Diane Melby
Salon for Creative Expression
SPECIAL EDITION
In Honor of Debra Rojas and Ana Munguia
Featuring Jane M. Grovijahn
This special edition of The Creative Courier is brought to you in response to an investigation and report by the N.Y. Times regarding the finding of extensive evidence that United Farm Workers co-founder, César Chávez sexually abused girls who worked in the movement. Dr. Jane M. Grovijahn is a theologian who has dedicated her life's work to advocacy for justice in all things. She specializes in applied theology in contemporary settings of generational trauma and reparative practices. Dr. Grovijahn's introduction, as well as her award winning writings in honor of the victims follow.
Introduction
Debra Rojas and Ana Munguia, born as farmworker children, grew up in an America that denied them hope of livelihood, decent schooling, ordinary comforts of food, stable housing and healthcare. They also carried a punishing secret, now smashed open, naming César Chávez, the iconic leader of the United Farmworkers, as a sexual predator.
A migrant worker himself, César Chávez was a labor organizer of migrant farmworkers in California. He and Dolores Huerta together founded the National Farm Workers Association in 1962. Sometimes referred to as the Chicano Moses, he achieved an iconic status, especially among Mexican Americans. As a civil rights activist, he was highly effective in his nonviolent methods of Ghandi-inspired activism; he also drew from Catholicism and popular spirituality within the Mexican American community. Recent verified reports allude to a culture of sexual abuse within the labor organization, including several instances of Chávez sexually assaulting girls and Dolores Huerta.
I was sickened by the news. It was a gut-punch, truly, to know that a spiritual leader I had learned from and absorbed into my own core philosophy was a sexual predator. I felt sullied, defiled even. I did not know him, but I diligently and with passion, passed along his entire lifetime of teachings and practices to mostly Latina students at a Catholic liberal arts university in southwest Texas. I felt ashamed and angry. For years, I promoted the legacy of a sexual offender to other vulnerable people, unknowingly of course, but that offered little relief. Our work remains: listen to women, prevent sexual violence and restore the significance of female embodiment across the lifespan.
For Debra Rojas
(one of the girls sexually assaulted by César Chávez as reported in The New York Times, March 20, 2026)
“I can’t say the “r” word,” said she.
You should not have to.
Buried secrets and shame held
in the depths of a grave:
it all belongs to him.
This is not ours, but his.
Maybe we can say other “r” words
far more deserving of you,
revealing this side of the dirt
in revolutions of resilience.
Rarity of resolve to never forget,
rectifying little of the contempt contained
among those who knew and said nothing.
Still, their secrets, their shame.
What is ours, falls from
your trembling voice,
tiptoeing
out into daylight
fifty years later
still clutching the power
of your stunning elegance
never diminished, never dimmed,
merely delayed.
May we say your name.
May we sing your struggle
and christen our neighborhood streets
in your memory.
May we build bridges yet to be named
for how we smolder in our bodies’ scars
as solid ground for today’s girls
to walk upon, invited into dignity
you carried
quietly
without us
for far too long.
