I didn’t start out swinging. I started out writing obits.
Back at The Daily Californian, my job was to memorialize strangers with brevity and dignity. No politics. No heat. Just names, dates, and silence. That’s how I learned to write—by confronting the end of stories before I ever got to chase the beginning.
My first big break came not long after—a front-page story as the U.S. prepared to enter the Gulf War. For the first time, I felt what it meant to write into history, not just about it. I got ink in my veins
It wasn’t until later, when I joined La Prensa San Diego, that I began to understand what it meant to report not just about people—but for them. I didn’t start with polish. I started with purpose.
That purpose began the day I turned in a story—a straight, AP-style piece on NAFTA. It covered a conference with the Mexican ambassador, a Hispanic lawyer, and a local congressman who warned that Mexican workers would be trapped in maquiladoras and the pollution would only worsen.
It was balanced. Clean. Traditional journalism.
Dan Muñoz Sr., my publisher and mentor, read it. Then he looked up and said, “You wrote this with blue glasses on.” And then he tore it up.
He wasn’t angry. He was right. I had written it like an outsider, like someone watching the story happen instead of feeling the heat coming off it. Dan told me to take off the blue lenses and start seeing the world through the brown eyes I was born with.
That single moment rerouted the course of my journalism.
I began seeking out the people who didn’t show up on press releases or wire photos. I started learning from the voices that didn’t get invited to luncheons but still shaped communities. That’s when I met Herman Baca at his print shop in National City, Calf.
And from the very first time, Herman didn’t just grant me an interview—he welcomed me into a brotherhood. He wasn’t a source. He was a mentor. A good friend. A man whose mind was a library of the Chicano Movement and whose fire never dimmed. I sat at his feet, notebook in hand, soaking in what I still call Chicano 101.
Herman taught me how to separate noise from message. He showed me that activism wasn’t about volume—it was about clarity, courage, and consistency. Through him, I didn’t just learn the names—I met the movement.
I interviewed Reies Tijerina, who pointed his finger at my camera like it was a rifle aimed at injustice.
I spoke with José Ángel Gutiérrez just after the book Chicano! came out—his fire still fresh, his eyes fixed on the future.
I met Lalo Guerrero, the father of Chicano music, who strummed the soundtrack of our resistance.
And of course, Lalo Alcaraz—the Pocho himself—who has been drawing truth with a sharp pen and sharper wit long before mainstream media knew what to make of him.
And in the background—always—were the artists and storytellers who framed our fight in film, theater, and action:
- Luis and Danny Valdez, artists and agitators alike, who turned theater into revolution.
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Moctesuma Esparza, who captured the Chicano struggle on camera
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Josefina López, whose plays gave working-class women their spotlight
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Gregory Nava, who filmed our memory
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Gregorio Luke, who built bridges through art and history
- Mario Torero, a Chicano artivist whose murals and collective work gave visual power to the Chicano resistance
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And Edward James Olmos, who told Chicano stories with grit and grace
And there were many others I covered over the years and across the Southwest.
But Herman—he was always the anchor.
The one who kept me grounded, called me out, backed me up, and reminded me why it mattered.
He didn’t need headlines—he built movements.
So when people ask where my voice comes from—why I don’t sugarcoat, why I write with one foot in the barrio and the other on Main Street—I tell them: it’s because I was raised in a time and place where truth was urgent, and the people were sacred.
Dan Muñoz Sr. gave me the first push. Herman Baca gave me the compass.
And the rest? That’s just me walking the path they cleared.
This tribute is for Herman—for his wisdom, his relentless commitment, and his friendship.
And for every Chicano who handed me a story when they didn’t owe me a damn thing—only because they believed I’d tell it right.
And I hope I still do.