ignored. As the MECHA president, Candelaria worked diligently to gain representation on the committee, meeting weekly with university officials and submitting an extensive list of “well-­qualified Chicanos to fill the new position.” For a variety of reasons, MECHA felt they deserved a voice in the decision-­making process for an affirmative action officer, a position, noted Candelaria, “that MECHA has practically created due to past pressure on campus administrators.”134 With a police and campus security presence, President Schwada agreed to meet with MECHA. As an outcome, President Schwada considered MECHA’s suggestions for the affirmative action position and the right to review the applications and interview the applicants.135 ASU undergraduates were not the only students demonstrating displeasure with university practices and policies. Graduate students at ASU as well employed protest tactics such as picket signs, marches, artwork, and written propositions to gain equal education opportunities.136 In April 1972, more than twenty-­five Arizonan-­Mexican members of the Graduate School of Social Services Administration (GSSSA) marched outside the graduate school, charging institutional discrimination.137 Shouldering picket signs as they circled in front of West Hall, activists accused ASU’s GSSSA of failing to meet several standards of the National Council on Social Week, a university body commissioned to ensure that all eligible campus organizations had an opportunity to showcase their resources and community contributions. Manuel Medina, a graduate student leading the protest, laid out the intentions of rally: “Our actions are intended . . . to get a meaningful dialogue in the minority community.” Medina argued that the graduate school has not “kept in tune with the changing times by refusing to hire an adequate number of faculty [from] the minority community.” In sum, Medina predicted “the whole school will become active in assessing what is going on here.”138 While student and scholar activism at ASU created a better learning and teaching environment for Arizonan-­Mexicans, equal educational opportunities were still fleeting and far from a reality as the 1990s unfolded.139 Despite the creation of an affirmative action office, the administration did not actively follow and enforce federal guidelines on affirmative action policy for faculty, staff, and students.140 As a consequence, ASU students continued to demonstrate in order to force the administration to take meaningful action. Thus, pressure was persistently put on department chairs, deans, and various vice presidents throughout the 1970s to persuade the university to comply with the intent of congressional legislation. With constant political pressure, ASU MECHA produced some constructive change.

Figure 5.  ASU MECHA Calendar of Activities, Spring 1978 (ME CHI F-­ 58), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe. The MECHA poster reflects not only an active student organization but also an ASU campus group that continued to draw attention to important community concerns.

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From 1968 to 1978, especially during the first five years of this period, MECHA raised awareness about a plethora of issues that ultimately made both the campus community and region a better place for all.141 The impact of MECHA at ASU eventually gained the attention of the Arizona Civil Rights Division and the Arizona Civil Rights Advisory Board.142 Both organizing bodies in 1976 cordially invited MECHA to their monthly meetings in hopes that they would “provide whatever input” they deemed necessary.143 In February of the following year, Governor Castro met with ASU Arizonan-­Mexican students, along with MECHA representatives from the UA, Northern Arizona University, and a host of junior colleges, in order to discuss the problems facing them at each respective campus. Thus, by the late 1970s, the complaints, concerns, and compromises issued by ASU MECHA were finally being entertained in a serious and sincere manner by people in positions of power.144 Trailblazing professor Manuel Patricio Servín reflected, “The first sit-­in at ASU marked the beginning of the rise of the Mexican American in Arizona.” Servín insisted, “The success [of ASU Mexican Americans] is principally due to MASO/MECHA.”145 Without question, ASU college students played a vanguard role in the growth of the Arizona Chicano Movement. Their level of organization and influence in the Mexican American community not only allowed many to forge meaningful careers in Arizona politics but also has placed them in unique company in US social activism history. From federal to state to local efforts, Arizonan-­Mexicans at ASU sought to change social wrongs. They provided alternative approaches than earlier waves of activists by developing unique ideologies and operational tactics in order to forge education reform and greater representative higher education governance. In this spirit, chapter 5 continues this trajectory of higher education activism, reflecting more of the complicated and contested terrain that was Arizona academia.

chapter five

The Promise and Peril of Protests Undergraduates and Underrepresentation at the University of Arizona

Like the students at Arizona State University (ASU), students at the University of Arizona (UA) also attempted to advance the academic interests of Chicanos and the wider social concerns of the Arizonan-­Mexican community. Like their ASU counterparts and high school comrades in the Tucson United School District, UA students grew tired of creatively adapting to limited opportunities provided by administrators. Thus, they challenged policies by taking action against established unequal practices—action that developed from continued neglect by authorities and agencies at all levels of education. Indeed, institutional failings or just outright apathy among educational leadership factions fostered political awareness and increased mobilization of the Arizonan-­Mexican community. Like activists from Central Arizona, those in the southern part of the state also condemned discriminatory practices and promoted a plethora of initiatives aimed at making all levels of education more culturally sensitive and diverse in their curriculum, support staff, and leadership ranks. The first major action by UA students occurred when the Mexican American Liberation Committee (MALC) presented a list of demands to university president Richard A. Harvill in December 1968.1 Harvill agreed to three demands, which included the establishment of a Mexican American library, a public lecture series on Mexican American affairs given by qualified ethnic Mexican scholars, and the creation of a scholarship program aimed at the Arizonan-­Mexican community.2 In their effort for a Mexican American studies program, MALC emphasized the importance of culture and current affairs curriculum. Renato I. Resaldo, chair of the 93

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university’s Department of Romance Languages, however, excluded such a curriculum in his proposal. Feeling slighted, students sought to develop and design their own “studies program” that could give them the autonomy to appoint professors and instructors to it. Other demands that were met with resistance included an Arizonan-­ Mexican academic adviser and “that the University make no transaction with any person or establishment that is discriminatory.” If this happened, MALC wanted the person terminated immediately.3 The university refused to hire an Arizonan-­Mexican academic adviser, arguing that “no funds” were available and an ethnic Mexican adviser “was [not] necessary.”4 More than three years later, however, university president John Paul Schaefer, under mounting pressure from the Tucson community, authorized the creation of a special dean to assist Arizonan-­Mexican students. This position was effective July 1, 1972. The candidate was required to “have at least a bachelor’s degree and experience working with Mexican Americans.” Andres D. Onate, assistant dean of liberal arts, along with many others, was instrumental in having this demand finally met.5 A final demand from MALC sought immunity for activists against potential university disciplinary action. The demand reads: “Disciplinary action will not be taken against any student, faculty member, University employee, or organization who [sic] participates in or endorses these demands.” This last demand “appalled” the university president.6 Despite this reaction, students pursued their demands on a rational basis and would not be pacified by token compromises.7 MALC chairman Sal Baldenegro emphasized that the “present educational system is inadequate as far as effectively teaching the Mexican American child.” He added, “[The University failed to] recognize the [Chicano] problem and failed to prepare professors to productively cope with the Mexican American student.”8 Students argued that more initiatives were sorely needed, such as a minority recruitment program in order for UA to “set a precedent for elementary and secondary schools to follow.” More broadly, MALC believed that the university had a responsibility to the “large body of 10 million Mexican Americans in the Southwest” that were economically, culturally, and educationally disadvantaged.9 Yet, MALC was immediately concerned with the two hundred Arizonan-­Mexicans enrolled at UA in 1968.10 Even though Harvill indicated during negotiations that he was willing to address at least three of the student concerns, the university president retracted his oral commitment. In a formal statement published in the Arizona Daily Wildcat, students expressed they were “very disappointed with Dr. Harvill’s refusal to acknowledge and commit himself to the

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educational needs of the Mexican American people of the community.” The views and values of Harvill, according to many Arizonan-­Mexican students, reflected the position that only the “Anglo community is to be served by the University.” The statement continued, “The Mexican American community at large is also disappointed in the University’s refusal to comply with its needs.”11 This disappointment provoked students to post “wanted” posters of President Harvill for “crimes against the people.” The public notices, which depicted a vintage photograph of Harvill, accused him of “conspiracy to deny free speech, freedom of assembly, and supporting a racist policy.”12 Observing the mostly unsuccessful efforts of MALC, UA’s Mexican American Student Association (MASA), the more passive of the two student groups, decided to shift strategy. In March 1969, MASA broadened its support network to include local organizations such as the Liaison in Neighborhood Knowledge (LINK), West Side Center, Sunnyside District, Pao Decimo Center, and the Yaqui Pasua Association. MASA’s chief objective was to make more “effective educational programs available to Mexican Americans.”13 This goal was helped through MASA’s weekly radio broadcast program on KXEW Radio, which provided a forum to share information about university loans and scholarships.14 In addition, MASA members visited high schools and private homes to “tell children to stay in school and help them with their special problems.” Members also worked with educationally challenged adults and provided a high school program that sought to educate aspiring college students about financial aid, scholarships, registration fees, and the academic rigors of higher education.15 MASA president Edmond Marquez was aware of the major problem facing many in the Arizonan-­Mexican community. In his estimation, there “are a lot of concerned people on [UA’s] campus but the problem is getting them off campus and involved in the community.” Even though MASA did not always agree with MALC’s tactics, they did support MALC’s demands for a Mexican American library and a lecture series by Mexican American scholars. Nearly ten months after MALC submitted its demands and outlined programs to meet those demands, Harvill still “blatantly ignored it.” MALC spokesman Raúl Grijalva charged Harvill of concocting “another program called Mexican American studies.” Harvill’s Mexican American program was actually a Spanish language major curriculum designed for Spanish majors, not students interested in Chicano history. Grijalva, who is a six-­term US congressman, contended that the program “cooked up by Dr. Harvill, and his cronies has no relevance to the Chicano.”16 This

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guise of a “Mexican American studies program” motivated UA students to protest even more. Both MASA and MALC members were determined to pressure the university because “it’s in the center of the Southwest surrounded by Mexican Americans, but is not responsive to the brown community as it is to the white [community].” Other demands of scholarships and job opportunities for Arizonan-­Mexicans were ignored by the administration, which only encouraged students to “force the University to commit itself to the Chicano community.”17 This “force” began with a signed petition by 125 Arizonan-­Mexicans that was presented to Frances Roy, dean of the Liberal Arts College, and university vice president Marvin D. “Swede” Johnson. The petition called special attention to the bogus “Mexican American studies program” created by university officials. Students Herminie Rios, Fausto Alarcon, and Raúl Grijalva coordinated both the petition signing and subsequent boycott. Their efforts garnered support from more than 50 percent of the UA Arizonan-­Mexican student body. Grijalva argued that the administration’s Mexican American studies program “is recognized as being merely a token which is being used to appease the Chicano community at large and the Chicano student body in particular.” According to Grijalva, “We [Mexican American students] want a program which will present a true historical, sociological, political, anthropological, [and cultural perspective] of the Chicano presence and experience in the Southwest.”18 Rios agreed, arguing, “The [University] program showed no innovation.”19 The petition drive and boycott were the campus community’s effort to institute a legitimate Mexican American studies program at UA. The petition reads: “We the undersigned Chicano University students will boycott the Administration’s so-­called Mexican American Studies program until a true Chicano studies program is instituted.”20 Supporting the Arizonan-­Mexican campus community, a UA professor claimed the curriculum was a “paper program.” He maintained, “It is a good example of what institutions say they do but do only on paper. The role of Chicanos in U.S. history is well worth study and understanding and there is no justification for academic deceit by a paper program.”21 The university did not demonstrate urgency in addressing complaints and cautioned students that what they want versus what they get may be completely different. Dean Roy warned, “We are willing to listen to their [Mexican American students] demands, although there is no guarantee the final program will come out exactly as they have envisioned it.”22 Since the administration continued to avoid Arizonan-­Mexican student concerns, students continued to put pressure on university officials by broadening

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their resources. One such resource involved the student body government, particularly liberal arts senator Joe Molina. In September 1969, Molina presented a series of bills to the student senate that dealt with the Mexican American studies program, along with other aspects of Arizonan-­Mexican grievances. Molina believed that the Mexican American studies program as instituted “is more than adequate in language . . . but is lacking in terms of dealing with the Mexican American in the Southwest.”23 Specifically, senate bill 303 suggested a “minority relations speakers program,” so guest speakers could address classrooms and participate in informal discussions. Molina also supported another bill that called for the establishment of two lower-­level courses in the Mexican American studies program, an introductory course and a contemporary study in Mexican American problems. Naturally, upper-­level classes with a greater emphasis on Mexican American political and social history were championed as well. A final bill advocated by Molina called for the head librarian and the Committee on Library Affairs to create a comprehensive Mexican American studies collection in the university library. Molina sponsored this bill since “there exists a need for the acquisition and centralization of all material dealing with the Mexican American.” Although Molina submitted these measures, he alone was not the only impetus for the bills. Indeed, many other students suggested and sought the same reform initiatives.24 After the student senate bills were presented, a five-­member faculty committee was set up to “advise the dean and educate the faculty to help solve some of the internal problems with minority studies.” This makeshift committee itself caused some controversy because there were “four Anglos and one Mexican American on the committee.” One student pointed out, “I don’t think they [the faculty committee] know what should be done about this white washing of brown students. Any judgment would be based on white values.”25 The efforts of both MASA and MALC to persuade the administration to establish a bona fide Mexican American studies program united these two Chicano groups into the Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán (MECHA): in early 1970 a MECHA chapter was established at UA for all Arizonan-­Mexican students, and the other groups were disbanded. The first order of business for MECHA was the public declaration that the “University and the community [must] make definite commitments to alleviate the problems of Mexican Americans in education, job opportunities, and other areas.” The US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare’s report on discrimination justified MECHA’s plea. Equipped with these findings, MECHA created both outreach programs and financial aid

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services to Tucson-area high school students. MECHA also established a “Chicano Senior Day,” allowing high school seniors to visit the university. MECHA hoped that their programs would reduce the high number of Arizonan-­Mexicans enrolled in non–college-­preparatory classes in high school while eventually diversifying the university student body.26 Arizonan-­Mexican students not only had campus organizations as resources but also took advantage of university “speak-­outs” sponsored by the Associated Students of the University of Arizona (ASUA). In fact, several students used the public forum to express their uneasiness with university policies and societal injustices. Referring to the contention that Arizonan-­ Mexicans were being “forced to give up their cultural backgrounds as the price for acceptance,” a student declared, “Our people are being systematically destroyed by the American society.” Another student wondered, “What makes a man an American?” He further questioned whether he was disqualified on the grounds of his “dark skin, curly hair, or Latin name.” “We are put away in the barrios to live,” he concluded, “and if we complain, then we [Mexican Americans] are called un-­American.”27 These speak-­outs were helpful in many ways, but mostly because others gained a better grasp on issues affecting the Tucson Arizonan-­Mexican community. Question-­and-­answer periods that followed these speak-­outs were equally helpful because they provided a chance for members of the audience to voice their thoughts on issues raised. By 1971, chapters of MECHA at both ASU and the UA had similar academic aims and community outreach agendas. Chicano Cultural Week (Semana de la Raza), for example, was a staple event throughout the 1970s at UA as well as ASU.28 Like ASU, UA capitalized on this week to raise awareness about the cultural heritage and social problems of Arizonan-­Mexicans. By doing so, students arranged for guest speakers from all walks of life to participate in panel discussions.29 UA’s Chicano Cultural Week also showcased photographs, artwork, and films relevant to the Mexican American experience.30 This exhibition ran throughout the week, often featuring “photos of the barrio and campus workers.”31 Of course, live entertainment, poetry readings, and an assortment of ethnic cuisine were fixtures at these annual events.32 Beyond entertainment and cultural concerns, UA’s Chicano Cultural Week served to inform the larger Tucson community about ongoing discriminatory practices against Arizonan-­Mexicans. In fact, during this festive week in 1971, Tucson School District no. 1 was “attacked . . . by a member of the U.S. Commission on Civil Rights for isolating Mexican American children within the district.”33 Guest speakers used this public platform to espouse their

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concerns about university discriminatory policies in employment and recruitment, frequently pointing out “double standards” between the Mexican American and Anglo communities. Fred Acosta, in 1972, for instance, claimed, “If a white student had a speech problem he would be sent to a speech therapist but if he were a Chicano, the student would be sent into a special education program.”34 Even though Chicano Cultural Week, also known as “Semana de la Raza,” offered many positive influences for all students, UA’s Appropriations Board cut the budget for the week by almost 25 percent in 1973. Similar to ASU’S Chicano Cultural Week budget cuts, the UA’s Appropriations Board, and specifically Chairman Mike Rauschkolb, did not appreciate the importance of the weeklong celebration. Underscoring this point, Darlene Chavez, a bilingual education senior and MECHA member, asserted, “[Chicano Cultural] week would not be representative of Mexican American culture if the budget were cut any lower than it already had been.”35 She added, “We [MECHA] have trouble every year getting funded for La Semana de la Raza. No other organization has had to go through as much red tape as we have.”36 UA Chicano Cultural Week was also supposedly a victim of university bias, especially by the ASUA Speakers Board, which denied MECHA services, resources, and speakers for the educational/celebratory week.37 Whether underfunded or not, Chicano Cultural Week provided Arizonan-­ Mexicans a campus presence that informed the university about its Mexican American community. This presence, as well as ongoing protesting, helped students gain an ally in an administrative leadership position. Adalberto M. Guerrero, a doctoral candidate in education, was named the new assistant dean to university Mexican American students in 1972. Guerrero was selected from a group of finalists recommended by students. Although Guerrero was committed to Arizonan-­ Mexican concerns, noting that “Mexican American students have some unique problems,” he diplomatically indicated that he “is here to help everyone.” As a native of Bisbee, Arizona, and co-author of The Invisible Minority, a report on the Tucson survey by the National Education Association, Guerrero maintained a solid understanding of the educational challenges Arizonan-­Mexicans faced throughout Arizona.38 Mexican American role models on campus, in both instructional and administrative positions, were important because the personal attention campus role models provided was critical to students’ self-­esteem and intellectual maturity. So committed to the Arizonan-­Mexican campus community, Guerrero was a regular speaker during Chicano Cultural

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Week, advising “Chicanos to go beyond textbooks in their search for their histories.” He urged students to “look into their families and their own backgrounds to learn more than the little, which has been written in history books.”39 Guerrero not only used Chicano Cultural Week to launch constructive messages but also promoted job workshops, which he spearheaded, to reinforce positive values. The annual workshops were designed to give participants “extensive and comprehensive” career information while acknowledging the cultural differences of Mexican American students.40 Fresh off the success of securing the Guerrero hiring, Arizonan-­Mexican students, including included both MECHA and Concerned Chicano Students (CCS), set out to secure another faculty position for a qualified Mexican American. In late November, more than thirty students marched from the entrance of the Liberal Arts building to the sociology department on the fourth floor to “get a progress report” about the long-­anticipated arrival of a Mexican American sociology faculty member.41 Displeased with the lack of progress in the matter, two weeks later, on December 1, 1972, a group of students confronted Robert L. Hamblin, head of the sociology department. While he was meeting with “someone else [students] handed him a letter which asked him to reply about whether the department was going to hire a Chicano sociology professor.” Part of the letter read: “[We] wish that you provide us with a definite date as to when you expect to include a Mexican American sociologist on your faculty. We would appreciate an immediate written response to our request no later than Thursday, December 7, 1972.”42 Prior to this encounter, students had met Hamblin six times since September and “asked at every meeting whether it is possible for the sociology department to hire a Chicano sociologist who will do research in Mexican American problems and teach a class pertaining to Mexican Americans.” On December 4, a student delegation, with the consent of Hamblin, addressed the entire sociology department in order to explain why a Mexican American professor was needed. Students were given five minutes to plead their case, yet they did not consider this enough time. In response, a student remarked, “Does this mean we are only worth five minutes?” Several other students added, “We think he [Hamblin] is beating around the bush. Up to this point we have been requesting. Is it going to take an act of frustration!” In an effort to pacify students, Hamblin said if a Mexican American sociologist was “not hired this year [1972], maybe next year one would be hired.” With this unpredictable proposition, students were “tired of waiting.” Indeed, Edward Cassavantes, employed by the US

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Commission of Civil Rights, suggested as early as 1960 that “more Chicanos be brought into the University, especially into the departments of psychology and sociology.”43 A week after submitting the letter to Hamblin, more than eighty students, or about one-­third of the total Arizonan-­Mexican student body, met once again with him in order to gauge the timeline for the hiring of a Mexican American faculty member. The consensus among students after the meeting was “let’s wait and see what he [Hamblin] does before we do anything else.” Students also garnered support from Tucson’s Arizonan-­ Mexican community, resulting in more pressure for the potential hire. Under pressure from students and the community, Hamblin indicated he was “making a sincere attempt to hire a Chicano sociologist.” He even invited Lionel Maldonado of the University of Utah in Salt Lake City to visit UA as a prospective candidate. This was arranged so that “Chicano students could meet him and give an evaluation of Maldonado to the Sociology Department.” The expectation that Maldonado would be hired, however, diminished when Hamblin explained that Maldonado was still being evaluated. In other words, there was no guarantee that either the university or Maldonado would come to an agreement for employment. Hamblin emphasized that a “qualified Chicano applicant” may not be available because they need a “Ph.D. degree and must have teaching and research training,” with a strong publication background. The students, as well as representatives from the Association of Mexican American Educators, League of United Latin American Citizens, and League of Mexican American Women, believed it was odd that a qualified Mexican American could never be found when it came to hiring one. In highlighting the frustration of many among these groups, a community activist remarked, “I cannot understand why you cannot find a qualified Mexican American. A white or black can usually be found. I don’t know if they are qualified, but they are found.”44 Students and community leaders alike held that as a publicly funded institution, UA had a responsibility to be relevant and responsive to the Arizonan-­Mexican community. Despite setbacks, Arizonan-­Mexicans continued to band together to forge change. Many at UA set their sights on the formation of a Mexican American studies program. This effort began yet again in the fall of 1973 when a large number of students planned and pushed for a genuine Mexican American studies program. University student Martha Castaneda indicated that an effort would be made to create a Mexican American studies program modeled after an “existing program at the University of Colorado.” Courses in anthropology, business, economics, education,

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government, political science, and other fields would be taught with an emphasis on Mexican American culture. Students argued that a Chicano studies program was overdue because of the growing Arizonan-­Mexican population at the university, in Tucson, and throughout Arizona. In addition, the creation of a Mexican American studies program “would give Mexican Americans a better chance to succeed.”45 University Chicanos were so determined to develop a Mexican American studies program that by 1973 they procured the support from Arizonan-­Mexican groups throughout Arizona. With a diverse group of Arizonan-­Mexican representation, students presented a list of proposals to UA president Schaefer. The proposals asked for the immediate establishment of a Chicano studies program; a Mexican American vice president at the university to handle Chicano affairs; a minority review board to oversee minority hiring; a program to “increase the number of Chicano faculty and staff at all levels”; a recruitment, scholarship, and counseling program for Mexican Americans; and that Mexican Americans “be put in decision-­making and supervisory positions in the University.”46 Alfred Dicochea, a spokesman for the Chicano coalition, argued that the university must “institute admissions and hiring policies favorable to students and faculty of color, and at least in this area, abandon the universalistic notion that insists that everyone be viewed and treated in terms of the same criteria.” Dicochea emphasized: “It must be recognized that minorities are running a race against Anglos who are already half-­way to the finish line, when we [Mexican Americans] are barely beginning.” The coalition believed that “the University of Arizona has failed to give the Chicano population of this state meaningful recognition.”47 Nevertheless, President Schaefer disregarded their concerns, refuting point by point the grievances presented. This in turn reinforced the notion that the “administration is more concerned with building a good athletic department than helping minority students like Chicanos.” Student Guadalupe Castillo claimed, “Professors are too worried about tenure and football to be concerned about [Chicano] politics. Instead of spending millions on watching a few men playing around on a field, the University should invest something in the thousands living in the barrios who need help.” Likewise, a university professor remarked, “President Schaefer and his lieutenants are crafty, insensitive men. To them, Chicanos are nothing. These men sit in high places and deceive minorities with nonprograms and nonaction.”48 Regardless of administrative opposition, the campus Arizonan-­Mexican community continued their movement for equal educational opportunities. In fact, the Arizona Daily Wildcat proclaimed, “Chicano activists have

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been perhaps the most vocal of all ethnic groups during this time [1968– 1973].”49 And by February 1974, agency efforts on behalf of university Arizonan-­Mexican students finally spurred President Schaefer to establish ad hoc committees consisting of students, faculty, and Tucson residents. These committees, which consisted of eight people each, were designed to “look into Mexican American grievances” and eliminate both professional and personal improprieties.50 By doing so, Mexican Americans had some of their long-­standing demands addressed because the committees concentrated on recruitment, counseling, financial aid, employment opportunities, and studies curricula. The committees were expected to report their conclusions by May 10 to the vice president of student affairs, Marvin Johnson. The committees themselves were chaired by George A. Evanoff, university personal office director; Paul Rosenblatt, acting head of the romance languages department; and dean of students Robert S. Svob. The three committees were the Mexican American Employment Committee, the Studies Curricula Committee, and the Recruiting, Counseling, and Financial Aid Committee. Each committee held regular meetings and issued progress reports.51 As early as March 28, a progress report from the Studies Curricula Committee indicated some movement toward a genuine Mexican American studies program. The committee sought to form a first-­rate Mexican American studies program that would not only replace the “present patch­up job” but also create a leading southwestern Chicano studies center within a five-­year period. A three-­member subcommittee evaluated the validity of the plan. Arriving in late April, the three-­member group consisted of Cecilio Orozco of the University of New Mexico, Jesus Cheverria of the University of California at Santa Barbara, and Arturo Madrid of the University of Minnesota. The team outlined the possibilities for a dependable and resourceful Chicano studies program.52 The Studies Curricula Committee recommended that the Chicano studies program, which was guided by the insight of the three advisers, have a tenured faculty member as chair. Within months, this recommendation was heeded: Adalberto Guerrero was named chairman of the Mexican American studies program in January 1975. Guerrero, forty-­five years of age, championed the cause of Mexican American programs “since before his graduation from the University in 1957.”53 To aid Guerrero with his responsibilities, cultural sociologist Celestino Fernandez was named assistant chairman of the Mexican American studies program in 1977.54 The committee, moreover, sought assurance that the university would maintain a long-­range commitment

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“to the creation and support” of a Chicano studies program. In order to accomplish this goal, the Studies Curricula Committee started the Renato Rosaldo Lecture Series during the 1974–1975 academic school year.55 The lecture series, free and open to the public, provided an opportunity for the committee to share with the broader Tucson community the Mexican American experience from the perspective of the Mexican American scholar.56 The larger Arizonan-­Mexican student population also campaigned for curriculum diversity. They wanted the university’s history department to broaden both its faculty composition and course curriculum. Due to increased pressure, in April 1974, Ursula S. Lamb from Yale University and Joseph P. Sanchez from the University of New Mexico were hired. Lamb, who earned his doctorate in Latin American history, spent sixteen years at Yale authoring two books and sixteen articles. Prior to Yale, Lamb taught at Barnard College of Columbia University and at Oxford. History department chair Robert P. Brown pointed out that the addition of Lamb “will strengthen the History Department’s Latin American program, which now has five faculty members.” Sanchez, on the other hand, with a Ph.D. in American and Mexican American history, was hired as an assistant professor. By teaching history of the Mexican American, Sanchez was the first to offer such a course in the department’s history.57 Although the administration was in the early stages of creating a Mexican American studies program during 1974, university officials created an array of Mexican American–focused courses to help placate the Arizonan-­ Mexican campus community. Most of these courses were offered during the fall and spring semesters of 1975 while a stable Chicano program was being established. For instance, the romance language department added five new Spanish classes geared toward Chicano studies. In the sociology department, a course titled “Chicano in American Society” was offered for its second consecutive year. Rumaldo Z. Juarez, who taught the course, highlighted that it was created to understand the “survival of the Chicano in American society.” Equally influential, the government department offered a course called “The Politics of the Mexican American Community.” John A. Garcia, who taught the course, insisted it “is a survey course dealing with the influence of the Chicano on political parties, and the behavioral aspects of the electoral issues, policy, immigration and justice for the Chicano.”58 The College of Education also provided several classes designed for educating the student body about Mexican American history, culture, and

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life. “Educating the Bilingual Learner,” as a 200-­level course, dealt with the philosophy of bilingual education and academic challenges facing the Mexican American community. Another course, called “Educating Mexican American Children,” centered on the application of social science theory and methodology concerning the problems of Mexican American children. More specifically, the elementary education department offered “Methods and Materials in Bilingual Education,” which explored the methodology of such an education. Additionally, the history department presented several courses that focused on Mexican Americans. As mentioned above, Sanchez taught “History of the Mexican American,” which began from the “history of the Chicano from the colonial period” through 1974. A colloquium on Mexican American history was available to students as well. Overall, university student agency paid off: the Mexican American studies program evolved in eight years from a program to an expansive Mexican American Studies and Research Center (MASRC).59 Fully operational by the spring of 1981, with Macario Saldate IV as the director, the center offered three core classes and an additional forty interdisciplinary courses.60 Despite this progress, one university professor reflected in 1981: “Today it seems things have changed for the Chicano, but they have changed very little. The social advances Mexican Americans have made are being undercut by a bad economy and by continued discrimination.”61 Asserting that more needed to be done, Cynthia A. Cruz, a university freshman, noted that past agency helped the “Chicano move up,” but it did not change the number of “drop-­outs in her barrio.”62 Despite the modest number of Arizonan-­Mexican graduates from either ASU or UA, they inevitably left institutions that were still hampered by the same challenges they had surmounted. For those Arizonan-­Mexicans who endured an unfriendly educational system and yet attained a college degree, the efforts of these students often turned activists accomplished two key goals. They provided a leadership role in the field of education and fostered community involvement to help reform higher education. Arizonan-­Mexican college graduates from the late 1960s and throughout the 1970s developed a generation of community leaders who contributed to the Mexican American community throughout the 1980s and 1990s and well into the twenty-­first century. Their contributions helped Arizonans realize the importance of a university education, as it proved to be good business and good government. Through confrontation, negotiation, and political alliances, Arizonan-­Mexican college students created public

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space, influenced the terms of exchange, and paved the way for social accommodations in an educational environment that previously negated their existence. Chapter 6 builds on this legacy while documenting the density and disputed nature of Arizonan-­Mexican activism in education over the last forty-­six years.

chapter six

A Part, Yet Apart (Re)Arranging Academic Arizona from Hocus-­Pocus to Horne

Equal education is not only one of the greatest civil rights issues of our time but also one of the greatest competitiveness issues, making it one of the most consequential issues still today. Like class and race, educational differences have separated Arizona. This calls into question the very spirit on which the state was imagined: an ambition for equal education. Public education is the vehicle through which many in Arizona past and present have struggled to deliver on this promise. And Arizona students, especially from a generation ago, sought to see this promise through by ensuring that they had competent, caring, and qualified teachers and professors. They also followed up on this promise by holding ineffective principals, superintendents, and college administrators responsible for their neglect while demanding that they collaborate with educators, parents, community leaders, and elected officials to improve student achievement. Students as well petitioned school boards and the state board of regents to ensure that K–12 class curricula and college course offerings included Mexican American history, culture, and life. Half a century later, Arizonan-­Mexicans are still striving to hold educational leaders accountable for a variety of concerns, but none greater than a stark ethnic Mexican high school dropout rate and maintaining a Mexican American program of study. Indeed, the mounting pressure against ethnic studies, notably the Mexican American Studies Program in the Tucson Unified School District, has been not only disparaged but also eliminated. Arizona governor Jan Brewer signed HB 2281 into law in May 2010, thereby banning select ethnic studies courses in K–12 public 107

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schools.1 Prohibited courses fall into three basic types: courses that advocate the overthrow of the US government; courses that encourage resentment toward any group based on race, ethnicity, or gender; and courses that have admitting criteria predicated on race and ethnicity.2 As discussed earlier, Mexican American courses evolved largely because the historical experience of ethnic Mexicans was absent in textbooks, triggering an alternative narrative to principally Eurocentric curricula. Ethnically encompassing curricula have the capacity to improve race relations among all groups, yet critics argue that ethnic studies courses only divide students and disrupt schools, causing many to drop out. The contrary has happened, however, as students who take courses in ethnic studies broadly and Mexican American studies particularly have scored higher on exams, graduated at higher rates, and gone on to college in higher numbers.3 Arizona’s former state superintendent of schools and current state attorney general, Tom Horne, who helped write the legislation that outlawed “racially divisive” school curricula, believes that far too many ethnic studies classes communicate the concept that Mexican Americans have been subjugated by non-­Mexican Americans. He argued, “[Those] classes promote ethnic chauvinism and racial resentment toward whites while segregating students by race.”4 Again, the Tucson Unified School District was targeted for its Mexican American Studies Program, yet the program was created to ensure that a counterstory of the Mexican American experience was told. Failing to recognize this point, Horne saw the program as a vehicle to breed racism, thereby encouraging “anti-­social behavior.”5 Horne made his case by citing a handful of negative second-­hand student experiences while identifying supposedly anti-­American resources such as Rodolfo Acuña’s Occupied America and organizations like Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán (MECHA). As outlined in chapter 4, MECHA was created in part to foster equal educational opportunities with broader class and campus inclusion. Some such as Horne characterize MECHA as a racial separatist group. Others recognize MECHA as a 1960s and 1970s grassroots student political action organization that developed in order to safeguard the scholastic rights of Mexican Americans.6 Similar to fighting for programs devoted to Mexican American studies, Arizonan-­Mexicans also have grappled with questions about broader curriculum inclusion. Since the late 1960s and running through the twenty-­ first century, diverse curricula have been a top priority. In the fall of 2003, for example, the Arizona Board of Education began a review and revision of its social studies standards for grades K–12. Even though the committee

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drafting the standard reflected some diversity, contested ideas still reigned.7 In 2005, one teacher voiced concerns to the Arizona Board of Education, noting: “I’m concerned about the mono-­cultural bias of the proposed elementary content-­rich curriculum. The focus on Greco-­Roman civilization does not bring into the fold students’ learning of Islamic, Hebraic, Asian, African, or Native American cultures.”8 Compounded with the backlash against Mexican American studies, the absence of Hispanic history in K–12 curriculum remains a growing concern. Despite Horne’s assertion that Arizona’s guidelines “require all kids to learn about all different cultures,” all students may not be doing so.9 An evaluation of Arizona’s K–12 public school Academic Standards for Social Studies generally validates Horne’s contention, with one noticeable oversight: the Mexican American historical experience since the early Arizona Territory days. For starters, when high school requirements focus on the “Emergence of the Modern United States” between 1875 and 1929, the standards naturally emphasize important social developments such as civil rights issues (e.g., women’s suffrage movement, Dawes Act, Indian schools, lynching, Plessy v. Ferguson), changing patterns in immigration (e.g., Ellis Island, Angel Island, Chinese Exclusion Act, Immigration Act of 1924), urbanization and social reform (e.g., health care, housing, food and nutrition, child labor laws), mass media (e.g., political cartoons, muckrakers, yellow journalism, radio), consumerism (e.g., advertising, standard of living, consumer credit), and the Roaring Twenties (e.g., Harlem Renaissance, leisure time, jazz, changed social mores). Missing, however, are crucial historical forces that affected not only the Mexican American narrative but both American and Arizona history.10 A proportion of the unskilled workforce of the early twentieth century consisted of not just women, African Americans, and Asian American subgroups but also Hispanics. Mexican immigrants and Mexican Americans with long-­standing roots in the Southwest made up the majority of manual labor. Yet, the Arizona Academic Standards for Social Studies fails to mention this at all. By the late 1920s, ethnic Mexican workers constituted two-­thirds of the railroad labor force, a fact that also is missing in the Academic Standards for Social Studies. More surprising, the role of Mexican Americans in copper and coal mines is given scant attention.11 With approximately 45 percent of copper mine workers in the Southwest ethnic Mexicans by 1927, this is unacceptable. Three years later, ethnic Mexican laborers supplanted Japanese workers in the citrus industry, while 40 percent worked in farming, yet this information is omitted.

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With nearly a million ethnic Mexicans migrating to the United States during the Mexican Revolution, as well as a half a million entering the United States in the 1920s—making up 12 percent of all US immigration—there was no short supply on Hispanic labor, only a short supply of this factual information in the Arizona Academic Standards for Social Studies. Most of the Mexican immigrants were poor and uneducated farmers, craftsmen, and day laborers. Many Americans, therefore, assumed that all ethnic Mexicans were poor and uneducated, which promoted stereotypes and nativist sentiment. This sentiment culminated with the creation of the US Border Patrol, as well as restrictive legislation proposed in 1926 and 1930 intended to limit Mexican immigration. Again, none of this material is detailed in Arizona social studies learning curriculum goals.12 As expected, during the emergence of modern America, political cartoons and advertising are duly noted within the standards, yet their interconnected importance with prevailing stereotypical portrayals of Hispanics is ignored.13 Just as problematic, there is no mention about mass deportations of Mexican Americans from Arizona and throughout the United States during the Great Depression. From 1930 to 1935, upward to 350,000 ethnic Mexicans were deported, heightening rancor toward Mexican Americans as they were linked to housing overcrowding, overrun social services, and social troubles of the day. Yet, Arizona students are not exposed to this Depression-­era injustice. Ignoring the significance of the Bracero Program, as well as the fact that roughly half a million Mexican Americans, including thousands from Arizona, fought during War World II, is equally important. Indeed, the absence of the Bracero Program is highly alarming when considering that between 1942 and 1964, more than four million ethnic Mexicans were imported into the United States as “braceros” to work temporarily for US ranchers. Failing to mention that Mexican heritage peoples as contracted labor were chiefly responsible for making the United States the most prosperous agricultural market in the world is unconscionable. Other missing essentials in the Arizona social studies curriculum include a section on “Hispanic Americans” when examining the “experiences and perspectives” of groups in the new nation (1700–1820), ethnic Mexican lynching when describing conflict of cultures in Arizona and throughout the Southwest, the impact of the Ku Klux Klan on the Mexican American community, Jim Crow–era Mexican American experiences, and the unique challenges Hispanics faced during the Great Depression. There is, however, a reference for fourth graders to learn about “Native American and Hispanic contributions” during World War II, and

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the Bisbee Deportations are introduced for high school students. Yet overlooking the Clifton-­Morenci Strike is an injustice. Naturally, including the Bisbee Deportations of 1917 are important since this had larger national labor ramifications with the illegal deportation of nearly one thousand striking miners from Bisbee, Arizona to New Mexico by roughly two thousand vigilantes. Yet, just as important was the Clifton-­Morenci Strike, which was organized by Mexican American workers protesting unfair labor practices and racial discrimination in the mines. As one of the earliest copper mine strikes in the Southwest, Mexican Americans helped shed light on several prejudicial labor practices, including the institution of the dual-­wage system where Mexican heritage miners were paid appreciable lower wages than Anglos for essentially the same work. The standards for the civil rights era bring up such material as Jim Crowism, protest efforts, and groundbreaking legislation (e.g., 1964 Civil Rights Act and 1965 Voting Rights Act), but Mexican American agency is limited to farm worker rights and three random references to organizer and labor leader César Chávez. Just as civil rights is lacking, so is Arizona’s far-­reaching history of Mexican American public school segregation. In fact, there are no “benchmarks” relating to court rulings that helped eliminate the practice, such as the 1951 US District Court of Arizona decision Gonzales v. Sheely, which was the direct legal antecedent (along with the 1947 Mendez v. Westminster decision) of the 1954 Brown v. Board of Education decision. Finally, a number of historical Arizonans of European and Native American ancestry are peppered throughout the standards, yet no Arizonan-­Mexicans are mentioned, such as Estevan Ochoa, Tucson’s first ethnic Mexican mayor, or Raúl Hector Castro, Arizona’s first Hispanic governor. Augustine F. Romero, director of student equity in the Tucson schools, reminds us, “All of our forefathers have contributed to this country, not just one set of forefathers . . . we respect and admire and appreciate the traditional forefathers, but there are others.”14 Overall, the omissions are especially striking when one considers that Arizona’s Academic Standards for Social Studies is one of the most detailed among all states regarding meeting specific benchmarks. Without doubt, Horne’s argument that Arizona students equally learn about all different cultures is questionable. Bearing this in mind, why would ending ethnic studies be a good idea, since the statewide social studies curriculum has such a shortage of representation of 30 percent of the state’s people? As underscored in chapter 2, Mexican Americans were historically given scant attention in textbooks. When introduced, however, they were depicted as strictly peasant-­type people who were gentle and docile—a

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people who seemed to have little else in their life than fiestas, holidays, religious activities, colorful costumes, and bullfights. These overgeneralizations and misinterpretations helped sustain the image that Mexican Americans were bystanders in a highly developed Arizona society. Bert Fireman of the Arizona Historical Foundation first pointed this out more than forty years ago. He argued that Mexican American “contributions to Arizona’s culture, economy, government, and history are many, [yet] the outstanding accomplishments haven’t been given deserved attention by writers in their history books.”15 According to a US Commission on Civil Rights report titled “The Excluded Student,” Arizonan-­Mexican students educationally failed because districts’ curricula, including textbooks, and course readings not only were “culturally biased, but catered exclusively to Anglo students.”16 Since the baby boomer generation, Arizona has come educationally full circle. From the omission of Mexican American history in public school textbooks to ethnic studies curriculum resistance, not much has changed despite great efforts to forge change.17 Indeed, much of this book reflects patterns of educational exclusion while revealing how students, parents, and community leaders sought to redirect this imbalance. This remains the case as Arizonan-­Mexicans continue to challenge unjust educational and social concerns. On March 22, 2011, for example, the UA Latino Law Student Association organized an open-­forum panel discussion with Horne and Richard Martinez, the attorney representing the eleven Tucson teachers arguing that the 2010 state law ARS 15-­112 is unconstitutional.18 Like Representatives Edward Pastor and Raúl Grijalva, another former activist, Salomón R. Baldenegro continues the fight he started almost a half century ago. Speaking at a Southern Arizona Unity Coalition luncheon, Baldenegro voiced his support for the Tucson Unified School District’s Mexican American Studies Program.19 Having endured segregation while growing up in Arizona, all three men overcame discrimination that plagued their youth. In 1975, Grijalva recalled, “I was actually made to feel I wanted to be an Anglo. . . . I realized what I was doing and my embarrassment turned to anger.”20 Awareness and activism are not just prevalent with yesteryear civil rights pioneers but continue to inspire a new generation. At the University of Arizona (UA), a conference was held in December 2010 to address the ban on ethnic studies, along with other controversial issues affecting the Mexican American community. Called “Combating Hate: Censorship and Forbidden Curricula,” the conference brought together students, scholars, activists, and community and political leaders. On the first day, students from the university’s Department

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of Mexican American and Raza Studies showcased a restored issue of the 1960s Chicano newspaper El Coraje. The early issues were published in Tucson during the growing stages of the Chicano Movement. The newspaper was a resource for Arizonan-­Mexicans to keep abreast to the evolving concerns in their community. In particular, it was a major catalyst with spawning ethnic studies courses, so its relevance today remains.21 Overall, students, parents, and leaders from all parts of Arizona continue to take on causes like state immigration laws, the Arizona teacher “accent” issue, the innumerable deaths of ethnic Mexicans in the scorching Sonoran Desert, and the segregation of English learners for up to four hours a day, which undermines students trying to learn English because they are not around English-­speaking students and public school curriculum.22 Before this, however, there were agency agendas in the 1980s and 1990s that deserve mention. By the late 1980s, many Arizonan-­Mexicans were still not fully integrated into the civic, political, economic, and educational life of the state.23 Countless studies indicate that the social discrepancies between Anglos and Arizonan-­Mexicans remained relatively the same, projecting slight improvement by the dawn of the 1990s. The economic and educational gulf between Mexican Americans and Anglos in fact widened.24 This was especially disheartening for the Arizonan-­ Mexican community given the late 1960s and 1970s activism. From housing to health, Arizonan-­Mexican life by the so-­called Decade of the Hispanic was circumscribed by powerful social forces that prevented many from making a meaningful contribution to their families and state.25 The cost of living increased by more than 12 percent in 1980, while unemployment rose nearly 8 percent, impacting all Arizonans. Although some Arizonan-­Mexicans earned college degrees and gained middle-­class occupations, many more did not. According to several historians, even the small gains made by the Mexican American community were checked by those in power to keep ethnic Mexicans in their place, and were therefore illusory.26 Many Arizonan-­Mexicans claimed, “What’s promised privately often doesn’t get delivered publicly.”27 The reverberations of 1960s and 1970s activism rumbled through the 1980s, producing angry recriminations, political polarization, and eventually stalemate. The age of agency reflected a cultural clash between Mexican Americans and Anglos, each firmly rooted in Arizona ideals, neither willing to compromise. On one side stood activists who, inspired by the challenges of the twentieth century, mobilized to force leaders to confront the contradiction between the reality of education discrimination and the Arizona ideal of equal educational access. On the other side stood

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the defiant establishment that denied the persistence of preferential treatment, viewing efforts to expose such treatment as a direct threat to traditional Arizona values. The two sides clashed repeatedly throughout the 1970s as they advocated conflicting agendas. Despite raising public awareness and reducing prejudicial practices, which affected court rulings, political participation, racial segregation, employment guidelines, education reform, economic development, and social services, Arizonan-­Mexicans were unable to produce long-­standing change. Although discriminatory practices were mostly eliminated by the late 1970s, subtle means of suppression continued.28 Tucson activist Jorge Lespron argued: “Racism used to be a lot more obvious. In my parent’s time, there used to be signs reading no Mexicans, blacks or dogs. Nowadays, people know that it’s wrong, but instead of saying it out loud it can be in their actions. For example, Anglo managers [are sometimes] more sensitive to their Anglo workers [verses] other races. . . . Racism is more unnoticeable, you may not think you are racist, but you do things not knowing.”29 Likewise, Edward Pastor, the first Arizonan-­Mexican congressman, commented, “I still think that even today [1990s] there is a strain of discrimination of prejudice and we still have to work on that. Until we [Mexican Americans] overcome that, we will always be one step behind.”30 The Arizonan-­Mexican leadership throughout the 1980s and 1990s rejected experimental, pilot programs of the 1960s and 1970s that reflected a bandage approach to legitimate concerns. These efforts by educators, lawmakers, and state bureaucrats underscored that significant measures were still needed to readdress unequal educational opportunities. In particular, the need to expand Arizonan-­Mexican membership in both high schools and colleges was a top priority. Quality educational opportunities were essential to Arizona’s economic prosperity because Arizonan-­Mexicans constituted 30 percent of the public school enrollment in Pima County and 20 percent in Maricopa County by 1979.31 Even though the importance placed on education in the United States may be exaggerated in popular culture, it is impossible to argue that education is not an important building block to social and economic mobility. While other social elements help dissolve a rigid and insular class system, education is critical for the movement of historically underrepresented groups into the mainstream of any given society. As a way of doing inventory, therefore, 1960s and 1970s activists examined the Arizona education system roughly two decades after their efforts to revamp it. From preschool to postgraduate work, the Arizonan-­Mexican

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community found by the mid-­1990s that the educational retention of Mexican Americans compared with Anglos increased only slightly from 1950 through 1990. Naturally, education attainment improved considerably since 1950; however, compared with changes for other groups, particularly Anglos, Mexican Americans either stayed at the same level or fell behind.32 Similarly, desegregation efforts of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s were still unresolved by the 1980s and 1990s. In fact, racially segregated schools increased rather than decreased due largely to economic and residential factors.33 This dual system of education exacerbated differences between Anglo majority and minority schools in funding, facilities, curriculum, and instruction.34 In turn, this resulted in lower earnings and higher unemployment for Arizonan-­Mexicans. The high school completion rates for Hispanics eighteen to twenty-­four years of age dropped from 62.8 percent in 1985 to 56 percent in 1989. Many estimated that the Arizona Mexican American high school dropout rate in 1988 was as high as 60 percent.35 According to a research team from Arizona State University (ASU), the dropout rate for the Phoenix Union High School district increased from 12 percent to 20 percent in the seven-­year period from 1975 to 1982. Four thousand students dropped out in the district during the 1987–1988 school year. This number remained consistent throughout the 1980s, resulting in more than forty thousand students deprived of a high school diploma. The vast majority of these dropouts were minorities, reflecting a 35 percent Hispanic rate alone.36 Thirty-­two percent of Hispanic students who started high school in 1996 did not graduate in 2000, while in this same year only half of Hispanics in Arizona, eighteen or more years of age, completed high school. Although the Arizonan-­Mexican students that stayed in school benefited from a high school education, they consistently scored appreciably below state and national standardized achievement exams (National Assessment of Educational Progress, Arizona Instrument to Measure Standards, and Stanford Achievement Test).37 As a consequence, many high school graduates in the 1980s and 1990s lacked a basic academic foundation of reading, language skills, mathematics, and history.38 This prompted the National Center for Education Statistics, a subsidiary of the US Department of Education, to declare that Hispanic educational “trends [are] disturbing and unsatisfactory.”39 In addition, in 1990, local leaders were disappointed when the Phoenix Union High School District did not hire an Arizonan-­Mexican superintendent. This disappointment, along with other ongoing inequalities, compelled many to once again complain about “racism in the school system.”40 South

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Mountain Community College faculty member Amalia Villegas argued: “The [public school] system does not meet the needs of these children [Arizonans of Mexican heritage]. A lot of it has to do with racism. It has to do with the attitude and the way the education system views Hispanics.”41 A number of reports reflect that many teachers, counselors, curriculum planning committees, and the laws themselves devalued the confluence of two cultures that Mexican Americans carried. Thus, misunderstandings of Mexican American abilities or inabilities remained salient throughout the 1990s and into the first dozen or so years of the twenty-­first century. Higher education throughout 1980s and much of the 1990s was plagued by problems of the 1960s and 1970s as well. In addition to a low retention rate, there was still a lack of Arizonan-­Mexican faculty members in colleges and universities. The few that did exist were generally in the junior academic ranks (lecturers, instructors, assistant professors, and research or visiting staff). By 1981, UA had no Mexican American faculty members in the Colleges of Architecture, Agriculture, Law, and Pharmacy, while ethnic Mexican maintenance workers accounted for one-­third of such employees. Just as important, by 1983, UA had a 6 percent Hispanic enrollment in undergraduate, graduate, and professional studies programs. Five years later, the Hispanic student presence at UA increased 1.5 percent.42 In considering these data, UA students were twice as likely to meet Mexican American custodians or cafeteria workers as they were Hispanic faculty members. Likewise, in 1980, 4.9 percent of ASU’s student population was Hispanic. Eight years later, Hispanics made up 5.5 percent, an increase of 0.6 percent. This minor growth, coupled with a prolongation of ASU’s “lack of action on minority programs and hiring,” provoked former 1970s activist Joe Eddie López to call for the resignation of university president J. Russell Nelson in 1989.43 A community task force was also created to address ASU employment discrimination against Arizonan-­Mexicans. The Arizona Hispanic Community Forum, in conjunction the Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund and the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People filed a series of class action suits against ASU in the early 1990s.44 Although higher education in Arizona became more diverse by the mid-­ 1990s, Mexican Americans were still underrepresented. In 1994, the Anglo population represented 80 percent of students in Arizona universities, 70 percent in community colleges, and 75 percent in private and career institutions. Compared with the demographic makeup of the state, these figures signify that Mexican Americans were not attending institutions of

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higher learning proportionately. To be sure, a 1999 research report issued by UA’s Mexican American Studies and Research Center revealed that fewer than 5 percent of Hispanics in Arizona had a college degree, while 50 percent did not graduate from high school.45 Two years later, 19 percent of community college students and 11 percent of students in public universities were Hispanic. By 2010, problems still remained. At UA, for instance, about half of their Hispanic students did not “make it to their degrees.” More broadly, the three public Arizona universities graduated about half of their Hispanic students, and sometimes even less. “There are two big things [that impede Hispanics from graduating],” argued Andrea Romero, UA professor in the Department of Mexican American and Raza Studies: “The first one is economics. There’s an overrepresentation of Latino students that are working compared to white students and with the increase of tuition and lack of student aid, it’s an issue. The second one is if they don’t feel welcome on campus. They might not be as similar to the majority of other students, for economic reasons, for cultural reasons.”46 Worse yet, the high school dropout rate among Arizonan-­Mexicans has remained at 45 percent, more than twice the level of Anglo students.47 Frank Knorr, director of the US Commission on Civil Rights’ six-­volume education study, foreshadowed these realities forty years ago when he cautioned in 1974: “If progress continues at the present rate, it would be almost the 21st century and we still could not have the kind of education for Mexican Americans as we have for the Anglo society.”48 Despite modest gains, Arizona still has one of the worst high school and college attainment rates for Hispanics in the nation.49 In 2004, Arizona not only ranked forty-­eighth in the country in school spending per pupil but had the worst dropout rate in the nation for the third consecutive year.50 Nearly ten years later in 2013, the dropout rate among Arizona high school students was still the highest in the country.51 As the number of Arizonan-­Mexicans increased, their percentage in high schools and colleges decreased.52 In part there was a lack of coordination on college campuses and throughout high schools to recruit and retain Mexican American students, despite the fact that since the 1960s the number of Hispanic children in US public schools has increased 300 percent. Although Arizonan-­Mexican organizations encouraged educational participation, there was not a commitment from public schools and universities. By 2000, however, the Arizonan-­Mexican community witnessed a sustained effort on the part of institutions to address decades of setbacks. In a three-­ year period, ASU added twenty-­two Mexican American professors and

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“dozens of associates attached to its Hispanic Research Center.” As a result, ASU “boasts the highest number of Hispanic faculty in the nation.”53 Despite challenges of the 1980s and 1990s, Mexican Americans won a number of concessions from the Arizona establishment as a result of social protests during the 1960s and 1970s. At its most basic level, developments such as Tucson Unified School District “blowouts,” the Phoenix Union High School boycott, the ASU Phoenix laundry firm dispute, the emergence of UA’s Mexican American Studies Program and Research Center, and countless demonstrations added to the statewide outcry that eventually forced local and state officials to contend with Arizonan-­Mexican concerns. The community successfully defined its own issues within the context of its own experiences. By developing ways to maintain self-­esteem in a social system that did not accord them much social worth, Arizonan-­ Mexicans began to rethink their position in society. As such, they created an alternative social order that kept manipulation at a minimum and produced the kind of responses necessary to establish social harmony and academic acceptance. UA student Mary Carmen E. Cruz emphasized that activism helped students become “more aware of their talents and [allowed them] to not be afraid to shine.” The impact of agency, she concluded, has “made the Chicano more appreciated by others and by himself [sic] as well.”54 An insistence on political and ethnic unity was intrinsic to the Arizona Chicano Movement. By building cultural awareness, activists sensitized others to their social and political barriers. From Tucson to Tempe, students touched by Chicano agency realized that their education was not simply theirs as an individual, but that they owed something to the communities from which they had come. These student activists paved the way for others by securing positions as lawyers, educators, community organizers, business leaders, and state and federal appointed and elected officials. Through their leadership in various spheres, these activists helped shape future generations. This binding influence of Arizona Chicano Movement culture on the larger Mexican American community is due to several factors. Perhaps the most important is that civil rights Chicano activists share a powerful generational set of values that are articulated through memories, expectations, challenges, perspectives, and practices. These activists gave voices to a generation of Arizonan-­Mexicans that demanded the same educational benefits that other Arizonans enjoyed. As a result, no other Arizonan-­Mexican community shaped such a spellbinding discourse of solidarity and educational reform. In doing so, Arizona was defined in the national context when the Chicano Movement was at its height.

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Arizonan-­Mexican activists produced their own civil rights movement, yet it was also inherently connected to the national Chicano Movement. This is first reflected in Yuma native César Chávez’s farm worker reform across Arizona. Chávez’s influence goes well beyond his support for Arizona farm worker rights or his birthright. Indeed, Chávez also influenced several community leaders, including Gustavo Gutierrez, Carolina Rosales, and Manuel “Lito” Peña. As a voter registration advocate, education desegregationist, and legislator, Peña was a leader for the Phoenix community for fifty years. In the mid-­1950s, though, he met César Chávez, which only reinforced his activist agenda and cross-­coalition community building. Furthermore, draft resister Rosalío Muñoz, who was co-chair of the 1970 National Chicano Moratorium Committee, has Arizona roots: his parents attended segregated schools in the state and were later leaders in Los Conquistadores, the first Mexican American student organization, formed in 1937 at Arizona State Teachers College, later known as Arizona State University.55 In addition, José Angel Gutiérrez’s La Raza Unida Party in Texas had an impact in Arizona, notably with an influential La Raza Unida Party in Tucson. Although short-­lived, Tucson’s La Raza Unida Party helped cultivate cultural expression, ethnic identity, and community stability. By the same token, Reies López Tijerina began his activism in Arizona, reminding Arizonan-­Mexicans about their own land-­grant battle with dismissed property rights in the Gadsden Purchase treaty.56 Denver activist Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzáles, moreover, spoke in Arizona numerous times, encouraging Arizonan-­Mexicans to challenge discriminatory practices. The Brown Berets and MECHA as well left an indelible impression in Arizona by raising educational expectations, challenging traditional school governance, redefining political and cultural orientations, and mobilizing hundreds against the US war in Southeast Asia. Even though the Brown Berets—a Chicano nationalist youth activist group that emerged during the Chicano Movement, notably between 1967 and 1972—were more prevalent in other states, Arizona did have its own chapter. The National Council of La Raza (NCLR), as one of the leading advocacy organizations in the nation, also has Arizona origins. Before NCLR reached national status, it was the Southwest Council of La Raza based in Tucson. In fact, several NCLR leaders, such as labor activist Maclovio Barraza, had a major hand in organizing Phoenix-­based Chicanos por la Causa. Undeniably, Arizonan-­ Mexicans experienced educational discrimination consistent with Mexican Americans across the nation and challenged such discrimination equally as their Chicano counterparts.57 While

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generally seen as an outgrowth of the civil rights movement, the heterogeneous Chicano Movement was important to the Arizonan-­Mexican struggle for not only educational equality but also for political, economic, and social stability. The record of success in these areas is mixed because of class, ideological, geographical, and age differences among Arizonan-­ Mexicans. Even though high school and college students spearheaded much of the education reform, agency activists emanated from diverse populations, both male and female, that ran the gamut from young to old, assertive to passive, neophyte to experienced, and Democrat to Republican. An increased Mexican American presence in the educational system is one of the lasting legacies of the Arizona Chicano Movement. Yet, how do the current Arizonan-­Mexican leadership and Arizona establishment reconcile continued astronomical high school and college dropout rates among Mexican Americans?58 Grappling with educational challenges is not the sole responsibility of the Arizonan-­Mexican community or local school systems that serve students. Instead, improving the educational experience and performance of Arizonan-­Mexican students must involve the joint efforts of the Mexican American community, local school systems, colleges and universities, and the state and federal government. Arizonan-­Mexican educational woes are not individual failures but encompass systematic forces allied with school injustices. In effect, school setbacks can be fully understood only when analyzed in the broadest political, economic, and cultural contexts. Arizonan-­Mexican school failure and success are inextricably linked to larger complexly interrelated social issues. All Arizonans must take responsibility for their role in contributing to the state’s educational troubles. This is essential because it will determine whether Arizona’s future is prosperous or impoverished.59 The more Arizonans understand the strong connection between remuneration and education, the more likely they will ensure that the majority is educationally successful. Clearly, Arizona was a divided state, compelling many to challenge the institutions that acted by omission or commission to discourage and devalue Mexican American thought, culture, and heritage. Through confrontation, negotiation, and political alliances, Arizonan-­ Mexicans sought educational empowerment, created public space, influenced the terms of unequal exchange, and paved the way for academic accommodations in an environment that previously negated their existence. Coming from historic mining, migrant, and urban communities that were plagued with long-­standing patterns of discrimination to evolving enclaves that were forged out of societal intolerance, Arizonan-­Mexicans shared their

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political, labor, and educational consciousness. In part learning from their parents and past, the Arizonan-­Mexican generation after 1964 benefited from inherited activism tactics. These tactics, however, differed from earlier generations’ more passive approach, resulting in the younger generation recasting their own sense of self and cultural worth. Indeed, activism before 1964 in Arizona was more subdued and linearly focused in part because of the size, social standing, and segregation status of the Arizonan-­ Mexican population. Notwithstanding, the older and more established Arizonan-­Mexican generation, who were often members of educated, middle-­class organizations, accomplished much by working to elect left-­leaning politicians, by filing lawsuits aimed at meeting the educational needs of Arizona-­Mexican children, and by ensuring that desegregation was in process, especially with public swimming pools and elementary schools.60 Although meaningful and necessary, the latter 1960s and 1970s coming-­of-­age Arizonan-­ Mexican energized existing organizations while forming a number of new ones, such as ASU’s MASO/MECHA, UA’s MASA/MECHA, Chicanos por la Causa; Valle del Sol Institute; South Phoenix Youth Services; Barrio Youth Project; and chapters of the Brown Berets, the Southwest Council of La Raza (now NCLR), the United Farm Workers, and Service, Employment, Redevelopment. This generation changed these organizations with ideas of political mobilization, ethnic identity, and a novel radicalization that reverberated throughout the Arizonan-­Mexican community. Community leaders, scholars, activists, educators and students contributed to Arizona education reform through the state’s Chicano Movement. An unaccountable number of Arizonans gave the movement a voice that drew attention to the issues facing Mexican Americans. At its broadest level, the Arizona Chicano Movement was a collaboration of organizations, people, ideas, and visions that challenged the status quo of marginality. Specifically, education agency was diverse, complex and effervescent, points outlined within the chapters of this book. This was an era when calls for educational change mobilized thousands of Arizonans of Mexican descent into militant struggles for civil rights, cultural equality, and self-­determination. From Mesa to Miami, this defining period created a euphoric sense of educational reconstruction, redemption, and regeneration in Arizona. Although many ordinary people accomplished extraordinary things by coming together, Arizonans reacted to and reasoned about educational injustices and activism in varied ways, often depending upon their social class, educational attainment, political persuasion, cultural and linguistic characteristics and whether they lived in urban, suburban,

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rural, border, or mining areas of the state. Arizonan-­Mexican communities of the 1960s and 1970s were not entirely unified, so their power structures were constantly shifting based upon leadership personalities and local concerns. Education segregation and discrimination, however, arising from their minority position did serve to unite them if only for a transitory moment in time. Equally important, the character of the broader Chicano Movement and the omnipresence of the larger civil rights movement also helped unite Mexican-­Arizonans behind one singular cause. More than this, these wider social movements provided timely approaches and activism examples to forge not only educational change but also social rebranding. From pioneering and precedent-­setting desegregation court cases fought more than fifty-­five years ago to organizations such as Alianza Hispano-­ Americana, Liga Protectora Latina, the League of United Latin American Citizens, the Latin American Club, and the Comité Movimiento Unido Mexicano Contra la Discriminación (the Committee of the United Mexican Movement Against Discrimination), Arizonan-­Mexicans sought to redefine what qualified as an Arizonan.61 With major educational changes evolving between 1968 and 1978, the foundation of society shifted, altering how Anglo Arizonans viewed others and how Arizonan-­Mexicans understood themselves. Many long-­ standing hierarchies of age, race, class, gender, and educational disparities began to breakdown as young Arizonan-­Mexicans laid claim to greater equality. At the very least, Arizonans began to grapple with how to reform education in the 1980s and 1990s in ways that would preserve its strengths while removing the ills that the previous decades’ political activism had laid bare. As Arizona looks toward the year 2015, the challenge is not necessarily about who will lead and who will follow. Rather, the challenge lies in how all Arizonans can be engaged in the effort to have Mexican Americans playing a vital role in the educational life of the state. Building this sense of togetherness is essential because today nearly one out of three Arizonans is Mexican American, and the majority of the state’s children are Hispanic.62 This changing current will have to be embraced by all, especially by Arizonans born in the middle decades of the twentieth century, who generally grew up in a seemingly homogeneous society. The goal of the Arizonan community in the future, therefore, should be to escape the frustration and aggression of the past in order to move toward a more pluralistic society. And only in this way can we come together to ask: How should Arizona, the land of opportunity, define educational equity? After

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102 years of consistent inequality throughout the state, Arizona is at a risk of determining that sweeping disparities in income and in educational attainment are a natural course of life, and at risk of ignoring the reality that when children do not have access to quality resources, and well-­balanced social studies curricula with unbiased teachers on all sides, they do not live in the land that Abraham Lincoln envisioned when he signed the Arizona Organic Act in 1863. In many ways, the ethnic Mexican in twentieth-­century Arizona was seen as “another” race problem and handled in much the same way as the African American was, through segregationist policies and institutions. Indeed, in spite of their different experiences in nineteenth-­century Arizona, the parallels between African Americans and Mexican American experiences in the twentieth century are wide-­ranging. For example, both groups endured exclusion and segregation for much of the first half of the twentieth century, as regional and local Anglo leaders extended Jim Crow policies designed explicitly for African Americans to cover Mexican Americans.63 Furthermore, from 1950 to 1975, these racial policies were attacked and ultimately dismantled by both groups seeking to become first-­class Arizona citizens.64 As the role of public education became important, Mexican Americans, like African Americans, began to press for equal access. The exclusion of both groups, their segregation, and lower levels of academic achievement were justified by assumed deficiencies in each group’s respective cultural background. This justification gained currency through popular racial stereotypes, which diverted attention to discriminatory educational practices and policies. The lack of equal access to education created an Arizona environment that saw both groups as powerless, unorganized, and decidedly disenfranchised. At one point, Arizona, despite more than one hundred years of race relations discord, was more known for its rugged individualism, self-­ determination, unbearably sun-­scorched terrain, and welcoming nature, yet since the state established, then rescinded, a Martin Luther King Jr. holiday in the 1980s, Arizona has become more identified with intolerance, resentment, and fear of difference. Giving a face to “success” and visibility to “progress,” Arizonan-­Mexicans have sacrificed generations of their time and talent for all of Arizona’s children, and its growing reputation as a battleground of ethnic and educational confrontation has only reenergized the Mexican American community. Arizonan-­ Mexicans have shown that education evils have served as a source of power and a place of contestation. Having celebrated Arizona’s centennial in 2012, it

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is paramount that the next hundred years become more open-­minded to different ideas, cultures, and experiences so that our social position does not affect our ability to identify and empathize with others. Pending legislation and present litigation indicate that their challenges for cultural pluralism in and beyond educational institutions are ongoing. From ethnic studies backlash to far too many segregated classrooms, educators, policy makers, parents, school officials, and students have a formidable task ahead. But if the Arizona Chicano Movement is any indicator of the future, these challenges will be met with courage and resilience. In the words of Salomón Baldenegro Jr., who follows in his father’s footsteps: “It’s incumbent upon us to fight for our community and give [a] voice to those who have none. . . . We are in a new civil-­rights movement.”65

Notes

Introduction 1. These four banned approaches to teaching were (1) promoting the overthrow of the US government, (2) promoting resentment toward a race or class of people, (3) promoting classes designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group, and (4) promoting ethnic solidarity instead of the treatment of pupils as individuals. This is discussed further in chapter 6. 2. MALDEF, “Tucson Students Triumph After Nearly 40 Years in Historic Desegregation Case,” available at http://www.maldef.org/news/releases/maldef_triumph_40_ years_desegregation_case/ (accessed July 4, 2013). 3. It is necessary to qualify the meaning of Mexican American. Both literally and geographically, it can be confusing and unclear. Idiomatically, it means US citizens of Mexican descent. Throughout Arizona’s history, various terms have been used to describe its citizens of Mexican ancestry. Terms such as Latin, Spanish-­American, Hispano, Mejicano, and Mexican-­American were widespread, yet each is either dated or indistinct. Many Mexican Americans in Arizona are descendants of old pioneer families who resided there for several generations. At first thought, then, it seems appropriate to use Mexican American instead of the aforementioned terms. The term Mexican American is designated for an American citizen who generally resides in the United States and whose parents (or, in some cases, only one parent) are of Mexican descent. Such a person may be a naturalized US citizen, a first-­generation citizen, or one whose family roots extend as far back as the sixteenth century. 4. Since many Anglo Arizonans did not differentiate between Mexican Americans and Mexican immigrants, especially with respect to discriminatory practices and policies, the term Arizonan-­Mexican refers to all individuals of Mexican heritage who either work or live in Arizona, regardless of whether they are US citizens. 5. The term variant ethnic Mexican is also used by David Gregory Gútierrez in Walls and Mirrors: Mexican Americans, Mexican Immigrants, and the Politics of Ethnicity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995). I use it primarily when referring to people of Mexican heritage regardless of whether they are US citizens, legal residents, or undocumented. It is used occasionally instead of the aforementioned Arizonan-­Mexican to refer more broadly to peoples of Mexican descent in the United States. I limit the use of Chicano to those ethnic Mexicans politically active during

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the Chicano Movement. Many appropriated the term Chicano to signify an acquired perspective of worth, dignity, and respect. Throughout the 1960s and 1970s, the term fostered a sense of solidarity, pride, and confidence among individuals of Mexican background. 6. Celestino Fernandez and Louis Holscher, “Chicano-­Anglo Intermarriage in Arizona, 1960–1980: An Exploratory Study of Eight Counties,” Hispanic Journal of Behavioral Science 5, no. 3 (1983): 294. 7. The 1990s and 2000s have produced a great deal of controversy concerning the proper pan-­ethnic term to use to both describe and distinguish a considerable fraction of the US population. Since the mid-­1990s, scholars have effectively narrowed the historical argument down to two catchall terms: Hispanic or Latino. Given that a popular and academic consensus has not been achieved, largely because of political, regional, and generational differences, both pan-­ethnic labels are used interchangeably in this book, to denote the currency of each term in the Southwest broadly and in Arizona particularly. Of course, such blanket terms are used only when “Mexican American” or any of its derivatives are not. 8. Rodolfo F. Acuña, Occupied America: The Chicano’s Struggle for Liberation (San Francisco: Canfield Press, 1972), 333. 9. Julia Lobaco, “Women at War: Contributions of Hispanics Chronicled at Last,” Arizona Republic, December 19, 1986. 10. George Lespron, “Chicano History,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 17, 1970; and Renee Calderon, “Chicanos’ History Vital to Movement, Professor Claims,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 10, 1973. 11. Calderon, “Chicanos’ History Vital to Movement.” 12. Ibid. 13. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 2, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ. 14. Harwood P. Hinton, “Arizona Theses and Dissertations: A Preliminary Checklist,” Arizona and the West: A Quarterly Journal of History 7, no. 3 (Autumn 1965): 239–64. 15. As a matter of interest, some argue that what also distinguishes Arizona agency from other state activism is that many Mexican American student leaders, especially from Arizona State University, came from Arizona’s mountainous mining communities, such as Superior, Morenci, Ray, Ajo, Bisbee, Jerome, Miami, and Globe. Purportedly raised in communities where union activity was a social center of family life, students learned the techniques that their fathers used to organize in the mines, thereby learning how their parents challenged many discriminatory barriers. As such, students used these experiences to combat campus and community injustices. After gaining this practical organizing and management know-­how, they supposedly brought these highly needed skills to college campuses and, by extension, major metropolitan areas such as Phoenix and Tucson. Indeed, Christine Marín, an archivist, historian, and professor emerita at Arizona State University’s Chicana/o Research Collection and Archives, reflects: Even though I come from a mining town ninety miles away, my activity was focused here in the valley along with many others who marched with Chavez and were out there fighting. . . . the early political leaders came from mining towns. And the very

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strong educational leaders came from mining towns. . . . See, our experiences—the labor union experience—[that] both men and women came with . . . to the valley originally as students and then later as professionals [was important,] so the need for our skills and our talents was here as much as it was for our areas back home. But the greater need was here with the people, here in the valley.

Once in more densely populated areas, these activists developed a reputation as regional civil rights leaders. Even though they were on the periphery of local cities, their parents’ lives and, in turn, their own lives were still somewhat shaped by the patterns of discrimination. “It wasn’t that Mexican Americans from mining towns were smarter,” notes one activist. “The difference was our experience. Our experience was the Union.” Another activist maintains, “Los mineros [the miners] became among the articulate leaders of the Mexican American political movement.” Some of the so-­called mountain kids who brought change to Arizona public education, eventually serving the greater Central Arizona community, include state senator Alfredo Gutierrez, state senator Manuel “Lito” Pena, US congressman Ed Pastor, Joe Eddie López, Mary Rose Wilcox, Rita Carrillo, Joe Coto, Adam Diaz, Val Cordova, Christine Marín, and Ronnie Lopez (who attended Northern Arizona University). “Interview with Ms. Christine Marin in Tempe, AZ, Feb. 24, 1992” [interview conducted by Jesus Trevino], MECHI H-­111, Chicano Research Collection; “From Mines to Mainstream” [feature article], MECHI H-­64, Chicano Research Collection; “Interview with Ms. Christine Marin in Tempe, AZ, Feb. 24, 1992” [interview conducted by Jesus Trevino], MECHI H-­111, Chicano Research Collection; and Geoffrey Fox, Hispanic Nation: Culture, Politics, and the Constructing of Identity (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 82. 16. Jim Spencer, “MASO Members Urge Chicano Studies,” State Press, October 6, 1970. 17. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­ 150, box 1, folder 15, Chicano Research Collection. 18. “Unwise and Silly Talk,” Arizona Republic, December 3, 1970. 19. Norma Coile, “Minority Leaders to Fights Alleged Job Discrimination,” State Press, March 11, 1976. 20. Jerry De Gracia, “Chicano Panel Berates Middle Class,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 4, 1971. 21. Raúl M. Grijalva, “El Mestizaje—Is You,” Coraje 1, no. 3 (July 1969): 6. 22. Mexican Americans adopted the term Aztlán (az-­TLAN) to refer to the Southwest and their social, political, economic, and cultural utopia. Although there are many meanings of Aztlán, I present the standard definition that speaks to this work. Historically, Aztlán became a powerful myth with diverse political and cultural uses. At the heart of the Chicano movement, Aztlán carried remarkable symbolic clout as the stolen homeland and future stomping ground of Mexican Americans. Aztlán thus signifies a group of people culturally bankrupt and economically muted from American society. Aztlán was a place where Mexican Americans, including those from Arizona, could purportedly exercise self-­determination. Aztlán lives in any place where a Mexican American lives: in his or her mind and heart. For a review of the historical, anthropological, and mythological utility of the term Aztlán, see Rudolfo A. Anaya and Francisco A. Lomelí, Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1989). For the long-­term complexity of the usage of Aztlán, see Daniel Cooper Alarcón, “The Aztec Palimpsest: Toward a New Understanding

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  Notes to Pages 8–10

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of Aztlán, Cultural Identity and History,” Aztlán 19, no. 2 (1992): 33–68; and Rafael Pérez-­Torres (Noriega et al., editors) “Refiguring Aztlán,” in The Chicano Studies Reader: An Anthology of Aztlán, 1970–2000 (Los Angeles: UCLA Chicano Studies Research Center Publications, 2001), 213–39. For the supposition that Aztlán is situated in Utah, see Tim Sullivan, “Bits of History Suggest Utah Is Location of Mythic Aztlan,” Salt Lake Tribune, November 17, 2002. 23. These student organizations include Arizona State University’s Mexican American Student Organization/Movimiento Estudiantíl Chicano de Aztlán (MASO/ MECHA) and University of Arizona’s Mexican American Student Association/Movimiento Estudiantíl Chicano de Aztlán (MASA/MECHA). 24. It would be incorrect to assume that all discriminatory practices ran from Tempe to Tucson; the situation in Arizona cannot be interpreted in such simple terms. Yet, it is safe to conclude that various forms of discrimination affected Mexican American life in Arizona. Similarly, the entire Anglo community both nationally and in Arizona cannot be held accountable for the cycle of prejudice toward the Mexican American community. As Malcolm X contends, “A blanket indictment of all white people is wrong.” Even so, segments of the Arizona academic power structure have to be held somewhat accountable for many of the inequities in the educational arena. Again, as Malcolm X asserts, it was not the pigmentation of a person’s skin but the person’s consciousness that makes the difference. For Malcolm X, it was not Anglos who were the immediate concern but, rather, select Anglos that harbored a sense of superiority. Alex Haley and Malcolm X, The Autobiography of Malcolm X (New York: Ballantine Books, 1973), 362–63 and Manning Marable, Malcolm X: A Life of Reinvention (New York: Viking). 25. Arizona Mexican Americans are an ethnic (and racial) group bound together by common definition and historical experience. They are not a uniform group or monolith; they have the diversity of every other American group. Therefore, they cannot be described in a one-­dimensional fashion, regardless of strident arguments advanced by social scientists of the past. Bearing this in mind, there are many types of ethnic Mexicans and ethclass Mexican American communities in Arizona, each possessing distinctive backgrounds and characteristics. As an ethclass, the intersection of ethnicity and class, there are ethnic Mexican communities with different class groups. Yet, ethclass is transferrable according to Gordon, so an ethnic Mexican in a given ethclass could evolve into another community whether it is a new one entirely or one from one’s past. Like any other racial group, an insurmountable injustice is done by lumping them together. Differences include migration patterns, generational history, religious faith, linguistic preferences, educational attainment, and acculturation rates, to name a few. They need to be viewed according to any other group—in personal terms. Thus, when I refer to Mexican Americans, it is to be understood that their differences are noted; however, for the span of this project, the common thread of Arizonan-­Mexican resilience to hostile forces is an underlying theme; see Lloyd Warner and Leo Srole, The Social System of American Ethnic Groups (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1945), 1.

Chapter 1 1. This chapter is titled “Occupied Arizona” for two reasons. First, Arizona throughout its pursuit of statehood has been treated by federal authorities somewhat as

Notes to Pages 10–13 

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a US foreign colonial possession. Second, it is in recognition of Rodolfo Acuña’s Occupied America, which was originally published in 1972 and is currently in its seventh edition. Acuña’s seminal work has been a mainstay in Latino/a studies programs since that time. “Occupied America,” according to Acuña, implies that all Mexican Americans living today in the lands issued to the United States in 1848 are descendants of those there then, thus making them an “occupied people.” Armando Navarro’s Mexicano Political Experience in Occupied Aztlán: Struggles and Change (Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira Press, 2005) not only supports Acuña’s analysis but also expands on it. 2. Oscar J. Martinez, Mexican-­Origin People in the United States: A Topical History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 107. 3. Bradford Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix: A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese Americans, and African American Communities, 1860–1992 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 18. 4. Senate Committee on Government Operations, Establish an Interagency Committee on Mexican-­American Affairs, Hearings on S. 740, 91st Congr., 1st sess., 1969, 157. 5. Fred H. Schmidt, Spanish Surnamed Americans Employment in the Southwest (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1970), 7–8. 6. See, e.g., Lawrence Clark Powell, Arizona: A Bicentennial History (New York: W. W. Norton, 1976), xiii; and Joseph Miller, Arizona: The Last Frontier (New York: Hastings House, 1956), 8. 7. Marshall Trimble, Arizona: A Panoramic History of a Frontier State (New York: Doubleday, 1997), 28. 8. Gilbert T. Martinez and Jane Edwards, The Mexican American: His Life Across Four Centuries (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1973), 47. 9. James E. Officer, Hispanic Arizona, 1536–1856 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1987), 104. 10. Ibid., 275–77. 11. J. Fred Rippy, “A Ray of Light on the Gadsden Treaty,” Southwestern Historical Quarterly 24 (January 1921): 241–42. 12. Thomas E. Sheridan, Arizona: A History (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1995). 13. Ibid., 56. 14. Madeline Ferrin Paré, Arizona Pageant: A Short History of the 48th State (Phoenix: Arizona Historical Foundation, 1965), 198–99. 15. Sheridan, Arizona, 56. 16. Joan W. Moore and Alfredo Cuéllar, Mexican Americans: Ethnic Groups in American Life Series (Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice-­Hall, 1970), 11. 17. Odie B. Faulk, Arizona: A Short History (Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma Press, 1970), 113–19. 18. The concept of the “Mexican problem” is somewhat similar to the early twentieth-­century dynamic of the so-­called Negro problem. In short, this concept in part reflects the popular mindset by larger society that African Americans presented a series of societal concerns, especially with respect to integration, occupational mobility, and education training. African American scholar W. E. B. Du Bois often explored this concept in his writings of what it meant to be deemed a “problem” and a burden on American society. This outlook of a “problem” or “pressing question” eventually applied

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to ethnic Mexicans and their growing place in the American society and culture: see Kevin K. Gaines, “Racial Uplift Ideology in the Era of ‘the Negro Problem,’ ” Freedom’s Story, TeacherServe, National Humanities Center, http://nationalhumanities center.org/tserve/freedom/1865-1917/essays/racialuplift.htm (accessed July 7, 2013). 19. Carey McWilliams, North from Mexico (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1949), 52. 20. Qtd. in Scott Gagel, dir., “1912–1990,” in The Spirit of Arizona (VHS) (Phoenix, AZ: McCune Television, 1990). 21. David J. Weber, Foreigners in Their Native Land: Historical Roots of the Mexican Americans. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1973, 62. 22. Rubin Francis Weston, Racism in U.S. Imperialism: The Influence of Racial Assumptions on American Foreign Policy, 1893–1946 (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1972), 47; and “Quay Defies the Senate,” Arizona Democrat, December 12, 1902. 23. “Christine Marin” (CB BIO MAR, CHR), Arizona Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University; Julie Cart, “Hispanic American Legion Post Fights Against the Powers That Be,” Arizona Republic, March 31, 1980; Jasmin K. Williams, “The Mendez Victory,” New York Post, April 12, 2005; Wallace Turner, “Chicanos Starting to Assert Political Power in California,” New York Times, April 20, 1974; Sharon Kelley, dir., Una Segunda Vista (A Second Look: Arizona’s Hispanic Heritage) (VHS) (Phoenix, AZ: McCune Television, 1991). and Rachel Ochoa, “Discrimination Stains City’s Early Days,” Tribune Newspapers, September 18, 1996. 24. Barbara Kingsolver, Holding the Line: Women in the Great Arizona Mine Strike of 1983 (Ithaca, NY: ILR Press, 1989), 8. 25. Senate, Establish an Interagency Committee, 157. 26. Cuentos y Memorias Papers, MSS-­168, box 1, folder 16, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe. As an example, Miami, Arizona, at one time had three schools for each major racial group: Mexican Americans attended Bullion Plaza, African Americans went to the Jefferson School, and Anglos enrolled at Inspiration School. 27. Beyond educational circles, segregation was also prevalent in most public social settings. The Tempe Beach swimming pool, for example, banned Arizonan-­Mexicans from using its facilities throughout the 1940s, while Miami had swimming restrictions. Several long-­time Miami residents recall during the 1940s being granted guarded permission to swim in the public pool at the YMCA (Young Men’s Christian Association) on Saturdays after the pool underwent a week’s worth of swimming by Anglos. This weekly opportunity evolved mainly because Saturday was when the YMCA drained and cleaned the pool so that it would be fit for Anglos during the upcoming week. As such, YMCA staff and administrators were indifferent if Arizonan-­Mexicans sought to swim in dirty, grungy water while it was drained for cleaning, which often was left to Mexican American youngsters to perform. Arizona’s segregated swimming policy was not abandoned until the late 1950s. The dismantling of this practice began in 1955 with the US district court case Baca v. Winslow (Civ-­394-­Pct), which forced the city of Winslow to end segregation in its public swimming pool. Instead of using public facilities, Arizonan-­Mexicans turned to canals and rivers for their swimming adventures. Occasionally, fair-­skinned Mexican Americans devoid of common phenotypic ethnic

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Mexican characteristics could gain access to public swimming pools. University Records Collection Papers, MSS-­098, box 40, folder 14, Chicano Research Collection; Josie Ortega Sánchez, interview by Richard Nearing, June 23, 1992, Barrios Oral History Project, Tempe Historical Museum, Tempe, AZ; and Cuentos y Memorias Papers, MSS-­168, box 1, folder 5. 28. Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix, 133. Although not explored in Luckingham’s work, the first school with separate racial classrooms was the Congress Street School in Tucson. Opened in 1875, this school was the first to arbitrarily place ethnic Mexican children in remedial-­level classes and Anglos in advanced-­track courses. 29. Tony Natale, “Women Recalls Grandfather as Champion of Desegregation,” Tempe Tribune, September 18, 1996. It is important to indicate that the state constitution failed to extend any specific rights to Mexican Americans. Arizona scholars that explain how legal segregation mostly applied to African Americans while de facto segregation generally applied to Mexican Americans include: Katherine A. Benton-­ Cohen (Borderline Americans: Racial Division and Labor War in the Arizona Borderlands. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2009); Bradford Luckingham (A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese American, and African American Communities, 1860–1992. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994); Eric V. Meeks (Border Citizens: The Making of Indians, Mexicans, and Anglos in Arizona (Austin: University of Texas Press, 2007); Laura K. Muñoz, “Separate But Equal? A Case Study of Romo v. Laird and Mexican American Education.” OAH Magazine of History 15, 2 (Winter 2001): 28–35; and Jeanne M. Powers, “Forgotten History: Mexican American School Segregation in Arizona from 1900 to 1951,” Equity and Excellence in Education 41, 4 (2008): 467–81. 30. Qtd. in Bradford Luckingham Phoenix: The History of a Southwestern Metropolis (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1989), 64. 31. Gilbert G. González, Chicano Education in the Era of Segregation (Philadelphia: Balch Institute Press, 1990), 12–26; Guadalupe Salinas, “Mexican Americans and the Desegregation of Schools in the Southwest,” Houston Law Review 8 (1971): 929–51; Guadalupe San Miguel Jr., Let All of Them Take Heed: Mexican Americans and the Campaign for Educational Equality in Texas, 1910–1981 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1987), esp. chap. 1; Rubén Donato, Marta Menchaca, and Richard Valencia, “Segregation, Desegregation, and Integration of Chicano Students: Problems and Prospects,” in Chicano School Failure and Success: Research and Policy Agendas for the 1990s, ed. Richard Valencia, 1–65 (New York: Falmer Press, 1991); Guadalupe San Miguel Jr. and Richard R. Valencia, “From the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo to Hopwood: The Educational Plight and Struggle of Mexican Americans in the Southwest,” Harvard Educational Review 68 (Fall 1998): 353–412; José F. Moreno, The Elusive Quest for Equality: 150 Years of Chicano/Chicana Education (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Educational Review, 1999), esp. chaps. 2, 3; Margaret E. Montoya, “A Brief History of Chicana/o School Segregation: One Rationale for Affirmative Action,” Berkeley La Raza Law Journal 12, no. 159 (2002): 159–72; Charles Wollenberg, All Deliberate Speed: Segregation and Exclusion in California Schools, 1855–1975 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976); W. Henry Cooke, “The Segregation of Mexican American School Children in Southern California,” in Racism in California, ed. Roger Daniels and Spencer C. Olin Jr., 220–28 (New York: Macmillan, 1972); Sandra Robble, Mendez vs. Westminster: For All the Children/Para Todos los Niños (DVD)

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(Orange County, CA: KOCE-­TV, 2002); Maritza De La Trinidad, “The Segregation of Mexican Americans in Tucson Public Schools: Chicanos in Arizona, Southwest, Have Long History of Fighting Discrimination,” Arizona Report 4, no. 2 (Spring 2000): 1, 6–7; and María Urquides, “The Roots of the Newcomers,” in This Land, These Voices: A Different View of Arizona History in the Words of Those Who Lived It, ed. Abe Chanin with Mildred Chanin, 65 (Flagstaff, AZ: Northland Press, 1977). 32. Raymond Johnson Flores, “The Socio-­economic Trends of the Mexican People Residing in Arizona” (PhD diss., Arizona State College, 1951), 42. 33. Jerry Hickey, “Former Superintendent of Ajo District a Leader in School Desegregation,” Arizona Republic, March 3, 1987. 34. Gilbert G. Gonzalez, “The System of Public Education and Its Function Within the Chicano Communities, 1920–1930” (PhD diss., University of California, Los Angeles, 1974), 4–5. 35. Paul Taylor, An American-­Mexican Frontier (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1934), 216. 36. Also known as “Unit 2,” Glendale’s Mexican School was built in the early 1940s. By 1955, Ortiz v. Duckworth was filed in the US District Court of Arizona (no. Civ-­ 1723), resulting in an agreement by the Board of Education of Glendale to discontinue the segregation of and discrimination against Mexican heritage students. 37. “The Tale of School Segregation” [75th anniversary paper] (ME CHI DTO-­10), Chicano Research Collection. 38. Ibid. 39. “The Mexican School” [paper] (MM CHSM-­ 272), Chicano Research Collection. 40. Flores, “Socio-­economic Trends,” 43. 41. Manuel “Manny” Gonzalez, “Bilingual Ballots Help,” Arizona Republic, September 22, 1975. 42. Tony Natale, “Woman Recalls Grandfather As Champion of Desegregation,” Tempe Tribune, September 18, 1996; and “Judge Jenckes Orders District No. 3 to Admit Spanish-­American Pupils in Eighth Street School at Tempe,” Arizona Republic, October 6, 1925. 43. Laura K. Muñoz, “Separate but Equal? A Case Study of Romo v. Laird and Mexican American Education,” OAH Magazine of History 15, no. 2 (Winter 2001): 28–35. 44. “Los Conquistadores Records, 1937–1941” [records] (UM USM-­234), Chicano Research Collection. 45. bid. 46. Maria I. Vigil, “Salomón Baldenegro: A Chicano Activist Mellos (a Little),” Tucson Citizen, November 22, 1980. 47. US Commission on Civil Rights, Hearings Before the United States Commission on Civil Rights (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1962), 17. 48. Mexican American Collection (box 1gg7), University of Arizona Library, Special Collections, Tucson. Tucson superintendent C. E. Rose in the 1920s set the tone for this separate racial platform by declaring in his statewide report, “The school situation in Tucson is an usual one in the fact that over 50 percent of the school children [are] children of foreign blood. . . . Beginning English classes have been established in all these schools.” Beginning English classes were also known as 1-­C. For a brief

Notes to Pages 19–25 

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discussion of the early Tucson public school system, see Kathleen Ann McQuown, “Tucson Public Schools, 1867–1874,” Journal of Arizona History 5, no. 2 (Summer 1964): 38–43. 49. Mexican American Collection (box 1gg7). 50. Luckingham, Phoenix, 96. 51. Gloria Howatt, “The Immigrant and the Schools,” Arizona Teacher-­Parent Magazine 29, no. 9 (May 1941): 18, 27–28. 52. John H. Vesey, “Racial-­Ethnic Survey of Pupils: 29 Percent in Minority Group,” Phoenix Gazette, July 13, 1971. 53. Gerald P. Merrell, “Integration Report Held from Board,” Tucson Citizen, August 21, 1978. 54. Luckingham, Phoenix, 175. 55. US Commission on Civil Rights, Hearings, 143. 56. Ibid., 33. 57. Gonzáles v. Sheely, 96 F. Supp. 1005–7 (D. Ariz. 1951). 58. Luckingham, Phoenix, 175. 59. “The Landmark Civil Rights Case in Arizona: Gonzales vs. Sheely” [unpublished manuscript] (MM CHSM-­58), Chicano Research Collection. 60. “Gonzales vs. Sheely” [unpublished manuscript] (MM CHSM-­182), Chicano Research Collection. 61. Susie Steckner, “Classroom Crusaders,” Phoenix Magazine (August 2010): 52. 62. Ibid. 63. “Gonzales vs. Sheely”; Jeanne M. Powers and Lirio Patton, “Between Mendez and Brown: Gonzales v. Sheely (1951) and the Legal Campaign Against Segregation,” Law and Social Inquiry 33, no. 1 (Winter 2008): 127–71; and Jeanne M. Powers, “Forgotten History: Mexican American School Segregation in Arizona from 1900–1951,” Equity and Excellence in Education 41, no. 4 (2008): 467–81. 64. “The Mexican School: Gilbert School District” (MM CHSM-­270), Chicano Research Collection. 65. “The Gilbert Mexican School” (MM CHSM-271), Chicano Research Collection; and Ray Parker, “Hispanic Students Segregated,” Arizona Republic, October 1, 2005.

Chapter 2 1. According to the US Department of Commerce, 333,349 of the 1,770,900 people in Arizona in 1970 either claimed Spanish proficiency or carried a Spanish surname. Nearly 90 percent of this group was born in the United States, and of the 36,054 foreign born, fewer than five thousand were born outside of Mexico. Comparable to national statistics, the median age of Arizonan-­Mexicans in 1970 was 19.4 years, whereas the state’s overall median age stood at 26.3 years; see “Census Tally Shows State 1/5 Spanish.” 2. John E. Crow, Mexican Americans in Contemporary Arizona: A Social and Demographic View (San Francisco: R and E Research Associates, 1975), 31; and “Dropout Rate Highest in Mexican Americans: Report Says Minority Students Not Educated Equally,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 13, 171. 3. “Dropout Rate Highest in Mexican Americans.”

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4. Senate Committee on Government Operations, Establish an Interagency Committee on Mexican-­American Affairs, Hearings on S. 740, 91st Cong., 1st sess., 1969, 20. 5. Herschel T. Manuel, “The Case in Brief,” in The Changing Mexican American: A Reader, ed. Rudolph Gomez, 71 (El Paso: University of Texas Press, 1972). 6. “Winslow to Shutdown School with Big Minority Classes,” Arizona Republic, April 14, 1973. 7. “Bilingual Program Credited with Cutting Dropout Rate,” Phoenix Gazette, June 7, 1973. 8. “Mexican American Group Plans Added Scholarships,” Tucson Daily Star, February 25, 1972. 9. “Census Tally Shows State 1/5 Spanish,” Arizona Republic, February 8, 1972. 10. Mario T. García, Border Correspondent: Selected Writings, 1955–1970 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1998), 115. 11. Adolfo Quezada, “Achievement Levels Compared,” Arizona Daily Star, March 7, 1974. 12. Adolfo Quezada, “Great Strides Coming in 1980s,” Arizona Daily Star, December 20, 1979. 13. “Mexican American Group Plans Added Scholarship.” 14. Qtd. in J. C. Martin, “State Education Level Lowest for Bilingual,” Arizona Daily Star, February 21, 1971. Before becoming Arizona state superintendent of public instruction, Dr. Shofstall was dean of students at Arizona State University. 15. Thomas P. Carter and Roberto D. Segura, Mexican Americans in School: A Decade of Change (New York: College Entrance Examination, 1979), 65–69. 16. “Achievement Levels Compared.” 17. “Overcoming Student Failure,” Arizona Republic, December 11, 1971. 18. “Education,” Nuestra Cosa 2, no. 2 (December 1973): 2. 19. Charles Horky, “Reading Urged as Promotion Quotient,” Arizona Republic, June 30, 1971; and John H. Vesey, “Minority Third Graders Lag By Year: Reading Handicap High,” Phoenix Gazette, June 29, 1971. 20. John H. Vesey, “Get-­Tough Reading Policy Asked: State School Board Tables Action on Shofstall Plan,” Phoenix Gazette, June 30, 1971. 21. Richard Martin, “The Application of Social Reinforcement Procedures to Improve the School Attendance of Truant Chicano Junior High School Students” (PhD diss., Arizona State University, 1974). 22. US Bureau of the Census, Characteristics of the Population (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1973), 172–74. 23. “Chicano Role in History Cited,” Arizona Republic, May 6, 1970. 24. Elaine Hardin, “MECHA Wants Local Efforts for Chicanos,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 24, 1970. 25. Alice Marcarelli, “Bilingual Schools Help Spanish-­Speakers,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 9, 1973. 26. “Segregation Impairs Education: Separate Class for Mexican Americans,” State Press, March 13, 1968. 27. Thelma Heatwole, “Glendale Latinos Want Increase in High School Vocational Training,” Arizona Republic, January 24, 1974. 28. Max Valencia, A Study of High School Drop Outs from Guadalupe (Guadalupe, AZ: Guadalupe Organization, 1973).

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29. Julian Nava, “Educational Challenges in Elementary and Secondary Schools,” in Mexican Americans Tomorrow: Educational and Economic Perspectives, ed. Gus Tyler, 127 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1975). 30. Bonnie Bartak, “3 State School Districts Still Fail to Aid Spanish-­Speaking Pupils, U.S. Says,” Arizona Republic, January 25, 1976. 31. John Aldape, “Culture Study Needed,” State Press, January 9, 1970. 32. Carter and Segura, Mexican Americans in School, 296. 33. Qtd. in Amy Robertson, “Teaching the Disadvantaged,” State Press, September 21, 1973. 34. US Commission on Civil Rights, Toward Quality Education for Mexican Americans (Washington, DC: February 1974), 73. 35. US Commission on Civil Rights, For the Children: Improving Education for Mexican Americans (Washington, DC, October 1974), 10. 36. Qtd. in Debbie Ellison, “Program Has 2 Benefits,” Arizona Republic, September 20, 1969. 37. Bonnie Bartak, “School Districts with Big Mexicano Populations to Be Probed,” Arizona Republic, December 7, 1974. 38. “PUHS District Racial Mix Can Be Model, Castro Says,” Arizona Republic, October 30, 1970; and “A Call to Reason,” Voice of the City 5, no. 31 (October 8, 1970). 39. Richard Valencia, “Racism in Education,” Centro 3, no. 3 (Winter 1974): 7. 40. Nava, “Educational Challenges,” 122–23. 41. “Summary and Conclusions,” Nuestra Cosa 2, no. 1 (November 1973): 4–5. 42. Raymond Johnson Flores, “The Socio-­economic Trends of the Mexican People Residing in Arizona” (PhD diss., Arizona State College, 1951), 43. 43. “Mexican American Educational Needs, a Report for the State Superintendent of Public Instruction,” Mexican American Collection, University of Arizona Library Special Collections, Tucson. 44. US Department of the Interior, Economic Data Equal Employment Opportunity Program, State of Arizona (Reno, NV: US Department of the Interior, 1971), 227. 45. “Hispanic Groups Question District Hiring Policies,” Phoenix Gazette, June 15, 1978. 46. Cecelia Goodnow, “Spanish Key to Teachers’ Keeping Job,” Arizona Republic, May 8, 1978. 47. US Commission on Civil Rights, Summary of Title VI Findings: Tucson School District #1 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1971). 48. “Summary and Conclusions.” 49. “Mexican American Educational Needs.” 50. Carter and Segura, Mexican Americans in School, 146. 51. US Commission on Civil Rights, Summary of Title VI Findings. 52. “Mexican American Educational Needs.” 53. US Commission on Civil Rights, Toward Quality, 11. 54. Ibid., 43. 55. Lou Hiner, “Report Hits Education for Latins,” Phoenix Gazette, May 2, 1972. 56. US Commission on Civil Rights, Toward Quality, 13. 57. “Summary and Conclusions.” 58. US Commission on Civil Rights, Toward Quality, 13. 59. “Chicanos Neglected in Education,” Raza de Bronce 1, no. 2 (March 1973): 10.

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  Notes to Pages 34–38

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60. “Chicano Job Workshop Receives State Grant,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 28, 1973. 61. John H. Vesey, “Gap Closes in Minority Hiring,” Phoenix Gazette, June 9, 1972. 62. Kathleen Tierney, “Panel Discusses Negro Problems,” State Press, November 13, 1964. 63. Vesey, “Gap Closes.” 64. Carter and Segura, Mexican Americans in School, 137–43. 65. Ibid. 66. US Commission on Civil Rights, Summary of Title VI Findings. 67. H. Frank Bradford, “The Mexican Child in Our American Schools,” Arizona Teacher 27, no. 6 (March 1939): 198–99; Inez M. Whitewell, “A Homemaking Course for Mexican Girls Who Will Be Unable to Attend High School” (master’s thesis, University of Southern California, 1937), 82–83; and Frances Esquibel Tywoniak and Mario T. García, Migrant Daughter: Coming of Age as a Mexican American Woman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 75. 68. US Commission on Civil Rights, Summary of Title VI Findings. 69. US Commission on Civil Rights, Hearings Before the United States Commission on Civil Rights (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1962), 57. 70. “Phoenix District Is on List of 100 Worst for Civil Rights,” Tucson Citizen, December 13, 1979; and “Schooling: Most Agree It’s No. 1 Goal,” Phoenix Gazette, September 24, 1981. 71. “Winslow to Shutdown School.” 72. US Commission on Civil Rights, Summary of Title VI Findings, 22–24. 73. Ibid. 74. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 2, folder 1, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe. 75. Sherry Wheatley, “Teaching Aide Calls Minority Education Deficient,” State Press, October 4, 1979. 76. John Aldape, “Sociology Course Studies Chicano’s Special Problems,” State Press, January 7, 1970. 77. “Number of Hispano Students Growing at Tremendous Rates,” Voz de la Raza 111, no. 31 (April 1973): 8. 78. Ibid.; Steve Novak, “Chicano Group Demands Change Here,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 29, 1973; and Cindy Christopher, “Race Bias Charged by Ex-­UA Staffers,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, January 15, 1975. 79. Qtd. in Nancy Wolicki, “Chicano Students Tell Evaluators of Need for Mexican Studies,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 26, 1974. 80. Senate Committee, Establish an Interagency, 5. 81. “Concerned Chicanos Set New Goals for this Year,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 1, 1973. 82. Tom Guillen, “NAU’S Crime Rate Is Highest Among State’s Universities,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, January 23, 1973. 83. “Chicanos Make Up 4 Percent of Student Body,” Noticiero Chicano 1, no. 3 (Spring 1978): 4. 84. Qtd. in Beverly Medlyn, “UA Will Spend $5,000 to Recruit Hispanics,” Arizona Daily Star, April 19, 1978.

Notes to Pages 38–41 

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85. Ruth E. Zambrana, Understanding Latino Families: Scholarship, Policy, and Practice (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995), 24. 86. Leslie Green, “National Study Ranks State Highest in Student Enrollment,” State Press, September 14, 1976. 87. These figures were garnered from the Fall Enrollment and Compliance Report of Institutions of Higher Education 1982 survey, which is part of the Higher Education and General Information Survey commissioned by the US Department of Education. Higher Education General Information Survey (HEGIS): Fall Enrollment and Compliance Report of Institutions of Higher Education, HEGIS XVI; National Center for Education Statistics. Washington, DC: ED-­01 (December 1982): 101–110. 88. Jerry De Gracia, “Chicano Panel Berates Middle Class,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 4, 1971. 89. Qtd. in Susan Carey, “ASU Accused of Discrimination in Hiring,” Arizona Republic, October 15, 1978. 90. Tom Lawson, “Put Up or Shut Up Faculty Challenges,” State Press, November 10, 1971. 91. Dan Huff, “University X-­ ing Ethnic Courses, Disgruntled EOP Assistant Claims,” State Press, November 4, 1971. 92. “Mexican Americans Will Scrutinize UA,” Arizona Daily Star, October 17, 1973; and John Palacito, “Discrimination At All Levels,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 5, 1973. 93. Cynthia Banerjee, “UA Job-­Discrimination Inquiry Starts,” Tucson Daily Star, December 5, 1973; and Susanne McGee, “EEOC Probing Charges of Discrimination,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 4, 1973. 94. Novak, “Chicano Group Demands Change Here.” 95. Edward Lempinen, “UA Faces Federal Probe on Charges of Hispanic Bias, Lack of Advisers,” Arizona Daily Star, March 7, 1981. 96. “Minorities Poorly Represented: ASU—It Ain’t Where the Action Is,” State Press, July 12, 1979. 97. “Affirmative Action and Arizona State University, 1979–1983” [affirmative action policy], ME CHI GP-­5, Chicano Research Collection. 98. Carol Sowers, “ASU Minorities Short Changed,” Arizona Republic, April 29, 1977; and Martin Clem, “ASU Board Investigates Salary Discrimination,” State Press, March 2, 1973. 99. “Minorities Poorly Represented.” 100. Bruce Eggers, “Salary Deficiency Here Says AAUP,” State Press, February 6, 1969. 101. John Banaszewski, “ASU Sets Minority Hiring Goals,” State Press, April 17, 1973. 102. Pat Denley and Jerry Porter, “SUIT Claims Bias in Hiring Tactics,” State Press, May 1, 1975. Title VII forbids discriminatory hiring on the basis of gender, creed, color, religion, or national origin. 103. Cathryn McCune, “Mexican American Plight Laid to Anglo Attitudes,” Arizona Daily Star, February 19, 1970.

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  Notes to Pages 43–46

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Chapter 3 1. Carlos Muñoz Jr., Youth, Identity, and Power: The Chicano Movement (London: Verso, 1989), 1–10; Adela De La Torre, Moving from the Margins: A Chicana Voice on Public Policy (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2002), 65–66; Rodolfo F. Acuña, Sometimes There Is No Other Side: Chicanos and the Myth of Equality (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 1998), 1; and Aida Hurtado and Patricia Gurin, Chicana/o Identity in a Changing U.S. Society, Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2004, 90–91. The increased presence of Mexican Americans in colleges and universities was attributed to several factors, but none greater than affirmative action policies and the Vietnam-­era GI Bill. 2. Terry H. Anderson, The Movement and the Sixties (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 307; and Bradford Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix: A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese Americans, and African American Communities, 1860–1992 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 61. 3. “Chicano Activism in Maricopa County” [ASU paper], MM CHSM-­2, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe; and Patricia A. Adank, “Chicano Activism in Maricopa County—Two Incidents in Retrospect,” in An Awakened Minority: The Mexican Americans, ed. Manuel P. Servín, 246–65 (Beverly Hills, CA: Glencoe Press, 1974). 4. “Chicano Activism in Maricopa County” 5. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 14, Chicano Research Collection. 6. “Chicano Activism in Maricopa County”; and Adank, “Chicano Activism,” 246–65. 7. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, (transcript) MSS-­130, box 8, folder 14. 8. Jack Crowe, “Mexican Americans March on City Hall,” Arizona Republic, September 16, 1969. 9. Qtd. in Peter B. Mann, “Chicanos March on City Hall,” Arizona Republic, September 27, 1969. 10. Ibid. 11. “Chicano Activism in Maricopa County” 12. Ibid. 13. “Boycott’s Over at Phoenix Union,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 3, 1970. 14. Peter B. Mann, “Race for Reason,” Arizona Republic October 14, 1969; and “PUHS Frosh Rated Average on Reading,” Arizona Republic, November 17, 1971. 15. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­ 150, box 2, folder 12, Chicano Research Collection. 16. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 10. 17. “The Phoenix Union High School Boycott” [ASU paper], MM CHSM-­111, Chicano Research Collection. 18. John H. Vesey, “Other School Youths in Boycott,” Phoenix Gazette, October 23, 1970. 19. “PUHS Boycotted by Chicanos,” Arizona Tribune, October 15, 1970. 20. John H. Vesey, “More Return to Classes Over Boycott,” Phoenix Gazette, October 15, 1970.

Notes to Pages 46–50 

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21. “Effects of Boycott Linger on at PUHS,” Arizona Republic, November 3, 1970; and John H. Vesey, “School Advisory Committee Seen as Boycott Deterrent,” Phoenix Gazette, November 16, 1970. 22. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 10. 23. John H. Vesey, “PUHS Boycott Still Effective, Leaders Insist,” Phoenix Gazette, October 28, 1970. 24. “What You Can Do,” South Mountain Star, October 14, 1970. 25. Sharon Kelley, dir., Una Segunda Vista (A Second Look: Arizona’s Hispanic Heritage) (VHS) (Phoenix, AZ: McCune Television, 1991). 26. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 10. North Phoenix High School was established in 1939, South Mountain in 1954, Carl Hayden and Central in 1957, and East High School in 1964. 27. Vesey, “Other School Youths in Boycott.” 28. Carl Twentier, “Outside Students Back Boycott,” Arizona Republic, October 24, 1970. 29. Peter B. Mann, “PUHS Tensions Lessening; Chicanos’ Hopes Lifting,” Arizona Republic, October 13, 1969; and “The PUHS Controversy,” Arizona Republic, October 12, 1970. 30. “Chicano Action . . . What Really Happened at Phoenix Union,” Voice of the City 5, no. 28 (September 18, 1969). 31. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 32. Ibid. 33. Chicanos por la Causa, Inc. (CPLA) was established in February 1969 (and incorporated as a private, nonprofit organization under Arizona law in April 1969) as a means of providing greater opportunity to those in the South Phoenix area. CPLA was primarily concerned with the economically challenged, largely the Hispanic South Phoenix community. At first CPLA was strictly an advocacy group, but it eventually expanded its activities to become a nonprofit community development corporation in 1975. 34. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 20, folder 2. 35. Qtd. in “Phoenix Boycott Hits School Racism,” Verdad 1, no. 25 (November 1970): 5. 36. Qtd. in “Mexican American Teachers Vote Support of PUHS Boycott,” Arizona Republic, October 11, 1970. 37. Connie Koenenn, “Boycott Spreads, Is Costly for PUHS,” Arizona Republic, October 14, 1970. 38. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers (news clipping) MSS-­130, box 20, folder 2. 39. Albert J. Sitter, “Half Absent as Chicanos Boycott PUHS,” Arizona Republic, October 13, 1970. 40. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers (news clipping) MSS-­130, box 20, folder 2. 41. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 42. Peter B. Mann, “Chicanos Walk Out on PUHS,” Arizona Republic, October 3, 1969. 43. By the twelfth day of the PUHS boycott, roughly 260 students were dropped from school roles. In the end, the school board conceded that “students participating

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  Notes to Pages 50–54

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in the boycott who were dropped due to a breakdown in communications between the parents and the school will be re-­entered upon the teachers’ class rolls.” John H. Vesey, “Boycott Brings Probe of PUHS,” Phoenix Gazette, October 30, 1970; and John H. Vessey, “U.S. Mediator Out; Suit Eyed Against Dropping Students,” Phoenix Gazette, October 26, 1976. 44. John H. Vesey, “Justice Department Assistance Asked to Solve Boycott Issues,” Phoenix Gazette, October 21, 1970; Charles Horky, “Board Agrees to Amnesty for Students,” Arizona Republic, November 2, 1970; and “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 45. Peter B. Mann, “Two Major Issues in Chicano Protests,” Arizona Republic, October 15, 1969. 46. “Latins Demand Seymour Quit, Board Recalled,” Phoenix Gazette, October 9, 1970. 47. Qtd. in “Phoenix Boycott Hits School Racism.” 48. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 49. Peter B. Mann, “Chicanos, Anglo Administrators Meet, Begin, Dialogue on Demands at PUHS,” Arizona Republic, September 20, 1969. 50. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers (transcript) MSS-­130, box 20, folder 2. 51. Mann, “Two Major Issues in Chicano Protests.” 52. “Recommendations from a Data Base for Comprehensive Change at Phoenix Union High School” [Educational Services Bulletin], MECHI E-­314, Chicano Research Collection. 53. “Black Phoenicians Assess PUHS Situation,” Arizona Republic, October 12, 1970. 54. John H. Vesey, “U.S. Mediator Due Monday,” Phoenix Gazette, October 21, 1970; and Martin Waldron, “Houston Huelga Schools Open in a Mexican American Protest,” New York Times, September 5, 1969. 55. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 56. “Chicanos Want Their Cause Known,” Arizona Republic, October 12, 1969. 57. Ibid. 58. Cited in Thomas J. Foley, “School Unrest Termed Result of Integration,” Arizona Republic, October 24, 1970. 59. Albert J. Sitter, “Chicanos Call Boycott of PUHS,” Phoenix Gazette, October 10, 1970. 60. “Protest School Opens Amid Confusion,” Phoenix Gazette, October 16, 1970. 61. “Mexican American Teachers Vote Support”; and “Arizona Association of Mexican American Educators,” ME CHI E-­113, Chicano Research Collection. 62. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 63. John H. Vesey, “Black Students Trying to Ease PUHS Tensions,” Phoenix Gazette, October 19, 1970. 64. Connie Koenenn, “Chicano Boycott School Points Way,” Arizona Republic, October 21, 1970. 65. Connie Koenenn, “Chicanos Call PUHS Boycott Successful,” Arizona Republic, October 17, 1970; and “Phoenix Boycott Hits School Racism.” 66. “Solution to Chicano Boycott Unresolved,” Arizona Republic, October 16, 1970.

Notes to Pages 54–57 

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67. Bradford Luckingham, Phoenix: The History of a Southwestern Metropolis (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1989), 217. 68. Koenenn, “Boycott Spreads.” Each student attending classes was worth $4.81 daily in public aid from the state. 69. Qtd. in “Recommendations from a Data Base.” 70. Qtd. in John H. Vesey, “School Board Hears End-­Boycott Pleas,” Phoenix Gazette, October 16, 1970. 71. John H. Vesey, “Boycott Threat Stands,” Phoenix Gazette, November 20, 1970. 72. Horky, “Board Agrees to Amnesty.” 73. “Chicano School Boycott Successful in Phoenix,” Verdad 1, no. 26 (December 1970): 15. 74. John H. Vesey, “Investigation Begins on School Procedures,” Phoenix Gazette, November 3, 1970. 75. Dennis Russell, “Courses Set for PUHS Minorities,” Arizona Republic, July 17, 1971. 76. “Chicano School Boycott Successful in Phoenix.” 77. “Chicanos por la Causa,” Phoenix Gazette, April 28, 1970. 78. Steven V. Roberts, “Grass-­Roots Politics in a Phoenix District: Women, Youths and Chicanos Get Involved,” New York Times, January 30, 1972. 79. Qtd. in John H. Vesey, “Union, South Focal Points of Concern,” Phoenix Gazette, September 7, 1971. 80. Qtd. in “Chicano Leader Will Enter Race for Board of PUHS,” Arizona Republic, July 31, 1970; see also “Joe Eddie López for PUHS Board,” Voice of the City 5, no. 29 (September 24, 1970). 81. John H. Vesey, “CTA, Drugs, Drop-­Outs, Inner City,” Phoenix Gazette, October 1, 1970. 82. Qtd. in David V. Leuser, “School Board Election Returns,” Voice of the City 8, no. 20 (October 8, 1970). 83. “Candidate for Wilson School Board,” Voice of the City 5, no. 30 (October 1, 1970). 84. Qtd. in Yvonne Wingett, “2nd-­Generation Latinos Mean Wave of Change,” Arizona Republic, October 11, 2005. 85. Qtd. in “Schooling: Most Agree It’s No. 1 Goal,” Phoenix Gazette, September 24, 1981. 86. Qtd. in “Hispanic Groups Question District Hiring Policies,” Phoenix Gazette, June 15, 1978. 87. Qtd. in John H. Vesey, “Building No. 8: Key to Phoenix Union Future,” Phoenix Gazette, February 2, 1971. Conversely, District Superintendent Seymour said the Chicano boycott “accomplished nothing.” Qtd. in Arthur Aschauer, “PUHS Superintendent Challenged on Chicanos,” Arizona Republic, November 26, 1970. 88. “Phoenix Union High School Boycott.” 89. Ibid. 90. “THS Students Threatening Walkout,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 17, 1969. 91. “School Board Gives In,” Coraje 1, no. 3 (July 1969): 2. MALC held Chicano youth conferences to raise awareness about Mexican American problems in Tucson.

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92. “Walkout: Rally of Chicano Students at Oury Park,” Coraje 1, no. 1 (March 1969): 1. 93. Ibid., 2. “Basic” is an abbreviated, pejorative way of characterizing a student as academically challenged. In most cases, students so labeled are either in all rudimentary—“Basic” (non–college-prep and often vocational classes)—or actual “special education” classes. The latter term, however, had a different connotation than it does today. 94. Ibid. 95. Ibid., 1. 96. Ibid. 97. Ibid. Carnal (kar-­NAL) is akin to bro or brother and is racially restricted except among good friends. Some also equate carnal to the English slang term homie. 98. Ibid.; Maria I. Virgil, Douglas Kreutz, and Louis Sahagun, “Salomón Baldenegro: A Chicano Activist Mellows (a Little),” Tucson Citizen, November 22, 1980; and Jesús Salvador Treviño, Eyewitness: A Filmmaker’s Memoir of the Chicano Movement (Houston, TX: Arte Público Press, 2001), 248–49. 99. John Rawlinson, “Candidates Agree on One Issue: Improvement in Zoo,” Arizona Daily Star, October 31, 1971. 100. “Walkout: Rally,” 1. 101. Ibid. 102. “Chicanos on the Move,” Coraje 1, no. 2 (April 1969): 1; and “Tucson in the 20th Century,” Arizona Daily Star, July 25, 1999. 103. Ibid. 104. “Chicanos on the Move.” 105. Ibid. 106. “From a High School Student,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 11, 1969. 107. Qtd. in “Chicanos on the Move.” 108. Ibid. 109. “Education Remarks Show Insensitivity,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 14, 1975. 110. Qtd. in “Marcha,” Coraje (special edition, May 1969): 1. For an inventory of “broken promises,” see “Raza, Cuantas Veces Nos Van a Rechazar,” Coraje (special edition, May 1969): 2. 111. Ibid. 112. “School Board Gives In.” 113. John Brito, “Blow-­out Works—Students Unite,” Coraje 1, no. 3 (July 1969): 2. 114. “School Board Gives In”; and Frank De La Cruz, “HEW Report,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 25, 1970. 115. Larry Fowler, “Students Ask Grant Hard Questions,” Tucson Citizen, October 8, 1979. 116. Qtd. in ibid. 117. “Walkout: Rally,” 2. 118. Qtd. in “Mexicanos Walkout on School Unit,” Arizona Republic, July 18, 1974. 119. Jeff Smith, “Fewer Homilies and More Grease,” Arizona Daily Star, February 22, 1974. 120. Qtd. in Bryce McIntyre, “Scholar Lauds Chicanos for Seeking Rights,” Arizona Republic, October 17, 1970.

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121. Susie Nuanez, “Chicano Action Called the Way to Improvement,” Arizona Daily Star, June 3, 1972. 122. Patti Rodriguez, “Chicano Culture Gives New Unity, Leadership,” Arizona Daily Star, June 25, 1973. 123. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 10; and “Arizona Chicano Mobile Institutes” [position paper], ME CHI E-­84, Chicano Research Collection. 124. Bonnie Bartak, “3 State School Districts Still Fail to Aid Spanish-­Speaking Pupils, U.S. Says,” Arizona Republic, January 25, 1976. 125. Ibid. 126. Larry Fowler, “Local Schools Face Loss of $5.2 Million,” Tucson Citizen, March 11, 1980. 127. Qtd. in Connie Koenenn, “I Just Don’t See Any Other Way, Monitor at PUHS Says of Boycott,” Arizona Republic, October 16, 1970.

Chapter 4 1. “The History of MECHA” [paper presented at the National MECHA Student Conference at Arizona State University, April 15, 1994], MM CHSM-­347, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe; and “The Purpose, Goals, and Aspirations of MECHA” [student research paper for minority group politics], MM CHSM-­76, Chicano Research Collection. Depending on resources and community concerns, student activism outside of education reform challenged all kinds of societal inequalities, including Latin American struggles. 2. Senate Committee on Government Operations, Establish an Interagency Committee on Mexican-­American Affairs, Hearings on S. 740, 91st Congr., 1st sess., 1969, 157. 3. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­ 150, box 2, folder 11, Chicano Research Collection. 4. Todd Gitlin, The Sixties: Years of Hope, Days of Rage (New York: Bantam Press, 1987), 91; and Matt S. Meier and Feliciano Ribera, Mexican Americans/American Mexicans: From Conquistadors to Chicanos (New York: Hill and Wang, 1993), 222. 5. “Por Mi Raza Habla el Espirit?” [MECHA student directory], MECHI E-­14, Chicano Research Collection. 6. According to Gustavo Chavez, an original member of the Mexican American Student Organization (MASO) and later a United Farm Workers employee, the first Mexican American students on ASU’s main campus to “get together” during 1968 did so in September. The so-­called get-­together developed as a result of a book titled Mexican Americans of Arizona (1969), by sociology professor Naomi Harward. Initially, Harward organized a meeting for interested students to discuss her book. After the meeting, according to Chavez, several students believed that Harward asserted some inaccuracies about Mexican American life and culture. These students agreed to meet beneath the Hayden Library to conduct a spirited dialogue about these “inaccuracies” and review the general problems of Arizonan-­Mexicans. “Attitudes Don’t Stand as Mexican American,” State Press, September 19, 1969; and MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 14.

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7. “Chicanos Discuss MASO,” State Press, October 2, 1970. 8. The first official MASO meeting at ASU was held on October 22, 1968, with one hundred students in attendance. Yet, Mexican American students declared their intentions of starting an organization on October 18, 1968. For the record, several original MASO members acknowledged that ASU Mexican Americans “got the idea of organizing MASO from the University of Arizona’s group called MASA” (“Chicanos Discuss MASO”). Interestingly, the Mexican American group at ASU also tentatively called itself MASA but changed it to MASO at the first meeting in part because “MASA” means “dough” in Spanish. 9. Salomón Baldenegro, “Chicanos’ Aztlán,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 4, 1970. MASO changed its name to MECHA March 3, 1971. “Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán” loosely means Chicano Student Movement of Aztlán (or Southwest). The new name, according to Juan Gómez-­Quiñones, “signified the commitment to confront social inequities and to reject assimilation into the dominant society, commitments to be fulfilled through student militant activities both on campus and in the community.” Qtd. in John Aldape, “Chicanos Unite to Form MECHA,” State Press, March 3, 1971; Juan Gómez-­Quiñones, Chicano Politics: Reality and Promise 1940–1990 (Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press, 1990), 119; and “History of MECHA.” 10. Elaine Hardin, “MECHA Wants Local Efforts for Chicanos,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 24, 1970. It is important to note that a handful of both ASU and UA students attended the National Chicano Youth Liberation Conference in Denver organized by the Crusade for Justice in March 1969 (El Plan de Aztlán) as well as the follow-­up gathering at UC Santa Barbara in April 1969 (El Plan de Santa Barbara). 11. Ellen Straus, “Chicano Movement Moral: Baldenegro,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 24, 1972. 12. Baldenegro, “Chicanos’ Aztlán.” 13. “Purpose, Goals, and Aspirations of MECHA.” To review ASU’s MECHA constitution, see MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 4. 14. “Chicanos Present Gran Dia Festival,” State Press, October 12, 1973. 15. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 1. 16. “History of MECHA.” 17. “Chicanos Organize to Help Grape Strike,” State Press, October 22, 1968. 18. “Grape Boycott,” State Press, October 23, 1968. 19. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 10. 20. John Aldape, “Boycott Rally Ends with Picketing,” State Press, March 19, 1970; “Por la Causa,” State Press, April 3, 1970; “UFW Schedules Boycott Rally,” State Press, March 27, 1974; and Robert Leon, “Farmworkers Ask Wine Boycott,” State Press, March 28, 1974. 21. Qtd. in “MASO to Boycott Grapes at Mesa Safeway Stores,” State Press, May 9, 1969. 22. Randy Bailey, “Professor Claims Police Harassment,” State Press, February 20, 1970. 23. John Aldape, “Farm Worker Rally at Noon,” State Press, March 12, 1970. 24. John Aldape and Miguel Sanchez, “March Scheduled by Farm Workers,” State Press, March 25, 1970; and Connie Koennen, “Schwada Is Installed as ASU Head,” Arizona Republic, March 11, 1972.

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25. Bill Williams, “Boycott Is Urged by Picket Teams,” State Press, December 3, 1970; and “MASO Caravan,” New Times, February 22, 1971. 26. Elaine Harden, “Grape Boycott Leader Vows to Prevent Inherited Poverty,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 4, 1969; “Cesar Chavez to Hold Rally,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 8, 1973; and Jerry DeGracia, “Non-­Violent Power Yet to Be Realized; Chavez,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 9, 1973. 27. Qtd. in John Aldape, “Cesar Chavez Stomps on Grapes,” State Press, December 10, 1969. 28. Richard J. Jensen and John C. Hammerback, The Words of César Chávez (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2002), 159, 167–168. 29. “Chavez Continues Fast to Protest Labor Law,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 15, 1972. 30. “Phoenix Trouble: Cesar Weak; Law Against Boycott Remains,” Voz de la Raza 3, no. 7 (June 7, 1972): 2. 31. Athia Hardt, “MASO Puts End to Coalition,” State Press, November 26, 1968. 32. George Thorne, “Campus Groups Ask Officials to Break Pact with Linen Firm,” State Press, November 20, 1968; and La Raza, “ASU Students Stand by Laundry Workers,” February 7, 1969. 33. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 11; and Pete R. Dimas, Progress and a Mexican American Community’s Struggle for Existence: Phoenix’s Golden Gate Barrio (New York: Peter Lang, 1999), 80–81. 34. Thorne, “Campus Groups Ask Officials.” 35. “Protestors Storm Durham’s Office,” State Press, November 21, 1968. 36. Albert J. Sitter, “Sit-­in at Durham’s Office,” Arizona Republic, November 21, 1968; and “Demonstrators on Campus,” Phoenix Gazette, November 21, 1968. 37. Sitter, “Sit-­in at Durham’s Office”; and “Demonstrators on Campus.” 38. Ibid. 39. “Protestors Storm Durham’s Office.” 40. Pam Sebastian, “MASO Demonstrators Surround Phoenix Linen,” State Press, November 22, 1968. 41. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 14; and Sebastian, “MASO Demonstrators.” 42. Jane Sims, “Linen Contract Still Intact,” State Press, October 3, 1969. 43. “Tentative Settlement Reached in Laundry Dispute: Contract to Be Reviewed,” State Press, November 22, 1968; Edythe Edgar, “Speakers Urge Passage of Pro-­Chicano Resolution,” State Press, November 22, 1968; and Albert J. Sitter, “ASU Pledges Probe of Laundry,” Arizona Republic, November 22, 1968. 44. Qtd. in “Tentative Settlement Reached.” 45. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 14. 46. Russ Spavin, “Students Claim Win; ASU to Drop Contract,” Phoenix Gazette, November 26, 1968. 47. “ASU Stalls Action on Linen Contract,” Arizona Republic, July 9, 1969. 48. Sims, “Linen Contract Still Intact.” 49. “Durham Talk Results in No Comment,” State Press, November 27, 1968. 50. “Board Takes Stand on Laundry Dispute,” State Press, December 4, 1968. 51. “Chicanos Discuss MASO.” 52. “Four to Study Chicano Problems,” State Press, May 11, 1971.

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  Notes to Pages 75–79

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53. “MASO Plans Seminar to Examine Legislation,” State Press, May 15, 1969. 54. John Aldape, “Chicano Program Needed-­Instructor,” State Press, December 4, 1969. 55. Qtd. in “Latin Center Expands,” State Press, June 15, 1972. ASU’s Center for Latin American Studies was established in 1967. Plans to expand the Center were under way five years later, in 1972. 56. Qtd. in John Aldape, “Sociology Course Studies Chicano’s Special Problems,” State Press, January 7, 1970. 57. “Mexican Americans Needed for Studies Program,” State Press, March 5, 1970. 58. “Chicano Study Plans Topic of ASU Institute,” Arizona Republic, June 24, 1970. 59. To review this leaflet, see MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 8. 60. Karen Stolk, “Governor Against Poor, Declares Phoenix Nun,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 8, 1972. 61 J. C. Martin, “Chavez Says Governor Showing Insensitivity,” Arizona Daily Star, June 17, 1972. 62. John Aldape, “MASO Marches,” State Press, April 24, 1970. 63. “Chicano Studies Institute Topics,” State Press, June 25, 1970. 64. Jim Spencer, “MASO Members Urge Chicano Studies,” State Press, October 6, 1970; and Pam Engebretson, “MASO Dedicated to Aiding Chicanos,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 25, 1970. 65. José Saul, “Que Viva el Espiritu del Chicano,” Voz de MECHA, March 3, 1974. 66. “Discrimination Charged to Senate: Fund Allocation Is Being Delayed for Cultural Weeks,” State Press, October 14, 1971; “Chicanos Delay Cultural Activities,” State Press, November 5, 1971; Bill Norman, “University Becomes Divided Community,” State Press, November 5, 1971; John Banaszewski, “Tactics Delay Week,” State Press, March 17, 1972; “Organizations Get Slashes,” State Press, April 19, 1972; Paul Perry, “Chicanos Harassed,” New Times, November 10, 1971; John Banaszewski, “Cultural Weeks May Lose Funds,” State Press, February 1, 1973; and Andy Porter, “Senate OKs Funds for Chicano Culture Week,” State Press, November 14, 1974. 67. Gabie Green, “Minority Weeks Allotted $3,000” State Press, October 22, 1971. 68. “Crusader Leader Speaks on Chicano Mobilization,” State Press, October 14, 1970; and “Gonzales Told Chicanos to Stand Against Racism,” State Press, December 16, 1970. 69. “Chicanos to Mobilize to Learn Opposition,” State Press, October 15, 1970. 70. “Students Plan Concert and Dance Honoring Chicano Culture Week,” State Press, November 20, 1974. 71. “Chicano Culture Week in Progress at ASU,” Tempe Daily News, November 20, 1974; State Press, “Spanish Is Part of Mexican Culture,” December 3, 1974; Carol Pyne, “Funding for Chicano Week Could Terminate,” State Press, December 5, 1974; “Boo-­Boo Grande: Banning English,” State Press, December 5, 1974; “ASU Chicano Students Host Annual Semana Cultural,” Tempe Daily News, April 6, 1977; Joanne Townsend, “Rules Broken by MECHA Despite Earlier Instruction,” State Press, April 18, 1978; “MECHA,” State Press, April 20, 1978; and MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 7. 72. “Chicanos Present Gran Dia Festival”; “MECHA Dancers Push Chicano Culture,” Arizona Republic, May 15, 1971; and MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 10.

Notes to Pages 79–83 

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73. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 3, and box 3, folder 9; and “New Scholarship Program,” Voz de MECHA, February 7, 1973. 74. “Scholarships Help Children,” Voice of the City, August 2, 1973. 75. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 11; and Peter B. Mann, “Chicanos, Anglo Administrators Meet, Begin Dialogue on Demands at PUHS,” Arizona Republic, September 20, 1969. MECHA was often aided by community organizations, such as Chicanos por la Causa, Valle del Sol Institute, South Phoenix Youth Services, Barrio Youth Project, National Council of La Raza, Incorporated Mexican American Government Employees, League of United Latin American Citizens, League of Mexican American Women, American GI Forum, Leadership and Education for the Advancement of Phoenix, Brown Berets, United Farm Workers, Chicano Consortium for Public Issues, Motivation Inc., Southwest Council of la Raza, Vesta Club of Phoenix, and Service, Employment, Redevelopment, to name a few. 76. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 2, folder 14. 77 “What Degree,” Weekly American, October 8, 1970. 78. John L. Carpenter, “Quick and Proper Start Urged on ASU Freshman,” Phoenix Gazette, September 8, 1970; and Albert J. Sitter, “ASU Policy Called Discriminatory,” Arizona Republic, October 5, 1970. 79. Qtd. in Daniel Ben-­Horin, “ASU Minority Recruitment Drive Criticized by MASO,” Arizona Republic, August 29, 1970. 80. Qtd. in “Chicano High School Visitations,” Voz de MECHA, April 2, 1973. 81. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 10. 82. “Chicano Students Tour University, Ponder Future,” State Press, March 8, 1973. 83. “MECHA Tour Set for Thurs.,” Tempe Daily News, March 7, 1973; and “Chicanos to Visit University,” Tempe Daily News, March 9, 1973. 84. “Youth Travel to Washington,” Chicanos por la Causa, Inc. Newsletter, April 1980. 85. Qtd. in “MASO Leader Says Colleges Fail to Give Chicanos a Planning Voice,” State Press, January 8, 1971. 86. Qtd. in ibid. 87. Diane McIntyre, “Students, Staff Voice Need for Ethnic Studies,” State Press, May 21, 1971. 88. Diane McIntyre, “Professors See Potential Growth of Ethnic Studies,” State Press, May 20, 1971. 89. “Chicano letter” [Dr. Servín correspondence], MECHI E-­171, Chicano Research Collection. 90. Qtd. in McIntyre, “Professors.” 91. Qtd. in ibid. 92. “Ethnic Studies Plan Said Working,” Phoenix Gazette, August 18, 1972, “Students Majoring in Mexican American Studies” [MECHA minutes], MECHI O-­153, Chicano Research Collection; “Chicano Faculty-­Staff Association” [memorandum], MECHI E-­266, Chicano Research Collection; and “Special Programs for Minorities,” MECHI E-­293, Chicano Research Collection. 93. Rick Snedeker, “Mexican Americans Make Quiet Changes,” State Press, May 12, 1971. 94. “Library News,” Voz de MECHA, April 2, 1973.

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  Notes to Pages 83–87

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95. “Books Located in the Chicano Studies Collection” [Chicano Studies Library Project], MECHI E-­185, Chicano Research Collection; “Chicano Studies at ASU Library,” Arizona Republic, October 1, 1970; and “A Guide to Chicano Studies Material” [Chicano Studies Library Project], MECHI E-­169, Chicano Research Collection. 96. “Chicano Section Expands,” State Press, September 2, 1972. 97. Snedeker, “Mexican Americans Make Quiet Changes.” 98. By the early 1990s, ASU was in the process of establishing its own Chicano studies program. The Chicano Studies Development Committee included Gary D. Keller (regent’s professor); Raymond V. Padilla (director, Hispanic Research Center); and Christine N. Marín (archivist, Chicano Research Collection). As a consequence of this committee’s efforts, the Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies was officially approved as a baccalaureate unit in 1995. 99. “Chicano Politics in the Phoenix Metropolitan Area” [course paper], MM CHSM-­40, Chicano Research Collection. 100. “Interview with Ms. Christine Marín in Tempe, AZ. Feb. 24, 1992” [interview conducted by Jesus Trevino], MECHI H-­111, Chicano Research Collection; “Academic Libraries and Chicano Studies at Arizona State University” [position piece], MECHI E-­176, Chicano Research Collection; and Sheryl Hornman, “ASU Library Establishes Major Chicano Collection,” Tucson Daily Citizen, February 17, 1971. 101. Qtd. in “Ethnic Studies Plan Said Working.” “Phoenix Gazette, August 18, 1972. 102. Christine Marín, “The Power of Language: From the Back of the Bus to the Ivory Tower,” in Speaking Chicana: Voice, Power, and Identity, ed. D. Letticia Galindo and María Dolores Gonzales, 85–97 (Tucson, AZ: University of Arizona Press, 1999). 103. “Interview with Christine Marín.” 104. “MECHA Runs,” Voz de MECHA, April 11, 1972. 105. Ronnie Martinez, “Discrimination Charged,” State Press, March 14, 1972. 106. Dan Huff, “Chicanos Charge Bias,” State Press, March 9, 1972. 107. “MECHA Seeks Equal Opportunity for Chicano Students,” Voice of the City, March 9, 1972. 108. Huff, “Chicanos Charge Bias.” 109. “MECHA Seeks Equal Opportunity.” 110. “MECHA,” New Times, March 15, 1972; Billy Norman, “Demagogues Hurt Season Opener,” State Press, March 14, 1972; and “John Schwada Inauguration,” Arizona Republic, March 11, 1972. 111. Billy Norman, “Demagogues Hurt Season Opener,” State Press, March 14, 1972. 112. Dave Gianelli, “Students Hit Inaugural,” State Press, March 14, 1972. 113. “MECHA,” New Times; John Beadle, “Indians, Chicanos in Ariz. Action,” Militant, April 7, 1972; and MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 1. 114. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 1. 115. Qtd. in Dan Huff, “Chicano Group Pushes for Center,” State Press, November 30, 1972. 116. Qtd. in ibid. 117. “The Equal Employment Opportunity Commission and Title VII of the 1964 Civil Rights Act” [course paper], MM CHSM-­77, Chicano Research Collection. 118. Clif Glasgow, “Chicano Group Files Suit,” State Press, March 7, 1973. 119. “Equal Employment Opportunity Commission.”

Notes to Pages 87–93 

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120. John Banaszewski, “Chicano Claims Hiring Violation,” State Press, May 4, 1973. 121. John Banaszewski, “Minority Workers Total 12 Percent at ASU,” State Press, May 2, 1973. 122. “Affirmative Action and Arizona State University” [Chicano Faculty and Staff Association material], MECHI GP-­5, Chicano Research Collection. 123. Carol Pyne, “Chicano Groups May Sue ASU,” State Press, March 26, 1975; and Bonnie Bartak, “ASU Facing Lawsuit on Hiring Bias,” Arizona Republic, March 26, 1975. 124. Pyne, “Chicano Groups May Sue ASU”; and Bartak, “ASU Facing Lawsuit.” 125. Jerry Porter, “Chicanos Allege Hiring Bias at ASU,” State Press, April 18, 1975. 126. “Affirmative Action.” 127. Pyne, “Chicano Groups May Sue ASU.” 128. “Affirmative Action.” 129. Porter, “Chicanos Allege.” 130. Ibid. 131. “Discrimination and Racism” [report], MECHI O-­ 336, Chicano Research Collection. 132. Maria Arellano, “Student Organization Continues Action on Discrimination,” State Press, July 10, 1975. 133. Ibid. 134 Maria Arellano, “Agreement Reached for Screening Committee Seat,” State Press, July 24, 1974. 135. Greg Smith, “Paper Censored, Editors Charge,” State Press, August 29, 1975. 136. “Chicano Art Authority Speaks on Art, Protest,” State Press, May 1, 1974. 137. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 2. 138. “Pickets Charge Racism,” State Press, April 20, 1972. 139. This is evident by reviewing the CFSA’s strategic plan for 1990–1995. Many of the concerns and conflicts Mexican Americans dealt with during the 1960s and 1970s were still prevalent in the 1990s. 140. John Spagnoli, “ASU Snubs Chicanos, MECHA Leader Says,” State Press, April 14, 1978. 141. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folders 9 and 10, Chicano Research Collection; and “MASO Bilingual Education” [House Bill no. 1], MECHI E-­228, Chicano Research Collection. 142. Mark Fleming, “Officers Accused of Brutality,” Phoenix Gazette, December 7, 1979; and Brian Kidwell, “Officials Are Confused, Angry Over Police Brutality Charges,” Peoria Times, December 10, 1979. 143. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 1, folder 10. 144. “Statewide MECHA Meets with Castro,” Voz de MECHA, February 2, 1977. 145. “Rise of Mexican Americans in Arizona,” Voz de MECHA, March 7, 1976.

Chapter 5 1. “Mexican Calls Talk Beneficial,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 18, 1968. 2. “Dr. Harvill Answers Demands Made by Mexican American Student Group,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 22, 1968.

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  Notes to Pages 94–98

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3. “Mexican Calls Talk Beneficial.” 4. “Dr. Harvill Answers Demands.” 5. “Mexican American Students at UA to Have ‘Own’ Dean,” Tucson Daily Citizen, March 2, 1972. 6. “Dr. Harvill Answers Demands.” 7. “Mexican Calls Talk Beneficial.” 8. Qtd. in “Mexicans to Present Demands,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 17, 1968. 9. Ibid. 10. “Dr. Harvill Answers Demands.” 11. “Mexican Committee Unhappy,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, January 13, 1969. 12. Shannon Travis, “College Kids Just Ain’t What They Used to Be,” Tucson Citizen, July 2, 1982. 13. Sam Martinez, “MASA, LINK Joining to Combat Problems,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 4, 1969. 14. Wesley P. Marshall et al., eds., Minority Television Programming: FIESTA (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1974), 78. 15. Martinez, “MASA, LINK Joining”; and “Statement from MASA,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 4, 1969. 16. Viola Bradford, “Campus Activist Groups Map Plans for Year,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 12, 1969. 17. Ibid. 18. Qtd. in Viola Bradford, “MALC Rejects Program,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 18, 1969. 19. “Minorities Criticize Ethnic Studies Plan,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 7, 1969. 20. Bradford, “MALC Rejects Program.” 21. Qtd. in “Chicano Charges Discrimination at UA,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 21, 1973. 22. “University Weighing Changes in Mexican American Studies,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 19, 1969. 23. Viola Bradford, “Molina to Introduce Mexican American Bills,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 22, 1969. 24. “Minorities Program Proposed,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 30, 1969. 25. Qtd. in “Minorities Criticize Ethnic Studies Plan.” 26. Elaine Hardin, “MECHA Wants Local Efforts for Chicanos,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 24, 1970. 27. Qtd. in Anne-­Marie Brady, “Liberals Question Racism,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 6, 1969. 28. By 1975, UA also organized a “Latin American Week,” which was sponsored by the Latin American Students Club. The club, which was established in 1973, offered similar activities as Chicano Cultural Week. “Latin America Week Starts Today,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, September 22, 1975. 29. Fausto Alarcon, “Chicano Week,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 3, 1971. 30. “MECHA to Sponsor Chicano Week,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 1, 1972. 31. “Cinco de Mayo Festivities Start,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 5, 1971.

Notes to Pages 98–103 

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32. “Chicano Week Starts Monday,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 30, 1971; “Chicano Poets to Read,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 4, 1971; and “Support Chicano Week,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 1, 1971. 33. “Chicano Isolation Charged,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 7, 1972. 34. Qtd. in “Baldenegro Espouses Attitude Change in Chicano Community,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 4, 1972. 35. “Board Cuts La Raza Week Funds,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 22, 1973. 36. “MECHA Sponsors Awareness Week,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 6, 1973. 37. Christine Dubis, “MECHA: ASUA Board Rejects Chavez as Speaker,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 29, 1976. 38. “Mexican American Students Gain Guerrero as New Dean,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 20, 1972. 39. “Chicano Culture,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, May 2, 1972. 40. “Chicano Job Workshop Receives State Grant,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 30, 1973. 41. Cecelia Goodnow, “Chicanos to Score More Victories,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 21, 1973. 42. Tom Guillen, “CCS Asks for Chicano Professor,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 6, 1972. 43. Ibid. 44. Tom Guillen, “Mexican Americans Meet with Hamblin,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, December 11, 1972. 45. “Concerned Chicanos Set New Goals for This Year,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 1, 1973. 46. “Chicano VP, Studies to Be Proposed at UA,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 26, 1973. 47. Qtd. in Steve Novak, “Chicano Group Demands Change Here,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 29, 1973. 48. “Chicano Demands on UA Lack Basic Research,” Arizona Daily Star, November 5, 1973; “Chicano Charges Discrimination at UA,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 21, 1973; “Schaefer Refutes Chicano Gripes in Letter, Meeting,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 9, 1973; Alice Marcarelli, “Preschool Time to Start Bilingual Program,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 13, 1973; Nancy Wolicki, “Activist Claims Universities Are Root of Corruption in Society,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, April 29, 1974; and “Coalition Unhappy with UP Replies,” Tucson Citizen, November 9, 1973. 49. Susanne McGee, “UA, Last Year Until Now: A Fight for Rights,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 16, 1973. 50. Tom Guillen, “Charges of Racism Spur Schaefer to Form 3 Committees,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, February 21, 1974. 51. Ibid. 52. Tomas Guillen, “Improved Chicano Studies Considered by Committee,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 28, 1974; and “Mexican American Program Plans Due to Cooperation,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 29, 1974. 53. “Guerrero Chosen to Chair Mexican American Studies,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, January 15, 1975.

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54. “Fernandez Named Assistant Chairman,” Noticiero Chicano 1, no. 2 (Fall 1977): 4; and “Grant Given for Panels on Immigration Policies,” Noticiero Chicano 1, no. 3 (Spring 1978): 1. 55. MASO/MECHA Papers, MSS-­150, box 3, folder 1, Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ. 56. “Rosaldo Series Continues,” Noticiero Chicano 1, no. 2 (Fall 1977): 1. 57. Tomas Guillen, “Improved Chicano Studies Considered by Committee,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, March 28, 1974; and “Rosaldo Series Continues,” 1–3. 58. Qtd. in Margo Warren, “Chicano Studies Program Growing,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, November 6, 1974. 59. For clarification, in 1968 a group of Mexican American faculty members at the UA came together to form the Mexican American Studies Program in response to student and community demands for change. The initial Mexican American Studies Program consisted of three different components that were made up of existing courses in the College of Education and the Liberal Arts College. Through a series of meetings over several years, a committee of UA faculty, administrators, and students reshaped the curriculum so that it remained interdisciplinary but included new courses that focused on the Mexican American experience. This committee, in full swing by 1975, was called the Mexican American Studies Committee. By the late 1970s, the foundation of the curriculum of MASRC was in place. Its director, however, was a part-­time coordinator whose primary responsibilities were to another department. As a result, Mexican American students and community leaders who supported the original efforts to develop a Mexican American studies program began a lobbying campaign that resulted in significant advances for the program. In 1980, Macario Saldate IV was hired as full-­time director, and MASRC was recognized as an official UA entity for the first time on March 22, 1981. Yet, it was not until 1983 that funding was approved by the state legislature, allowing the program to become fully functional. 60. Philip Garcia, “Bilingual Classes Firm, with or without Cuts,” Arizona Daily Star, March 27, 1981. 61. Philip Garcia, “Me Generation Chicanos Urged to Battle Injustices,” Arizona Daily Star, April 30, 1981. 62. “Rosaldo Series Continues,” 1–4.

Chapter 6 1. With civil rights attorney Richard Martinez, Tucson High School, and eleven teachers, the Arizona Board of Education was sued. The case, Acosta et al. v. Horne et al., ultimately upheld HB 2281 as constitutional in a Federal District Court in March of 2013. In fact, the law was held to be constitutional, except for one provision that barred courses “designed primarily for pupils of a particular ethnic group” [A.R.S. § 15-­112(a)(3)]. The motions to challenge HB 2281 were initially submitted in 2011 and argued in March of 2012. A year later, the ruling concerning the pending motions was set forth.Acosta et al. v. Horne et al., available at http://ftpcontent.worldnow.com/kgun/ KGUN/10%2018%20Lawsuit.pdf (accessed September 24, 2013) and https://www .azag.gov/sites/defaultfiles/Acosta%20Dkt%20227.pdf (accessed September 24, 2013).

Notes to Pages 108–109 

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2. Arizona ARS 15-­112, available at http://www.azleg.gov/legtext/49leg/2r/bills/hb 2281s.pdf (accessed September 25, 2013). 3. Sean Arce, “Director of TUSD Mexican-­American Studies, Chosen as Most Intriguing Person of the Year by AZ Republic,” Tucson Citizen, December 27, 2010; and “TUSD Mexican-­American Studies Director Defends La Raza,” available http:// lawandborder.wordpress.com/2011/02/21/tusd-­mexican-­american-­studies-­director -­defends-­la-­raza/ (accessed March 21, 2011). 4. Leslie Bow, “The Assault on Ethnic Studies Is Unwise and Undemocratic,” Prensa San Diego 35, no. 2 (January 14, 2011): 7. 5. Mary K. Reinhart, “Tom Horne: Tucson Unified School District Runs Afoul of Ethnic Studies Law,” Arizona Republic, January 3, 2011. 6. Arizona is certainly not the only state to have educational discord between curriculum material and Mexican Americans. In 2010, changes in Texas public school textbooks caused many to protest, including the Organization of American Historians. Many criticized revisions to the Texas social studies curriculum largely because the subject matter was deemed historically inaccurate. Approved by the Texas Board of Education (with no sitting members as historians), the changes undermined the teaching of the civil rights movement, religious freedoms, and hundreds of other controversial items. In addition, efforts to include more Latino figures as role models for the state’s 38 percent Hispanic population were consistently defeated. This prompted board member Mary Helen Berlanga to storm out of a meeting lamenting: When it comes to the section on civil rights, they do not have anything that is specific to the Mexican American experience. . . . The Mexican Americans were discriminated against. They weren’t allowed in theaters to buy popcorn and their drink to watch the movie until everyone else was seated, in some parts of the state. Mexican Americans were not allowed to go into a restaurant and eat because on the outside it would say, ‘No Mexicans allowed, no dogs, no Negroes.’ ”

Texas Textbook Resolution, Organization of American Historians, May 12, 2010, available at http://www.oah.org/news/20100512_texas_textbook_resolution.html (accessed March 20, 2011); “Texas Census Data,” Hispanic PR Blog, February 17, 2011, available at http://www.hispanicprblog.com/hispanic-market-white-papers-research/texas-census -data.html (accessed March 26, 2011); and “Texas Textbook Controversy,” Religion and Ethics Newsweekly, April 30, 2010, available at http://www.pbs.org/wnet/religionand ethics/episodes/april-­30-­2010/texas-­textbook-­controversy/6187/ (accessed March 20, 2011). 7. “Arizona Academic Content Standards—Social Studies: Arizona Board of Education,” Arizona Department of Education, available at http://www.ade.az.gov/standards/sstudies/articulated/SSAcknowledgements.pdf (accessed March 22, 2011). 8. Qtd. in Elizabeth R. Hinde and Nancy Pery, “Elementary Teachers’ Application of Jean Piaget’s Theories of Cognitive Development During Social Studies Curriculum Debates in Arizona,” Elementary School Journal 108, 1 (2007): 72. 9. “Arizona Schools Chief Says Ethnic Studies Law Takes Focus Off Race,” CNN Politics, May 14, 2010, available at http://articles.cnn.com/2010-­05-­13/politics/arizona .ethnic.studies_1_ethnic-­studies-­cultures-­horne?s=PM:POLITICS (accessed March  22, 2011).

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10. “Arizona Academic Content Standards—Social Studies: Arizona Board of Education, Social Studies Strand 1—American History,” Arizona Department of Education, available at http://www.ade.az.gov/standards/sstudies/articulated/strand1.pdf (accessed March 22, 2011). 11. Even though fourth graders are exposed to Arizona economic development factors such as mining, ranching, farming, and dams, the importance of the Mexican American role is not underscored. 12. “Arizona Academic Content Standards, Social Studies Strand 1.” 13. Gaining the most currency throughout the last decade of the nineteenth century and the first decade in the twentieth century, political cartoons, especially with Uncle Sam as the national personification of the United State, served to undermine Hispanics or the nations they represented. In important ways, political cartoons validated popular opinion as a matter of commonsense normality and commonplace reality—a reality that helped ban them from the rights of citizenship, landownership and, elected government, and educational opportunies. This anti-­Hispanic attitude rivaled that endured by African Americans. Both groups could not testify in court against Anglos or marry outside their heritage without severe repercussions and had to show unwavering deference to Anglos. Again, though, this is not even mentioned in relation to Mexican Americans in Arizona. 14. Qtd. in Marc Lacey, “Rift in Arizona as Latino Class Is Found Illegal,” New York Times January 7, 2011. 15. Qtd. in “Petition Filed by Chicanos,” Arizona Republic, May 2, 1970; “Mexico Influence Strong in Arizona,” Phoenix Gazette, April 16, 1965; Bryce McIntyre, “Scholar Lauds Chicanos for Seeking Rights,” Arizona Republic, October 17, 1970; John S. Gaines, “Treatment of Mexican American History in High School Textbooks,” Civil Rights Digest 10 (October 1972): 6–7; James W. Loewen, Lies My Teacher Told Me: Everything Your American History Textbook Got Wrong (New York: New Press, 1995); and US Commission on Civil Rights, Toward Quality Education for Mexican Americans (Washington, DC: February 1974), 71–72. 16. Qtd. in Lou Hiner, “Report Hits Education for Latins,” Phoenix Gazette, May 2, 1972; “The White Ethnics,” Arizona Republic, April 13, 1974; “Civil Rights Official to Meet Press,” Phoenix Gazette, May 5, 1972. 17. Randal C. Archibold, “Arizona Seeing Signs of Flight by Immigrants,” New York Times, February 12, 2008. 18. As a matter of interest, brokering the meeting between Attorney General Tom Horne and the larger UA community was Juan L. Rocha, assistant federal public defender in Tucson, Arizona. Juan L. Rocha, telephone interview with author, March 22, 2011. 19. Salomón R. Baldenegro, e-­mail to “Historia Chicana” [Historia] listserv, histo ria-­[email protected], March 15, 2011. 20. Qtd. in Adolfo Quesada, “School Memories,” Arizona Daily Star, June 15, 1975. 21. Three Sonorans, “Conference in Tucson This Week Regarding HB2281, SB1070, Prop 107, and Forbidden Books and Curricula,” Tucson Citizen.com, Nosonorans/2010/11/30/ vember 30, 2010, available at http://tucsoncitizen.com/three-­ conference-­in-­tucson-­this-­week-­regarding-­hb2281-­sb1070-­prop-­107-­and-­forbidden -­books-­and-­curricula/ (accessed March 24, 2011); and Juliana Vasquez, “1960s Chicano Paper Brought Back to Life,” Border Beat, December 10, 2010, available at http://

Notes to Pages 113–114 

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borderbeat.net/news/1334-­1960s-­chicano-­paper-­brought-­back-­to-­life (accessed March  24, 2011). 22. Eduardo Barraza, “ASU Students Rally to Push Passage of Elusive DREAM Act,” Barriozona, November 30, 2010, available at http://www.barriozona.com/dream_ act_rally_arizona_state_university_undocumented_students.html (accessed March 23, 2011); Sergio Avila, “Group Erects Mock Border Fence on UA Campus,” Tucson (KGUN9-­TV), March 21, 2011, available at http://www.kgun9.com/features/immi grationwatch/122888624.html?page=1 (accessed September 26, 2013); and Jasmine Wightman, “ELL Education in Arizona: Unconstitutional Segregation or Just Inappropriate?,” Texas Hispanic Journal of Law and Policy 16 (Spring 2010): 121–52. 23. Arturo Gonzalez, “Mexicans and Mexican Americans in the U.S. Economy,” Arizona Report 4, no. 1 (Fall 1999): 5–6; Jill A. Jordan, “Hispanic Poverty Figures Challenged,” Tucson Citizen, April 3, 1987; and Armando Durazo, “Local Hispanic Social Networks to Be Studied,” Tucson Citizen, March 29, 1985. 24. Susan González Baker, “Demographic Trends in the Chicana/o Population: Policy Implications for the Twenty-­First Century,” in Chicanas/Chicanos at the Crossroads: Social, Economic, and Political Change, ed. David R. Maciel and Isidro D. Ortiz, 5–24 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996); and Alma M. Garcia, The Mexican Americans (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2002), 159–61. 25. “Hispanics Look Ahead to 90s for Political, Economic Clout,” Tucson Citizen, October 10, 1988; Tommy Espinoza, “Chicanos Shaping Tomorrow’s Leaders,” Phoenix Gazette, February 25, 1982; Mario T. García, Memories of Chicano History: The Life and Narrative of Bert Corona (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994), 326–27; Maxine Baca Zinn, “Social Science Theorizing for Latino Families in the Age of Diversity,” in Understanding Latino Families: Scholarship, Policy, and Practice, ed. Ruth E. Zambrana, 176 (Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 1995); Andrea J. Romero, “Mental Health and Mexican American Adolescents,” Arizona Report 5, no. 1 (Spring 2001): 1, 3; and Griffin Smith Jr., “The Mexican-­Americans: A People on the Move,” National Geographic 157, no. 6 (June 1980): 780–809. 26. “The Phoenix Gazette” (MECHI E-­361), Chicano Research Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ; and Irene Isabel Blea, Toward a Chicano Social Science (New York: Praeger, 1988), 25. The poverty rate (22.8 percent) among Hispanics in 1999 statistically equaled the rate in 1979—the all-­time low. 27. Roger Langley, “Benjamin Civiletti Bends to Hispanic Pressure,” Arizona Republic, August 14, 1979. 28. Isidro D. Ortiz, “Chicana/o Organizational Politics and Strategies in the Era of Retrenchment,” in Chicanas/Chicanos at the Crossroads: Social, Economic, and Political Change, ed. David R. Maciel and Isidro D. Ortiz (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1996), 123–26. 29. Steven Encinas, “Marching on El Rio: How the Westside Demanded a Piece of the Anglo Pie,” in Looking into the Westside: Untold Stories of the People, 1900–1997, Steven Encinas, ed. (Tucson: ArtWORKS Program, Tucson Pima Arts Council, 1997), 13. 30. Qtd. in Sharon Kelley, dir., Una Segunda Vista (A Second Look: Arizona’s Hispanic Heritage) (VHS) (Phoenix: McCune Television, 1991).

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  Notes to Pages 114–117

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31. Edrick Ngal, “Taking Money from Bilingualism,” Arizona Daily Star, March 11, 1979. These percentages include migrant children. 32. Craig Webb, “Hispanics Lag in Education: Trend Alarms Ethnic Leaders,” Phoenix Gazette, December 2, 1987; and Baker, “Demographic Trends,” 11–12. 33. Lisa Davis, “Separate but Mas Que Igual,” New Times, September 1–7, 1994; Roger Langley, “Hispanic Segregation Increasing,” Tucson Citizen, December 19, 1980; and Enrique Trueba, Latinos Unidos: From Cultural Diversity to the Politics of Solidarity (New York: Rowman and Littlefield, 1999), 57–58. 34. Social critic Jonathan Kozol calls this dynamic “savage inequality.” Kozol, Savage Inequalities: Children in American Schools (New York: Crown, 1991), 2. 35. “La Voz De Ese,” Pluma Mechist, November, 1, 1987; and “Hispanics’ Poverty Qualified,” Tucson Citizen, April 3, 1987. 36. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 12, Chicano Research Collection. 37. Josué M. González and Elsie M. Szecsy, The Condition of Hispanic Education in Arizona, 2002 (Tempe: Southwest Center for Education Equality and Language Diversity, College of Education, Arizona State University, 2002), 4, 12–29. 38. Joyce Valdez, “Educators Downplay Arizona’s Low Scores in Achievement Tests,” Arizona Republic, June 14, 1989. 39. “Hispanic Americans Slower in School and Drop Out More, U.S. Report Says,” Arizona Republic, May 16, 1990. 40. Bradford Luckingham, Minorities in Phoenix: A Profile of Mexican American, Chinese Americans, and African American Communities, 1860–1992 (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 1994), 72. 41. Qtd. in Davis, “Separate but Mas Que Igual.” 42. This information is available through the University of Arizona Fact Book, published by the UA Office of Institutional Research and Planning Support. For more on this office and its fact books, see http://oirps.arizona.edu/UAFactBook.asp (accessed September 24, 2013). 43. “Joe Eddie López” (CB BIO LOP, EDD), Arizona Collection, Department of Archives and Manuscripts, University Libraries, Arizona State University, Tempe, AZ. 44. Joe Eddie and Rose Marie López Papers, MSS-­130, box 8, folder 12, Chicano Research Collection. 45. “Minority Education and Workforce Success in Arizona: Hispanic and Native American Education and Earnings Lagging,” Arizona Report 3, no. 1 (Winter 1999): 1, 7. 46. Qtd. in Jazmine Woodberry, “Efforts Hope to Raise Hispanics’ 50% College Graduation Rate,” Tucson Sentinel, May 14, 2010. 47. Daniel Gonzalez, “Cultural Values Linked to Latino Dropout Rate,” Arizona Republic, May 19, 2002; Daniel Gonzalez, “Hispanic Dropout Rate Top Priority, 2 Candidates Say,” Arizona Republic, October 11, 2002; O. Ricardo Pimentel, “Latino Dropouts Cripple Our Future,” Arizona Republic, June 24, 2003; and González and Szecsy, Condition of Hispanic Education, 4. 48. Qtd. in Bill Turner, “Education Bias Found Persisting,” Arizona Daily Star, March 8, 1974. 49. O. Richard Pimentel, “If Dropouts Were Anglo, School System Would Shake,” Arizona Republic, December 1, 2001; O. Ricardo Pimentel, “Empty Chair, Empty

Notes to Pages 117–119 

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Future,” Arizona Republic, May 19, 2002; Robert Robb, “Facts Still Missing on Dropout Rates,” Arizona Republic, August 2, 2002; and Adela De La Torre, Moving from the Margins: A Chicana Voice on Public Policy (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2002), 70–71. 50. “Arizona’s Dropout Rate Worst in the Nation for Third Straight Year,” Casa Grande Dispatch, June 7, 2004. 51. “Arizona High School Dropout Rate Highest in U.S.,” Phoenix Business Journal, January 22, 2013, available at http://www.bizjournals.com/phoenix/morning_ call/2013/01/arizona-­high-­school-­dropout-­rate.html (accessed July 12, 2013). 52. Patrisia Gonzales, “Study to Guide Education Here for Hispanics,” Tucson Citizen, October 7, 1982. 53. “Keynote speech” (MECHI E-­329), Chicano Research Collection. 54. Qtd. in Jim Stirton, “UA Actively Boosting Minorities into College,” Arizona Daily Wildcat, October 19, 1970. 55. George J. Sánchez, Becoming Mexican American: Ethnicity, Culture and Identity in Chicano Los Angeles, 1900–1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 262. 56. Elizabeth Sutherland Martínez and Enriqueta Longeaux y Vásquez, Viva la Raza: The Struggle of the Mexican-­American People (New York: Doubleday, 1974), 158, 188, 268, 289–90; and Ellwyn R. Stoddard, Mexican Americans (New York: Random House, 1973), 196. 57. With increased emphasis on education, Arizonan-­Mexicans made major strides in the political development of the state. According to the Southwest Voter Registration Project, voter registration among Arizonan-­Mexicans increased 65 percent between 1976 and 1988, from 92,500 to 141,900. By 1996, the Arizonan-­Mexican voting population was 11 percent, leading to a record 264 Hispanic local and state elected officials in 2000. Yet the following statistics for 1998 are sobering: Arizonan-­Mexicans did not hold a statewide office, did not sit on the Board of Regents, did not occupy a seat on the Phoenix City Council, and held only one of the state’s eight congressional seats. Arizona’s state legislature, moreover, actually decreased in Mexican American office holders between 1973 and 1998. Although more Mexican Americans were voting by 2002, the percentage that voted was still lower than the percentage of the general Arizona population that voted. “Political Participation,” Arizona Daily Sun, February 22, 1991; Rodolfo O. de la Garza and Louis De Sipio, Awash in the Mainstream: Latino Politics in the 1996 Election (Boulder, CO: Westview Press, 1999), 74; Jesús Salvador Treviño, Eyewitness: A Filmmaker’s Memoir of the Chicano Movement (Houston, TX: Arte Público Press, 2001), 369; “Impact of Mexican American Leaders,” Arizona Republic, November 18, 1998; and Elvia Díaz, “Hispanics Unlikely to Gain Seats,” Arizona Republic, September 21, 2002. 58. Bryan Lienas, “One-­In-­Three Latinos Fail to Graduate High School, Report Says,” Fox News Latino, March 19, 2012, available at http://latino.foxnews.com/latino/ community/2012/03/19/one-­in-­three-­latinos-­fail-­to-­graduate-­from-­high-­school/ (accessed June 25, 2012); Mariella Espinoza-­Herold, Issues in Latino Education: Race, School Culture, and the Politics of Academic Success (Boston: Allyn and Bacon, 2003), 9, 29–39; and Adela de la Torre and Antonio Estrada, Mexican Americans and Health: Sana! Sana! (Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2001), 14. 59. Pastora San Juan Cafferty and David W. Engstrom, Hispanics in the United States: An Agenda for the Twenty-­First Century (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction,

158 

  Notes to Pages 120–124

•

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Index

Adams, Quincy John, 11 AFL-CIO, 88 African Americans, 4, 12–13, 15, 19–20, 23–24, 47, 49, 52, 73, 81, 123 Alianza Hispano-Americana, 122 Americanization Classes, 19–20, 43 Angel Island, 110 Arizona Academic Standards for Social Studies, 109–111 Arizona Association of Mexican American Educators (AMAE), 49, 53, 57, 65 Arizona Civil Rights Advisory Board, 92 Arizona Civil Rights Division, 92 Arizona Hispanic Community Forum, 116 Arizona Historical Foundation, 112 Asian American, 10, 12, 19, 109 Associated Students of the University of Arizona (ASUA), 98 ASU Chicano Faculty and Staff Association (CFSA), 88 Baldenegro, Salomón, 5, 59, 70, 94, 112 Baldenegro, Salomón, Jr., 124 Barrio Youth Project, 54, 121 Beveridge, Albert, 12 Bisbee Deportations of 1917, 111 Bracero Program, 110 Brown Berets, 119, 121 Brown v. Board of Education of Topeka, 21–23, 111

California, 6, 15, 35 Castro, Héctor Raúl, 5, 88, 92, 111 Chávez, César, 5, 7, 70, 72, 111, 119 Chicano Business Students Association, 88 Chicano Cultural Week, 78–79, 98–100 Chicano Movement, 4, 5, 6, 7, 68, 75, 118–120, 122 Chicanos Por La Causa, 49, 54–55, 79, 88, 119, 121 Chinese Exclusion Act, 110 Citizens Committee to Discuss Phoenix Union High School Problems, 44–46, 50 Civil Rights Act of 1964, 40, 75, 88, 111 Clifton-Morenci Strike, 111 Collage Coalition Against Discrimination, 39 Colorado, 6, 15, 35 Committee of the United Mexican Movement Against Discrimination, 122 Davis, Jefferson, 11 Dawes Act, 110 Decade of the Hispanic, 113 Desegregation, 4, 17, 21–22, 63, 66, 115, 119, 121–122 Dropout Rates, 4, 14, 28, 42, 43, 45, 56–57, 64, 107, 115, 117, 120 Durham, G., Homer, 73–75

177

178  El Coraje, 113 El Grupo, 88 Ellis Island, 110 Equal Employment Opportunity Commission (EEOC), 39 Ethnic Chinese, 12–13 Fry’s Food, 70 Gadsden, James, 11 Gadsden Purchase, 12, 119 Gonzáles, “Corky” Rodolfo, 5, 7, 53, 79, 119 Goldwater, Barry, 14 Gonzáles v. Sheely, 22–24, 111 Graduate School of Social Services Administration (GSSSA), 90 Great Depression, 12, 110 Guerrero, Adalberto, M., 99–100, 103 Guevara, Ernesto Che, 74 Gutierrez, Alfredo, 5, 53, 69, 75, 89 Gutiérrez, Angel José, 5, 6, 7, 119 Grijalva, Raúl, 5, 8, 42, 9–96, 112 Hamblin, Robert L., 100–101 Harlem Renaissance, 109 Harvill, Richard A., 93–95 Hawaii, 13 Hayden Library, 83 Horne, Tom, 42, 108–112 Hunt, George, 57–62 Immaculate Heart Church, 53 Immigration Act of 1924, 110 Jim Crow, 110 Ku Klux Klan, 110 Labor Council for Economic Advancement, 88 La Raza Unida Party, 119 Latin American Club, 122 League of United Latin American Citizens (LULAC), 122 Lee, Thomas, 60–63

 Index

•

Liaison in Neighborhood Knowledge (LINK), 95 Liga Protectora Latina, 122 Lincoln, Abraham 12, 123 López, Joe Eddie, 5, 49, 51, 55–57, 116 Los Conquistadores, 119 Los Hijos del Sol, 88 Lynching, 110 Manifest Destiny, 11 Marín, Christine, 82–83 Mendez v. Westminster, 111 Mexican American Legal Defense and Education Fund  (MALDEF), 4, 80, 116 Mexican American Legal Defense Organization (MALDO), 60–61 Mexican American Liberation Committee (MALC) 57–59, 69, 93–94 Mexican American Student Association (MASA), 69, 95–97, 121 Mexican American Student Organization (MASO), 69, 71–75, 77–79, 81–82, 92, 121 Mexican American Studies, 3, 4, 77, 96–97, 101–105 Migrant Opportunity Program, 88 Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlán (MECHA), 69–70, 78–82, 84–92, 97–100, 108, 119–121 Muñoz, Rosalío, 119 National Chicano Moratorium Committee, 119 National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, 35, 116 National Council of La Raza, 119 National Economic Development Association, 88 Native Americans, 10, 12, 19, 81, 109–111, 126 New Mexico, 6, 13, 15 Occupied America, 108 Organic Act, 12, 123 Ortega, Daniel, 5, 68, 85, 87

Index  Pao Decimo Center, 95 Pastor, Edward, 112, 114 Phoenix Linen and Towel Supply Co., 72–75, 118 Plessy v. Ferguson, 15, 109 Racism, 39, 70, 85, 108, 114–116 Romo v. Laird, 17 Saga Foods, 70 Schaefer, John Paul, 94, 102–103 Schwada, John, 85–90 Shofstall, Weldon P., 27, 44 Segregation 13–14, 15–16, 18, 19, 20–21, 22, 24, 26, 35, 63, 66, 111–115, 119, 121–123 Service, Employment, Redevelopment, 121 Servín, Patricio Manuel, 5, 82, 84, 92 South Phoenix Youth Services, 121 Southwest Council of La Raza, 119, 121 Special Education, 4, 19, 20, 23, 36, 37, 43, 46, 99 Students for a Democratic Society, 73 Sunnyside District, 95 Texas, 6, 15 Tijerina López Reies, 5, 6, 7, 119

 179

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Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, 11 Tucson Unified School District, 3, 4, 42, 63, 64, 66, 93, 107–108, 112, 118 United Farm Workers Organizing Committee, 88, 121 University Friends of the Farmworkers, 71–72 US Border Patrol, 110 US Commission on Civil Rights, 21, 31–32, 39, 65, 66, 101, 112, 117 US Department of Education, 40, 115 US Department of Health, Education, and Welfare, 36, 63, 66, 77, 97 US Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, 39, 74–75, 86–87, 89 Valle del Sol Institute, 54, 88, 121 Vietnam Conflict, 68 Voting Rights Act of 1965, 111 West Side Center, 95 Williams, Jack, 68, 77 Yaqui Pasua Association Young Democrats, 73 Young Socialists Alliance, 73

About the Author

Darius V. Echeverría is an advising dean at Columbia University, as well as a visiting assistant professor at Montclair State University and a visiting and affiliated faculty member in the Departments of History and Latino and Hispanic Caribbean Studies at Rutgers University. He received his PhD in US history from Temple University in 2006. He has written chapters for The Hispanic Americans, Encyclopedia of American Immigration, The Encyclopedia of Immigration, Migration, and Nativism in United States History, and Encyclopedia of Culture Wars: Issues, Viewpoints, and Voices. Echeverría has had peer-reviewed journal articles published in Journal of Social History, Aztlan: A Journal of Chicano Studies, BorderLines Journal, and the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute Quarterly.