photos from the edge 32 - DANCING IN DARK TIMES

photos from the edge 32 - DANCING IN DARK TIMES
By David Bacon
Contexts - Sociology for the Public - Journal of the American Sociology Association
Volume 25 Issue 1, Winter 2026
https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.1177/15365042261417628?utm_source=selligent&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=rac_awa_awab_oth_cyc-published-author-care-journey-v02&utm_content=25u1580054_c&utm_term=&m_i=kTPIgXNZzA43rr2jJFpwXtb1n6Tk8J0w7iVXJNAJxWrf_7q_yrilb6PSNalcs%2BRCGs1DjTcR8vN2HORqOb%2BoEz0JyuqQZgTK2L3aRd&nbd=72460462&nbd_source=slgnt&M_BT=2625270471780297#con

In many agricultural fields on the West Coast, you're more likely to hear Mixteco and Triqui spoken than Spanish. Both are common languages among the indigenous people of southern Mexico, many of whom now pick apples in California's century-old orchards or grapes for prestigious Napa and Sonoma County wineries. Without their labor, rural economies would collapse.

Yet Mixtecos and Triquis are targeted by ICE in immigration raids terrorizing rural communities. In farmworker families, mothers and fathers now give their children the phone numbers to call in case their parents get picked up on the way to or from work. It can be an act of bravery simply to walk to the store or drive at night.

Against this backdrop, when Healdsburg's Triquis and Mixtecos came out to celebrate the unique culture they brought with them on their two-thousand-mile journey from Oaxaca and Guerrero, it was an act of resistance. They call their festival the Guelaguetza. It includes a fabulous display of dancers in elaborate masks and tall headdresses performing to brass and woodwinds playing music from home. Every indigenous town in Mexico has its own dance; the Guelaguetza brings them together in all their riotous variety.

The largest Guelaguetza is held in Oaxaca itself, but over the last four decades, the population of Mixtecos, Triquis, Chatinos, and other indigenous peoples in the United States has grown so large that there are now at least seven Guelaguetzas north of the border. Indigenous communities organize dance troupes, partly to show off their culture and partly to give young people growing up here a chance to learn the language and steps to the dance-and to imagine a home they may have never seen.

The act of simply dancing in public on a Sunday in the town plaza was a way of saying, "Aqui esta-mos, y no nos vamos" ("We're here, and we're not leaving").

When Healdsburg's Triquis decided to do a Guelaguetza, it would be, as one organizer said, a Guelaguetza de Resistencia: a Resistance Guelaguetza. The act of simply dancing in public on a Sunday in the town plaza was a way of saying, "Aqui estamos, y no nos vamos" ("We're here, and we're not leaving"). Even Healdsburg's mayor and one of its council members came to respond, "We know who you are, and we are all welcome here."

The late Mixteco community leader Rufino Dominguez Santos explained that dances and language are not just ways to celebrate identity-they are an essential glue that keeps communities together, helping them survive in a hostile environment. "Beyond organizing and teaching our rights," he told me, "we try to save our language. Even though 500 years have passed since the Spanish conquest, we still speak it. We are preserving our way of dancing and rescuing our lost beliefs-that nature is something sacred for us, just as it was for our ancestors."

In the accompanying photographs, Healdsburg's indigenous community activists show their deep roots. The photos illustrate that despite fear and racism, the cultural traditions of their small hometowns in Mexico have been reproduced and are now celebrated in California, two thousand miles north.

 

 

 

 

 

photographs from the edge 31 - CALLING OUT FOR A BETTER SYSTEM

photographs from the edge 31 - CALLING OUT FOR A BETTER SYSTEM
Photoessay by David Bacon
Barn Raiser - 5/7/26
https://barnraisingmedia.com/on-may-day-farmworkers-and-their-children-defy-poverty-and-deportations/



Lorena calls out to friend in a lowrider to join the march.

Juana's words echoed in my mind as I pulled off Highway 101 onto Broadway, the street that bisects Santa Maria.  She is a strawberry picker in a strawberry town.  Santa Maria, Oxnard to the south and Salinas to the north, all valleys on California's central coast, produce 80% of all the berries picked and sold in the U.S.

I wondered if I'd see Juana at this year's May Day march, but I doubted I would.  May Day comes at the beginning of the picking season, when families feel their poverty the sharpest, after winter months when they've had no work.  "We have to save to pay the rent during the winter.  If we don't, we don't have a place to live," she told me two years ago.  "During those five months there are always bills we can't pay, like water.  By March there's no money at all, and we have to get loans to survive."  Loans come from "friends" who charge 10% interest.  "Plus, I have to send money to my mama and papa in Mexico.  There are many people depending on me."

I drove down Broadway to Main, where they intersect in downtown Santa Maria.  These street names seem very small town America, but today they've lost some of that white bread feel. Along each are the many taquerias that serve mole, tlayudas and other food from southern Mexico.  In back of some of the strip malls, half-hidden botanicas do a good business with Mixtec and Triqui indigenous farmworkers.  

The little shops sell herbs and traditional remedies that many depend on when they get sick.  Partly people like them because they're familiar. They're recommended by the curanderas and practitioners who've brought the ancient culture of indigenous medicine from Oaxaca to the Central California coast.  

But many families also like them because they're cheaper than drugstore medicine.  They don't require going to a hospital or clinic for a prescription. That means people don't have to put their names into a computer system that ICE might be able to access, looking for targets for deportation.  

Jorge Ruiz chose not to work and went to the march instead. 

The state here has pioneered Covered California, which provides medical insurance to undocumented people and those who can't pay. But the regulations that go with Federal funding mandate that information collected from patients be provided to Washinigton.  No one knows who can access what in the days of DOGE, and ICE has been very active in Santa Maria.  

So poverty creates a need to work, and fear of ICE makes workers want to keep their heads down.  Their kids feel the economic pressure and the fear too.  But this year, like last year, many came to the march to defend their parents, and lift the spirits of their friends.  As the march kicked off in a huge parking lot in front of J.C. Penney's, Lorena was on a bullhorn leading chants defying ICE.  First she set up the crowd with "Say it once, say it twice/We will not put up with ICE!" and then asked, "What do we want?"  "Justice!" the crowd answered. "When do we want it?" "NOW!"

Lorena had walked out of Pioneer Valley High at lunchtime.  When I asked if she was worried about retaliation, she gave me a puzzled look.  "I mean, what is there to be worried about?" she asked. "It's something that everyone should be proud of, and it's nothing you should be ashamed about, and we should do it without fear."

I asked how people at school felt about it.  "One of my closest friends told me she was really scared of everything happening," she explained. "So I helped get her resources and calm her nerves. But a lot of people at school are going through the same thing. They have the red cards that say their rights and everything, but they still live in that fear that they're going to get home from school and their parents aren't going to be able to get there. Some have siblings and they worry who's going to take care of them, let alone how they'll take care of themselves. And it's a struggle because these are Teens."

The boisterous May Day march snaked down Broadway, with several hundred chanting farmworkers, students and community activists.  Signs defying ICE were the most common, but home made placards, many illustrated with strawberries or workers' families, also took aim at low wages.  

Cesar Vasquez speaks to the crowd.

According to a recent report by a coalition of farmworker advocates, Beyond the Cycle of Survival, California produces $60 billion of agricultural wealth every year, with the labor of 900,000 farmworkers.  Nevertheless, "Farmworker wages are unlivable and inequitable," it charges. "Median crop farmworker wages are about $17 per hour in California while median annual salaries are only $15,000 - far below what is necessary for the state's high costs of living."  

Those wages are paid overwhelmingly by corporate farms.  The report notes: "Non-family farms and large-scale family farms make up 21% of all California farms, yet they generate 92% of the state's total agricultural production value. Meanwhile, small farms produce just 4%."

For Jorge Ruiz, one of several workers who left jobs to march, poverty was the motivator.  He and his wife pay over $2000 a month for a small apartment shared among five people.  She works in the grapes and strawberries, while he does landscaping.  This year he told his boss that people across the country were not working on May Day.  " And he said yes, it's okay, just bring some papers to say what you're going to do and all that."  Twelve of his coworkers didn't work on May Day.

While his boss sounds reasonable, Ruiz wasn't any less angry about the money.  "What they pay us is not enough," he emphasized. "The bosses demand the work, but they don't want us to raise our salary."  That pressure kept most workers on the job, he said, but often with conflicting feelings.  "Leaving would be a considerable sacrifice. If we miss a day of work, the check goes down, and then it is difficult for us. But we also want to raise our voices so they can hear that we have the right to be paid better. Many people are afraid of being absent, but If we don't raise our voices, it won't change. We have to come together so that they listen to us."

Lorena's friend Cesar Vasquez helped organize school walkouts last year, and wants the movement around May Day to go beyond just hating poverty and Trump.  "We paint the problem as the current president, but we fail to recognize that the deportations and the violations of human rights were happening before too. We have to understand the system is the problem, and the the focus should be bringing the power back to the people."  

Kids march with their parents.

Vasquez is more than just brave words.  In the year since last May Day he built the Rapid Response Network to defend against ICE from 50 people in two counties to 1200 today.  Even white people, he says.  "Right after the murder of Renee Good and Alex Preddy, the white man and the white woman that have historically been at the top of America's power chain, recognize that anything can happen. Now we are seeing people show up that look like them, because they recognize that after me and my family, they are next."

Hearing this wasn't such a surprise. The central coast of California is sometimes called Reagan Country, and its political class still leans right, compared to Los Angeles and San Francisco.  But I worked here as an organizer for the United Farm Workers in the mid-70s.  While growers ran the town in a very above-board way, Santa Maria had a core of radical workers who would have recognized Cesar Vasquez as a brother.  

I knew I was home when I first visited a family of UFW activists we called "de hueso colorado", or union supporters "to the red marrow of their bones."  As I walked in their door a huge portrait of Che Guevara looked down at me from the living room wall. 

The valley here saw big strikes by the UFW in the early 70s, and we organized union elections after California's farm labor law passed later that decade.  Indigenous Mixtec workers from Oaxaca organized their own union and struck the strawberries in 1998.  And little work stoppages were common at the start of each year's picking season, until the current wave of immigration raids.

Defying Reagan Country's rightwing reputation, this year May Day marches expanded into two more central coast agricultural towns.  North of Santa Maria is Paso Robles, home to high-end wineries, and so also to a growing population of workers.  To the south, Lompoc is home to Mexican flower harvesters - one of the few places in the U.S. where its cultivation hasn't been relocated to South America. 

Wearing her No ICE button and carrying a gigante on a pole.  Gigantes are big globes or puppets carried in dance festivals in Oaxaca, now endowed with a political message.

in the 1940s Lompoc was a tiny town with card rooms patronized by single Filipino farmworker men living in labor camps. Today flower pickers are almost entirely Mexican.  But whether for Mexicans or the Filipinos who came before them, May Day is familiar from home - the workers' celebration.  

I don't think people forget the May Day ideas they've grown up with.  I didn't see Juana this year in Santa Maria, so I don't know if she was just working, or thought coming to a march might risk getting picked up by ICE.  But I doubt she felt a sudden satisfaction with poverty wages or work that exacts a terrible physical toll. So if the fear of deportation and getting fired is beaten back, and she and her coworkers can breathe a little more freely, maybe she'll come next year. 

May Day is growing.  The youth who've grown up here want it.  The day offers them the chance to defy danger, to get angry and call out for a better system guaranteeing a better life.

What About Us?

Lorena speaks to the crowd on May Day

A banner says, Without the Workers There is no Santa Maria

MAY DAY - THE POINT IS TO HAVE A VOICE

MAY DAY - THE POINT IS TO HAVE A VOICE
Photoessay by David Bacon
American Community Media, 5/4/26
https://americancommunitymedia.org/immigration/ca-farmworkers-may-day-message-maga-means-mexicans-aint-going-anywhere/

SANTA MARIA, CA - 01MAY26 - Strawberry workers and supporters march through Santa Maria on May Day demanding a living wage and an end to immigration raids and deportations.

Few people have as much reason as farmworkers to celebrate the contribution their labor makes.  As they often say, "Without us, you have no food on the table."  Yet few have as much right to protest the conditions under which they work.  That contradiction brought farmworkers and supporters into the streets of California's central coast on May Day.

The most popular of all the hand-drawn placards carried by families and activists were those condemning immigration raids.  In giant letters some defiantly proclaimed, "MAGA - Mexicans Ain't Going Anywhere." Young people carried others defending their undocumented parents - "Fighting for the Ones Who Fought for Us!" - who feared that marching in public might expose them to arrest by ICE.

"We Farmworkers Harvest Your Strawberries"

"May Day is our resistance to the kidnapping of community members and separation of families," explained Fernando Martinez, organizer for the Mixteco Indigenous Community Organizing Project. "Immigration enforcement has hit Santa Maria hard this year, and even though farmworkers are the backbone of our county, they've been hurt the most."

May Day's defiance of raids here has its roots in the immigrant uprising of 2006. That year millions of people turned out on May Day to successfully block Congress from making the lack of immigration papers a Federal felony.  Those massive marches recovered May Day from the legacy of the Cold War, when it was baited as the "Communist holiday," and few people dared to publicly celebrate it, at least in the United States.

Immigrant and farmworker youth and families, and their supporters march to protest the wave of immigration raids by the Trump administration.

"My dad and mom are not criminals."

People immigrating to the U.S. from Mexico or the Philippines, however, already knew from the experience in their communities of origin that celebrating the workers' holiday could be a vehicle for protesting exploitation.  As May Day demonstrations spread in the years that followed, immigrant communities began using the day to make their own protests.  

Santa Maria and Oxnard have had May Day marches for several years, based in immigrant farmworker communities and organized by MICOP and CAUSE, the Central Coast United for a Sustainable Economy.  805 Undocufund, founded to defend against the raids, joined along with other community group, and this year May Day marches spread to two other central coast cities. 

One is Paso Robles, where Mexicans furnish the labor for high-end wineries.  The other, Lompoc, was a tiny town in the 1940s when its main street was lined with card rooms. Single Filipino men were the bulk of farm laborers then, famous card players who lived in Lompoc's labor camps.  Today what's now a small city is the heart of California's flower industry, and its strawberry fields are expanding to rival those in Santa Maria and Salinas.  

"We deserve fair pay" 

Young people left school to join the march

ICE Out of 805 - 805 is the area code for Santa Maria and the central coast


Erica Diaz-Cervantes, policy director for CAUSE, was assigned to help organize the Lompoc march.  Over 500 people filled the streets.  "This is historic," she said.  "It's never happened before. But students have seen their parents kidnapped by ICE, and like everywhere, families are being pushed to the wall.  It's not unusual for people to have to choose between buying food and paying the rent at the end of the month."

Claudia Caceres, whose online podcast Tu Tiempo Digital reaches the coast's Spanish-Speaking community, recently organized a community meeting to provide food to hungry families. Seventy people registered and twice that number came.   "Santa Barbara County ranks second in poverty in the entire state," she explained, "And when all the ICE raids and price increases began last year, everything became much worse.  In 15 years I have never seen so many people asking for help and food. There are now many moms left alone with their children because their husbands have been arrested."

This crisis is piled on the endemic poverty among Santa Maria farmworkers, documented last year in a powerful 44-page report, Harvesting Dignity, The Case for a Living Wage for Farmworkers. It revealed that the mean hourly wage for farm labor in Santa Barbara County was $17.42. That would produce a yearly income of $36,244 for a strawberry picker working fulltime, all twelve months.  But in reality annual income was much lower because even working the entire season, workers get no more than eight months of work, and often there are not enough berries for 8 hours each day. 

Jorge Ruiz with his bucket drum on the march.

"We are not criminals. We are workers."

Last year I interviewed Mathilda, who only got 36 hours a week, including Saturdays.  Even fulltime work at minimum wage for eight months only produces $21,760.  Jorge Ruiz, on the Santa Maria May Day march, told me his rent for a small apartment was $2000 a month or $24,000 a year.  With two people in his family working, there's hardly enough money left for food and other basic necessities.

The need to work is so great that Caceres felt she could not urge people to stay off the job on May Day, as the national campaign urged as a way to protest the abuses of the Trump administration.  "How are you going to tell a person who needs that work and money for their family?"

Martinez understood that. "The harsh economic impact puts a huge burden on workers to come out for Mayday. The cost of living has gone through the roof, which makes it hard to organize, and many farm workers cannot afford to skip a day of work. But some do, who have the heart and the passion to organize."  

One was Jorge Ruiz. "If we miss a day of work," he told me, "it is difficult for us.. Many people are afraid of being absent. But If we don't raise our voices, so they can hear we have the right to be paid better, it won't change."

People are afraid, and in tight communities like Santa Maria and Lompoc, almost everyone knows a family where someone has been picked up.  That put a stop last year to the common practice by strawberry pickers of halting work at the beginning of the season, to pressure growers to raise the piece rate for picking.  

"Immigrants Pick Them" - with a picture of a strawberry

Masks like this have become a custom in popular culture after they were first adopted by wrestlers in Mexico

"In the last few years these organic strikes had a positive impact," Martinez said.  "By 2020, workers were able to drive up the price per box from $1.80 to $2.10, a 30 cent increase. Now it's at $2.30. That didn't happen by magic. It happened because workers organized and pushed their employers to negotiate."  

But when raids make workers afraid to take that kind of action, the rate can fall, making an existing economic crisis for families even worse.  Caceres believes the answer is "sending emails to the government, to congressmen, to senators, lobbying, going to meetings of the city of Santa Maria, to the county boards, complaining to our rulers who represent us."  

That, in fact, has been a program of MICOP and CAUSE, who have asked Santa Barbara supervisors to mandate a $26/hour minimum wage for farmworkers.  Workers have testified at Board meetings, but growers have threatened to relocate agricultural production to other countries.  

Jorge Ruiz and the man in the wrestler mask

Among this year's hot election contests, one might tip the Board's balance in favor of the proposal.  CAUSE and its allies are walking door-to-door for Ricardo Valencia, a high school teacher with strong support from farmworkers.  Republican Cory Bantilan has raised a lot of money, but even in Santa Maria, being a Republican in 2026 might be a problem.  Santa Maria City Council member Maribel Aguilera-Hernandez is Valencia's more serious opponent.

According to the US Department of Agriculture, only a third of U.S. farmworkers are citizens, and close to half are undocumented.  Most estimates say a much larger percentage in California lack papers. While undocumented workers can go door-to-door in elections, and some unions mobilize them to do so, marches like those on May Day are a basic way to insert themselves into the political process.  

As Ruiz says, the point is to have a voice.



Gigantes are big globes or puppets carried in dance festivals in Oaxaca, now endowed with a political message.

photos from the edge 30 - A HISTORY OF ARIZONA MINERS, WRITTEN ON GRAVESTONES

photos from the edge 30 - A HISTORY OF ARIZONA MINERS, WRITTEN ON GRAVESTONES
Photos and text by David Bacon

The Sotos and the Jimenez must have been among the last families living in Harshaw.  When the tiny Arizona mining town was incorporated into the Coronado National Forest in 1953, there were still over 70 residents. They'd never owned the land beneath their homes, though, so the Forest Service called them squatters.  In the language of the time, it tried to "relocate" them, and by 1960 the census claimed there was no one there.  Nevertheless, the expulsion wasn't totally successful.  In the 1970s seven people were still surviving in homes among the abandoned buildings.

When I met Samuel Jimenez last winter, he was setting up tents and a stove with his two children on a flat by Harshaw Creek. Although it ran seemingly clear and transparent among the reeds and willows, the water was still dangerous to drink. At the headwaters of the creek is the long-closed Endless Chain Mine, and it's tailings still send zinc and copper into the spring that feeds it.

Jimenez was looking forward to a few days, he told me, of wandering among the graves in the small cemetery on the hillside above.  All its gravestones bear Spanish names.  Teresa de Acevedo was born 5-18-1877 and died 2-14-1941.  "Recuerdo de hijos" it says - a memorial from her children.  Two sheet metal markers memorialize those interred by puncturing holes that spell out their names:  'Angel Robles nacio 1878 fallecio April 1930."  Manuel Robledo, born April 17, 1941, his death date obscured by a blue plastic wreath.

The names on the metal plates at the intersection of the arms of welded iron crosses, each with four fanciful curlicues, have long since worn away.  A metal mesh screen hangs on two iron poles between a pair of graves, and on it an artist has welded sheet metal beaten into the shapes of leaves, flowers, a butterfly and a tree.  Ghostly figures appear in a faded photograph curled from the sun and rain.  There is no name - just two jars of dried plants, sealed with lids almost rusted through.

Whether the graves still have names or not, the people buried here were all families of miners, some Mexicans who came when the mines opened, and others born on this side of the border to Mexican families.  The hills here are dotted with mines, and many of them have Spanish names too.  

The biggest was the Hermosa.  From it the miners wrested 68 tons of silver ore per day in 1880, from five tunnels burrowing into the mountain above the town.  Others included the Alta and the Salvador.  Investors from back east also gave their mines English names like the American and the Hardshell.  Both white and Mexican miners worked in the shafts, but for decades their wages were unequal.  Mexican miners got the "Mexican wage" - a lot less then their white coworkers.

Harshaw is only 15 miles north of the border with Mexico, and that system was in place on both sides.  It led to an uprising at the huge Cananea copper mine, just south of the line and not far from Harshaw.  There, in 1906, miners fought the first battle of the Mexican Revolution against its U.S. owner, Colonel William Green, who brought in a contingent of the Arizona Rangers to put the workers down.  Miners struck the Cananea copper mine, still one of the world's largest, repeatedly over the years since.  The last strike lasted 18 years, and ended only last year.

Labor conflict has been part of the history of miners in southern Arizona as well, from the beginning.  In 1917 at the Bisbee mine, 75 miles from Harshaw, the Phelps Dodge corporation kidnapped 1300 strikers with a force of Arizona deputies.  The miners were loaded into railroad cars and abandoned in the desert 200 miles away.

Alfredo Figueroa, who today lives in Blythe, just across the Colorado River from Arizona, remembers that his grandfather was a striker in Cananea, and then his father in Bisbee.  "He used to tell us that your biggest enemy was your boss. When he saw any injustices he would intervene and protest.  My father died of silicosis, his lungs full of clots.  Blood would come out when he spat. The average life of a miner is not that long.  He never wanted us to work in the big mines. We were gambusinos, small mine operators.  

"Mining gave us a lot of independence.  But the workers who worked for the big mines were not this way.  The company owned all the houses and stores.  The people were just like property of the mine too.  Still, they paid a lot better then working in the fields. On the farms, they were domestic slaves.  There were 5000 braceros in Blythe and the contractor would charge them for everything.  When they got their check, it was zero, zero, zero, zero.  A miner always had a damn good shoe and a damn good hat.  

"Joaquin Murrieta was a miner, and the grandfather of our Chicano movement.  In the early 1900's my grandfathers were thrown in jail in Arizona because they sang the Corrido of Joaquin Murrieta.  The song was outlawed in California and Arizona, even on the radio.  Murrieta didn't succeed in achieving his ultimate goal, but he succeeded in organizing his people to fight for justice and that's what we wanted in the 60s.  We were fighting not to go into that damn army and to Vietnam."

In Harshaw the nitty gritty memories of the past are sometimes written, framed and incorporated into on the gravestones themselves.  In one, Angel Soto's descendants recall his murder in 1890 by thieves who tried to rob his cow near the Morning Glory Mine.  " It wasn't until late February 1900 that Angel's body was found by a woodcutter.  Having been covered by snow, the body was well preserved.  This allowed the family to give him a Christian burial."  He was buried next to his wife Josefa, who bore eight children, four of whom are also buried there.  

Their son, Miguel T. Soto was born in Florence, Arizona in 1883 and died in Harshaw in 1957.  "He was a miner and cowboy plus had many other jobs.  [He] was laid to rest here in 1957 near his parents Angel and Josefa Soto, his brother Mariano Soto, and his sisters Guadalupe Duarte and Josefa Jimenez and other relatives, in-laws and friends."  

Buried next to him is Angelita D. Soto, born at the turn of the century near Tubac, and died in 1923. She married Miguel Soto at the age of 16 and had four children and 32 grand children  Her family inscribed on her grave, "Rest in peace mama and nana.  Some of us don't remember you and some of us never knew you.  We all love you."

Alfredo Figueroa