Sal Si Puedes (Escape If You Can): Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution by Peter Matthiessen Page B

conference
room,” he called, from around a corner. “This will save a lot
of time. People are constantly coming in, you know  .  .  .  ”
His voice trailed off, resumed again. “The way things are
going, we don’t have enough office space for the newspaper
or the ranch committees  .  .  .  Oh! Look at that!” He was turning
a complete circle. “Those guys really went to town! It’s
entirely changed!” He finished his circle, beaming. “The
first center for farm workers in history!” (A year later
Richard Chavez took me out to see the progress at the Forty
Acres, which was negligible. “We’re so damn busy,” Richard
said, “and there’s always something that needs the money
more.”)
    Outside again, we walked around the grounds, in the
hot emptiness of Sunday. “Over there”—he pointed—“will
be another building, a little training center there, kind of
a  .  .  .  a
study center for nonviolence, mostly for people in the
Union, the organizers and ranch committees. Nonviolent
tactics, you know—to be nonviolent in a monastery is one
thing, but being nonviolent in a struggle for justice is another.
And we’ll stress honesty. Some of these guys will be
getting a lot of power as the Union develops, and some will
be very good and some won’t know how to handle it. If
someone in the hiring hall is willing to take a bribe to put
one guy ahead of another on a job, he may also be willing
to steal a hundred dollars from the Union, or accept a hundred
dollars for an act of violence. There’s all kinds of
chances for corruption, and things can go to hell
fast—we’ve seen that in other unions. So the best way to teach
them is by example.”
    His glance asked that I take what he was about to say
as nothing boastful. Chavez is a plain-spoken man who does
not waste his own time or his listener’s with false humility,
yet he is uncomfortable when the necessity arises to speak
about himself, and may even emit a gentle groan. “I mean,
you can write a million pamphlets on honesty, you can
write books on it, and manuals, and it doesn’t work—it only
works by example. I have to give up a lot of things, because
I can’t ask people to sacrifice if I won’t sacrifice myself.”
He was glad to change the subject. “We have some great
guys in this Union, some really great guys. We’ve put together
farm workers and volunteers, people who just
wanted to do something for the cause. We have so many
volunteers that we save only the best; they come and go,
but the good ones never go. You don’t say ‘Stay!’ They stay
of their own accord!
    “In a way we’re all volunteers; even the ones—the lawyers
and everybody—whose salaries are paid by outside
people; they’re not making money. You start paying the
strikers for what they should do for themselves, then everything
is done for money, and you’ll never be able to build
anything. It’s not just a question of spending money, and
anyway, we haven’t got it. But the farm workers stand to
benefit directly from the Union; it’s their union, and we’ve
been able to get that across to them—really, you know, it’s
working beautifully. Most of us work for five dollars a week.
Outside people, the Teamsters and everybody, thought we
were crazy, but it’s the only way we can stay in business.
It’s a long, long haul, and there isn’t any money, and if we
start paying wages, then it means that only a few can be
hired, and a few can’t do as much as many.
    “It has to be done this way. I’ve been in this fight too
long, almost twenty years, learning and learning, one defeat
after another, always frustration. And then of course, raising
a family—you have to get your family to suffer along
with you, otherwise you can’t do it. But finally we’re
beginning to see daylight, and that’s a great reward. And
then, you see, these farm workers will never be the same.
If they destroyed our union today, these people would
never go back to where