American History Tellers - United Farm Workers | The Fall | 3

Episode Date: May 24, 2023

By the early 1970s the United Farm Workers had won a series of successes in California and were attempting to extend their reach into other states. But soon, conservative politicians began to push back and the losses started mounting. Cesar Chavez began criticizing and alienating friends and fellow union leaders as he struggled to maintain control of the movement he had worked so hard to build. Soon he would find that his dream to empower farm workers was unraveling.Listen ad free with Wondery+. Join Wondery+ for exclusives, binges, early access, and ad free listening. Available in the Wondery App. https://wondery.app.link/historytellersSupport us by supporting our sponsors!See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge new seasons of American History Tellers early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Imagine it's May 30th, 1972 in Phoenix, Arizona. You're a renowned doctor, best known for having been Martin Luther King's personal physician. Today, though, you're tending to another famous patient in a small room inside a Chicano community center. The room is plain, and the unadorned brick walls radiate the searing midday heat from outside. Your patient, Cesar Chavez, lies on a bed soaked in sweat. You check his blood pressure, watching the gauge with concern. It's been 19 days since he began a hunger strike, and his health is beginning to fail him. Chavez winces in pain as he struggles to sit

up. Okay, doc. How am I doing? Not good. Starving yourself for three weeks has taken a real toll on your body. Chavez's fast is a last-ditch protest to stop Arizona's government from running roughshod over the rights of its farmworkers. You support that cause, but you're worried about Chavez's deteriorating condition. You rip the Velcro blood pressure cuff off his arm and pull the stethoscope from your ears, wrapping it around your neck. To tell you the truth, Caesar, I'm worried. Your blood pressure is dangerously low and your heart is getting weaker by the day. It wasn't this bad during my fast in 68. I've been getting chills this time.

Because you're dehydrated. You're sweating out all the water you're drinking. It's too hot in this room. You switch on a steel fan on the bedside table as Chavez wraps himself in a thin wool blanket. Caesar, as your physician, I can't in good conscience let you continue this fast. Even Gandhi stopped after three weeks. Chavez shakes his head weakly. I can't give up yet. Arizona just took away the right for workers to organize. If we don't draw the line in the sand here, then it's open season on the UFW and the rest of the country. I'll gladly give my life for La Causa.

I'm afraid you might do just that, sooner rather than later. When will you stop this? It's the anniversary of Bobby Kennedy's passing in six days. I just need to make it till then. We have a memorial mass planned. It will attract the public attention we need. I don't think you can make it six more days. Your body is telling you it's time to end this now. My mind and my spirit say otherwise.

You sigh and stand up, moving away from his bedside. All right. Make sure you keep drinking plenty of water. I'm going to see if we can get you a bigger fan to cool this room down. Chavez closes his eyes and slumps back into bed. You're frustrated that he refuses to heed your advice. But you know that once Cesar Chavez makes up his mind to do something, he does it, no matter how impossible it might seem. That's what makes him such an effective and inspiring leader. But in this case, Chavez's tenacity is putting his life at risk. And if he really does sacrifice his life to the movement, you worry there won't be much of a movement left after he's gone. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds,

new possibilities, new ways of thinking. And Audible makes it easy to be inspired and entertained as a part of your everyday routine without needing to set aside extra time. As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their ever-growing catalog. Explore themes of friendship, loss, and hope with Remarkably Bright Creatures by Shelby Van Pelt. Find what piques your imagination. Sign up for a free 30-day Audible trial, and your first audiobook is free. Visit audible.caitha Brown. Tony Hawk. Oh, my God. Buy it now.

Stream free on Freeview and Prime Video. From Wondery, I'm Lindsey Graham, and this is American History Tellers. Our history, your story. In 1970, in the wake of their strike and boycott against Delano grape growers, the United Farm Workers had secured union contracts with dozens of California growers, and UFW membership rolls had grown rapidly. Building on these successes, Cesar Chavez attempted to extend the UFW's reach into other states, but conservative politicians pushed back. In 1972, Chavez undertook a hunger strike to protest a new Arizona law

that all but banned field workers from voting to unionize. This was his second hunger strike, and his latest in a series of attention-grabbing stunts that positioned him not only as a UFW's leader, but also a martyr-like figure, willing to put his own life on the line for what he called La Causa, the cause. By the early 1970s, Chavez had become synonymous with the union he co-founded. But as his fame grew, so did tensions among his followers. Where some saw an inspiring, fearless leader, others saw a man obsessed with his own power and image.

And following a series of setbacks, Chavez became increasingly isolated and paranoid, forcing out many of his oldest allies and damaging the reputation of the union he had worked so hard to build. This is Episode 3, The Fall. In the spring of 1970, United Farm Workers was celebrating a string of victories in its nearly five-year campaign against Delano grape growers. Building on that success, Cesar Chavez envisioned a new home base for the UFW. He wanted to establish a retreat for members, as well as an education center that could provide farm workers with English language classes, religious instruction, and lessons in contract enforcement. More importantly, the retreat would be a place for Chavez and his inner circle to rest, regroup, and strategize. With the help of a donation from a Hollywood producer,

the union purchased a 180-acre property in the foothills of the Tehachapi Mountains, 30 miles east of Bakersville, California. The site was Christian Nuestra Senora Reina de la Paz, Our Lady Queen of Peace. Most people simply referred to it as La Paz. The new property was over 70 miles from the previous UFW headquarters in Delano. While Chavez saw La Paz as a place for him to work with union leadership free from distractions, others worried it was too far removed from where most UFW members lived and worked and would insulate Chavez from his dissenters and critics.

Among those critics was UFW's Filipino Vice President, Larry Itliong. Over the course of the five-year Delano grape strike, Itliong had become disillusioned with the direction of the union. He felt that Chavez's leadership style too often ignored the voices of rank-and-file workers, especially the union's Filipino contingent. And as Chavez asserted more control over the UFW and its membership ranks grew to include more Mexican-Americans, it spurred an exodus of Filipino organizers who also felt their members were not receiving fair treatment. On October 17,

1971, Itliong himself joined the exodus, resigning from his position as vice president. With Itliong's departure, Chavez had lost one of his best and most experienced labor organizers. But these losses did not stop Chavez from attempting to expand the union. In 1972, the UFW established a presence in Texas, Florida, and other states with large agricultural industries. But those states began to push back, attempting to prevent the union from organizing boycotts or even operating at all. When Arizona passed legislation

that would restrict farm workers' ability to organize, Chavez began a hunger strike. He had first experimented with fasting in 1968 as a kind of religious exercise to rededicate himself to the cause. But now, in May 1972, he used it as an overt tactic to put public pressure on political adversaries. As Chavez continued his fast at a small community center in Phoenix, thousands of farm workers and supporters rallied and

prayed outside. Meanwhile, Dolores Huerta and other UFW leaders lobbied the local community to oppose the new law. During a meeting with local Latino political leaders, Huerta and other UFW leaders lobbied the local community to oppose the new law. During a meeting with local Latino political leaders, Huerta was met with a constant refrain, In Arizona, no se puede, it can't be done. She was emphatic in her response, saying, Si se puede, or yes, it can be done. The phrase would become UFW's routing cry. On June 5, 1972, after 24 days, Chavez ended his hunger strike at a memorial mass to honor the anniversary of Robert F. Kennedy's assassination. But Chavez's fast failed to

overturn the new Arizona law. It did gain national media attention and revitalize public support for farm workers' rights in neighboring California. There, in November 1972, the UFW successfully beat back a state proposition to ban boycotts. But while the UFW was attempting to expand its reach, problems began to spring up closer to home. In April 1973, the contracts the union initially signed with California grape growers expired. This created a vacuum that the UFW's longtime rivals, the Teamsters, were eager to fill. Many growers, still bitter over the grape boycott, signed labor agreements with the Teamsters as soon as their UFW contracts ended. Chavez countered by calling for a strike. This latest strike put a financial strain on the UFW,

which was fighting simultaneous battles on multiple fronts. In Salinas, California, another strike was already underway against lettuce growers, and the UFW was still challenging anti-union legislation in Arizona and other states. The UFW's parent union, the AFL-CIO, was getting concerned. Chavez appeared to be spreading himself and his resources too thin. To them, it was time for a more centralized approach. So the AFL-CIO leaders offered Chavez a deal. They would give the UFW $1.6 million on the condition that instead of fighting skirmishes farm by farm, Chavez would push for state legislation governing the rights of farm

laborers in all of California. On its surface, this seemed like a sensible strategy, but Chavez had his doubts. All his victories had come through strikes, boycotts, and marches. He worried that formal legislation would bury his union under a mountain of bureaucracy and sap it of its strength as a social movement. But he needed the money, so he agreed to the AFL-CIO's terms. Now flush with cash, the UFW held its first constitutional convention in Fresno, California, in September 1973. Chavez used the convention to formally consolidate his power and alter the way the UFW operated. The constitution was crafted entirely at La Paz, then shuttled to Fresno, giving delegates little time to analyze it.

It included several sweeping changes. Members would no longer have to pay monthly dues, but would instead be charged 2% of annual income. The UFW also opened up its membership to include not just farm workers, but any volunteer who worked with them for more than six months. Chavez also chose to broaden his executive board, adding several people who were not Mexican-American to leadership roles, which angered some of the union's rank and file. But ultimately, Chavez's constitution

was approved, and he appointed the board members he wanted. He was now in full control of UFW's operations and finances. In the spring of 1975, Chavez fulfilled his promise to the AFL-CIO. He met with California's newly elected Democratic governor, Jerry Brown, to discuss crafting a bill that would protect the collective bargaining rights of farmworkers. The result of their negotiations was the California Agricultural Labor Relations Act, or ALRA. It guaranteed the rights of farmworkers to boycott, strike, and cast secret ballots in union elections. Governor Jerry Brown signed the bill into law on June 5, 1975, and the Agricultural Labor Relations Board was established to oversee and enforce the new rules. For the

United Farm Workers and for Chavez, it was an enormous victory. For the first time, farm workers' rights were guaranteed by state law. But the victory didn't last. Less than a year after its creation, the Agricultural Labor Relations Board ran out of money, and the state legislature initially refused to keep funding it. With no board to enforce the ALRA, many growers began to exploit loopholes in the law or simply ignore it. In response, Chavez made a fateful decision. He pulled volunteers from picket lines and boycott houses to rally behind a new California ballot proposition. Prop 14 was crafted to permanently fund the ALRA.

California voters would decide the issue in the November 1976 election. Campaigning for a ballot proposition was politically risky and expensive, but Chavez felt he had no choice. Without enforcement of the ALRA, growers would be able to violate union contracts with impunity and replace expired UFW contracts by bringing in the Teamsters. Chavez knew the opponents to Prop 14 would be well-funded, but he was unprepared for who they chose to become the face of No on 14. Imagine it's summer 1976. You're at the front door of a modest, single-level home in the suburbs of

Fresno, California. As the president of the South Central Farmers Association, you've been working for weeks to defeat Proposition 14. You believe if it passes, it will be a nightmare for growers, tripling the damages you would pay if you lost a lawsuit against a union and taking away your control over who gets to participate in union elections. That's why you made the three-hour drive south from Sacramento to the home of a fellow farmer named Harry Kubo. A slight, unassuming Japanese man in his early 50s opens the door and invites you inside. Welcome. Please, come in. You walk into the living room and take a seat on a long, plush sofa.

Harry sits across from you on a matching chair. I'm glad you made the trip. I hope you didn't come all the way out here just to see me. Oh, no. I have other obligations in the area, but you're my first stop. What brings you here today? I know that as chair of our ad hoc committee, you've been kept abreast of all the developments on Prop 14. Yes, very much so. It's unconscionable what the UFW wants to do.

They want free reign for union reps to come onto our private property anytime they want? Up to three times a day? It's a violation of our rights. It absolutely is. And that's why I'm raising as much money as I can. We need to fight this tooth and nail. Kubo nods his head in agreement. Well, whatever I can do to help. I'm glad to hear you say that. See, I can out-fundraise the UFW all day long, but what I don't have is a Cesar Chavez. People love that guy and his story. He's the face of their entire

movement, but on our side, the growers, well, we can come across as faceless. Which is why we want you to be the face of the No on 14 campaign. Kubo looks surprised. Why me? I'm not much of a public speaker, and I don't exactly look like Robert Redford. And that's why we want you for the job. You're a regular guy. Your story connects with people. You came from nothing, less than nothing. You had everything taken away from you when you were forced into the internment camps,

and you still wound up living the American dream. You're someone everyone can relate to. Not just relate to, but aspire to be. Kubo folds his arms across his chest. I don't know. I'm not one to seek the spotlight. I understand. Take the day to think about it. And when you're ready, just give me a call. Just consider this. If we don't put up a fight, these people will trample our rights. After what you and your family already went through, do you really want your right to defend your business

and your property to be taken away? Again? Kubo stands and shakes your hand. As he leads you out the door, you can see he's deep in thought. You hope your pitch might have gotten through to him. For years, you and your fellow farmers have lost the public relations battle time and again to Cesar Chavez. But this time, with Harry Kubo as your spokesman, you might be able to even the odds.

Dracula, the ancient vampire who terrorizes Victorian London. Blood and garlic, bats and crucifixes. Even if you haven't read the book, you think you know the story. One of the incredible things about Dracula is that not only is it this wonderful snapshot of the 19th century, but it also has so much resonance today. The vampire doesn't cast a reflection in a mirror. So when we look in the mirror, the only thing we see is our own monstrous abilities. From the host and producer of American History Tellers and History Daily comes the new podcast, The Real History of Dracula.

We'll reveal how author Bram Stoker raided ancient folklore, exploited Victorian fears around sex, science, and religion, and how even today we remain enthralled to his strange creatures of the night. You can binge all episodes of The Real History of Dracula exclusively with Wondery+. Join Wondery+, The Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. In the Pacific Ocean, halfway between Peru and New Zealand, lies a tiny volcanic island. It's a little-known British territory called Pitcairn, and it harboured a deep, dark scandal. There wouldn't be a girl on Pitcairn once they reach the age of 10 that would still have heard it.

It just happens to all of us. I'm journalist Luke Jones and for almost two years I've been investigating a shocking story that has left deep scars on generations of women and girls from Pitcairn. When there's nobody watching, nobody going to report it, people will get away with what they can get away with. In the Pitcairn trials I'll be uncovering a story of abuse and the fight for justice that has brought a unique, lonely Pacific island to the brink of extinction. Listen to the Pitcairn Trials exclusively on Wondery Plus. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify.

Harry Kubo was a Japanese-American farm owner whose family was imprisoned in a Northern California internment camp during World War II. Several years after their release, they saved up enough to purchase a 40-acre ranch just south of Fresno. Kubo took over the family business from his parents in the 1960s and became a widely respected leader in both the Japanese-American and farming communities. Smaller growers like Kubo had not been included in the 1970 contracts between the UFW and the larger-scale farms. But after 1970, the union put pressure

on these holdout farms, nearly all of which were owned by Japanese Americans. The conflict sometimes grew violent. Young UFW protesters vandalized a tractor on Kubo's ranch. So despite his initial hesitancy, Kubo agreed to be the public face of the opposition against the UFW and Proposition 14. In September of 1976, the newly created Citizens for a Fair Farm Labor Law began to flood the street with bumper stickers declaring No on 14. The campaign featured Kubo as its main spokesman and was backed by a war chest of nearly $3 million raised by groups like the South Central Farmers Association. Kubo focused on a message he knew would resonate with many Californians—property rights. He was featured

in a full-page ad posing in front of his modest suburban home. The copy detailed Kubo's success story and included a message that read, 34 years ago, I gave up my personal rights without a fight. It will never happen again. In response to this campaign, Cesar Chavez pointed out that Japanese-American farmers owned only a small percentage of the total farms in the state. He also condemned the growers for pitting two minority groups against each other, calling Kubo's involvement a cynical ploy, one designed to deflect attention away from the poor treatment of Mexican-American and Filipino farm workers by predominantly white growers.

But Kubo's simple message cut through the accusations. In November 1976, Proposition 14 was defeated by a wide margin. The loss was a disaster for the UFW. Chavez had suspended a boycott campaign to focus solely on the proposition's passage, and the UFW spent $1.3 million of its own money on Prop 14. By the end of 1976, it was almost $200,000 in debt. Chavez's air of invincibility had been punctured. To regroup, he withdrew to La Paz,

a quiet retreat he had built for himself and his inner circle. But he would soon face a new set of challenges, including growing dissension within his own ranks. The resounding defeat of Proposition 14 left Cesar Chavez stunned. To his colleagues at United Farm Workers, it appeared as though he couldn't accept responsibility for the loss. Instead, he began to lash out against people around him, looking for others to blame. In quick succession, he forced the resignation of two of his most important boycott directors, who had diverted much of their staff to the Yes on 14 campaign. He also went after the editor of El Malcriado, the UFW's newspaper, who had previously angered Chavez by omitting his

name from the publication's masthead. Chavez accused the editor of intentionally undermining the paper and fired him. Chavez felt that the UFW was at a crossroads. It was operating more and more like a traditional union. A large portion of its budget now went to lawyers, who converted the union's election victories into labor contracts. Union staff had once been all volunteer, but now executive board meetings often devolved into long arguments over who should be paid and how much. After launching a movement, Chavez now felt instead he was running a bureaucracy. If the UFW was going to regain the standing it had lost after the defeat of Prop 14, Chavez believed it needed to return to its roots. He wanted to recapture the

almost spiritual sense of devotion to La Causa among the UFW's members, which he felt had been the key to their victory over the Big Growers and the Delano Grape Strike. To renew the UFW's members, which he felt had been the key to their victory over the big growers in the Delano grape strike. To renew the UFW's sense of purpose, Chavez looked to an unlikely source of inspiration, an addiction treatment compound east of Fresno, run by a longtime supporter named Charles Diederich. Diederich was a recovering alcoholic who developed his own addiction program called Synanon in 1958. At the heart of Diederich's operation was a two-year residential program in which participants were subjected to a confrontational form of group therapy designed to break down their defenses. He called it The Game. During The Game, participants were encouraged to exchange intensely personal and often profane

criticism of one another. Diederich believed The game was instrumental to building self-awareness, trust, and total honesty within any social group. In February 1977, Chavez took his executive board to the Synanon compound in Fresno to study the game. He was enamored by what Diederich had built and ordered the game to be taught to all staff at La Paz. Soon, the game was being played twice a week by up to 100 participants. For Chavez, the game became a way not only to bring union members closer together,

but to prove their loyalty to him and La Causa. The game required radical, often brutal honesty between participants, which Chavez liked, because increasingly he felt unsure of who he could trust. Between law enforcement, growers, and conservative activists, Chavez had no shortage of people looking to take him down. He became the constant recipient of anonymous threats. The FBI had a file on him almost 2,000 pages long. Informants on the periphery of the union spied on UFW activity. In 1970, saboteurs had even bombed a regional office.

But it was internal enemies that Chavez feared the most, and he had become increasingly convinced that the UFW was full of them. Chavez hoped to use the total openness fostered by the game as a way to sniff out any future plots against his leadership and weed out dissenters. But while Chavez saw the game as a necessary tool to restore trust within the Union, many members bristled at its brutally confrontational nature. Some refused to play altogether, which only further aroused the suspicions of Chavez and his most loyal lieutenants, Dolores Huerta and National Farmworker Ministry Head Chris Hartmeyer. And the more people resisted the game, the further Chavez sank into a state of paranoia. Things came to a head on April 4, 1977, when Chavez loyalists confronted

several volunteers at La Paz who had been complaining about their personal mail being opened. Accusations of counter-organizing flew, and by the end of the night, seven volunteers were escorted off the premises. What came to be known as the Monday Night Massacre left union members on edge. Imagine it's July 1977. You're one of the original members of the United Farm Workers Executive Board and only one of two remaining Filipino board members. This afternoon's board meeting has stretched well into the evening, and despite the hour, it's still uncomfortably warm and stuffy in the conference room. But that's not the most uncomfortable part. For the past several hours, the meeting has devolved into mudslinging and accusations of disloyalty,

many of them directed at you. You're in your 70s, the oldest person in the room, and you're tired of being disrespected. I've been with this union since the beginning. No one here has the right to question my loyalty. From across the conference table, Dolores Huerta glares at you. She's Chavez's fiercest advocate, and she's been attacking you all day. Is that what you call it? Loyalty?

When you go up to San Francisco and trash the union in one of your college lectures? It's true that you like speaking to college students and left-wing activists about United Farm Workers. Your colleagues on the board used to just tease you about it, calling you the philosopher. But lately, the atmosphere here at La Paz has grown so paranoid that anyone who speaks to outsiders is viewed with suspicion. What I say in my lectures is my business. But yes, sometimes I am critical of the union. It's called freedom of expression. And not every criticism is a sign of disloyalty. But what gives you the right to criticize us when you can barely even bother to participate? What is that supposed to mean?

Huerta looks around at the other board members seated around the room. They're tense but quiet. Chavez leans forward in his chair, apparently eager to see how Huerta will go after you next. Everyone sees how you've stopped pulling your weight. You never participate in these board meetings. You just sit there in silence, taking notes. What are all those notes for? Maybe you're looking to add to your nest egg by writing a book. A tell-all. Putting us all in a negative light. That's the problem right there.

Caesar has everyone running around and pointing fingers at everyone else. Anyone with criticism directed at leadership is accused of trying to undermine the Union. You are undermining the Union. You've been shirking your responsibilities. You missed an important strike meeting on Friday. And in the meetings you do attend, you're unfocused and disinterested. That's because I want no part of what's happening here.

The suspicion. The purge is a stupid game. It's turning everyone against each other. Look at what's happening in this room. I've given just as much to the cause as you. For you to accuse me like this is crazy. Huerta gets up and walks over to Chavez, who hands her a single sheet of paper and a pen. She slides them across the table to you.

What's this? It's an oath that you will keep silent about everything you have heard in these meetings. You want me to sign a loyalty oath? The whole board already signed it. You can too. And if I refuse? Then we'll accept your resignation. So this is how I'm treated after all these years. You look over the document. It's effectively a non-disclosure agreement, and you know that by signing it, you'd be giving up your right to speak your mind. But if you don't sign, you would no longer be welcome at La Paz.

You spent the better part of 50 years fighting for the dignity of farm workers. Now, in the end, you're left fighting for yourself. In a quiet suburb, a community is shattered by the death of a beloved wife and mother. But this tragic loss of life quickly turns into something even darker. Her husband had tried to hire a hitman on the dark web to kill her. And she wasn't the only target. Because buried in the depths of the internet is the Kill List, a cache of chilling documents containing names, photos, addresses, and specific instructions for people's murders. This podcast is the true story of how I ended up

in a race against time to warn those whose lives were in danger and it turns out convincing a total stranger someone wants them dead is not easy follow kill list on the wandry app or wherever you get your podcasts you can listen to kill list and more exhibit c true crime shows like morbid early and ad free right now by joining wandry plus check out exhibit c in the wandry app for all your true crime listening. Are you in trouble with the law? Need a lawyer who will fight like hell to keep you out of jail? We defend and we fight just like you'd

want your own children defended. Whether you're facing a drug charge, caught up on a murder rap, accused of committing war crimes, look no further than Paul Bergeron. All the big guys go to Bergeron because he gets everybody off. You name it, Paul can do it. Need to launder some money? Broker a deal with a drug

cartel? Take out a witness? From Wondery, the makers of Dr. Death and Over My Dead Body, comes a new series about a lawyer who broke all the rules. Isn't it funny how witnesses disappear or how evidence doesn't show up or somebody doesn't testify

correctly? In order to win at all costs. If Paul asked you to do something, it wasn't a request. It was an order. I'm your host, Brandon James Jenkins. Follow Criminal Attorney on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Criminal Attorney early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. One of the most vocal opponents of the game was Philip Veracruz,

one of the few remaining Filipinos in the UFW hierarchy. Veracruz had been a member of the UFW Executive Board since the union's founding in 1966, but his enthusiasm had declined as issues important to him and the Filipino community were increasingly ignored by Chavez and other UFW leaders. At an executive board meeting in the summer of 1977, Vera Cruz reached his breaking point. He refused to sign a confidentiality agreement and resigned in protest shortly after the meeting. He was just one of many disillusioned Filipinos who fled the union throughout the 70s. Soon after Vera Cruz's departure, Chavez drew even more criticism from Filipino members. Acting on bad advice,

he agreed to tour the Philippines as President Ferdinand Marcos' guest of honor. Chavez believed that the trip would revitalize his standing with Filipino farmworkers. But Marcos was a controversial leader who brutally suppressed political dissent. Chavez took Marcos up on his invitation over the objections of his inner circle, most notably Gilbert Padilla, the longtime ally who had jump-started the Delano Grape Strike in 1965. Chavez arrived in Manila in late July 1977, where he was showered with praise by the nation's labor leaders for his lifetime of organizing work. A prestigious Philippine university gave him an honorary doctorate.

His visit was carefully choreographed, and he was treated with all the pomp and circumstance reserved for heads of state, including being transported to locations via motorcade. And throughout the visit, Chavez spoke glowingly of Marcos and his authoritarian regime. He later claimed to have seen little sign of Marcos' crackdown against his own people. But Chavez returned home to a firestorm of negative press. Religious organizations such as the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops expressed grave concerns about the visit. For his part, Chavez stubbornly defended his position and sent his farmworker ministry head, Chris Hartmeyer, to secure support from church leaders,

but criticism continued to rain down on him from all sides. Unwilling to admit the mistake, Chavez doubled down in defending his tour of the Philippines and worked even harder to root out dissent within the union. In the spring of 1978, he made participation in the game a condition of UFW membership, and when the union's lawyers refused to participate, Chavez ousted them. Soon after, he instituted a training program to replace them with mostly Mexican-American legal volunteers. While Chavez prepared to make the game a permanent feature of United Farmworker life, the cult-like organization that had created the game was spiraling toward its demise.

An NBC Nightly News segment in the summer of 1978 uncovered a series of scandals within Synanon that revealed a pattern of intimidation, violence, child endangerment, and financial fraud. On December 2nd of that year, a drunk Charles Diederich was arrested for assault and conspiracy to commit murder. He avoided prison by pleading no contest and agreeing to hand off Sinanon to new leadership. The connections to Sinanon and Ferdinand Marcos badly damaged Chavez's image, and the media began to view him with a much more critical eye.

In November 1979, the conservative publication Reason magazine published an article entitled Who's Bankrolling the UFW? The magazine accused the union of misusing millions of dollars in federal grants, and the accusations were confirmed in January 1980 by NBC News, which had discovered that the union had accepted grants to modernize rural health clinics that didn't exist. Chavez dismissed the accusations, but they revealed a pattern of sloppy bookkeeping. And as more financial problems came to light, the federal government ordered the UFW to pay back hundreds of thousands of dollars in Social Security and federal unemployment

taxes. The UFW scandals and financial troubles unfolded against a changing political landscape. A conservative fervor was sweeping the nation. And in 1980, former California Governor Ronald Reagan was elected president in the landslide. Reagan ran on a staunchly pro-business platform that promised to be more hostile to organized labor than anything the nation had experienced in decades. Chavez was ill-prepared to battle this new enemy. And in the coming decade, as the UFW's membership declined,

he would make a series of last-ditch efforts to keep the Union relevant and maintain his grip on power. On August 5, 1981, President Ronald Reagan made his administration's anti-Ununion stance clear. He authorized the firing of over 11,000 striking air traffic controllers and permanently banned them from federal service for life. It was a sobering wake-up call to organized labor,

a signal that the government might no longer support their use of the strike as a bargaining tactic. At the time, United Farm Workers' membership had dropped by over 40% from its peak of 70,000 in 1971. In a desperate attempt to shore up the union, Chavez went after a new target, the undocumented immigrants imported by growers to break strikes. Chavez's allies, like Dolores Huerta, had once worked to help immigrant farm workers and recruit them to the cause, but now Chavez told UFW members to report undocumented laborers to federal authorities. As the UFW's influence waned in Arizona and Texas, new independent groups such as the Texas Farm Workers Union and the Maricopa County Organizing Project swooped in to fill the vacuum.

By the time the September 1981 UFW convention rolled around, Chavez's leadership was in question. In an attempt to protect his position, Chavez strong-armed a vote to stock the executive board with more loyalists. When members attempted to circumvent the vote and seat people Chavez did not approve of, Chavez had them fired. When the election was over, for the first time in its history, the UFW had no farm worker seated in leadership. But Chavez's strong-arm tactics backfired. The UFW was now in open revolt against its leader.

Long-time members resigned in protest. Some who left spoke out to whoever would listen, though only one former board member chose to speak out on camera. It was a man whose history with Chavez dated back to their involvement with the community service organization three decades earlier. His revelations, broadcast nationwide, would lend legitimacy to the crushing weight of other accusations against the once-lionized leader. Imagine it's the fall of 1983, and you're standing in your living room watching a television crew set up cameras and lights. In a matter of minutes, you will be interviewed by CBS television host Ed Bradley for a 60-minute segment on the United Farm Workers.

You feel a knot in your stomach, knowing what you've agreed to do, to tell the world about the rot within the United Farm Workers of America. You're nervously running over what you plan to say in your head when you feel a tap on your shoulder. It's a producer for the program who pre-interviewed you by phone just a few days ago. How are you doing? I'm all right, I think. Not having second thoughts, are you? No, it's just nerves. People need to know what's happening within the UFW. Television can be scary. Ed will do his best to put you at ease. It's not Ed Bradley I'm worried about. It's Chavez. Others who have spoken out against him have faced repercussions. But it's been three years since you left the UFW. What could he do to you now?

Well, he could sue me for starters. He sued others for slander. You step aside to make way for a cameraman and watch him adjust the angle of a chair. The longer this setup takes, the more your nerves start to creep in. This interview is the last thing I ever saw myself doing. I was with Caesar almost from the beginning. He was my friend and colleague for over 20 years. We started the National Farm Workers Association together. I was a part of the UFW from the start.

It's just a shame that it's come to this. And you can say all that to Ed once the cameras start rolling. But hey, there's one question I didn't get a chance to ask you in the pre-interview. What is it? If things got as bad with Caesar as you say, if he really did turn into a dictator, why stick around as long as you did? You don't understand. For a long time, we let him be a dictator. We needed someone with his strength and will to lead. Without that, the movement would have fallen apart.

But over the years, his leadership became more erratic. I think to some degree he went a little nuts. Are you willing to say that on camera? I'll tell the truth about what happened. But like I said, I'm not looking to get sued. Just then, an assistant interrupts your conversation to pull the producer aside. The producer listens intently and looks at you as the assistant scurries off. Okay, Ed's out of makeup. We're just about ready to go.

Why don't you take a seat so we can check your lighting? You scan your living room, which has now been converted into a studio set. You know that this is the right thing to do, but you're still worried about what will happen after the show airs. You can't help but feel this interview is tantamount to betrayal. Former UFW board member Gilbert Padilla was one of Cesar Chavez's oldest and most trusted lieutenants. But in his 60 Minutes interview, Padilla lamented the direction the UFW had taken under Chavez's leadership. Chavez brushed off the criticisms, dismissing them as the disgruntled words of traitors. But the sniping within the UFW's

ranks left it vulnerable to attacks by its very real enemies. In 1982, California's conservative attorney general George Duke Magian ran for governor on a platform that echoed Ronald Reagan's anti-later sentiments. After his victory, Duke Magian's appointees went to work shutting down enforcement of the Agricultural Labor Relations Act entirely, causing thousands of farm workers to lose their contracts. The UFW's membership dwindled to fewer than 30,000, far less than half than what it was at its peak. Chavez needed a new campaign to revitalize the union. So he circled

back to something he had a history of protesting against for decades, the use of pesticides on crops. In the spring of 1986, he launched what would become known as the Wrath of Grapes boycott. Chavez's demands included a ban on pesticides, a joint grower-UFW testing program of all grapes sent to market, and union elections performed in good faith. To promote the boycott, the UFW produced a documentary centering on a small San Joaquin Valley city called McFarland, one that had experienced a series of childhood cancer clusters in the summer of 1983. Several young cancer patients were featured in the documentary, which linked their disease to the use of pesticides. But Chavez and the filmmakers made a critical mistake when they failed to get proper permission to feature the children in their film.

Enraged parents protested, and Chavez's anti-pesticide message was lost in the controversy. The film was dealt another blow when several government-commissioned studies could not prove a connection between cancer and pesticides. Ultimately, the boycott failed to gain traction with the public. But as usual, Chavez refused to accept defeat. On June 6, 1988, he chose a room at the site of the UFW's old Delano headquarters to begin his third hunger strike, still hoping to rally people against pesticide use. The site for the fast, known as Forty Acres,

had been converted in 1974 into a retirement village for elderly Filipino farm workers. Now it became the backdrop of Chavez's latest act of political theater because Forty Acres became a pilgrimage site as supporters flocked to visit Chavez. The arrival of celebrities like Martin Sheen and Edward James Olmos helped keep Chavez's fast in the news as days turned into weeks and still he refused to eat. Finally, after 36 days, Chavez ended the hunger strike when he took communion with Ethel Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy's widow.

He had lost nearly 20% of his body weight and was unable to eat solid food for another 10 days. The fast succeeded in its goal in helping draw more attention to the dangers of pesticides. Presidential candidate Jesse Jackson addressed the issue in his speech at the 1988 Democratic Convention that July. But the wrath of grapes campaign failed to produce concessions from growers, leading Chavez to instigate another round of purges in the UFW leadership. One of the last to leave was Chavez's longtime spiritual advisor, Chris Hartmeyer, who he had publicly accused of disloyalty to both him and the movement.

Hartmeyer resigned from the union in 1989, leaving Dolores Huerta as one of the last remaining members of Chavez's inner circle. United Farm Workers struggled on, but it was a shell of its former self. In 1993, the union found itself fending off a lawsuit from a large lettuce grower in Arizona. That spring, Chavez stayed with a supporter in Yuma in order to testify as the suit went to court. There, he died in his sleep of natural causes at the supporter's home on April 23, 1993, at the age of 66. Cesar Chavez left behind a complicated legacy. Through sheer force of will, he uplifted an overlooked segment of society and started a movement that changed the way Americans viewed farm labor.

His charismatic acts of defiance against powerful interest groups inspired Americans from all walks of life and secured tangible victories for farmworkers long robbed of their dignity. But his controversial leadership style ultimately alienated important allies and diminished the strength of the union he'd worked so hard to build. Today, the United Farm Workers of America still operates out of La Paz. With only 5,000 members under contract, the UFW nevertheless still strives to meet the needs of farmworkers, half of whom are now undocumented immigrants from Mexico and Central America. But they face an uphill battle. Most of the gains made during Cesar Chavez's era have

been erased. To this day, farmworkers remain exempt from most federal workplace protections, including minimum wage guarantees, overtime pay, and the right to organize without fear of retaliation. In March 2022, the United Farm Workers of America recreated the 1966 pilgrimage from Delano to Sacramento in support of a state bill to keep union farm worker elections free from intimidation. The measure was signed into law by California Governor Gavin Newsom on September 30, 2022. But in the fields of California and the rest of the United States, the fight for better pay and working conditions rages on. From Wondery, this is the third and final episode of United Farm

Workers from American History Tellers. In our next season, in the wake of the Civil War, the United States faced the crucial question of how to restore a shattered union and integrate millions of newly emancipated Black people into a racially divided society. In the decade that followed the war, the federal government worked to establish economic and legal equality for Black Americans. But the early promises of reconstruction would soon be broken, giving way to white supremacist violence in the era of Jim Crow. If you like American History Tellers, you can binge all episodes early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Prime members can listen ad-free on Amazon Music. And before you go, tell us about yourself by filling out a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

If you'd like to learn more about the United Farm Workers, we recommend The Crusades of Cesar Chavez, a biography by Miriam Powell, and Cesar Chavez, a biography by Roger Bruns. American History Tellers is hosted, edited, and produced by me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. me, Lindsey Graham for Airship. Audio editing by Christian Paraga. Sound design by Molly Bach. Music by Lindsey Graham. Voice acting in this episode by Randy Kiyaga, Joe Hernandez-Kolsky, and Pilar Uribe.

This episode is written by Jamie Robledo. Edited by Doreen Marina. Produced by Alita Rozansky. Our production coordinator is Desi Blaylock. Managing producer is Matt Gant. Senior managing producer, Tanja Thigpen. Senior producer, Andy Herman. Executive producers are Jenny Lauer-Beckman and Marsha Louis for Wondery.

Now streaming. Welcome to Buy It Now, the show where aspiring entrepreneurs get the opportunity of a lifetime. I wouldn't be chasing it if I didn't believe that the world needs this product. In each episode, the entrepreneurs get 90 seconds to pitch to an audience of potential customers. This is match point, baby. If the audience like the product,

it gets them in front of our panel of experts, Gwyneth Paltrow. Anthony Anderson. Tabitha Brown. Tony Hawk. Christian Siriano. These panelists are looking for entrepreneurs whose ideas best fit the criteria of the four P's. Pitch, product, popularity, and problem-solving ability.

I'm going to give you a yes. I want to see it. If our panelists like the product, it goes into the Amazon Buy It Now store. You are the embodiment of what an American entrepreneur is. Oh, my God. Are we excited for this moment? I cannot believe it! Woo! Buy it now. Stream free on FreeVie and Prime Video.