There was a time when “Chicano” was not cultural décor.
It was not an aesthetic.
It was not a vibe.
It was not something you listed in a social media bio between your playlist and your favorite taco truck.
It was a political position.
The generation that embraced the word did so deliberately. Leaders like Herman Baca, Armando Navarro, Rodolfo Gonzales, José Ángel Gutiérrez, Dolores Huerta, and others were not trying to create a brand. They were building power.
They understood something fundamental:
A minority community that does not organize politically will be organized by others.
“Chicano” meant political consciousness inside the American system. It meant knowing your rights under the Constitution and being prepared to defend them through elections, organizing, litigation, and representation.
It was not anti-American. It was insistently American.
And it was never about racial purity.
As Edward James Olmos once put it, you cannot embrace your Indian mother while denying your Spanish father. Mexican-American identity is mestizo — Indigenous and European, history forged in collision. That complexity was acknowledged, not erased.
The word did not reject ancestry.
It rejected invisibility.
Today, something subtle has changed.
The word has been softened, weakened, diluted.
At some point, “Chicano” drifted from declaration to decoration.
From movement to merchandise.
Let’s stop pretending.
Being Chicano is not cruising in a polished low-rider, blasting oldies, and arguing about who makes the best carne asada burrito.
That’s culture.
That’s nostalgia.
That’s comfort.
That’s suave.
But that is not what the word was forged to mean.
The word was forged in confrontation — with school boards that underfunded our kids, with city councils that ignored our neighborhoods, with political parties that counted our votes but denied us power.
Chicano meant you understood how power worked.
It meant you knew your minority status was not a victim badge — it was a strategic reality.
It meant you learned precinct numbers, not just family recipes.
It meant you registered voters, not just posted pride.
It meant you were prepared to challenge institutions — and, if necessary, build your own.
When leaders like Herman Baca and José Ángel Gutiérrez helped construct La Raza Unida Party, they weren’t curating identity. They were engineering leverage.
They weren’t polishing culture. They were building machinery.
So when the word is used today without that civic consciousness — when it’s reduced to ancestry, aesthetics, or attitude — something vital has been hollowed out.
A word that once demanded responsibility becomes a vibe.
And a vibe cannot defend your rights.
Chicano was never meant to be comfortable.
It was meant to be accountable.