RIP Sal Castro

Monday felt like three days in one, and I had to take a nap.  I woke to terrible news: Sal Castro died.

I am sensitive to loss right now, perhaps too sensitive to be reliable in terms of news.  But I have to say that my heart sunk, and the sense that there is a hole in our world with his loss overwhelmed me.  Tears stream down my face as I write this.

One summer over twenty years ago, I sat in a library devouring every piece of information I could get about the Chicano movement.

One of the people I read about was Sal Castro: a teacher who supported his students who wanted access to an education that would prepare them for college.  He went to jail, lost his job, and kept fighting.

Fast forward about ten years, and I met someone who knew Sal ... she shared an office with him at LAUSD.  It was a little office the district conceded to a man who though retired still worked tirelessly for Chicano students.

When I entered his office, he called me mija like he had known me my whole life and was so proud of me and my accomplishments.  He told me about his work, the leadership camp he still ran out of Camp Hess Kramer, the camp at the bottom of the hill from where my mother grew up.

It was as if we were connected in some way, and, of course, we were.

We sat in his office and laughed at Villaraigosa trying to insert himself into the blowouts history and trying to use Sal for political advantage.  We laughed and shook our heads like we were old friends, not strangers who had just met.

Sal was larger than life with the biggest heart -- an ex-football player who could give you a bear hug and make you feel like an integral part of his life even though you've just met.  What touched me the most, sitting in front of this living legend, was his humility.  At one point, he pulled out a binder to show me the collection of pictures and stories he kept in his desk: Chicanos who made him proud.

He invited me to the next leadership camp, and I attended as an HSF rep at the college fair, but I also drove out to attend some of the sessions for the students.  I witnessed Sal on stage, preaching his love of our culture; I saw him mentoring not just the high school students there as campers, but also the college students who were the counselors.  There in front of me was textbook of how to make sure a movement has a legacy.

The Blowouts were an important part of the Chicano movement, in my opinion, because they originated with the students.  Sal's role in the movement was not limited to his mentorship and being a role model to those students. 

What Sal saw in those students was their desire to learn, and in the situation, a district more willing to fire him than provide access to a college prep education.  He knew that the end of the story was not getting his job back or putting away the criminal case against him.  He knew that students would continue to need to be bolstered and supported towards their dreams.

Last spring, Mario Garcia was at UNM promoting a book he just completed with Sal.  Sadly, Sal was not with him.

But in the discussion following the presentation, someone asked what the legacy of Sal Castro was, and I stood up.

I am one of the many pieces of his legacy.

My teachers in middle school were the generation who went to college in California because Sal's first students stood up, walked out and then went to college.  Those teachers were the ones who helped to understand what it means to be Chicana.  It was as a student at one of the many satellite leadership camps that resulted from Sal's work that I became Chicana.

Sal didn't solve the problem and issue of unequal education in the LAUSD, but he never gave up fighting for the students' right to a better shot.  And many of his students continue the struggle just as they began it.  Sal's greatest legacy, perhaps, is the sense of responsibility he instilled in his students -- and the circle of giving back that his students have taken up.

I have never met a man so proud to be Chicano. I might not have agreed with, or been able to pull off, Chicano history as motivation as Sal did, but I believe that he was, indeed, proud of the way I was carrying his legacy forward, helping students find their way to and their place at college.

Over the years, the number of lives and hearts that Sal touched is surely innumerable.   I can only hope that those of us who carry his torch will continue to remember and call forth that memory for those who are yet to come.


To Sal's family -- a heart felt thank you for sharing him with all of us for all these years.  I am sure he could have *really* retired and just spent time with his family, instead he continued to nourish his community, infusing pride in all he met.  My heart is with you.

Sal, may you rest in peace -- though, I am sure that if there is a heaven, you are already holding court.  I hope that you and my brother are hanging out -- I so wanted him to meet you.

It was an honor to know you.  La lucha sigue.

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After I wrote this piece, I read an article about a woman, Maudelle Shirek, who was on the city council in Berkeley for 20 years -- after she turned 70!  RIP Mrs. Shirek, and thank you for never giving up your principles or the fight.