Fear & Loathing in Aztlán: Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar ‘Zeta’ Acosta’s Precarious Quest for Justice

Apr 9

Dust Jacket Cover for Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Courtesy PBS.org — *Hunter S. Thompson & Oscar ‘Zeta’ Acosta. Sleeve Photo from “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.*

“California was not all about alternative states of mind but, more emphatically, about courageous political alternatives and attempts to redefine the social texture, about racial and class struggle.”

(Ilan Stevens, Foreword, Sal Si Puedes (Escape If You Can) Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution, by Peter Matthiessen)

Introduction

Palm trees, ocean surf and Hollywood glitz are what tends to come to mind when non-Californians think about California. There is also the common misconception that, at least since the gold-rush era, California was a vast, unpopulated frontier, there for the taking. The rise of the automobile and the implementation of trans-national highways abetted this belief, as the State was sold as an idyllic land of glimmering hope. Correspondingly, brash New Yorkers, dust-bowl Okies and returning GI’s all flocked to Southern California for their slice of the pie; of heaven on earth.

The reality, however, is that California’s shadowy side is more predominant; the part shrouded in dismal grey, wet, and prevalent fog. The land of massacred Indians, despised Spics, ghetto gang-bangers, and broken dreams; the California of Phillip Marlowe, Jake Gittes’ Chinatown, Crips & Bloods, Zoot Suiters, Vatos Locos and Charlie Manson; violent, oppressive, and wild. Oftentimes this fact is glossed over to sell the dream, which relies on human nature to overlook myriad problems to focus on the potential of being one of the few who make it to that Spanish-colonial mansion, or Malibu modern.

For most, though, the dream of owning that expansive beachfront property is something that fades with youth, as the day-to-day reality of mere survival takes precedence. There are also those Californians who see the decadent ways of the elite as the root of what ails the golden state, preferring to gravitate toward the counter-cultural milieu which has always been part of California’s conscience. This point of view has always been appealing to me, despite being raised in a prototypical, idyllic California beach town.

California’s shadowy side became prominent in the summer of ’76, as America was drenched in red, white, and blue bicentennial celebrations. Television, radio, and film prominently showcased this event, and even in my Middle School, the themes for dances or any sort of celebration resonated with it. By July 4th of that year, it had reached fever-pitch and Americana was pervasive. However, if one searched hard enough in newsprint, or were trapped in socioeconomically challenged communities, i.e., part of the “wrong” crowd, the reality of the failed, yet widely advertised American dream was evident.

That bi-centennial summer also stood out in that it provided me with the framework for navigating the anti-heroic landscape dominating my quaint So-Cal town in the form of two books; the first being Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter-Skelter, which didn’t shy away from the gory details of the Manson family murders, and recounts Bugliosi’s horrific journey in bringing them to justice. Helter Skelter was a wake-up call from the belief that the world was a safe, benign place where community would protect me from the harsh reality of the world outside my comfort zone. Manson was the ultimate boogeyman, taking the place of La Llorona in the dark recesses of my mind, and had me looking over my shoulder as I walked alone down the street.

Reinforcing this experience were the projects a couple blocks from my house: the rows of flimsy apartments behind the 7-11, which stood in stark contrast to the vast lemon groves and barrancas across the street, where droves of kids ran free. The barrio/projects were connected to the outside world via a breezeway which ran along the side of the 7-11 on one side, and an open irrigation ditch barricaded off with a chain-link fence on the other. Traversing its unlit length at night was a test of courage which provided ample opportunity for my imagination to conjure up grotesque visions while hurrying past the graffiti-laden wall. A sleep-over at the age of twelve at a friend’s house in these projects provided my first occasion for experiencing gunfire; shotgun blasts in the middle of the night from the vatos of La Colonia, who, unbeknownst to me at the time, were our mortal enemies. Their blasts were my baptism into a world surrounding me, yet up till then had always been something only spoken of in hushed tones; a rumor of sorts.

The second book of that bi-centennial summer was Hunter S, Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, recommended by an uncle who was into his own drug-fueled escapist journey à la Thompson and his Attorney, “Dr. Gonzo,” in their search for meaning in the patriotic fervor of the times. Thompson’s biting, satirical humor was the hook which drew me into his tale, seeming particularly relevant due to my direct experience with the dark side of society, and the already doomed quest for social justice evident in the strikes of the United Farm Workers (to which my grandparents, as life-long immigrant pickers belonged to and were active in), as well as the legal battle for Native America playing out via the Leonard Peltier case and the American Indian Movement; not to mention the legal struggles of my extended family as witnessed personally in the court rooms of my hometown. Given these circumstances, the rampant patriotism of the time and its idyllic promise of a pax americana couldn’t hold a candle to my personal experience, and the dark, murderous tone of the day.

However, the most often overlooked, yet most relevant fact regarding Fear and Loathing is that it was delivered under the veneer of the roman á clef; its protagonists given pseudonyms to protect their identities; “Dr. Gonzo,” Thompson’s “300-pound Samoan Attorney,” being the Chicano Activist, Lawyer, Writer, and general enigma, Oscar ‘Zeta’ Acosta, and “Raoul Duke” as Thompson.

Indeed, the device of the roman á clef is part of the history of Thompson and Acosta’s relationship, and while both men chronicled one another, their respective stories offered divergent records of their history, commencing with their initial meeting. In his Rolling Stone piece Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, (Rolling Stone #81, April 29th, 1971) Thompson recounts that he first met Oscar Acosta in Aspen, Colorado in 1967 at a bar called “The Daisy Duck,” where purportedly, Acosta had aggressively approached him, going on about “ripping the system apart like a pile of cheap hay, or something like that,” prompting Thompson to think to himself, “Well, here’s another one of those fucked-up, guilt-crazed dropout lawyers from San Francisco – some dingbat who ate one too many tacos and decided he was really Emiliano Zapata.”

Conversely, in his Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, Acosta recounts the same meeting from a different perspective, giving Thompson the pseudonym of “King,” and referring to Aspen as “Alpine”, he recounts Thompson was introduced to him as a published writer (for his recent Hell’s Angels book), with shared acquaintances reaching back to Acosta’s crew at his local watering-hole back in San Francisco; in a time when the national web of drunks at dive bars provided fertile ground for tall tales, bizarre characters, and unlawful acts which created colorful desperadoes; a self-enclosed world where the ultimate cachet was in one’s ability to be an extremely entertaining counter-cultural alcoholic; an environment where the name-dropping isn’t about how famous one’s friends are, but how infamous they might be.

Although Thompson is somewhat critical of Acosta in the beginning, Acosta returns the favor when writing about that first, fated meeting between them at the Daisy Duck in Alpine, writing:

“The other one was tall and on the verge of losing his hair. He wore short pants, an upside-down sailor’s cap from L.L. Bean and a holstered knife hung from his waist. He looked the other way when Bobbi introduced me to Miller and told him I’d been in Ketchum.

“This is King,” Miller said. He is a friend of Turk’s.”

Christ, I thought, another biker from Chicago! He turned, gave me a quick once-over and said, “You from San Francisco, too?”

“Nah, I’m from Riverbank.”

“King was driving the bike when Tibeau broke his leg.”

And so, when he showed me an autographed copy of King’s book and asked me to buy him a beer while I thumbed through it, the devil was setting me up for this confrontation with the tall, baldheaded hillbilly from Tennessee.

(Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, p.137)

The racist banter between Thompson and Acosta at the outset of their acquaintance would be a persistent undertone throughout the course of their relationship. Acosta is aware of it, and accordingly records it for posterity, noting there are specific times and places for it. Also, in these moments, one must agree to let one’s guard down and not be offended, i.e., there must be a modicum of respect there initially to open the door to it. Acosta describes this mindset somewhat in the 70’s Chicano Journal, Con Safos, writing:

“It is this anarchy of socialization, this willingness to strike at all self-image masking as reality that permitted me the freedom to open my sores before these strangers. It is not that I had never been beaten over the head by others; for insult couched in smart-talk was the permanent style of conversation at the bars I had frequented for years in San Francisco.”

(Con Safos Magazine, Volume 2, Winter, 1971)

Without a doubt, this sort of interaction was commonplace at the time. Acosta experienced it from the constant jabbing with Okies in his hometown as a teenager, and later with the wise-cracking jazz musicians he played with in the “Fighting 573rd” Air Force band he was part of while stationed in Panama between ‘54 and ’56. However, referring to the jousting at the Daisy Duck, he says this:

“There was, however, a substantive difference between the jazzmen of the fifties, the artists and beats I knew in San Francisco as contrasted with the freaks I crashed into in Aspen at the Daisy Duck. These latter would not wait until they knew you before they attacked your gods; introductions were intentionally omitted and descriptions of status were strictly forbidden. The assignment of value to an act or condition of one’s self by one’s self simply prompted a negative response; familiary and/or friendship played no role whatsoever in the dialogue of freaks. The attack against irrelevancies was aimed at friend and foe alike. They slaughtered man, woman and child without regard to race, color, or creed, these new barbarians.”

(ibid. p. 38)

When reflecting on those initial meetings between the two; Thompson’s referring to Acosta as “some dingbat who ate one too many tacos and decided he was really Emiliano Zapata,” and Acosta’s countering with “the tall, baldheaded hillbilly from Tennessee,” we become privy to the general tone of the no-rules, lawless, and dismissive nature of back-country, homogeneous places such as Aspen. Back then, (as well as now), deep-seeded racism is part of a national fabric which allows sarcasm as a viable means of communicating in the spirit of being “hip” enough to be conversing and spending social time with someone from whom your cultural group despises, even if these interactions have a decided edge to them. In addition to this, the hard-drinking bar circuit, while being a venue for accepted madness, was also a place where it was understood that everything said by and about someone was to be taken with a grain of salt. The opportunity to be hoodwinked or ripped-off always at the forefront.

However, despite the racism and the suspicion, somehow, the day after their initial meeting, Acosta groggily comes to in Thompson’s basement, unsure of where he was, or how he got there. The first thing Thompson guardedly tells him is, “Let me warn you right now…I don’t want any trouble out here. I only let you stay last night ‘cause we couldn’t move you.” Acosta, though, is equally unsure of Thompson, due to the amazing array of weapons displayed throughout the house, countering Thompson’s harsh tone with, “You’ll get no trouble from me… as long as you don’t shoot me with those fucking weapons.” This sort of stand-off would prove to be an element of their multi-year friendship, counter-balanced by their curiosity of one another, played out in an ongoing chess-match of wits; a game willfully engaged in as either proved to be exceptions to what they expected from others of their kind. This much was evident from that initial meeting, as Thompson replies to Acosta’s previous statement by replying, “I’ve heard that one before,” he nodded, gritting his cooked teeth,” to which Acosta replies, “Not from me you haven’t…I’m not like the others.”

“Yeh, sure…you’re an Aztec lawyer. I heard all about it.”

(Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, p.170)

While the racial element played out between the two, the deeper bond of free-spiritedness and counter cultural impulses, fed by a voracious appetite of booze and a variety of pharmaceuticals provided the groundwork for their burgeoning relationship. It is within these boundaries where their mutual trust of one another flourished, the seed of their friendship took bloom. There are a variety of ways this bond might be analyzed from a psychological perspective, and, in Acosta’s case, psychoanalysis factored prominently into his life before he decided to ditch it for the freewheeling bacchanalia he would embark upon before and after he met Thompson. Acosta felt the answers analysis provided to his psychoses too confining and cerebral: he wanted to experience the root of it all, get so close to the flame he might get some minor burns before he could understand and perhaps acquiesce to it. By the time he crosses paths with Thompson in ’67, he already frequently engages in drugs, their influence fueling his going afoul of the law and influencing his decision-making. However, in Thompson, he found a kindred spirit equally disdainful about current affairs, all too willing to alter one’s mind to better cope with reality.

To that point, the morning after he wakes up in Thompson’s house, the two sit out on the patio and begin a bout of day-drinking, the fact the local Sheriff is looking for Acosta hanging over their heads:

“He gave a wicked smile with those thin lips that barely moved when he talked. He left me alone with the Dobermans. I saw him through the front window at the record player. “Mr. Tambourine Man” by the kid seemed to fit just right as I leaned back and soaked up the sun with my fourth can of Budweiser in less than an hour. Would they get me? I swallowed my last three bennies, the big white fuckers with a cross. Fifteen mgs. of amphetamine moves you just about right when you’ve got a hangover and the Sheriff’s looking for you. If you’re used to them, of course.”

(ibid. p.171)

A few days after that, they’ve already fallen into a pattern which invariably would be immortalized in Fear and Loathing; one which finds them imposing their drug-fueled will on those around them; refusing to play by the rules and acting out their inner-demons in Falstaff-like fashion, impervious of the consequences. Knowing Acosta is being tracked by the Sheriff, they don masks in a comical attempt to disguise themselves and load up on booze and drugs, then head out on the town to see what they can stir up. This leads to an incident that portends a fateful event in their future involving tear gas and a bar, and it had one wondering whether, or not karma might have played a role in those circumstances. Acosta tells the tale in his Autobiography:

“We don’t have time for that now…open that envelope Scott left you. We’re going to need some good mescalin now.” We sucked on Scott’s powder until our faces turned blue, then sped over with our weapons to the Daisy Duck and demanded free drinks from Phil.

“So what’s this, Tonto and the Lone ranger?” He asked. We’d decided to put the masks back on until dark in case Whitmire came looking for us.

“Don’t mess with us, boy!” I warned him. The lights were fading fast for me. The oil paintings of zoftig nudes in the bar were staring right at me.

“Just get us whiskey…and put it on my tab.” King demanded. Perhaps if Phil had moved faster King wouldn’t have set it off, but it had been a wild weekend and Phil wasn’t quite the pussy his pudgy lips indicated. When the bomb went off there were only two others in the bar: tourist-looking types, fun hogs with burly muscles and crew cuts trying to act cosmopolitan in neatly pressed dress pants. They yelled as if they had been hit and ran out screaming “Goddamn hippies!” The tear gas spread quickly and evenly before Phil could reach us with his cue stick. King and I ran out the back, jumped over the railing of the sun deck and got into the car. We saw the red light of the sheriff’s blue Mustang as we pulled away.

“There’s no hope for you now,” he said as we sped down the highway out of town leading to Snow Mass.

“There’s never any hope for poor Aztec lawyers,” I mumbled.

“Don’t get carried away with yourself. Just keep your eyes open.”

“What for? It feels better closed.”

(ibid. p.178)

Thompson telling Acosta, “Don’t get carried away with yourself,” speaks to the way he viewed self-introspection, his modus operandi being one of staying aware and alive in each passing moment; sucking the marrow out of the bones of life in a heightened state enhanced by drugs. In this space, there is no time for reflection, self-pity, or doubts. There is only the “now,” and the will to get on to what’s next; a marauding, conquest-filled point of view which seeks to enrich the individual and provide fodder for the imagination which might provide substance for one’s art. While Acosta was initially similarly inclined, as time went on, and he became more entrenched in the Chicano movement, particularly in his role as a lawyer and leader, his focus had to shift away from this point of view by necessity, as his affiliation with the movement focused more on the collective, rather than the individual.

Invariably, the struggle for identity became all-consuming for Acosta, as the reality of being a self-professed “Chicano” comes with the unique predicament of not belonging to one group or the other; disdained and misunderstood by Mexican nationals for not being one of them, and equally despised by Americans for belonging to the “other,” one is only seen as “pocho” or “spic”: i.e., ignorant of Mexican culture, or unwelcome in their country of origin. Thompson had no such personal struggle. His counter-cultural efforts were more directed at the fight for the soul of America as a democratic concept and the legacy of Colonial America via its westward expansion: more about the responsibility that came with the promise of such documents as the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence. Acosta was focused on the failure of those ideas and the liberation of the conquered lands his people had lost; the return of the homeland, of Aztlán.

Eventually these differences would divide the two further. As Acosta went all-in on the concept of Aztlán, he lost ideological compatibility with Thompson, as well as with others who were focused on rectifying the American experiment. However, this was not the only thing which created a rift between the two. According to Abby Aguirre, who writes in her July 13, 2021 New Yorker piece, ‘What “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” Owes to Oscar Acosta’, the divide really came to the fore when the book’s publisher, Random House, sent a copy to Acosta for his review; their lawyers concerned about the record of his engagement in illegal acts compelling him to sue Random House for libel. However, as Aguirre writes, “when Acosta received the manuscript, he was incensed—not about the accounts of drug use or criminal behavior but because Thompson had transformed him into a “300-pound Samoan.” According to Aguirre (and many others), Acosta, “more than anything, wanted his ethnicity recorded correctly, as well as having his name and photograph displayed on the book’s dust jacket.” Apparently, Thompson informs him it was too late to change the text, “but he and Random House agreed to the latter request: the book went to press with a black-and-white photo on the back cover of Acosta and Thompson sitting in the bar at Caesars Palace, in front of two empty shot glasses and a saltshaker.”

In his defense, Thompson purportedly states, “My only reason for describing him in the book as a 300-pound Samoan instead of a 250-pound Chicano lawyer was to protect him from the wrath of the L.A. cops and the whole California legal establishment he was constantly at war with.”

Aguirre writes that Acosta would counter that:

“Much of the dialogue in “Fear and Loathing” was reproduced verbatim from tape recordings that Thompson had made of his conversations with Acosta; as an actor-participant in Thompson’s gonzo experiment, Acosta felt he had shaped the book in substantive ways. He believed that Thompson had helped himself to Acosta’s sensibility and personality—and then erased his identity. “My God! Hunter has stolen my soul!” he told Alan Rinzler, the head of Straight Arrow Books, a division of Rolling Stone. “He has taken my best lines and has used me. He has wrung me dry for material.”

While the perceived slight and betrayal may have seriously offended Acosta, it did provide him the opportunity to get a book deal of his own — something he had longed for since a young man; what he studied and worked at before getting discouraged and attending law school as a fallback. According to Aguirre, Alan Rinzler told her, “I did not have the idea to publish his autobiography because I was trying to mollify Oscar or get rid of him in some way, I did it because I thought he was a good writer. He had a voice.”

And what a voice it is. His two published works, Autobiography of A Brown Buffalo and Revolt of the Cockroach People are unique accounts of a time when the national fabric was stretched to its limits. And, while Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo starts out as a Bukowski-like account of the inner-workings of the down-and-out alcoholic, post-WWII; replete with plenty of misplaced machismo, feminine objectification, and homophobia, it winds up in a place that serves as a useful account of the early Chicano movement. By the time he opens Revolt of the Cockroach People, one is afforded a first-person report of the front-lines in the oftentimes bloody battle of said movement. Initially, his friend Thompson is there with him, writing about it, most often for Rolling Stone, but, as previously alluded to, the times caught either of them up on different waves, casting them in separate directions. Initially allied in their precarious quest for justice, the byzantine machinations of national and local policing and politics would chew them up and spit them out as the experimental sixties gave way to the sobering seventies. This is a theme in Fear and Loathing, but is only conveyed through Thompson’s comedic and sensational account. The more tragic and awful story lie on Acosta’s upcoming path; a place where the Helter-Skelter, Manson-like world would intersect with his in a paranoid, tragic, and fateful way. But before Acosta embroils himself in this scenario, back in the world of Fear and Loathing the writing is already on the wall concerning their impending ideological shift, Thompson writing early on in the book:

“You Samoans (read Chicanos) are all the same,” I told him. “You have no faith in the essential decency of the white man’s culture. Jesus, just one hour ago we were sitting over there in that stinking baiginio, stone broke and paralyzed for the weekend, when a call comes through from some total stranger in New York, telling me to go to Las Vegas and expenses be damned — and then he sends me over to some office in Beverly Hills where another total stranger gives me $300 raw cash for no reason at all… I tell you, my man, this is the American Dream in action! We’d be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way to the end,”

(Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, p.11)

What the pair blissfully ignore is that all this good fortune, obtained by chicanery, is at the expense of the rank and file; “the doomed,” as Thompson frequently refers to them, forgetting the dictum, “You don’t get something for nothing.” Acosta deep-down knows this, yet allows himself to go for the ride as means to compensate for the world’s transgressions. Thompson, on the other hand, sees this world of chance as a by-product of the American system; one of winners and losers. Of course, he’s not wrong, but it’s in how one wins or loses and what winning and losing truly means where he muddles it. For, oftentimes, winning is losing, and vice versa.

The Dreamers and the Vatos Locos: Dividing and Conquering a Movement

*March for National Chicano Moratorium. Courtesy Security Pacific National Bank Collection*

“They go back and re-create situations. Whereas, I’m either too lazy, or incompetent, or something. I…I only get into a story when I’m right there, which makes for a problem sometimes.”

(Hunter S. Thompson on the difference between his “Gonzo” journalism, and Tom Wolfe’s “New Journalism.” Excerpt from Hunter S. Thompson interview with Harrison Salisbury. UGA Brown Media Archives, April 16, 1975.)

Much like the jumbled record of the Seventies, the literary path of Thompson and Acosta is difficult to discern from the outside. One must do their homework and be prepared to follow the proper clues to understand the chronology of their journey. Doing so will reveal that Fear and Loathing was born from Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, (Rolling Stone #81, April 29th, 1971). However, one could only discern this by reading “Jacket Copy for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream” in Thompson’s 1979 book The Great Shark Hunt, where he conveys that while in the process of writing Strange Rumblings he is often beset with paranoia and a sense of dread:

“After a week or so on the story I was a ball of nerves & sleepless paranoia (figuring that I might be next) …and I needed some excuse to get away from the angry vortex of that story & try to make sense of it without people shaking butcher knives in my face all the time.

My main contact on that story was the infamous Chicano lawyer Oscar Acosta — an old friend, who was under bad pressure at the time, from his super-militant constituents, for even talking to a gringo/gabacho journalist. The pressure was so heavy, in fact, that I found it impossible to talk to Oscar alone. We were always in the midst of a crowd of heavy street-fighters who didn’t mind letting me know that they didn’t need much of an excuse to chop me into hamburger.

This is no way to work on a very volatile & very complex story. So one afternoon I got Oscar in my rented car and drove him over to the Beverly Hills Hotel — away from his bodyguards, etc. — and told him I was getting a bit wiggy from the pressure; it was like being on stage all the time, or maybe in the midst of a prison riot. He agreed, but the nature of his position as “leader of the militants” made it impossible for him to be openly friendly with a gabacho.

I understood this…and just about then, I remembered that another old friend, now working for Sports Illustrated, had asked me if I felt like going out to Vegas for the weekend, at their expense, and writing a few words about a motorcycle race. This seemed like a good excuse to get out of LA for a few days, and if I took Oscar along it would give us time to talk and sort out the evil realities of the Salazar/Murder story.

It had worked out nicely, in terms of the Salazar piece — plenty of hard straight talk about who was lying and who wasn’t, and Oscar had finally relaxed enough to talk to me straight. Flashing across the desert at 110 in a big red convertible with the top down, there is not much danger of being bugged or overheard.”

(The Great Shark Hunt, pgs. 105-11, reprinted in 1996 Modern Library (New York) Edition of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and other American Stories as Jacket Copy for Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. pgs. 207-15)

Thompson’s candor regarding his feelings surrounding his old friend Acosta’s new inner-circle further explains the ideological schism the two would face as time marched on. His account also helps further explain the mindset behind his diatribe on the “American Dream” he conveys to Acosta in Fear and Loathing. It also speaks to the paranoia and racism inherent in the budding Chicano movement; sometimes warranted, at others, not.

Whether or not Thompson fully sympathized with and believed in the Chicano plight, his first-hand reporting of the incendiary events in East Los Angeles in Strange Rumblings are a vital record of the era. Perhaps the most important is his description of the rise of what he refers to as the “batos locos,” the young, disenfranchised youth of the area who seem bent on violent aggression as means for confronting the rampant political violence at hand in their communities.

“There are a lot of ex-cons in the movement now, along with a whole new element ̶ the “Batos Locos.” And the only difference, really, is that the ex-cons are old enough to have done time for the same things the batos locos haven’t been arrested for, yet. Another difference is that the ex-cons are old enough to frequent the action bars along Whittier, while most of the batos locos are still teenagers. They drink heavily, but not in the Boulevard or the Silver Dollar. On Friday night you will find them sharing quarts of sweet Key Largo in the darkness of some playground in the housing project. And along with the wine, they eat Seconal ̶ which is massively available in the Barrio, and also cheap: a buck or so for a rack of five reds, enough to fuck anybody up. Seconal is one of the few drugs on the market (legal or otherwise) that is flat guaranteed to turn you mean. Especially with wine on the side and a few “whites,” bennies, for a chaser. This is the kind of diet that makes a man want to go out and stomp people…the only other people I’ve ever seen heavily into the red/white/wine diet were the Hell’s Angels.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, p.230)

In Thompson’s description of the rise of the batos locos, we find the recipe for the current malaise facing not just the barrios of Los Angeles, but all slums and barrios in America’s urban centers: the combination of readily-available drugs and alcohol coupled with a sense of hopelessness among violent and depraved circumstances. In this matrix, the seeds of violence, hate and despair are sown and eventually bloom in the form of death and incarceration: both big business in the slums of America. Concerted efforts on the part of the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department exacerbated an already hostile situation, and while we make no excuses for the troubled youth of the time and place, we feel compelled to speak to the innocent and hard-working caught-up in the fray. While previous generations may have practiced turning the other cheek in an effort just to get on with their lives, by the end of the sixties and beginning of the 70’s, it became painfully evident this tactic was no longer prudent for the majority. While violent anarchy may not have been a proper response, organizing and educating the public on the dangers of day-to-day life in the barrios was a good place to start. Such efforts oftentimes took the form of massive public protests, strikes, and community events geared more towards celebrations of common goals.

To wit, a peaceful Anti-Vietnam demonstration, organized by a group referred to as “The Chicano Moratorium” was held August 29th, 1971 at Laguna Park (now Ruben Salazar Park), where about 5,000 peaceful liberal/student/activist groups and locals gathered to protest the drafting of young Chicanos to fight in the Vietnam war. According to Thompson’s Strange Rumblings article, as well as public record, “The police suddenly appeared in Laguna Park, with no warning, and “dispersed the crowd” with a blanket of tear gas, followed up by a Chicago style mop-up with billyclubs. In the aftermath of the violence, a Watts-style riot erupted and spread to Whittier Boulevard wherein three people were killed, sixty injured as well as damages to property estimated at about a million dollars. But of course, the big story that day was the death of Ruben Salazar. At that point, Salazar was a nationally-known veteran War correspondent, L.A. Times columnist, and had recently signed on as News Director for KMEX-TV.

According to Thompson, Salazar had recently raised the ire of the L.A. County Sheriffs in a series of exposés, among them the story of a kid simply referred to as ‘Ramirez,’ who had died in their custody, prompting Salazar to infer he had been beaten to death. Accordingly, Thompson notes in the summer of 1970 Salazar had been “Warned three times, by the cops, to “tone down his coverage.” And each time he told them to fuck off.”

This heightened sense of combativeness between Salazar and L.A. County Sheriffs served as backdrop to the protest/rally that fateful summer’s day at the end of August 1971, of which Thompson writes, “the rally was peaceful all the way to the end, but then, when fighting broke out between a handful of Chicanos and jittery cops, nearly a thousand young batos locos reacted by making a frontal assault on the cop headquarters with rocks, bottles, clubs, bricks and everything else they could find.” The ensuing melee would lead to the circumstances which set the stage for Salazar’s death.

*Sheriff’s begin to cordon off the Silver Dollar on Moratorium Day*

Salazar had been covering the demonstration with Guillermo Restrepo - a native Columbian reporter and newscaster for KMEX-TV, with two of Restrepo’s friends acting as spotters and bodyguards, Gustavo Garcia and Hector Fabio Franco. Apparently, the group left the park after the scene turned violent and headed to the Silver Dollar Café “to take a leak and drink a quick beer before we went back to the station to put the story together.” However, unbeknownst to them, and all the bar’s occupants, at least a dozen deputies from the elite Special Enforcement Bureau (a sort of SWAT team) were responding to an “anonymous report” that a man with a gun was holed up inside the bar. Shortly after their arrival, the deputies purportedly issue a warning via bullhorn, ordering the occupants to “come out with their hands up.” Recognizing there was some sort of commotion outside, Gustavo Garcia steps out to see what was going on, and is promptly told by the assembled Sheriffs “To get back inside the bar if he didn’t want to be shot.” Garcia goes back inside and promptly warns Salazar there were cops outside about to shoot, to which Salazar purportedly replies, “That’s impossible; we’re not doing anything.” Several seconds later, without warning, the Sheriffs fired two high powered teargas projectiles generally used for barricaded criminals, and capable of piercing a one-inch pine board at 300 feet, through the open front door of the bar, one of which strikes Salazar in his left temple, blowing his head off. Meanwhile, an unknown man carrying an automatic pistol flees out the back door of the bar, and is confronted by the Sheriffs, who take his gun and astonishingly tell him simply to, “beat it.” Two more tear gas bombs are fired through the front door and then the bar is promptly sealed, without the Sheriffs ever entering. It remains sealed for a couple hours until they purportedly receive another “anonymous” report that there might be an injured man inside. The police then break down the door and find Salazar’s dead body.

In the wake of Salazar’s death, despite multiple eyewitness accounts which contradicted the Sheriff’s version of the incident, L.A. County Sheriffs stick with their story that they had come to the Silver Dollar to arrest the ‘man with a gun.’ However, as Thompson notes, eight days after Salazar’s death, the Sheriffs had yet to locate the source of the tip. A couple weeks later, at the coroner’s inquest the Sheriff’s office introduces a key witness who purportedly called the tip in, a local named Manuel Lopez, who claimed to have done many heroic deeds that day, among them calling the tip in. However, he is unknown to the many newsmen, investigators and other tipsters and eye-witnesses. All local news outlets rally behind Salazar, with the Los Angeles Times giving the most thorough account. Yet, despite their concerted effort, the inquest ends with a split verdict. Thompson quotes the L.A. Times’ Dave Smith’s piece of October 6th, which read:

“Monday the inquest into the death of newsman Ruben Salazar ended. The 16-day inquiry, by far the longest and costliest such affair in county history, concluded with a verdict that confuses many, satisfies few and means little. The coroner’s jury came up with two verdicts: death was ‘at the hands of another person’ (four jurors) and death was by ‘accident’ (three jurors). Thus, inquests might appear to be a waste of time.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, pgs. 248-49)

Shortly thereafter, District Attorney Evelle Younger announces that “no criminal charge is justified” against Tom Wilson, the Sheriff who admitted to firing the shot which killed Salazar, and that was pretty much the end of it. Of course, the Chicano community was incensed, but most never really held much hope that justice would be served. Why would the tide suddenly change? In the aftermath of the inquest and all the indignant media coverage, Thompson summarizes the Sheriff’s view of the Salazar incident thusly:

“Salazar was killed, they say, because he happened to be in a bar where police thought there was also a “man with a gun.” They gave him a chance, they say, by means of a bullhorn warning…and when he didn’t come out with his hands up, they had no choice but to fire a tear gas bazooka into the bar…and his head got in the way. Tough luck. But what was he doing in that place anyway? Lounging around a noisy Chicano bar in the middle of a communist riot? What the cops are saying is that Salazar got what he deserved —for a lot of reasons, but mainly because he happened to be in their way when they had to do their duty. His death was unfortunate, but if they had to do it all over again they wouldn’t change a note.

This is the point they want to make. It is a local variation on the standard Mitchell-Agnew theme: Don’t fuck around, boy—and if you want to hang around with people who do, don’t be surprised when the bill comes due—whistling in through the curtains of some darkened barroom on a sunny afternoon when the cops decide to make an example of somebody.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, pgs. 250-251)

Aside from the tragic circumstances surrounding Ruben Salazar’s death, an even greater tragedy was committed in the beginnings of the splintering of a united Chicano movement by introducing violent circumstances to non-violent causes. The university students, community organizers and working-class people appealing to the institutional apparatus expected a non-violent response which followed the democratic principles they themselves adhered to. However, America was by no means prepared, or willing to accept the sweeping changes sought in the 60’s and 70’s. Deep-seeded, institutionalized racism (which still exists today, and one might argue in even more vehement terms) was too ingrained into the machinations of government and civics. The primary tactic of introducing violent circumstances to non-violent movements was a proven way of instigating a violent response which would be used as reasoning that respective movements were “dangerous.” There is no doubt the “batos locos” and like-minded minority groups were problematic in their violence, however, one could argue they were no more dangerous than Anglo biker clubs such as the Hell’s Angels, who, at the time were at least equally as dangerous, and remain so today.

In the spirit of his developing “Gonzo” style of journalism, Thompson is forthcoming about his personal interest in the Ruben Salazar story, writing that it was in Salazar’s capacity as a reporter who was threatening to uncover the illegal and immoral acts of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department which drew him to the story:

“The Salazar case had a very special hook in it: Not that he was a Mexican or a Chicano, and not even Acosta’s angry insistence that the cops had killed him in cold blood and that nobody was going to do anything about it. These were all proper ingredients for an outrage, but from my own point of view the most ominous aspect of Oscar’s story was his charge that the police had deliberately gone out on the streets and killed a reporter who’d been giving them trouble. If this was true, it meant the ante was upped drastically. When the cops declare open season on journalists, when they feel free to declare any scene of “unlawful protest” a free fire zone, that will be a very ugly day ̶ and not just for journalists.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, p. 228)

Thompson’s interest in Ruben Salazar’s story is merely part of his writing process; a component of his emerging gonzo style of journalism, which places him squarely in the middle of the story, where he might get caught up in the immediacy of the moment. Admittedly, Thompson is no supporter of the conservative powers in control of America at the time. Yet he also is no champion of any cause other than his own, as told from the perspective of the occupation of the journalist:

“When the cops declare open season on journalists, when they feel free to declare any scene of “unlawful protest” a free fire zone, that will be a very ugly day—and not just for journalists.”

When Thompson does discuss the Mexican-American situation at the time, it’s clear he is primarily quoting Acosta and his perspective:

“Ruben Salazar is a bonafide martyr now ̶ not only in East L.A., but in Denver and Santa Fe and San Antonio, throughout the Southwest. The length and breadth of Aztlan ̶ the “conquered territories” that came under the yoke of Gringo occupation troops more than 100 years ago, when “vendido politicians in Mexico City sold out to the US” in order to call off the invasion that gringo history books refer to as the “Mexican-American War.” (Davy Crockett, Remember the Alamo, etc.)

As a result of this war, the US government was ceded about half of what was then the Mexican nation. This territory was eventually broken up into what is now the states of Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and the Southern half of California. This is Aztlan, more a concept than a real definition.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, p. 229)

Thompson must also rely on Acosta to detail the growing divide within the Mexican-American community at a crucial period, as he is oftentimes perceived as an outsider; a gabacho, i.e., an untrustworthy Anglo. In any event, he does faithfully convey the growing divide as described him by Acosta regarding the growing influence of the “Aztlan” concept and how the community should deal with growing police presence in their neighborhoods:

“But even as a concept it has galvanized a whole generation of young Chicanos to a style of political action that literally terrifies their Mexican-American parents. Between 1968 and 1970 the “Mexican-American Movement” went through some drastic changes and heavy trauma that had earlier afflicted the “Negro Civil Rights Movement” in the early Sixties. The split was mainly among generational lines, and the first “young radicals” were overwhelmingly the sons and daughters of middle-class Mexican-Americans who had learned to live with “their problem.”

At this stage, the Movement was basically intellectual. The word “Chicano” was forged as a necessary identity for the people of Aztlan—neither Mexicans nor Americans, but a conquered Indian/Mestizo nation sold out like slaves by its leaders and treated like indentured servants by its conquerers. Not even their language was definable, much less their identity.

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, p. 229-30)

With minority groups, the plan is always to divide and splinter, concentrate on the violent aspects of it, sensationalize them in the media, and in the process create fear in outside communities. Days such as August 29, 1971 provided the perfect opportunity for this macabre end: a large, agitated crowd, a harsh police presence, and a well-thought-out exit strategy which would use governmental processes to exonerate the perpetrators. This is the recipe which has stood the test of time. Witnesses such as Thompson and Acosta can only watch the process unfold and tell their side. However, their voice only conveys so much weight at the end of the day, when legal institutions trump any other factor in who gets what, where, and when.

In time, Thompson’s popularity as a writer becomes an entity unto itself, as he takes on the persona of Dr. Thompson, and Acosta gradually succumbs to the violent machinations of a losing battle for Chicano rights. This fact would lead to his eventual demise, a conclusion he never seemed to shy away from, and one which provided Thompson with the distinct core of his inimitable style.

Of Brown Berets & Buffaloes

*Gloria Arellanes’ Brown Beret. Courtesy Cal State LA Archives.*

“They moved north, and there Aztlán was a woman fringed with snow and ice; they moved west, and there she was a mermaid singing by the sea…They walked back to the land where the sun rises, and…they found new signs, and the signs pointed them back to the center, back to Aztlán.”

(Rudolfo Anaya, Heart of Aztlán. University of New Mexico Press, 1976.)

Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzales and Oscar “Zeta” Acosta had similar upbringings, both on a trajectory that would inevitably intersect in a historical and profound fashion. Both their fathers were from Mexico; Gonzales’ from Chihuahua, Acosta’s from Durango. Both men worked in the fields as pickers as children, Gonzales picking sugar beets, Acosta peaches; this, they did in addition to attending grammar school and doing quite well.

Both were respected athletes; Gonzales, a Boxer, who invariably turned professional (65-9-1) and was Ring magazine’s third-best featherweight in the world from 1947 to 1952, while Acosta was a high-school football star. Both were highly active in the early civil-rights movement; with Gonzales acting as coordinator of the Viva Kennedy campaign in Colorado, while Acosta worked in the campaign of Willie Brown in San Francisco and took part of the Mario Salvo Berkeley Student Protests at Sproul Hall in ’65.

Both men continually sought to foment social change, Gonzales through politics, running for Denver City Council in 1955, as community representative for the Five Points District, the Colorado Legislature in 1960, Colorado State Senator in 1964, and lastly, as Mayor of Denver in 1967 — though he lost every political race, he had more success as a grassroots organizer, where, among his accomplishments, he was seminal to the founding of the Crusade for Justice, and at the First National Chicano Youth Liberation Conference, his Spiritual Plan of Aztlán was adopted as the primary basis for the burgeoning Chicano Movement. Meanwhile, Acosta attended Law school at San Francisco State, passing the bar in 1966 and immediately went to work for Legal Aid in Oakland. However, this early foray into the harsh machinations of public defense only lasted a year, thereafter Acosta took a long alcohol and drug-fueled hiatus, before eventually returning to the law, primarily as legal defense for the Chicano Movement.

The lack of any sort of national cohesion in the early Chicano movement may have been the reason Gonzales and Acosta had not met until May 5th of 1970 at a rally at the UCLA Student Union, but after that meeting, their paths would be connected through the aforementioned Chicano Moratorium on August 29, 1971, and its aftermath.

It is unclear whether, or not Gonzales was aware of Acosta, however, we know that Acosta had been made aware of Gonzales, first through Thompson in the summer of 1967, near the end of their initial drug-fueled foray. Acosta writes in Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo:

“The Greyhound wouldn’t be pulling out for Denver for an hour, so we went into an Okie beer-bar and had our last Budweiser. Hank Snow was singing “Your Cheating Heart” when King said, What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Go to Denver first. Then to El Paso. I haven’t been there since I was five.”

“You ever herd of a guy named Corky Gonzales?”

“Nope. Who’s he?”

“Some kind of Mexican leader. I read he got busted with a bunch of Chicanos during some demonstration in Denver.”

“What are the Mexicans protesting?” I asked, not really concerned about the answer. The beer was flat now. The sting from the weekend of drugs was winding down.

“How should I know? Something about schools…you’re the Mexican, not me.”

“Well…all I got to protest about is my present physical condition.””

(pg. 179, Autobiography of A Brown Buffalo, Oscar Zeta Acosta, 1972. Straight Arrow Books, San Francisco. First Vintage Books Edition, July 1989.)

Roughly a year later, after some hard soul-searching, including a brief, brutal stint in a Mexican jail —an event which temporarily crushed his spirit —a penniless Acosta calls his brother Bob to hit him up for a loan in the early part of 1968 to travel to Guatemala and write about a revolution which was brewing there. Fortunately for Oscar, as detailed in the following excerpt from his Autobiography, his brother wisely pointed him in another direction:

“Jesus, Oscar. You’re getting carried away,” Bob says. “You know what? You’re beginning to sound just like dad.”

He tells me he is broke. Busted just like me. He can’t finance my excursion with Scott into Guatemala. He’s never even heard of a revolution down there. “And besides, even if you didn’t get your ass shot off, who would you sell your story to? Who’s your publisher?”

“I’m not worried about that. I just want to write. Anyway, I know this guy in Alpine. He’s a writer. He’ll put me on to a connection once I get a story.”

“Yeh, but shit, man…settle down. Just…look, if you want to write about revolutions…have you ever heard of Brown Power?”

“You mean the Negroes?”

“No, the Chicanos down in East L.A. I read a little paper called La Raza.”

“No. I’ve never heard of any of that. Why?”

“I read that they’re going to start a riot. Some group called the Brown Berets or something are going to have a school strike…I don’t really know anything about it. But it sounds… more practical. Why not go down there and write about that revolution, sell the story and then go to Guatemala?”

(ibid. p. 196)

That was the conversation which forever changed Oscar Acosta’s life, and was the impetus to connecting him onto Gonzales’ path. Acosta also writes in his Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo that it was that specific conversation with his brother which indelibly changed his outlook, as attested to by the following passage in his book:

“The bomb explodes in my head. Flashes of lightning. Stars in my eyes. I see it all before me. That is exactly what the gods have in store for me. Of course, why didn’t I think of it first?

An undercover agent for the good guys. The perfect front. Get a straight job. Work for the man as a cover. Hell, they’d never expose me. I am too tricky. I can make any kind of face you ask. After all, I’ve been a football man, a drunk, a preacher, a mathematician, a musician, a lawyer…and a brown buffalo.

Ladies and gentleman…my name is Oscar Acosta. My father is an Indian from the mountains of Durango. Although I cannot speak his language…you see, Spanish is the language of our conquerors. English is the language of our conquerors…No one ever asked me or my brother if we wanted to be American citizens. We are all citizens by default. They stole our land and made us half-slaves. They destroyed our gods and made us bow down to a dead man who’s been strung up for 2000 years…Now what we need is, first to give ourselves a new name. We need a new identity. A name and a language all our own…So I propose that we call ourselves …what’s this, you don’t want me to attack our religion? Well, all right…I propose we call ourselves the Brown Buffalo people…No, it’s not an Indian name, for Christ sake…don’t you get it? The buffalo, see? Yes, the animal that everyone slaughtered. Sure, both the cowboys and the Indians are out to get him…and because we do have roots in our Mexican past, our Aztec ancestry, that’s where we get the brown from…

Once in every century there comes a man who is chosen to speak for his people. Moses, Mao and Martin are examples. Who’s to say I am not such a man? In this day and age the man for all seasons needs many voices. Perhaps that is why the gods have sent me into Riverbank, Panama, San Francisco, Alpine (Aspen) and Juarez. Perhaps that is why I’ve been taught so many trades. Who will deny that I am unique?

For months, for years, no, all my life I sought to find out who I am. Why do you think I became a Baptist? Why did I try to force myself into the Riverbank swimming pool? And did I become a lawyer just to prove to the publishers I could do something worthwhile?

Any idiot that sees only the obvious is blind. For God sake, I have never seen and I have never felt inferior to any man or beast. My single mistake has been to seek an identity with any one person or nation or with any part of history…What I see now, on this rainy day of January, 1968, what is clear to me after this sojourn is that I am neither a Mexican nor an American. I am neither Catholic, nor a Protestant. I am a Chicano by ancestry and a Brown Buffalo by choice. Is that so hard for you to understand? Or is it that you choose not to understand for fear that I’ll get even with you? Do you fear the herds who were slaughtered, butchered and cut up to make life a bit more pleasant for you? Even though you would have survived without eating our flesh, using our skins to keep you warm and racking our heads on your living room walls as trophies, still we mean you no harm. We are not a vengeful people. Like my old man used to say, an Indian forgives, but he never forgets…that, ladies and gentleman, is all I meant to say. That unless we band together, we brown buffaloes will become extinct. And I do not want to live in a world without brown buffaloes.”

(ibid. p. 199)

It wasn’t long after that grey and rainy day in Los Angeles of January, 1968, that the neophyte Chicano activist and the veteran Chicano leader; respectively Acosta and Gonzales, would come together in a meaningful way. Albeit, there were vast differences in who they were as individuals: Acosta, more a dreamer and soul-searcher; a true product of the radical Sixties who, as we know through Thompson’s work, as well as his own, would frequently experiment with drugs in attempt to glean a sense of self-discovery. Gonzales, on the other hand, was more-straight-forward, athletic, and civic-minded, only partaking of alcohol occasionally. And yet, although their respective Dionysian and Apollonian natures may have seemed incompatible, together they blended yin with yang in a deft balance that would serve their community well.

The glue which inevitably bound the two would be the Brown Berets; a force for mobilizing the Chicano youth of the 60’s and early 70’s, born from the 1966 Annual Chicano Student Conference in Los Angeles. In the months after that conference, some of the attendees continued to meet, and in late 1966 created the Young Citizens for Community Action. In 1967 several of those members were educated in social action by Reverand John B. Luce at the Church of the Epiphany in Lincoln Heights, through the community service organization, thereafter changing the name of their organization to Young Chicanos for Community Action or YCCA. With the help of Luce, they obtained a grant which enabled them to open La Piranha coffeehouse in an abandoned warehouse on Olympic Boulevard and began hosting speakers such as Stokely Carmichael, Gonzales and Reies Tijerina — the fiery New Mexican revolutionary who shot up the Courthouse in his tiny hamlet of Tierra Amarilla, just northwest of Taos, New Mexico, in protest of land grant disputes going back to the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe. In September 1967, the group began meeting with Sal Castro, a teacher at Lincoln high School regarding issues surrounding public education. About this time, YCCA took a page out of the Black Panther’s book, and assumed a paramilitary style, donning their trademark brown berets, changing their name and shifted their focus to localized social issues such as police brutality, absence of political representation and health care, and the lack of sound education. Choosing the motto of “To Serve, Observe, and Protect” they additionally sought to act as buffer between the Police and the community. The Berets enjoyed a healthy growth spurt initially, and by 1969 had chapters in twenty-eight cities ranging from Milwaukee, to Seattle, to El Paso, and throughout Southern California. Their East Los Angeles Free Clinic enhanced their visibility in the community and was one of its most forward-thinking programs. They were also a seminal force in the 1968 blowouts, or school walkouts; and this is the event that put Gonzales and Acosta on the same path, although, on that day, the two had no relationship. This was the event, however, that launched Acosta’s legal representation of the Chicano community.

*Google Doodle in honor of Corky Gonzales*

A rally at UCLA in 1970 would be the venue for Gonzales and Acosta’s first face-to-face meeting, where both were headlining speakers. Acosta had gone from being the soul-searching drifter looking for meaning in alcohol and pharmaceuticals, to a notorious firebrand attorney and speaker for the Chicano movement, having quickly propelled himself into an echelon of prominent radicals such as Angela Davis, who was also a speaker that day, as well as the influential Gonzales. Acosta’s account of that day in his autobiography clearly delineates his style and approach from Gonzales,’ marking their vast differences in who they were as men, and how each sought societal change. Acosta’s matter-of-fact approach was an eyebrow-raiser, even for the controversial Angela Davis, who, herself didn’t pull any punches that day in her speech to the assembled UCLA students, telling them:

“We are here to protest the slaughter of the students at Kent State…We are here to join hands to fight against the warmongers…We are here to tell Richard Nixon that he can’t continue to bomb and kill the poor yellow brothers and sisters in Vietnam, in Cambodia...or at Kent State!”

“Right on, sister!... Tell it like it is!”

“Now, what we’ve got to understand, what we’ve got to see, is that the war in Vietnam, just like the war at Kent State, both are products of the system in this country…It isn’t just Nixon or Reagan or Yorty of Chief Davis. It’s the political system, the capitalist system, the racist institutions that are tearing this country to shreds…We have got to make it clear to those men in the White House that we won’t stand for it anymore!”

“We have got to organize ourselves…We must join together, black and white, students and old people, we must register to vote, we must get the people to the polls, we must get these pigs out of their positions of power! We must understand, we must be aware of their intentions. Nixon and Kissinger, Reagan and Agnew, these pigs have got to go!...”

The Black Beauty is soon escorted off the stage by three black dudes with sunglasses. They look around as they walk her to the rear of the stage.”

(The Revolt of the Cockroach People, p. 176)

The host of the rally, a red-bearded intellectual Acosta writes about disdainfully, due to his overt hip manner and flower-child-laden speak then introduces Corky Gonzales:

“And now…I’d like to introduce a man from out of state. Brother Corky Gonzales!”

The short dark Chicano comes on stage in a red shirt and black pants. His jet-black hair is cut short. He has white sharks teeth and the broad shoulders of an ex-boxer.

…Now I am as angered as you over the deaths of the four students …But where is Kent State? In Ohio…Let me tell you something. We teach our people in The Crusade For Justice that’s based on Denver, we teach our people to become involved in the local issues…We are just as much against the war as anyone. In fact, we have greater reasons for hating this war. Our people, the Chicanos, are being killed at twice our rate in the population. Chicano, blacks and poor whites, they are the ones that die. They are the ones that are sent to the front lines…Of course we are against the war…But we’ve got to take care of business at home first…

“Now I’m told that you had a mini-riot on the campus yesterday…My friends from this area have told me that the pigs busted some heads here twenty-four hours ago…They tell me that the Chicano students were holding a Cinco de Mayo celebration at Campbell Hall and that the pigs came in and busted some heads. Young boys and girls were clubbed down to the ground right here…”

“Let’s hear it for the Chicanos!”

“Viva La Raza!” Thin applause.

“So I would only add that you should get involved with the struggles in your own back yard…not just on the campus, but in the barrios, in the ghettos, wherever you find the forces of reaction working against the people, you must join in…You must not wait until an event becomes headlines, you must join with us now…Which reminds me…I understand the next speaker is a candidate for office in the coming election. They tell me that Zeta is running for Sheriff…He is running under the banner of our new political party, La Raza Unida…I would ask for your support of him. Thank you.”

(ibid, pgs.177-78)

Whereas Gonzales’ speech is matter-of-fact and to the point, appealing to the assembled student’s sense of inclusion in an attempt to rally them to the Chicano cause, Acosta, as you will see, takes a more challenging approach, exhibiting a tact and way of thinking beyond what most college-age radicals could imagine, his disdain for the “peace and love” movement and its inadequacies evident. Yet, the appreciation he and Gonzales feel for one another is already palpable, their appreciation for what the other provides for their cause, clear. Here, Acosta takes us back to that initial meeting:

“Corky emerges from behind the curtain. He throws his arms around my neck and gives me an abrazo.

“So you’re Zeta, eh?”

“Yeah man. About time we met.”

“Go on up and give these lame gringos hell. We’ll talk later.”

I stand at the mike staring down on the crowd of longhairs. They are sitting on the chairs, on the floors, standing around the edges waiting to hear from me.

“Let me first say that I’m not here for votes…Most of you probably don’t vote anyway…And I’m about as much a politician as Donald Duck…I have come to join in protest against the war. I have come to meet with you to add my words of sorrow for the kids shot down at Kent State yesterday…But more than that, I have come to ask you to join in support of the local issues. Just like Corky said…you know…death is not uncommon to us. We Chicanos have been beat up, shot up, kicked around, spat on and…fuck, they’ve taken everything we’ve had. …Death at the hands of the pigs is nothing new to us.”

“Preach, brother, preach.”

“Right on carnal!”

“But still I wonder…I must ask myself what the shouts of solidarity mean. You say to go right on, don’t you?”

“Amen!”

“You say that we’ve got to wipe out the pig, right?”

“Right on!”

“What we need is peace and love, right?”

“Hear, hear!”

“Give ‘em hell, brother!”

“Love and Peace, Peace and Love…with a little dope and a little rock on the side?”

“You’re talking, brother. Right on!”

“Hell yes, a little dope, a little love, a cheer here and there. Let’s march around the block, let’s go on up to the pigs at a skirmish line and give them hell…We’ll kill them with our buttons and our beads…We’ll slaughter them with our Rolling Stones albums, right?”

“Ah, come on man.” The crowd feels suckered.

“Sure, peace and love…Dope and rock…Solid, Jackson!”

“Hey, man? What are you driving at?”

“Let’s smother the creeps with flowers and posters, with acid and rock…Right on?”

“Hey, man cut out that divisive shit!”

“Screw you buster…I’m here to tell you that you’re fucked! You don’t know what you’re screaming! You don’t know what you’re asking for! Do you realize that when it comes down to it…and it will come down, believe me…When the fires start up, when the pigs come to take us all, what will you do? Will you hide behind your skin? Behind your school colors? Will you tell the arresting officers that you are with the rebels? Will you join up with the Chicanos or the blacks? Or will you run back to the homes of your fathers in Beverly Hills, in Westwood, in Canoga Park? Will you be with us when the going gets rough?”

“Hey man, Why don’t you wrap it up?” the redbeard calls to me. The crowd is getting ugly.

“Do you realize that you’ll have to shoot your mother? Do you realize that you might have to crack your uncle’s head apart? Will you be willing to do that? Do you think you can slaughter your own kind? I doubt it. I seriously doubt it.”

“Ah, fuck off, you creep.”

“Same to you pal… And the same to all of you out there who think that revolution is a game for a spring day. …Viva La Raza, motherfuckers!”

I walk away from the mike. Only a handful of Chicanos cheer me off. Corky and Louie meet me at the rear while the beard introduces the next speaker. We walk into a room behind the stage.

“You are too much, Buffalo.”

“Thanks man. You ain’t so bad yourself.”

I hear whispering in our room. It is Angela and her bodyguards, standing in a corner. A tall thin black woman comes up to them and opens her bag. Angela and her men look at us.

“It’s OK, baby” Corky says to her.

The three black men take pistols from under their coats and quickly stuff them in the woman’s bag. She turns and walks out.

Angela comes up to us. Corky hugs her. She turns to me and looks at me with those big lazy eyes.

“Brother…you are heavy.”

We touch and I give her my famous grin, the slight smirk of a malcriado out of his league.

“Sister, anytime you need a lawyer —or anything, you just call.”

“Thank you, Brown Buffalo,” the African Queen says.

We walk out into the night and hurry back to our turf.

Corky and Joe are talking about a massive demonstration against the war while I am drinking my wine alone.

They are planning to hold the biggest demonstration in the history of the Chicano Movement during the late summer.

(ibid, pgs. 177-78)

Perhaps it was the time Acosta spent in the midst of the “flower power” movement, frying on acid and ingesting whatever drug came his way, in a time and place where self-discovery and hedonism were inseparable, then seeing that approach getting nowhere which compelled him to give his fiery, matter-of-fact speech that day. Or, as he writes in Revolt of the Cockroach People, “the mad cross-country scampering with Stonewall (Thompson) and his crazy hippie friends, looking for the right questions and answers in a life of dope and easy living.” It was this restless meandering, of going paseando, which is the Aztlán version of the Australian walkabout, wherein one embarks on a long journey — not only to discover new lands, but to discover oneself — which afforded Acosta his unique perspective that day at UCLA and gave him the insight to stand up there, look down at the assembled masses, and see nothing but a tired re-hashing of a scene he’d witnessed countless times before. The fact is, though, it was Acosta who had changed. His time in the gritty, rough-and-tumble reality of East LA had deepened his insight, ground the lens of his perspective into the diamond-hard vision he now saw the world through. The harsh reality of doing battle with the government, as shown by the tone of the backstage scene at the UCLA rally, wherein Angela Davis and her cohort clandestinely handle firearms, casting furtive glances around the room to identify undercover agents of the system, or dangerous zealots opposed to their viewpoint, speaks volumes to the paranoia that accompanied being a true agent for change in those days. Incarceration and death were not only anticipated, but expected among most; whether they be Chicano or Black.

This reality is the connecting thread between Gonzales and Acosta: knowing that one must subsume their fear of jail or death for the greater cause, to serve an ideal not yet attained. However, while Acosta was doing his soul-searching; not yet at the point where he felt compelled to lay it all on the line for a particular cause, Gonzales was already engaged in this sort of effort, becoming, with Cesar Chavez, one of the icons of the Chicano movement. Despite this fact, Acosta downplays his early knowledge of Gonzales in both his novels, Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, and Revolt of the Cockroach People, where, during the period of either work, Gonzales was already somewhat popular on the grassroots level; organizing marches and garnering the energy of the movement into viable opportunities to further the Chicano cause. In fact, as early as 1967, an early version of his soon to be recognized epic poem, I am Joaquin appeared in the September 16th of that year’s issue of the grassroots East LA publication, La Raza, where his bio that accompanies the poem reads:

Rodolfo “Corky” Gonzalez, President of the Crusade for Justice, a militant based in Denver, is currently in Albuquerque, N.M. at the request of Reies López Tijerina to assist the work of the Alianza Federal de Mercedes. Corky is also coordinator for Vietnam Summer.

Corky speaks freely about la raza, about “A national movement of Mexican and Spanish in the Southwest — a militant movement that is not afraid to be linked with the spirit of Zapata, nor shy from the need to change the system, to have a social revolution…” A movement from Rio Grande City to Texas to Denver, from Delano to Tierra Amarilla.” He also speaks of “Our Mexicans” and “their Mexicans” referring to vendidos. “Too often we have a militant leader this year; next year he has some minor job with the U.S. Government, dealing with Mexican or Latin American problems, and we never hear of him again. He’s become their Chicano. Not Chavez and not Tijerina…who put everything on the line for the people, even life and family.”

Corky advises Chicanos to refuse to go to Vietnam as cannon fodder against “a beautiful people with whom we have no quarrel.” The fight for freedom, …land, …culture and language isn’t in Vietnam; it is here in the Southwest. If you must shed your blood it’s better that it be shed in Tierra Amarilla fighting for what is yours.”

Given the exposure Gonzales was experiencing, particularly from a seminal publication such as La Raza, it struck one as odd that Acosta hadn’t sought to align with him from the outset. However, Acosta wasn’t the only one engaged in the revolution with a myopic view, as is evident from the following quote from his Revolt of the Cockroach People, wherein Acosta relays the story of how his close-knit group of Chicano Militants and vatos locos sought out a private meeting with Gonzales in the wake of the Moratorium riots, even after Gonzales had been acknowledged as a prominent organizer of the event, even arrested on a weapon charge that fateful day:

They ask me about Corky: how does he stand? Can they trust him? Aside from Cesar Chavez, he has the biggest reputation as the toughest Chicano in America. But he is an outsider, from Denver. Can they all work together? I tell them not to worry, that Corky is a man to be trusted.

But they still want to meet with him and talk with him personally. Since only Corky is not out on bail, they haven’t been able to see him. After I talk with them, they still want to see him. They want to check out if they can trust him. Which means they don’t trust me anymore. They just need me. I promise to arrange a meeting in a few days and get to work on the cases. Then we split.

(ibid, p.207)

A short time after that passage, Acosta sets up the meeting with Gonzales in his downtown LA apartment he shares with some of the crew. Frankly writing about how it went, he tells us:

Corky has on his usual red shirt and black pants. He comes in cagey like the top professional boxer he used to be. He knows the men are here to run him through some tough questions. He knows he is still considered an outsider to the vatos on the streets. Tonight, here in LA, he knows the mistrust one Chicano has for another. He understands the fear in the room toward a leader from another barrio, suspicion of a strange leader because…because Santa Anna sold us out to the gringos…because Juarez did nothing about it…because Montezuma was a fag and a mystic who had the fear of the Lord for Cortez or for Malinche…because anybody who has so little is afraid to lose what he just barely has got, saith the Lord.

“OK, you guys,” I say,” here’s Corky. You got some questions?”

“Hey, man…Don’t I get a chance first?” Corky says, flashing his big white teeth.

“Yeah, come on,” says Gilbert. “Sit down, ese, and have a joint.”

“I don’t smoke those little numbers,” Corky says.

“He’s a boozer,” I say.

“The jefe just likes to drink Old Fitz,” Louie says.

“I’m particular,” Corky jokes. The men are still hard against him.

I invited you cause the dudes want to ask you some questions…I’ve been telling them about you. I’ve told them I’m going to defend you. But they keep bugging me on whether you’re heavy or not…So, fuck it, you answer their questions…OK?”

“Sure, Big Bear. Don’t get excited…OK, but first let me say this…Whatever you guys decide tonight is OK with us…We recognize we are on your turf…We will support whatever you guys decide.”

“Hey, ese,” Gilbert says. “How come you guys still want to march and stuff like that?”

“Who?” I don’t want to march, man. I’m as tired of that shit as you. But if the people want to have a demonstration…It’s what they want that counts… You think I got the twenty-five thousand out there?”

“What Gilbert wants to know…” Pelon says.

“Hey, puto, I can talk for myself!” Gilbert shouts back.

But Pelon keeps on. “He just wants to know like we do, man. If the going gets heavy, are you guys into it?”

There is silence. We hear the buzz of the lights in the fish tank, the bubbles fizzing to the surface.

“Listen…We’ve been t this game for almost ten years. We don’t tell the kids to pick up the guns. We will not tell them to pick it up. But we do believe in self-defense…and if it’s necessary…we do what is necessary. That’s all.”

“But you guys don’t want to throw firebombs?”

“No. We don’t. It doesn’t serve our purposes now.”

“Then why don’t you tell the dudes who are doing it to stop doing it?”

“Are you kidding?”…Man, if any Chicano comes and tells me what to do, what is the first thing I think? Que es Marrano, right? We don’t believe in telling others what to do. If you guys are throwing bombs, it must be because you feel that its necessary to do so in order to accomplish your objectives…We don’t…Not at this time.”

“Do you support the Chicano Militants?”

He laughs. “Hey, ese, don’t you read the papers?... I’m supposed to be the leader of you guys…Of course I support you.”

“How about the Chicano Liberation Front?”

“Who is that?” Corky says.

“Hey, aint’choo heard about…a kid with a beanie begins to ask.

Gilbert slaps him with a brown beret, laughing, “Don’t be so tapado, ese…This vato is cool.”

(ibid, pgs. 211-13)

The account of the meeting between Acosta’s crew and Gonzales is telling in several regards. First, it speaks to the sense of mistrust between geographical regions within the Chicano movement. Secondly, it shows how the pressure of being at war for an extended period of time with the powers that be wears down one’s nerves; and, thirdly, it shows how the movement was doomed to failure, due to a lack of cohesion and a coming to terms of clearly-defined goals and singular unifying principles, particularly at that late juncture. Of course, it’s easy to make such declarative statements in hindsight. Yet, the writing was on the wall; the fire of the Seventies rebellion was to be doused by the oncoming wave of the “me” decade; a time of increased focus on acquisition and selfish individualism, which encouraged all to materially advance themselves at the sake of the collective.

But before that, the fire of the revolution was to be tempered in the courtrooms of the land. The sweeping changes intended; the mass protests and fitful violence to be judged and codified before becoming policy. This is what it all boiled down to: the gears of change were slowed by these mechanisms. What came out the other end became what was to be. The radicals would be incarcerated, disenfranchised, or co-opted. Politics would play its part in the process. At the crux of this maelstrom of change was the Brown Buffalo. He would stomp on the terra of the judicial land in a way no one had previously done. However, this was not without consequence. The process would push him to the limit of right and wrong; force him to compromise his own sanity, and forever cast him in a role which would inevitably be his undoing.

Home Court Advantage? Justice… Aztlán Style

*Sal Castro. Courtesy La Times, Getty Images*

As a result of our decision in this writ proceeding and the passage of time, several of the petitioners who, according to the evidence presented to the grand jury, clearly committed or aided and abetted in the commission of several misdemeanors, may never be tried for those crimes. We share the view of anyone who thinks that this is a most undesirable result. We stress, however, at the outset, that with one minor exception [9 Cal. App. 3d 678] noted herein, the authorities did not choose to charge the misdemeanors. This opinion therefore cannot and a fortiori does not deal with crimes which, at the time of their public commission, generated considerable notoriety.

(Castro v. Superior Court, 1970. Opinion by Kaus, P. J. Concurring opinion by Stephens, J. Concurring and dissenting opinion by Reppy, J.)

Despite Acosta’s notoriety for being the infamous sidekick to Thompson in Fear and Loathing, eventually being portrayed by a Hollywood heavy-hitter like Benicio Del Toro, and aside from his status as author of two books which are stalwarts in the Chicano literary pantheon, it is in his role as attorney for the Chicano Movement where he had the most success; setting precedents in law which stand today. Only Acosta could have achieved this. His outrageous point of view and oversized ego providing him the brashness needed to take on the entire system — and win. However, this approach was not without its shortcomings. This larger-than-life approach oftentimes found him in contempt, and as time went on he spent almost as much time locked up as some of his clients. Yet, it should be noted Oscar Acosta was a man of the times, i.e., his shortcomings were not his alone, but part of his demographic. Misogyny, homophobia, and machismo all factored into the mindset of the Chicano movement, and would invariably be part of its undoing.

For his part, Acosta does not shy away from these shortcomings, but used them as emphasis for a point of view that resounded well in that time and place. His audacious persona ruffled feathers from the outset. Most notably when he changed his name to Buffalo ‘Zeta’ Brown, in honor of General Zeta, the hero of an old movie classic, La Cucaracha, who is a combination of Zapata and Villa. Acosta believes the name change is what prompted his being fired from the Public Defender’s Office for insubordination — though he won every one of his cases. His being fired was probably for the best, though, as he was far more effective on his own, though the disdain for his militant style continued to grow within the legal community. This is the case as he begins his career defending the Chicano Militants, as he records in Revolt of the Cockroach People:

“I have been working on the briefs for Gilbert, Risco, Ruth and the others whose cases I’ve taken since my return from Delano. I’ve had new business cards printed up with the same design of Huitzilopochtli which Chicano Militants wear on their brown berets:

Buffalo Z. Brown,

Chicano Lawyer

Belmont Hotel, L.A.

The first day I went into court on a case, a simple disturbing the peace matter, I left my card with the clerk. I merely asked the judge, a short faggoty Mexican, for a continuance of the matter until I had time to prepare my briefs. I planned to challenge the statute on the grounds that Chicanos had a constitutional right to demonstrate their beliefs even if it disturbed the peace and quiet of the neighborhood. When I returned to my room, I received a call from the judge. He told me he didn’t appreciate my business card.

“Some local attorneys have asked me to refer the matter to the State Bar, Mr. Brown.”

“I’m terribly sorry, Judge. I’d never insult the dignity of your court with my tasteless business cards.”

“Oh, I’m not against you calling yourself a Chicano Lawyer. But it could be misinterpreted, it could be in violation of the canon of ethics…We’re not supposed to advertise, you know.”

“Yes sir…uh, if I may, Judge…Isn’t this telephone call…isn’t it irregular for a Judge to phone an attorney when there’s a matter pending before him? I don’t want to do anything that might result in a mistrial…”

He apologized quickly and told me that he was acting as a friend, not an official.

“I understand, Judge. And I’ll never use that card again…Uh, that is, in your courtroom…But you can tell those local lawyers that I’ll call myself any goddamn thing I want!” I slammed the phone in his face and continued to type my brief.”

(Revolt of the Cockroach People, p.49)

Acosta’s mention of “ his return from Delano” refers to a visit he recently had in that small California town with Cesar Chavez at the United Farm Workers headquarters, where he found Chavez bedridden and weak in the midst of a much-publicized hunger strike. Acosta had gone there to get some guidance, as he was deeply confused about how, and if he should proceed as counsel in such a high-profile and historic movement. The visit affected Acosta on a profound level, and his respect for Chavez is evident in his recounting of that day in Revolt of the Cockroach People:

“I know that for twenty-five days now, Cesar has not tasted a morsel of solid food. He has starved himself like Gandhi. He believes that physical resistance to oppression only produces lesser men. Self-defense by design only creates violent characters. A revolution accomplished by brute force generates but another brutal society. By way of example to his followers, he gives up his flesh and strength to their cause. The height of manhood, Cesar believes, is to give of one’s self.”

(ibid., p.44)

These tenets of Cesar’s represented a huge ideological schism between he and Acosta, who was prone to get caught-up in the heat of the moment. The pull of the violent reality of being on the front lines with militants who were engaging in anarchist acts pulling him in one direction, while the wisdom of Chavez pulled him in the other. This much is evident in his re-telling of their meeting in Delano in April of 1968:

“I enter and close the door behind me. It is very dark. There is a tiny candle burning over a bed, illuminating dimly a wooden cross and a figure of La Virgen on the wall. My ears are buzzing. There is a heavy smell of incense and kerosene. I don’t move. I hear nothing. I no longer have any idea of why I have come or what I will say.

“Is that you Buffalo?” The voice is soft, barely audible. He coughs.

“Yeah, Cesar?”

“Sit down.”

I approach the bed and finally make out the frail form. It leans toward me, offering a limp hand. There is so little life left in him. I hear the short breaths but can barely detect the outline of his features against his skull. He struggles to keep his eyes open, then lies back and sighs.

“This is really something,” he murmurs. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for a Chicano lawyer to come up here? But I knew the day would come.”

I have no idea what to say, what he is expecting. Finally I manage something.

“Hey, Cesar…I always wanted to come down here, but…” Would he understand my confusion? “But I dropped out for a while.”

“And now you’re back?”

Well…that’s what I’ve come here for. I need your advice.”

And then there is silence. His breathing becomes regular. Perhaps he has fainted from weakness. I sit beside the bed. Gritting my teeth and balling my fists. I can hear the sputtering of the candle.

“Buffalo?”

“You all right? Should I leave now?”

His eyes open and he sighs again deeply. “No, I’m OK. How about you? How you doing?

“OK…I’m down in LA now. I’ve been there for a few months, trying to write.”

“I know. I’ve heard from Risco.”

“Oh yeah… Well, I’ve sort of taken some cases. The guys that got busted during the Blow Out last month.” He must have heard the question in my voice.

“You’re with Risco and Ruth, aren’t you?” he asks gently.

“Yeah…Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Those two are great organizers,” he says proudly. “They used to run our paper before going down south. I keep up.”

There is silence again. In the darkness, I think again of his words. The Father of Chicanos, Cesar Chavez, has heard me.

“Buffalo?”

“Yeah, I’m here, Cesar.”

“So how are things going in LA?”

“All right, I guess.”

“Are you guys trying to get the viejitos to join you too?”

“Well, you know how old people are. Besides I’m not doing much organizing myself. I’m kinda confused.”

“Look, he says, a little stronger. “I know LA is a graveyard for organizers. You, personally, Brown Buffalo, a Chicano lawyer, have got to help those kids. Nobody else is going to do it. The militants are doing a terrific job. Aren’t you satisfied?”

“Oh, yeah.” I think about his philosophy of non-violence. “I didn’t know if you would approve,” I say lamely. I don’t know how to explain to him where I’m at.

“Listen viejo…It doesn’t matter if I approve or if anyone approves. You are doing what has to be done. ¿Qué más vamos a hacer?”

“It’s not exactly what you do…”

“So what? I’m a man, just like you, no? Each of us has a different role, but we both want the same, don’t we?”

Role? Want the same? “I guess…”

Come on viejo! Don’t be so…They tell me you are one hell of a lawyer. Don’t give up so easy, hombre.”

“But I don’t want to be a lawyer!” Finally I get out a part of it.

“So? He says, leaning up again. “Who in his right mind would want to be a lawyer, eh?”

Again he falls back. I hold my breath until I can hear his own breathing. Now it is my turn to sigh deeply as I wipe tears from my squinting eyes. The door opens behind me. The woman puts her fingers to her mouth to indicate my time is up. I arise to leave.”

(ibid, p.43-47)

*Cesar Chavez and Bobby Kennedy break bread, and Chavez’s fast. Bettman Archives, Getty Images.*

The next day, Cesar broke his fast in a much-publicized ceremony with Robert Kennedy, and Acosta was back in L.A., embarking on a legal odyssey that would cement his legacy as the Chicano legal eagle. A high-profile journey that begins with his defense of what he refers to as the East LA Thirteen; thirteen defendants arrested for their part in the “Blowouts” commencing on March 5th, 1968, which saw several East LA high schools experience mass-walkouts in protest of the quality of education offered. However, this was not the first time Chicanos had aired grievances against the educational system, and the courts have recorded the history of these struggles well, commencing with Mendez v. Westminster Supreme Court— a 1947 case that prohibited segregating Latino schoolchildren from White children, an important predecessor to Brown v. Board of Education, in which the U.S. Supreme Court determined that a “separate but equal” policy in schools violated the Constitution. In 1954, the same year Brown appeared before the Supreme Court, Chicanos notched another victory in Hernandez v. Texas. In this case, the Supreme Court ruled that the 14th Amendment guaranteed equal protection to all racial groups, not just Black and White people.

Acosta was not officially involved in the movement the day of the Blowouts, but was present as an observer. What he witnessed that day deeply affected him, ultimately convincing him he needed to do what he could to help. He gives his first-hand account of the stunning events that day in Revolt:

“And then I see Gilbert. He is on campus with Risco, Ruth and several others. I watch the fat frog move between students and approach the wire fence. A tall Indian with huge shoulders and a red headband moves beside him. Risco and the others rendezvous with Gilbert and the Indian in front of the wire gate. Suddenly the gate is opened! I see it swing out and then Gilbert is lost in the crowd. The students break formation and charge out shouting whistling and waving their hands in the air.

“VIVA LA RAZA!”

The cops begin to prod slow students with their clubs. Then there are a couple of swings. I see a kid with a blue beanie strike back. Down he goes. A long black club strikes him down like a twig.

The cops are beginning to swing harder now. I see a girl in an orange poncho go down. A cop picks her up and she swings her purse in his face. Several boys rush to her defense but are beaten back by the other cops. Some students are being taken into the wagons now. The cops are beginning to arrest demonstrators with picket signs. I stand and stare. What can I do? I am carrying my Goodwill Industry briefcase, but this is not a court of law. This is no book. I have no license to practice on the streets. What the hell can I say? What in God’s name can I do?

Tears are in my eyes. I am breathing with difficulty. I am in the midst of the first major public action by the Chicano community. They have picketed before, they have been arrested before, if you can believe the chauvinistic articles in La Voz. But never on this magnitude. They have never walked down the streets of their own barrios and shouted at the drunks on the corners, “Hey ese, come on, carnal. Join up with us!”

(ibid, pgs. 39-41)

It’s easy to forget this was meant to be a simple walkout of classes by high-school students who were unarmed, non-violent and merely advocating for their rights, when what is remembered in the history books is that these teenagers were met by a riot squad who willingly beat underage minors who may have been yelling, or waving their fists in the process of advocating for higher-quality education, which in no way warranted the force with which they were met. This clearly shows that in the mind of law enforcement, those protesting had no rights. Violence against Chicanos of any age by police was a daily occurrence in the barrios of East LA; the blowouts merely provided a stage for those actions to be broadcasted to a larger audience. Several weeks after the blowouts, on Friday, May 31, 1968, the following statement was released by press outlets:

Thirteen Chicano Militants have been indicted by the Los Angeles County Grand Jury on charges of Conspiracy to Disrupt the Schools. Chief Reddin and District Attorney Younger have stated that all have been apprehended and are being held in custody without bail. The Grand Jury charges them with having conspired to riot in connection with the school strikes in East Los Angeles of last March.”

(ibid, p.50)

Among those at the blowouts who were charged that day was Sal Castro, a teacher at Lincoln High in East LA, who was instrumental in organizing the Chicano Youth Leadership Conference, which worked with high schoolers in the area to develop leadership skills to assist their communities in meaningful ways. Over the course of several years, the conference would lead to the formation of what would eventually become the Brown Berets, who would also assist in organizing the blowouts. Working with local colleges and universities, Castro worked to create a network of mentors for the high-schoolers which, among other things, oversaw the blowouts as a protective measure for the student’s safety. Due to his long-standing involvement and planning of the blowouts, Castro was singled out by law enforcement, along with Moctezuma Esparza, and Acosta’s friends, Gilberto Cruz Olmeda and Eliezer Lozado Risco. These would be among the chief plaintiffs in the ground-breaking Castro v. Superior Court case that would bring notoriety to Acosta’s legal acumen. Acosta not only had a brilliant legal mind, he also possessed a holistic vision which recognized how laws are shaped by public opinion, politics, and the media. To that end, his role as community organizer and spokesperson for the Chicano movement ultimately abetted his efforts in the courtroom, yet simultaneously pitted him against the legal system in a way which would hurt, more than help his defense in some instances. He was a volatile firebrand in public demonstrations, oftentimes more fractious than cohesive; yet there’s no denying he had his finger on the pulse of the time, and knew how to rally outsiders to his cause. He was also aware of the importance of recording events as they transpired, as is the case in his defense of the East LA thirteen in Revolt:

“Throughout the week of the Blow Outs and afterward, we sought media exposure. For two months groups of students, parents and teachers have met nightly to form an Educational Issues Committee. An Armenian Baptist preacher from Tijuana, Vahac Mardirosian has gone before the school board weekly to explain the student’s demands: a simple insistence upon their dignity as a people. That’s what the demands boil down to. But the press and the TV ignored the issue right along with the school board. The Blow Outs were buried in the back pages. We were nothing but a bunch of outside agitators, radicals, communists and racists. But now that the racist-agitators are in jail, charged with Conspiracy, now it is news...

We are joined by a contingent from the Black Panthers, then another group of blacks, this one from US, with shaved heads and African togas. Both groups march up to us, give the power salute and join the picket. Rose Chernin, a little old lady in tennies, and Dorothy Healey, a Communist Party official, come up to me and introduce themselves.

“If you think it’ll be embarrassing to your group, we’ll leave,” Dorothy says.

For five solid hours we march around the entire block. There are five thousand of us in support of the East LA Thirteen, the name that I have chosen for the cast...

“Let’s go to Placita square now!” I shout. We are to rally there.

We are on the streets now and walking toward the small square, a designated historical monument. It is a rotunda, a square with trees and a small stage with a canopy. Old men in baggy pants, bearded winos with short dogs in brown bags, kids with skinny legs, men with faded skin, black and brown faces, all kinds hang around this park. And yes, the place is historical: right across the street from Olvera Street, the original site of old LA, when the Mexicans and Californios were in power. Bronze figures, salted with birdshit, stand proudly in the park.

EL PUEBLO DE LA REINA DE LOS ANGELES

On this spot a battalion of Mormons

From the Sixth Cavalry in Salt Lake

City defeated the last contingent

Of Indians and Mexicans in the

war between Mexico and the United

States of America. 1848 A.D.

The plaque is under a monument of horsed figures driving away the bandidos and near-naked savages. As I pass I spit on it. The person behind me does the same. A black militant passes and tells the statue to go fuck itself…

I rise to the stage and look down upon the hundreds below. My tired eyes have not closed but to blink for thirty-six hours. The people are staring up at me, waiting for my words as I hold the mike in my hand. I remove my dark glasses and I begin to cry.

“The East LA Thirteen are behind those bars up there. Are they in jail because they rose to speak out against the educational system in this country? Do you think they have been rousted from their offices and their homes like a bunch of criminals simply because they got thousands of Chicanos to walk away from their schools for a few days? Is this government to fall because a small group of men and women have demanded an end to the racist system in the schools? Would the government go to this extreme simply because we want better schools, better teachers, better administrators, because we want the books, the teachers and the materials to reflect our own culture? Are we such a threat because we have demanded a compliance with the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which provided for a bilingual society? Is there something wrong with speaking Spanish in our schools? But when you stop and think about it, that is exactly why they are in jail on this monstrous prosecution.

Imagine, forty-five years behind bars because of an idea. A life sentence for disturbing the minds of people in power. For that is all they have done. They have only said things. They are not being prosecuted because of any violence. They are not charged with throwing eggs or bottles or setting fires. They’re charged with having planned, organized and executed a demonstration. The DA isn’t saying that they incited anybody to riot. He doesn’t claim that they told anyone to throw anything. And he doesn’t say that they threw anything themselves. Only that they conspired to tell people to walk away from their schools. Period.

We most emphatically agree with the prosecution. We did, in fact, plan, and we did, in fact execute a demonstration at five Chicano High Schools in March of 1968. So what?

If that makes us criminals, then criminals we are. Outlaws and rebels against any government of men that would make it a crime to speak out against injustice? We are definitely that.

I represent the East LA Thirteen. I am the chief counsel for these men. I will be needing a lot of help in the days to come. We will need Lawyers, law students, leg men, secretaries, and the support of anyone who is in agreement with our position. And to be honest, even if you aren’t in agreement, but you simply want to help out the milk of human kindness, then join up with us.

Unless we all band together and fight against this type of political persecution, we are all doomed. If Evelle Younger can throw you in jail for speaking out against racism, he can just as easily throw you in jail for speaking out against the regime presently in power.

Thank you for coming out and…Viva La Raza!”

(ibid, pgs.57-61)

Aside from marches and speeches, which were effective in garnering public support, Acosta more importantly enlisted a group of brilliant young legal minds to assist in the herculean task of taking on the legal system in a way few had done. Coupled with growing media exposure and grassroots organizing, this put the movement in the unique position of having representation on all levels. It is in Acosta’s attention to detail and foresight where he ultimately left his mark on the national stage, a process noted well in Revolt:

“A few days ago we formed a Chicano Legal Defense organization. I am the chief counsel. Richard Alatorre, a dapper Chicano with connections in the McCarthy campaign, soon approached us. The good Senator wishes to make a large contribution to the defense of the East LA Thirteen. Immediately afterward, the young honcho heading Kennedy’s wagon in the barrios told us RFK has the same idea. Both men want our support. They are neck and neck in the crucial primary leading to the Democratic nomination. As LA County goes, so goes the state; and the Chicanos make up fifteen percent of the county.

After we consult, I tell the representatives: “If both camps give an equal amount, say, ten thousand each…then each man can issue his own press release…But only if both give. We are not going to be used by anyone. Our people are divided between these two men and we are not going to divide them more.”

(ibid, p. 61)

The boost from the Kennedy and Mc Carthy campaigns put the spotlight on the movement nationally. However, locally, the powers that be were amassing strength, preparing to nip the escalating situation in the bud in the usual ways. Fortunately, though, displaying the political savvy of a grizzled veteran, Acosta looked beyond the immediate media attention and what it meant at face value, putting two and two together to come to a shocking conclusion he then spells out to his co-conspirators:

“Well…the school strike was one thing. You know, it’s not the first time that someone’s been arrested for disturbing the peace at a school…but this is different. Look, man…why should they indict you guys for what you did? I mean, it wasn’t that heavy…A week of strikes by several thousand kids isn’t worth all this trouble…Can’t you see?”

“Why did they wait until two months after the thing? Why on this weekend?”

“Yeah, I see what your driving at…Next Tuesday is the election,” Risco says.

“And didn’t both Kennedy and Mc Carthy send you guys telegrams of support? Didn’t you guys have a meeting with them? Aren’t the Chicanos supporting either Kennedy or McCarthy?”

“The arrests just happen to coincide with the California Primary. This will make both those guys look bad because they’ve come out publicly in support of you.”

“So, its up to you. This is a political set-up. They’re trying to fuck up the election in LA and put the Chicanos out of action at the same time. If you guys want to fight back, let’s do it along those lines. This is a fight against the government, the Grand Jury, the judges, the DA and the Chief of Police.”

(ibid.p.54)

That law enforcement, politicians, and power brokers in the state banded together to deal with a grassroots movement speaks to their concern over the potential threat said movement might present. Acosta’s ability to read between the lines regarding their concerted effort invariably helps in his defense of his clients, yet it also marks him as extremely dangerous by his enemies. He also recorded face-to-face meetings, which on the surface were presented as cordial and bridge-building, but really were nothing more than crucial power plays:

“A Doctor Francisco Bravo has been calling me for two weeks…I’ve not answered because of the message he left the first time. It said, “Dr. Bravo called and wants you to meet with him and Mayor Yorty.”

“He’s the owner of the Pan American Bank,” Risco said.

After his third try, I called to see what he really wanted.

“Oh, Mr. Brown I’m so glad you’ve called,” a whining voice says.

“What does Yorty want?”

“Well, the Mayor would like to meet with you and see if he can do anything to help with the situation in East LA.”

“You mean the arrests?”

“Just a general conversation.”

“He wants to size me up?”

“Heh…heh…No, no Mr. Brown. The Mayor is a fine person.”

“If you get Reddin and Younger there, we’ll be glad to meet.”

“Oh, I can’t promise that…As you know, the Mayor and the District Attorney are from different parties.”

“Well, you see if you can set it up and let me know.”

He lets me know immediately. The Mayor has invited me and two other persons of my choosing to meet with him this afternoon. I have already called all thirteen defendants to gather at City Hall before the appointment for a preliminary rehearsal….

There are a few books for looks on a shelf above the little balding Okie who sits behind the brown desk with his feet crossed. He wears brown wing-tipped shoes and a pair of white socks that barely clear the ankle, gray suit and a narrow blue tie. Before he opens his mouth, I know he’s a hick.

“Howda you do? I’m Sam Yorty,” he says, rising.

I look down on him and wonder how such a short guy could have been elected mayor of the world’s biggest armpit.

“I’m Brown.”

He reaches for my hand. I turn quickly and sit down.

“And this is Chief Reddin.”

I turn to see a tall graying faggot with wet white skin in a black toy soldier’s uniform. He twinkles his slice-of-lime eyes with that icy glare only effeminate men can produce.

“Mr. Brown?” His lips crack open.

“This is the East LA Thirteen that your men arrested,” I say to Yorty.

…Doctor Bravo looks like a bowling ball. He speaks in a low voice, a man of authority, the only Chicano millionaire in the state: “Now Mayor, I invited Mr. Brown and his clients…heh, I actually thought only a couple were coming, but you don’t mind, do you, Mayor?”

“No, no, Francisco, this’s just fine…Like I’ve told you over the years…uh, some of you fellers might not know it, but Doctor Bravo here has been in this game a long time…He was fighting for Mexicans a long time before some of you were probably born…”

“He’s a sellout,” Gilbert calls out from the rear. Everyone pretends they didn’t hear him.

“And like I was saying, I’ve asked Doctor Bravo to bring you fellows here…I’d like to see what I can do.”

“About what?” I ask.

“About the problems that you people are interested in.”

“Will you ask Evelle Younger to dismiss the conspiracy charges?”

“Now, Mr. Brown, you’re a lawyer, you understand I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Why Mr. Brown, come on. You know that I’ve got absolutely no authority for doing something like that. Why, Evelle’s in a different administrative department that me…”

“Tell the pigs to quit vamping on us,” Henry says.

“Now, Mr. Mayor, I won’t stand for this,” Reddin says.

Now, Tom, fellows, let’s try to be civil.”

“OK, Yorty, what is it? What do you want to talk to us about?”

“Like I said, can’t we try to get together and see what we can do? I’m willing to do it if you fellows are.”

“What specifically do you have in mind?”

“Well…I just don’t see what you fellows keep on holding so many demonstrations for. I know you’ve got the right to do it…”

“If they’re peaceful, Mayor,” Reddin says.

“It’s the pigs that start the trouble,” Gilbert says.

“Mayor?” Reddin says. He pushes at his brass buttons. “Now, Tom…What I want to know is…what do you think its going to get you if you keep marching around the police stations, the school boards…you know?”

“That’s our business, Mayor…Now do you have something specific? Or are we here just to size one another up?”

Come on, Brown, come on! ...I’m trying to tell you …I’m telling you that picketing thing is over…All you’re doing is getting your own people in trouble. Now look…” he leans toward me and lowers his voice, “the blacks picketed for years…for years. They marched and they did the very things you people are doing now…but you know something, and this is the honest-to-God truth…they didn’t get a thing until they had Watts! That is a fact! And I’m telling you, until your people riot, they’re probably not going to get a thing either! That’s my opinion.”

I stare straight into the wrinkled narrow eyes of Sam-the-Straightshooter, a short John Wayne with a sincere simple honest smile. He is not blinking. He is telling me the truth.

But I don’t know why he is telling me the truth.

“And that’s what you wanted me to come over here for?” I can’t believe it.

“That’s about it, Brown. Just so we can know where we both stand.”

“Let’s go, you guys. I’ve had enough of this shit.”

Everybody stands up. Reddin is seven feet tall, a hulking giant fag with slime eyes. He looks like he’s about to bite my nose off.

We are walking out the door. Yorty, Reddin and the two guards are watching us leave with their mouths open. We have no manners. We are absolutely without class.”

(ibid. pgs. 72-75)

Chief Tom Reddin was a renowned figure in the barrios of East L.A., and was already subject of much scrutiny by the Chicano community in the days following his being named Chief of Police: so much so that he appears in the first edition of La Raza, of September 1967, where he is criticized for his recent behavior at a community presser at Lincoln High Auditorium:

“Tom Reddin in his new role as chief with a full cast of supporting stars, “Your Law Enforcement Agent: Man’s Best Friend.”

Chief Reddin has been trying to build his image as a community oriented public official. In reality, Tom Reddin has no more concern with the desires of the people than Chief Parker had.

At a community meeting held at the Church of the Epiphany on August 1st, chief Reddin faced a panel of community people. The panel was composed of Ben Gomez, educator and spokesman; David Sanchez from YCCA, Ray Martinez from Happy Valley, David Chico from Mariana Maravilla, and Elizabeth Mesa from Clover. As soon as the panel presented their demands “el jefe” said, “I don’t receive demands, I’m not susceptible to demands, I am here to explain our (LAPD) position.”

Public response was strong; several people said that Chief Reddin was a public official, and that his salary was paid from taxes, therefore, that he was responsible to the people and that the community had the right to demand the kind of services the police ought to perform. As the chief was unable, or unwilling to satisfy the demands of the people, most of those present walked out and left the chief alone with his plainclothes bodyguards.”

*Tom Reddin. Photo Courtesy La Raza Magazine*

Reddin also appears in the next issue of La Raza of September 16, in a piece called Veritas? regarding an appearance he made at a luncheon of the Harvard Club of Southern California, where his career in the police department and rise to Chief are put into question:

“We have found there are some interesting facts: “…having entered the Department in 1941. Chief Reddin was promoted successively through the ranks as Sergeant (1945), Lieutenant (1949), Captain (1953), Inspector (1955), Deputy Chief (1960), and Chief (1967). Since the motto of Harvard is Veritas, that is, Truth, we would like to know the whereabouts of the Chief during some events that took place at the same time he was moving up the ladder. Where was officer Reddin in August 1942, when 17 young Mexican-Americans were severely beaten while in custody and “tried” by the newspapers during the “Sleepy Lagoon” case, and when the LAPD was hunting Mexicans with such fanfare that the coordinator of Inter-American affairs had to intervene “for the sake of the war effort”. And where was officer Reddin during the “Zoot-suit Race Riots,” was he protecting and serving?

What was Lieutenant Reddin doing in late 1951 when the LAPD celebrated “Bloody Christmas” at the expense of 7 Lincoln Heights youths. And, where was he when the investigations on “police brutality” took place resulting in suspension of 44 policemen, from the Lieutenant on down.”

By the time Acosta meets with Reddin and Evelle Younger (the District Attorney he would eventually defeat in Castro V. Superior Court), in Mayor Yorty’s office that day, the dye had already been cast for Reddin and Younger’s collective plan of action. Yorty’s attempt to coerce Acosta into persuading the movement to engage in mass rioting demonstrates the trap he attempted to lure them into; how he was bent on breaking them by any means necessary. However, Acosta had different plans. Fully aware of the incredible amount of community resources he had at his disposal, in particular the brilliant legal team amassed around him, he concentrates on his legal defense and attack of the system; particularly in regard to due process. Once again, he details his thoughts and actions in Revolt:

“My preparations for the trial rose to new levels. Instead of going to trial, I filed a brief with the Court of Appeals demanding that the trial be stopped on the grounds that the indictment was constitutionally defective. Under the First Amendment, we had the right to march and verbally protest, and evidence that minor acts of violence had occurred at the site of the planned demonstration was not evidence of a criminal conspiracy. Unless, of course, the Grand Jury had been told that the Chicano Militants had also planned to set off fire alarms, burn trash in the toilets and throw eggs at the police cars.”

(ibid, p.71)

While Acosta and his team were diligently working on their defense, sinister powers were equally busy to the end of the infamous events which transpired at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles on the night of June 5th, 1968. Acosta describes the events as they unfolded via a television broadcast at a community organizing event:

“People are rushing to the television set on top of the desk. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

Girls are screaming, men are running around. There is commotion and confusion and congestion, both on the screen and in the room…Ayyyy!

“Ladies and gentleman…Senator Kennedy has been shot by a man…Ladies and gentlemen…”

The announcer is reporting the assassination live. The screen flashes scenes of the sandy-flaked kid on the floor, blood on his shirt, his eyes white.

Eyewitnesses report that the man has run out into the lobby…Police have apprehended him…but they are looking for others who may have been in conspiracy with him…The eyewitnesses say the man is a young Mexican-American, a Latin type person…”

(ibid, p.63)

Understanding the larger implications of Kennedy’s assassination and what it meant to the Chicano movement, Acosta presciently tells his comrades:

“Without that man and his organization, there aint no chance for us anymore…”

“What do you mean, man?”

“He was the last hope for the Chicano…I don’t mean him personally, but the whole white liberal bit, it’s dead now. Mc Carthy lost tonight, too. It doesn’t matter who killed him; liberals choke at violence. You watch and see. This will insure the election of that motherfucker Nixon.”

(ibid, p.64)

In addition to the loss of Kennedy’s support, the ten-thousand dollars promised the movement by the McCarthy and Kennedy campaigns proves elusive to obtain. McCarthy’s check initially bounces, and it took Alatorre to intercede and straighten it out. Then, Acosta, in a classy move, tells the Kennedy campaign to forget about the debt, not having the heart to hold them to it. McCarthy’s ten grand is split between La Voz and the Chicano Militants, with a small amount going to Acosta for legal fees. Despite these major setbacks, Acosta’s legal tact ends up working out, and after more than a year of deliberation, he receives the good news that:

“The Court of Appeals rules on the school riot case of the East Los Angeles Thirteen. They are set free! The appeals court enjoins the trial court from proceeding with the matter. In a twenty-page opinion, “Castro vs. Superior Court, 1970,” we make the law books. We have established a new precedent in the prosecution of conspiracies in a political case. So long as the Republic stands, defense lawyers will be quoting our case and I am assured of my place in legal history. We celebrate as we work that entire week.”

(ibid, pgs. 180-81)

There wasn’t much time for celebration or meaningful respite from the battle between the Chicano movement and the establishment before the next battlefront appeared. However, whereas the previous issue was about the educational system, the next issue concerned the chosen religion of the majority of Chicanos, as it was only a matter of time before that institution would come under the scrutiny of the militants — the Roman Catholic church. Acosta details the point in which he and his legal team became involved in this contentious issue, sometime around December 3rd, 1969:

“Chicano law students asked me to help them take on the Holy Roman Catholic Church, I joined in with my customary abandon and went right for the throat....

Six law students and I walk into the holy mahogany office of the Reverand Monsignor Hawkes.

“What do you want?”

“We’d like to talk to Cardinal McIntyre.”

“Sorry, but the Cardinal is busy,” the gargoyle with the whiskey face says. He expects us to leave immediately.

“Well, I’d like to make an appointment.”

He looks up from his papers. Leaning back into the posh chair, he clears his throat and lights up a pipe. He uses two matches before he speaks.

“Your name is, uh, Mr. Buffalo?”

“No sir. It’s Mr. Buffalo Z. Brown.”

“Ah, yes. But of course. You’re uh, the attorney, right?”

“Among other things…I’m also a Roman Catholic.”

“But what do you want to talk to him about?”

I turn to Tony, the secretary of the CMs. He says in his broken Chicano accent, “We want to see about more scholarships…There are a lot of dudes who ain’t got the bread to make it into law school and we…”

“And who are you sir?”

“He’s a student at Loyola,” I intervene.

“Can I have your names, please?”

We give him our names. He’ll notify us by mail when the Cardinal will have time to talk with us.

Seconds later, we’re right in the Cardinal’s main office. A woman under a blue wig is trying desperately to get us out. We’ve told her that we’re not leaving until we see the holy man. She is making frantic phone calls. When suddenly, out of an imposing door, the man himself appears. He is a regular mummy. He could be the original vato loco with his red beanie. He has jowls and robes of red, a hard beak and a trembling voice.

“Yes, what do you want?”

I rush up to him. “Uh, Cardinal, we’ve come to speak to you about some problems.”

He stares me straight in the face. He glares at me. I assume someone has told him who I am. He sticks a trembling hand out to me. The ancient palm is down, pointing to the ground. He waits for me to kiss the big blue ring on his bony middle finger. Either finger or ring was blessed by the Pope.

Instead, I take his hand and shake it. He explodes:

“Sir!...Perhaps you’ve never been taught manners!...But let me say this! I know who you people are! I have kept up with your shenanigans in the paper…. And let me say this! I shall never meet with the forces of evil…We know who is behind you. And we can take care of you, remember that!”

He turns and waddles right back into his office. The blue wig opens another door and five beefy cops walk in. They carry clubs.

“All right, all of you, clear out. Now.”

So, three weeks later, on December 24, 1969, some three hundred Cockroaches gathered at the newest monstrosity in the archdiocese to protest corruption within the Church and to seek reparation for the conquest of our lands.”

(ibid. pgs.76-77)

Acosta begins his Revolt of the Cockroach People with a description of the protest, where three hundred Chicanos have gathered in front of St. Basil’s Roman Catholic Church on Christmas Eve, in what he conspicuously refers to as the year of Huitzilopochtli, 1969 on a “dark moonless night and ice-cold wind meets us on the doorstep.” He describes St. Basil’s as Cardinal McIntyre’s “personal monstrosity, costing five million bucks,”:

*St. Basil’s Cathedral. Image from St. Basil’s website.*

“A harsh structure for puritanical worship, a simple solid excess of concrete, white marble and black steel. It is a tall building with a golden cross and jagged cuts of purple stained glass thirty feet in the air, where bleeding Christ bears down on the people of America below. Inside, the fantastic organ pumps out a spooky religious hymn to this Christ Child of Golden Locks and Blue Eyes overlooking the richest drag in town.”

Contrasting the decadent description of St. Basil’s, the Christmas eve lights and extravagance of the midnight mass service, Acosta engages in the poetical, myth-making of the emerging Chicano paradigm, tying the evening’s protest to those struggles of the ancestors:

“Three priests in black and brown shirts pass out the tortillas. Three hundred Chicanos and other forms of Cockroaches munch on the buttered body of Huitzilopochtli, on the land-baked pancake of corn, lime, lard and salt. Teetering over our heads are five gigantic papier-mache figures with blank faces, front lipped beaks, stonehead bishop dunce caps. A guitar gently plucks and sways Las Posadas to the memory of the White and Blue Hummingbird, the god of our fathers. We chew the tortilla softly. It is a night of miracles: never before have the sons of the conquered Aztecas worshiped their dead gods on the doorstep of the living Christ. While the priests offer red wine and the poor people up-tilt earthen pottery to their brown cold lips, there are tears here, quiet tears of history.”

(ibid. pgs.76-77)

*St. Basil interior, via St. Basil website*

A member of the police tactical unit approaches Acosta and informs him the group may enter the church, provided they leave the protest outside. Acosta informs the crowd and they surge forward — only to find the glass doors locked. Unphased, several members go around to the side of the building to find an alternate entrance, yet they also notice a squadron of police armed with clubs and riot helmets in the back, ready for action. Fortunately, they also find an unlocked door, and enter a small chapel which leads to an overflow vestibule, where they are immediately met by a security guard:

“Hey, what are you doing in here?”

“We are here to worship, sir.”

“No more room boys, you’ll have to leave.”

Things escalate, the usher threatens to call the police, and makes it clear they are not welcome. Acosta and his party can see the throng of locked-out protesters, pounding on the huge glass doors outside and mouthing words he can’t hear through the thick glass. Someone cracks the door open and they hear what the crowd’s been chanting: Let the poor people in! Let the poor people in! An usher hits the protester who opened the door, the protester hits him back, the usher then yells out for help. Suddenly, Sergeant Armas of the riot squad bursts forward from behind a curtain with twenty other “ushers,” who now take out their police badges and display them on their coat pockets, take out their batons and begin to douse the crowd in mace. The crowd of protesters pour forth into the melee; police swinging, protesters fighting back. Duana Doherty, an Anglo, ex-nun who has joined the Chicano movement, somehow makes it inside, and approaches an usher who only sees a pretty, young white woman in a dress and tells her, “There’s room up front.” She bolts past him, up the length of the aisle and up to the stage where she yells out, “People of St. Basil’s, please come help us. They’re killing the poor people out in the lobby! Please come and help!” A couple of ushers quickly snatch her up and carry her away, but almost simultaneously, a militant Chicana named Gloria Chavez, wearing a black satin dress and carrying a golf club also charges the stage and destroys the Holy of Holies with the club, sending a white cross flying, scattering delicate communion wafers everywhere, and spilling the cruets of wine, then takes off back towards the entrance where three huge policemen grab her and begin to hit her. While she kicks and screams back, Acosta grabs one of the cop’s arms, and says, “Officer, there’s no need to hit her!” The cop turns to tear into Acosta, when the head of the riot squad yells, “Don’t touch Brown, he’s their Attorney!” In fact, Acosta remains completely unscathed throughout the entire debacle; part of the plan to distance him from the group. Sergeant Armas tries to compliment him for his restraint several minutes later as things wrap up, as protesters are being hauled away, but Acosta tells him to go fuck himself, then turns to the remaining stragglers in the crowd and tells them to go home and get ready to re-group for another action tomorrow.

Later that night, Acosta calls Thompson (Stonewall) and recounts the events to him, hoping he’ll take the information and pass it on to national news organizations for further coverage. However, he’s unexpectedly met with a difference of opinion from Thompson, who has covered many political protests and is well-aware of revolutionary tactics, and feels that Acosta has made a terrible mistake in leading the revolutionaries in the field. Not seeing eye-to-eye on the circumstances resulting from the protest is one of many instances going forward that will continue to separate the two on an ideological basis:

“I dial the phone and listen to the buzz and ring of Stonewall’s telephone in Colorado where the snow must be quietly falling upon massive aspen trees, upon green leaves and white trunks.

“Jesus, what the fuck?” a familiar groggy voice wants to know.

For nearly two years now I’ve called and written this bald-headed journalist who once told me during a volleyball game: “If you ever find a big story in your travels, call me. I’ll put you in touch with the right man.”

“Uh, sorry to wake you. But I’ve got us a big one.”

“Brown? Jesus, Brown, it’s Christmas! It’s three o’clock in the morning. Are you loaded?”

“No man. I just got back from…I just witnessed the first religious war in America. A full-blown riot inside a church.”

“Just like I thought, you bastard! You’re fucked up!”

I begin to explain the events of the past twelve hours. He mumbles and coughs his way through the first half of the story and I have to keep asking, “You still there?” Until I got to the part about the red-headed nun in a mini-skirt and Gloria with her golf club demolishing the tabernacle. “Hold it! You said a golf club?”

“Yeah, a number seven wood, I think.”

“You don’t mind if I turn on my tape recorder, do you?”

“Jesus, I’ve been asking you to do that!”

I finish it out on tape. For fifteen minutes I dictate blood and songs and papier-mâché dolls.

“And, uh…they didn’t arrest you?” he says finally.

“Shit, they didn’t touch me.”

Silence. A long pause. Does he believe it?

“And you were right there? You were inside?”

“Standing at the center of it all.”

More silence. Another long pause. Could he afford not to believe it?

“And you want me to come out and write about this?”

“Well…either that or get someone of your caliber to do it.”

“And you were one of the leaders?”

“In all modesty, yeah.”

I can hear the wheels grinding in his brain.

“Are you serious? Do you see what you’ve done?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ve upped the ante.”

“You mean you’ve dumped it on your buddies,” he says softly.

I don’t remember hanging up the phone. When my mind finally thaws, I find myself alone in my tiny legal office on the tenth floor, high above the Cockroaches on the streets of spit and sin and foul air in downtown LA.”

(ibid. p.20)

The Chicanos return the next day, Christmas day, ready for another round, although in the previous night’s skirmish, twenty-one were arrested. But the news, and sympathy for the movement apparently spread quickly. Acosta notes in Revolt that “the media turn out in full force” the following day. He also makes it a point they’ve done so “without the assistance of Stonewall and his liberal white connections.” He also further divides the line between he and Thompson by aligning himself with a movement Thompson isn’t a part of, cannot be part of, when Acosta once again connects the current actions of the Chicanos with the ancestors, going back in time to connect the dots of a long-standing rebellion which began in the sixteenth century:

“Chicanos have not fought inside a temple since the Spanish conquistadores invaded the shrine of Huitzilopochtli in the Valley of Mexico.”

(ibid, p. 80,)

This focus on the religious aspects of the revolution; on the divide between the Roman Catholic Church and the demands of the Chicano movement prove to be a point of contention within the movement, as well as within the Mexican-American community overall. However, it should be noted Acosta did not cavalierly engage in the divide. He was raised Catholic, fully aware of the teachings, however, as a young man in the Air Force, switched to being a devout Baptist, eventually becoming an enthusiastic Minister in that denomination who proselytized to the backcountry Indians of Panama with a fervor while stationed there. However, as evident by his previously quoted statements on becoming the “Brown Buffalo” he dumps Christianity in all forms when he assumes that identity, and focuses on developing the Native American narrative via a connection to the Aztecs, which the whole movement had idealized. This proves to be a move which prevents the large-scale success of the Chicano cause, seriously splintering it in ways which would prove to be irreconcilable.

This is effectively illustrated by Acosta relaying his interaction the next day with his secretary when he shows up at his office the next day:

“My secretary, Rosemary, has the shakes when I come in the day after Christmas.

The first hour of work she received three telephone calls, all from Chicanos. The anonymous callers threatened to bomb my office. They told her to tell me if I didn’t stop saying such horrible things about their religion, we wouldn’t have any place to work. I tell her not to worry. She looks at me and begins to cry.

“I’m not worried about them,” she says. One of the calls was from her brother in Albuquerque. Chicanos in New Mexico take their Catholicism very seriously.

“The Church,” the cockroaches of old say to us, “is the only institution we can turn to for help. It is our religion, don’t you understand? We are a very religious people.”

I try to explain: “but we aren’t against religion, we’re not attacking religion,” I tell them, “It’s the power of the church, the administration of funds. We want the Church to become more democratic. We want them to become more involved in social-action programs. The people make up the Church. They should be the ones who control it.”

But they won’t have it. All but the most fanatic amongst us separate themselves from the struggle against the Church. There is talk of violence and of political expulsion from the community…”

(ibid, p.79)

Caught in the midst of this ‘no-man’s land’, in a place unique to any social movement of the time — given the religious aspect —the heat is turned up by their enemies, the financial base of their support eroded by the primarily charitable organizations who fund them, and in the case of Acosta’s Chicano Legal Defense underwriter, the Ford Foundation, he is seriously scrutinized, his actions questioned:

“Why am I spending so much time defending criminal defendants in political cases. How many suits have I filed in the past six months? Don’t I know that Congress is about to put a stop to the political activities of various legal aid attorneys? Don’t I know that certain Congressmen mean to withdraw the tax-exempt status of charitable organizations who fund groups constantly involved in radical politics?”

(ibid, p.80)

In a brazen move, Acosta severs his ties with Ford and moves into the basement of Father Light’s Episcopalian Church, where he sets up shop alongside the Chicano Militants and La Voz with his volunteer Chicano Law Students. In addition to these changes, and despite a fair amount of public backlash, coupled with the increasing loss of funds, the group pushes on, focusing their attack on St. Basil’s — although with a decidedly different tact. Taking a page out of Cesar Chavez’s book they announce they are engaging in a three-day hunger-strike as protest to the arrest of their colleagues. Yet, their plan for occupying an empty lot next to the church for that purpose disappears when they find the space has been blocked off, their plan foiled by police spies who had infiltrated the group and maneuvered ahead of them. Nonplussed by the circumstances, they march across the street and set-up camp in front of a Jewish Temple across the street.

Ironically, this move re-connects them to their ancestors through a secret history lost to time. Virtually forgotten until the 1970’s, the account of the Sephardic Jews which fled Spain for the New World to be spared from the Inquisition has been largely ignored. Even though these early Jewish immigrants clandestinely served a major role in the building of the new empire through secret societies, forged documents, and a well-organized resistance. Their spirit must have been with Acosta and his cohort when they ask the Rabbi for sanctuary on the Temple grounds, and while the Rabbi initially has his reservations, he allows the group to hold their demonstration, in the process allowing the movement to continue its momentum.

Throughout several days, the protesters engage in their hunger strike, while just a couple blocks away Sergeant Armas and his men eerily watch their every move from their offices on the sixth floor of the FEDCO building, patrol cars constantly prowling the area looking for an excuse to engage.

Three days later, the strike ends on a Sunday morning, when the group haggardly crosses the street and enters St. Basil’s for service. Acosta relates,

“We hear a stupid sermon and receive Holy Communion without confessing our sins to anyone but ourselves. The priest says nothing to us as we march out, hair in our faces, grass in our teeth, all dirty and gummed up from three days in the street.”

The hunger strike is a success. The media sees the movement in a new light, public support has been swayed back in their favor. Although the price they paid was heavy, their momentum nearly quashed, they have come out the other end rejuvenated. That week Pope Paul fires Cardinal McIntyre.

Shortly thereafter, Acosta takes on the case of a young Chicano who dies in custody at the Sheriff’s. The family ask him to represent them in a wrongful death suit, sure he was murdered by guards. To make a long story short, Acosta loses the case, but in the process is compelled to run for Sheriff, in an attempt to shift the political winds in East L.A. Seeking important local media coverage for his campaign, Acosta heads over to KMEX television station and asks for the news director, who he refers to in Revolt as “Roland Zanzibar,” yet is none other than Ruben Salazar. Acosta is aware of his reputation as a veteran journalist, and of his weekly column in the L.A. Times, stating in Revolt that ‘compared to Salazar’: “Stonewall (Thompson) comes off like an angry baboon.” He then proceeds to reprint their on-air interview in Revolt:

“Good afternoon Señor Brown. ¿Cómo está usted?”

“Horrible. It has not been a good week…It has not been a good century for us.”

“Uh…Well, I assume that is partly because of the Coroner’s Jury findings yesterday?...Mr. Brown, I should say, is the attorney for the family of Robert Fernandez, who was found dead in his cell at the East LA Sheriff’s substation, and whose inquest we have been carrying live for our viewers…”

…When I get in there, I’ll see to it that those who are guilty are punished.”

“When you get in there.”

“Yes, I have decided that the job is too important to be left to killer-dogs like Peter Peaches.”

“Are you trying to say that you’re going to run for Sheriff?”

“Yeah…you got yourself a scoop Mr. Zanzibar. I just filed for the office before I came down to the station…Here, this is my receipt for the filing fee.” I hand him a slip of paper the registrar has given me.

“You will notice on the receipt that I have adopted a new name…My name is now Zeta. I have given up my slave name. I do not intend to graze happily until I am slaughtered like Robert...”

“Yes…Now, what plans do you have for the campaign?”

“I intend to seek out the support of all the cockroaches.”

“Yes…and what will be your campaign issues?”

“I have but one issue. There is no hope for actual victory at the ballot box. I have no money and no supporters other than a few ragged friends. We can hardly compete with the pros. My effort is an educational endeavor. I expect to carry the message to as many as are interested in my views…If I were elected Sheriff, I would make every attempt to dissolve the office. The community has no need for professional killers. The law enforcement officers of this county, of this nation in general, are here for the protection of the few, the maintenance of the status quo…The police are the violent arm of the rich and I would get rid of them.”

“Do you think there is any legitimate function the Sheriff’s department can serve?”

“No, I would have a People’s Protection Department. I would enlist the aid of the community to find ways to protect ourselves from the violence of our society. Obviously, the answer is not more tanks, helicopters and tear gas.”

“Do you think anyone would vote for you with a platform such as that?”

“Actually, I doubt it. Even most of my friends are too young to vote. But I’m going to try to get others to listen to me anyway.”

And so it goes. When it is over, Zanzibar shakes my hand. He laughs at my outrage but it is sympathetic laughter. He encourages me to air my views. We go to a bar next door, and over a beer, he tells me about his job with KMEX. He is the only articulate Chicano in the business at the time, and he intends to bring the barrios to the public’s attention. He invites me to call any events to his attention that I believe to be newsworthy.

I tell him to come to the trial of the St. Basil Twenty-One. “I’m going to try to subpoena Cardinal McIntyre,” I tell him. “It’ll be quite a show.”

“Ah, Zeta, you’ve really cut yourself a big slice…Be careful, hombre. You know the dangers.

(ibid. pgs. 136-37)

The St. Basil Twenty-One are charged with Inciting to Riot and Disrupting a Religious Assembly, a charge that Acosta can’t believe is actually a statute in modern times. The trial lasts a month. The courtroom is packed every day, with an overflow crowd in the hallway filled with those hoping to get a seat. The presiding Judge, Nebron, holds Acosta in contempt ten times, their battle becoming legendary. And although there is no ground-breaking precedent set, as in Castro V. Superior Court, what the Trial of the St. Basil Twenty-One should be remembered for is the mythic proportions of Acosta’s closing argument.

Regarding that argument, the renowned Religious Historian, Mircea Eliade, says the use of myth in archaic societies:

“(1) constitutes the History of the acts of the Supernaturals; (2) that this History is considered to be absolutely true (because it is concerned with realities) and sacred (because it is the work of the Supernaturals); (3) that myth is always related to a “creation,” it tells how something came into existence, or how a pattern of behavior, an institution, a manner of working were established; this is why myths constitute the paradigms for all significant human acts; (4) that by knowing myth one knows the “origins” of things and hence can control and manipulate them at will; this is not “external,” “abstract” knowledge but a knowledge that one “experiences” ritually, either by ceremonially recounting the myth or by performing the ritual for which it is the justification; (5) that in one way or another one “lives” the myth, in the sense that one is seized by the sacred, exalted power of the events recollected or re-enacted.”

(Mircea Eliade, Myth and Reality. New York, Harper & Row Publishers, 1963. p.18)

There is no better example of modern myth-making than the elaborate tale Acosta weaves in court in the first part of 1970. Fully aware of the stage he occupies, the moment in time, and the importance of what’s at stake, he boldly, commandingly, recounts the following in that packed courtroom:

“A group of law students came to me one day last fall and asked me to help them arrange a meeting with Cardinal McIntyre…But that’s not really where the story begins…Let me take you back to a place and time of sorrow. Permit me, if you will, this short digression…

…It is 1509 AD…We are in Cuba…A captain from Castile wants gold…He wants land and he wants slaves. He also wants to go on a mission for his god and his king…He fills three boats with soldiers, fire powder and horses, which sail west until they land on the coast of what we now know as Mexico.

“The king, the supreme ruler in the land of the Hummingbird Wizard, hears of the arrival of white men in long boats. It is a prophecy come true. For over two hundred years, the prophets of Quetzalcoatl have predicted this event. The king, Montezuma, has taken upon himself all power in his empire. He is both political ruler and chief priest. In a word, he has assumed the status of a god. Not even his family can look him in the eye. He has become the principal deity of the people of Tenochtitlan in the Valley of Mexico. The people are called, collectively, the aztecas.

“The captain from Castile, Hernando Cortez, burns the boats and tells his men there is no turning back. They have come to this strange land to conquer or die for the glory of God. They attack village after village, taking captives and booty. They make alliances with the natives, promising them protection from Montezuma’s bloody rituals, from the human sacrifices to Huitzilopochtli, the god of war.

“Anxious to rid themselves of the burden of Montezuma, these Indians, as they are called by the Catholic Cortez, join up with the Spaniards. They march toward the capitol, thirty-thousand strong…Through diplomacy, political chicanery and modern techniques of warfare, the white men on horses and their army of slaves enter triumphantly into the most advanced city in the world, the world’s most beautiful city. In 1500 AD, Mexico City far surpasses anything that the Spaniards have seen on the European continent. There is an efficient government. It is a city with streets and canals and a sewage system, a city of gold and birds and leopards and barber shops. A land of flowers and parrots, mountains and blue beaches. They have priests and philosophers, soldiers and artists.

“And they have a king who is a god, a god who tells his million-man army to lay down their swords… ‘This is he of whom our prophets spoke,’ Montezuma tells his people. And since he is a god, they obey. And the Spaniards take Mexico by default.

“The first thing Cortez does is to take himself a woman. Malinche, to her everlasting disgrace, provides him with her brown body and her strange words.

“The second thing he does is to order the destruction of the heathen temples. He outlaws human sacrifices. He outlaws the religion that has shed the blood of thousands…And then he burns the books so that people will not be tempted to return to their heathen ways.

“And then he ransacks the capital and sends the gold and glitter to his king in Spain. And they rape the women. If you want to join the new nation, all you have to do is give up your slave name and your slave tongue. If you want to become a Spaniard, be baptized and take a Christian name. An attack upon the Church is an assault upon the state. And vice versa. Church and State are one.

“Three hundred years later, in 1850 AD, more white men in covered wagons come to the land of the northern deserts, the land we now call the Southwest. It is the ancient land of Aztlan. the original homeland of the aztecas. New invaders. New conquerors. They too come with firepower and the flag of a new nation. They, too, are on a holy mission. As Cortez had done before, through modern warfare, through politics and diplomacy, the new white barbarians invade the land and subdue it. They inform the people that they now have a new government and a new religion —Christianity. They sign a treaty called Guadalupe Hidalgo. The United States pays a couple of million to an idiot in Mexico City for all Aztlan and for all the slaves living thereon. The treaty says that, if the people choose, they can remain as citizens of America or they can go south to Mexico. “ ‘But we are not Mexicans,’ the people cry out. ‘We are Chicanos from Aztlan. We have never left our land. Our fathers never engaged in bloody sacrifices. We are farmers and hunters and we live with the buffalo.’

“But they are wrong. They are now citizens of America, whether they like it or not. And we’ll call them Mexican-Americans. But if they want to be Americans, they’ll have to give up their slave name.

“A hundred years later, the Chicanos turn to the government and to the priests and ask for justice, for education, for food, for jobs, for freedom and the pursuit of happiness. The St. Basil Twenty-One sought an audience with the leaders of the Church and the state. And to show that they did not worship heathen gods, they tried to attend the bloodless Mass within the sanctuary called St. Basil’s. And when they entered they were told: There is No Room. Leave, or we’ll kill you. Or jail you. Insult you. Mace you. Kick and bite. Scream and holler. While the choir sings. ‘Oh come all ye faithful…Oh come ye, Oh come ye…to jail and court. Court and jail…Come. Come! Come!

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, if we had planned to ransack the temple, if we had wanted to attack the sanctuary…tell me, would we have brought women and children? Would Victor have brought his grandmother? Would I have invited my three nieces? And would I, an attorney and counselor at law, would I have stood in the midst of it all with a pipe in my mouth?

“And yet, we are guilty of inciting a riot. We did want a riot. We sought it. And we did accomplish it!...A riot of the brain. A revolution of the spirit…And the only reason the prosecution is going after us with shrieks of outrage, the only reason the State has spent such time and money, is because we did accomplish what we set out to do…Pope Paul did in fact fire Cardinal James Francis McIntyre because he started a riot within his own church for the grandeur and glory of his god —his own ego…”

(ibid, pgs. 159-161)

In his speech, Acosta fulfills Eliade’s five conditions of the use of myth since archaic times in that (1) He ties his tale back to the prophesy of the gods, i.e., Supernaturals, Quetzalcoatl and Huitzilopochtli; (2) it is true in the regard it resulted in the arrival of Cortez and the Spanish, and it is sacred in that it is a reality rooted in the temple of Huitzilopochtli and therefore comes from a supernatural force; (3) it tells of the “creation” of the new, hybrid society based on the Christian state and the new race of Indios/Europeans, the mestizos; (4) he details the origins of the myth and makes them experiential by recounting them ceremonially in a court of law; (5) Acosta allows himself to live the myth by being seized by the sacred, exalted power of the events recollected or re-enacted, in turn, allowing those present to affected as well.

However, despite Acosta’s compelling closing; of successful myth-making, the courtroom is brought back to the present-day state of repression and discord when D.A Ridder, who Acosta refers to as “the Duck” shows his disdain for the movement and all it purports in his closing argument:

“Ridder started out by denouncing the Militants. For two hours, I sat back and listened to him curse us. The jury was in the box staring down at the little Duck while he called the nuns whores and the priests frauds…

“We know what kind of people they are. If you want them to feel free to break up any church service for the sake of their so-called movement, you go ahead and find them innocent…we’ve heard about the outside influences, revolutionaries, radicals, there’s nothing to hide here. Brown knows this. Brown is their leader. That’s been testified to by nearly everyone. Of course he’s gonna get up and tell you they’re innocent. But ladies and gentleman, there is much more at stake here than simply whether or not these people assaulted the church…We know they did, we saw that on film…But what is even more important is whether or not this society can afford to have them go unpunished…Are they simply citizens exercising their civil liberties as they would have you believe? Or are they mad dogs who would pervert all that this country stands for?...That is what you must ask yourselves as you go in to deliberate…Would you want people such as these to come to your church while you were praying?...Would you?...I doubt it. I really doubt it.”

(ibid, pgs.156-57)

Although the charges brought against the defense are flimsy at best, and regardless of Acosta’s effective myth-making, the jury returns after seven days with the verdict that six are guilty, fifteen are innocent. Several must do six months, a couple three. However, what at first appears to be a crushing defeat, soon takes an unexpected turn for the better when shortly thereafter, Jean Fisher, an African-American juror comes forth and informs Acosta of a plot amongst the jurors. Apparently, the Jury Foreman, a Mrs. Wells produced a list to all the other jurors while in the deliberating room diagramming each defendant and the direct testimony of the police regarding them, with outlines of the prosecution’s arguments. It is immediately apparent to Acosta that someone had coached her in this, writing:

“The methodology of enumeration, the technique of separating defendants, and the succinct outline of legal arguments can only be the work of an efficient legal secretary or of an attorney. It would be impossible for a juror to construct this kind of outline during the course of the trial. And yet, every day, the judge warned jurors not to discuss, or in any way deliberate on the matter at hand, except in the jury room, after the instructions. I am stunned, but not surprised. “

(ibid, p.165-66)

In light of the new information, Acosta files a motion for a new trial, accusing the jury foreman of engaging in a blatant attempt to influence the jury in an obvious conspiracy led by someone who was well-versed in the law. Judge Nebron denies his motion and tells him to take it up on appeal, but adds, I’ve decided to forget about those contempt citations you still owe this court, Mr. Brown…It has been the most unusual trial I’ve ever witnessed…I think we’ve all been somewhat taken with the enormity of it all.” He then releases the defendants on the appeal bond that’s been posted, and in all probability is glad to be done with the political and social quagmire the trial had been.

Regarding Acosta’s run for Sheriff, he comes in second, garnering a half-million votes out of seven million people— a strong showing, but obviously way short of the mark. In the aftermath, in the first week of June, 1970, Salazar writes in the LA Times “Zeta’s campaign was the only little ray of sunshine for the Chicanos.” Salazar also contacts Acosta to let him know Life magazine wants to do a spread on him, but Acosta is burnt out after the trials, the strikes, and the campaign, and is on his way down to Mexico for an extended hiatus. Regarding the Life article, he tells Salazar, “Tell them to write me in Acapulco partner.”

Down in Acapulco, Acosta goes on an extended booze & womanizing bender with his “brother” Jesus (there is no mention in biographical data of a brother by this name), until, one morning he reads in the newspaper about Corky’s arrest at the Chicano Moratorium one morning at breakfast, catching a headline which reads:

“Los Angeles Times columnist Ruben Salazar killed by stray bullet during Chicano riots in East Los Angeles. Chicano Leader Rodolfo Gonzales arrested.”

The article goes on to say that Corky was arrested for Conspiracy to Incite a Riot, crossing state lines to do so, and was picked up with twenty-six other Chicano Militants not far from where Salazar was killed, with several guns and rifles in the vehicle. Acosta immediately realizes the gravity of the situation and gets on the phone to his comrades in East L.A. to let them know he’ll be arriving at LAX later that evening to get to work on Corky’s defense. This last battle for Acosta will be his send-off from the movement, and from his acquaintance with Thompson. Although they’ve already, unwittingly made history with living the Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas story, as well as shed light on the early Chicano struggle; in the process making either of them larger than life, they have already passed a crossroads which undeniably put them on separate paths. Surprisingly, the two books mentioned in the intro to this piece which helped form my teenage outlook, Fear and Loathing, and Helter Skelter, are about to improbably come together, intersecting in Acosta’s own life and in the courtroom; their characters hell-bent on societal change in a tumultuous time where violence and darkness pervade every nook and cranny. From the courtrooms, to the churches; in the high-rises, Beverly Hills mansions and ghetto streets, blood and fear hold sway; two sides are equally invested in a fight to the finish. Acosta signals the beginning of the final, pitched battle he will commandeer, when he writes in Revolt:

“It is Sunday afternoon, August 30, 1970, in the year of The Cockroach. Our first martyr, Roland Zanzibar (read Ruben Salazar) is dead.”

(ibid, p. 197) my quotes.

Though not present at the Chicano moratorium, and its ensuing riot, Acosta conveys the events as they transpired via his account of film footage he is shown, taken by Chicano activists that day. In his book, he allows the reader a front-row seat to the carnage by writing:

“We are looking at a color film of the Chicano Moratorium of August 29, 1970.

Suddenly, Laguna Park. Two square blocks. Flat green. Enclosed by wire fence and line of tall palm trees. I see a swimming pool, a gymnasium and a sandbox with swings and a merry-go-round of iron bars. Thousands of people mill around, sitting on the green grass with children, eating hot dogs, tortillas, soda pop, singing, smoking, smiling, pretty girls, young dudes a little drunk, falling jumping, horsing around, a picnic, a Saturday afternoon in the park, groups of bearded men, strong men in brown khaki, in brown brogans. A peaceful gentle scene.

The film cuts to a battlefield in the center of the park. A wooden stage is at home plate. The camera is on the pitcher’s mound.

Short dark girl of Aztlan in dress of white, ruffled in orange and red, little flowers and red-orange ribbons in her black hair: the flamenco dancer from UCLA. She dances with some kid —buck teeth, slick legs in tight cowboy pants, sombrero in hand, boots clicking at the hard floor, black hair falling over his joker face, a two-step ranchera.

SLASH!

The film is cut to a liquor store on Whittier Boulevard, at the corner of Indiana, two blocks from the park. The camera is hand-carried and the picture bounces. It moves us toward the front of the liquor store. The sun is reflected off the lens, a streak of yellow. LAGUNA LIQUORS in black letters on plate glass a grill of black iron bars covers it all. Inside the store, if you look close, you can see people staring through the glass into the street. These people have hands to eyes, to mouths, they are calling out to other people on the street. On the sidewalk outside the store you see the line of helmeted pigs in leather jackets, in brown suits, in white helmets, in battle gear, with huge guns in hand, with rifles, bazookas, with tear gas equipment. You see them close up, the faces of armed men staring into the liquor store.

And now you see people suddenly coming out. Now you see a cop lunge for a kid with long black hair.

Cut to the sidewalk.

A kid is swinging at a cop. He has a red headband. The people are being struck with the clubs.

The camera jerks. Shot to the sidewalk cement, shot up to the body of a fat cop, camera is moving along the ground and now you see a line of uniformed cops in helmets lining the middle of the street, batons in hand at parade rest. Across the street you see a crowd of people, mostly kids, leaning back, standing staunchly, some with hands on hips, stretched out wide. Feet apart, hands up in the air, yelling, shouting; but no sound on this film...

…Again the film shows us the park, a distortion of what we saw just a few minutes ago. Then there was order and laughter. Now there is chaos: legs, arms, hair in wind, running kids, people in scrambling motions, running away from the camera, away from the cops advancing in platoon formation, a phalanx of pigs, guns, smoke, bottles in air, clubs swinging; until the formation breaks up, pigs mix with the kids in T shirts, without shirts, barefooted teenagers, mostly boys, young men, but some cholas, some broads with bottles in hand. They clash in the middle of the field.

SLASH!

Whittier Boulevard is burning. Tooner Flats is up in flames. Smoke, huge columns of black smoke looming over the buildings. Telephone wires dangling loose from the poles. Everywhere the pavement is covered with broken bottles and window glass. Mannequins from Leed’s Clothing lie about like war dead. Somehow a head from a wig shop is rolling down the road. Here a police van overturned, its engine smoking. There a cop car, flames shooting out the windows. Cops marching forward with gas masks down the middle of the debris. An ordinary day in Saigon, Haiphong, Quang Tri and Tooner Flats.”

DARKNESS.

(ibid. pgs. 198-201)

After several days back in L.A., listening to testimony of those present at the Moratorium, speaking to his inner-circle of militant friends, and talking to those charged with crimes, Acosta’s insight into the workings of the nefarious political machinations of Los Angeles prompted him to tell his comrades the following:

“If anybody set out to destroy the Chicano movement, he couldn’t do any better than murdering Zanzibar and hanging it on Corky. Corky makes things happen and Zanzibar makes what’s happened important.”

“Corky wasn’t busted for murder,” Pelon says.

“So what? Roland’s dead and Corky’s out of action…”

(ibid. p.206)

In the tense days after the riots and Ruben’s death, the Barrios of East L.A. are akin to an occupied zone, with police rousting anyone seen walking the streets at night. Having just flown in from New York to attend the funeral of Salazar, Enrique Hank Lopez, an international lawyer and writer - the first Chicano to attend Harvard Law School and author of the underground-sensation paperback novel AFRO-6 (Dell Publishing, 1969), wherein Black Militants take-over Manhattan, is staying at his mother’s house the night before Ruben’s funeral. In anticipation of a home-cooked breakfast of menudo, Lopez goes out to get some fresh tortillas, when he is stopped and aggressively searched by two officers who do not speak while they violate his rights, thumb through his bag of tortillas and then go on their way. Lopez endures the humiliation and says literally nothing for fear he will be beaten or arrested along with the 300 other Chicanos who have been in the aftermath of the riot. As an attorney and veteran of the neighborhood, he knows it is wisest to submit and endure, rather to antagonize and risk. Lopez later writes in his piece in Con Safos Magazine, Volume 2, Winter, 1971, that Gene Pember, a consultant for the Peace Officers Standards and Training Commission earlier had publicly said that the tear-gas canister which killed Salazar “Should never be used for crowd control, that “the thing is like a young cannon, really. Such missiles, he said, could go through a thick stucco wall. That’s what they are for — to penetrate a house or an object behind which a dangerous suspect has barricaded himself. But even then they should never be fired at a person.” In conjunction with Thompson’s coverage of the event, which revealed there were two of these projectiles fired into an occupied area, it is painfully evident the Sheriff’s Department acted in a hostile and out-of-bounds manner that day.

Earlier that evening, before Lopez was assailed by the police, he had attended a rally at the All Nations Auditorium, where Corky Gonzales had spoken about Chicano Unity and humorously noted in an ironic tone, “I was busted at a peace rally and charged with suspicion of Robbery because I had $325 in my billfold. To the gabacho cops, I guess its awful damned suspicious for a Chicano to have that much bread.” After that, Lopez went to the Carioca Bar/Restaurant to pick up the tortillas the police would later defile. While there, he reminisces about a previous conversation he had with Corky among Margaritas and the live sounds of Mariachi music, where they engaged in deep-discussions regarding the state of Mexican-American education and the way the youth are basically hunted by the police. Lopez ends his piece by remembering how touched Corky was by his stories about the Chicano youth he had represented, and by saliently pointing out, “One must also hope that the police and other authorities will come to realize that reason flows both ways, that this fragile society can ill afford the frightening consequences of the kind of overkill that silenced the most reasonable voice of Rubén Salazar.”

Regarding Acosta’s response to his clients’ arrest and as result of what he feels was an unsatisfactory Voir dire process, he calls a press conference declaring to the amassed media that he is going to go after the judges who selected the jurors chosen for the case, stating, “The Grand Jury which indicted my clients is a racist institution.” He files a brief to that end and is surprisingly granted an order for all Superior Court judges to take the stand to be examined by him. No one had ever accomplished that, and there is no precedence for it. In his usual manner, Acosta says he intends to “go right for the throat of those dirty old men who sit over us in judgement. If they won’t give us back our lands, at least we’ll have a drop of blood for our trouble.”

(ibid. p.214)

Heading into the courthouse one morning where he will question the judges on the stand, Acosta comes across three young women sitting on their knees outside the courthouse in low-cut mini-dresses and shaved heads. They have crosses cut into their foreheads and have a red, white, and blue poster behind them which states they are protesting the “political persecution” of Charles Manson. One of them, named Mary, has been involved with several protests pertaining to the Chicano movement and knows Acosta, so he stops to talk to her. He tells her how he’s petitioned all the judges in the Superior Court, including Judge Older, who is the presiding judge in the Manson case. Mary tells Acosta that Charlie’s case “is political, just like your case, brother.” Acosta promises to let her know when judge Older will be called to the stand, to which she replies, “All of Charlie’s girls will show up if you let us know!”

Acosta is unaffected by the Manson case, and lets it be known in his book that he thinks the whole thing is more about the cult of Charlie and his manipulation of young women. However, in typical Acosta fashion, he finds Mary attractive, and is merely trying to make a play with her and the other promiscuous, “sexually liberated” Charlie’s girls. He also considers himself sexually liberated, but unfortunately for Acosta and most other men in that period that simply meant they were willing to sleep with anyone, provided there were no strings attached: it’s more about having the ability to be promiscuous without being judged.

Regarding the ground-breaking act of subpoenaing judges, Acosta immediately discovers it may not be all it’s cracked up to be. He finds out as much when he walks into court… late, to Judge Alacran’s courtroom and Acosta immediately states he wants to put Alcaran, himself on the stand:

“You’re late, Mr. Brown,” Alacran says.

“I’m sorry, Judge. I’ve been trying to subpoena Judge Older.”

“Any luck?”

“No, sir. I’m going to need the court’s help.”

“Well, you do your best and when the time comes, we’ll see what has to be done.”

“Will this court make the necessary orders?”

He looks straight down at me, removes his glasses, rubs his brown smooth face with a manicured hand and says without emotion: “This court is very much aware of its powers, Mr. Brown. And you would do well to remember that when we get to our next witness…”

Smugly, he leaves it hanging in the air. Three weeks after I got back from Mexico, I had challenged his qualifications to sit on the matter:

“But you’ve already used up your peremptory challenge, Mr. Brown.”

“I’m challenging the court for cause, your honor.”

“You think I’m biased in the matter?”

“I’d like to have an opportunity to prove that you are, sir.”

“If that is a motion…I’ll take that as if it were…Your request is denied. Now let’s proceed.”

“Would the court take the stand?”

“You want me to testify?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But I’m the judge on the matter…You’ll have to take that up with the Master Calendar Court. Now let’s proceed.”

“The defense calls the honorable Judge Alfred Alacran to the stand, your honor.”

“That request is denied…at this time. Subject to a motion to reopen at a later time…Now, let’s proceed, Mr. Brown. Call your first witness.”

(ibid, p.217)

From the outset, Acosta faced an uphill battle in getting all the judges to respond to their subpoenas, and judge Alacran focuses on Acosta’s tardiness, improper courtroom behavior, and the crowded gallery which is oftentimes rambunctious. At one point it’s discovered the words “kill” are written on judge Alacran’s door, next to his nameplate, as well as a fire burning in the bathroom next to the courthouse. The fire is put out and is discovered to be a copy of La Voz burning in a wastebasket. The judge asks the court reporter to read what the still legible paper says:

“Miss Kingsley…would you please read into the record what the paper says?”

“Yes, your honor…It’s got a picture of, I think it’s Mr. Brown and the defendants.”

“Your honor…It’s an article about this case,” I say.

“Don’t interrupt, Mr. Brown.”

“Well, your honor…If you’re trying to say that one of the defendants or one of their friends did that…”

“I’m not interested in your comments, Mr. Brown.”

“Then why are you placing this all on the record?”

“Mr. Brown, I’ve asked you to stop arguing with me.”

“Well, Judge…I have a right to comment on anything in this case.”

“If I give you permission to talk.”

“We’re not interested in violence, your honor.”

“Well, Mr. Brown, I’m happy to hear that…From certain statements you’ve been making in public, I wonder…”

“Even Chicano Lawyers have freedom of speech, Judge.”

“Not when they’re contemptuous of this court…I don’t want to hear any more of your sass, Brown…Do you understand that?”

“I went to school.”

“But they didn’t teach you that in school, did they?” …I want you to leave the court now and when you come in tomorrow, I want you to be dressed properly.”

“What do you mean?” I shout.

“Your tie is hanging…Your shirt is unbuttoned.”

“It’s my neck, sir. My neck is too fat.”

“Just see to it that you wear something appropriate.”

“It must be this shirt, Judge. It’s from Acapulco.”

“Mr. Brown, you’re sassing me again.”

“I’m sorry, Judge. I’ve had trouble with fat necks…”

“If you don’t shut up I’ll throw you in the clink right now!”

“You don’t have to point your finger at me, Judge. I’m not a little kid. And you’re not my father.”

“For that remark, I hereby order you to spend the next two days and nights in the county jail…Mr. Christopulos, take Mr. Brown into custody.”

“Your intimidations aren’t going to work, Judge. I’m going to keep talking so long as I think it’s going to help my clients.”

“And that’s where you’re confused…You’re not helping your clients with all this smart talk. Now take him away.”

(pgs.222-23)

While Acosta’s courtroom antics are a constant source of humor to him and his contingent, they do nothing to help his case, and one must wonder how things may might been different had he toned it down a bit. The truth, though, is these actions were merely his way of not going off the deep-end altogether; concessions to make the process more palatable for him. It is also noted he felt this was part of his public persona. To change would be seen as “selling out.”

The day finally comes when he gets to question Judge Older on the stand — the Manson Judge — and accordingly, “Charlies Girls” are there in full force. Acosta writes that Older is the toughest Judge of them all “no pussy-assed liberal. Not even a conservative with a conscience. He’s just like me, a fanatic who believes he’s always right. And if you don’t like it, motherfucker, do something about it. He stares me straight in the face.” Acosta recounts his tense examination of him:

“Is your name Charles Older?”

“Mr. Brown,” Alacran interrupts, “this court may take judicial notice that the witness is Judge Older. Proceed.”

“Will the court please order the witness to answer the question?”

“No. Proceed.”

“Are you a judge?”

“Mr. Brown,” Alacran interrupts. “Let’s proceed to the main issue…The record will note that it is now five-fifteen p.m. and we have granted Judge Older’s request that his appearance be postponed until now because of his crowded calendar…Proceed.”

“I object to the court’s interruption of my examination of this witness.”

“Proceed.”

“Isn’t it a fact that you are a white Caucasian?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Will the court please instruct the witness to answer the question?”

Alacran looks at me. He folds his hands in front of him and then slightly turns, with a half-bent shoulder, toward the witness stand.

“Uh, Judge Older…Justice Krause has issued an order that states, in effect, that the racial background of the jury selector is one possible area of inquiry.”

“I haven’t read it,” Older growls.

“Uh, Mr. Brown, let’s proceed to another area.”

“Will the court please instruct this witness to answer the question?”

“Proceed.”

“Isn’t it a fact that all your nominees to the Grand Jury are white Caucasians?”

“I don’t see what that has to do with their qualifications.”

I say nothing and look at Judge Alacran.

“Objection, your honor.”

It is Torrez. He hasn’t spoken one word in court for the past three weeks. It finally got to him, too. He has heard the same lies as I have heard. So what now?

“Mr. Brown is cross-examining his own witness.”

“I agree Mr. Torrez. I was wondering if you were going to object…The court on its own motion rules that the witness belongs to Mr. Brown…Please limit yourself to direct examination. Proceed.”

“But this man is obviously hostile to the defense.”

“Objection, your honor…There’s been no showing that Judge Older is hostile to anything.”

“I most certainly am not hostile to this case, Fred,” Older butts in from the witness stand. They both belong to the same tennis club.

“Objection, your honor!” I shout. “Will the court instruct the witness to limit his comments to answering my questions?”

“Mr. Brown!” Alacran shouts. “You will treat this witness, and every witness before my court, with respect.”

“I was entering a proper objection…”

“And you will not interrupt me…Now let’s proceed.”

“Are you a Protestant?”

“I’m certainly not going to answer that question.”

“Your honor?” I say meekly.

“Judge Older…Justice Krause also said that religion of the nominators, that’s us…We are obligated to give that information in this motion.”

“But it is an invasion of my privacy…And under the Constitution, I don’t think Krause can do that.”

“Your honor…Will you please tell this witness not to give legal argument?”

“Listen, Mr. Brown, you can ask all you want, but I’m not going…”

“Uh, Judge Older?” Alacran says. “Please, let’s not argue with counsel…Now proceed to another question.”

“Do you know what a hippie is?”

“Objection, your honor!” Torrez shouts. He seems to be coming back to life.

“What can that have to do with this motion, Mr. Brown?”

“Under the ruling, we have a right to inquire into the type of persons excluded…if there is such a type.”

“And can you tell me what a hippie is?” Alacran says to me.

“Well…I’d say this court is filled with them.”

“Where?”

“A hippie is like a cockroach. So are the Beatniks. So are the Chicanos. We’re all around, Judge. And Judges do not pick us to serve on Grand Juries.”

“Mr. Brown…You will please confine yourself to legal arguments in my courtroom…Continue.”

“Have you ever nominated a person under thirty to serve on the Grand Jury?”

“I don’t know any that are qualified.”

“How about blacks?”

“If you mean Negro-Americans…no. I don’t know any.”

“You don’t know any that are qualified? Or you don’t know any people of that race?”

“I’ve already answered that question.”

“What a joke!”

“Who said that?” Alacran growls. He is flashing green eyes over my head toward the rear. It sounded like a girl’s voice.

(ibid, pgs.225-28)

At this point, Alacran stops the proceedings and clears the courtroom. The person who caused the stoppage being Mary Brunner, the Manson follower who’s associated with Acosta.

“Will you have more questions, Mr. Brown?”

“Not that you’ll permit me to ask…And it’s no use anyway, he’s not going to answer anything.”

“The witness is excused, the court is adjourned for the day.”

And he hurries off the bench and follows Older into his chambers.

(ibid, p.229)

The deeper Acosta gets into the process of subpoenaing the judges, the more he realizes it’s probably just a ploy for the media to show that the court has “transparency” regarding its operations. There is also the fact it’s nearly impossible to “prove beyond a reasonable doubt” that anybody is racist unless they want to be portrayed as such. Judges do not want to, and publicly cannot be, particularly within the confines of a legal proceeding. The court is merely letting Acosta spin his wheels — despite the fact certain individuals are obviously racist to anyone willing to read between the lines. Judge Older’s hostility towards Acosta casts him in a guilty light regarding being racist, yet he is untouchable for Acosta. Frustrated with this fact, Acosta grows angrier, causing him to say things Alacran will only hold him in contempt for, and off to jail he goes.

Once the jury is selected and the trial starts, many things come to light which were previously unknown to Acosta and the movement. Most importantly, the fact they’d been infiltrated by undercover spies. This factors prominently into the events surrounding the death of Ruben Salazar, particularly regarding one undercover agent named Fernando Sumaya, who had been assigned to breech the Chicano Militants straight out of graduating from the academy. Sumaya had been in close with the militants for six months up until the day of the riot. His testimony gives insight into the inner-workings of the movement, but most importantly it ties him to the inner-workings of the death of Ruben Salazar. He begins his testimony with the events the night before the Moratorium:

*Gloria Arellanes, Bob Acosta (undercover Sheriff) Richard Diaz, David Sanchez & others. Brown Beret March. Photo Courtesy of Cal State LA Special Collections.*

“That Friday night I went to a meeting at a house on Sixth Street.”

“Whose house was that?” Torrez asks. I have been waiting six months for this bombshell.

“At the home of Mr. Brown.”

“Mr. Buffalo Z. Brown? The attorney for the defendants?”

“Yes sir…But he wasn’t there.”

“Who was at the meeting?”

“All the defendants and about ten other people whose names I don’t know.”

“And what was said?”

“They were talking about the march and demonstration for the next day.”

“Was there any talk of violence?”

“The defendant they call Waterbuffalo, his real name is Ralph Gomez, he wanted to know if Corky carried a gun.”

“What did Mr. Gonzales say?”

“He said that he, personally didn’t carry one; but he had friends who did.”

“Did you see any weapons in the house that night?”

“Yes, sir. The place was loaded. There were all kinds of guns and rifles. Dynamite…flares…Gasoline, everything.”

“Now, on the day in question, did you see any acts of violence committed by any defendant?”

“After the police started shooting the tear gas, I ran with Ralph and Richard, they call him Bullwinkle, and we went and threw some firebombs.”

“You saw both defendants throwing firebombs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where?”

“First at the Safeway store on Fourth Street…then later at the Bank of America on Broadway Avenue…They threw three at each place.”

“No further questions.”

I begin with a few warm-ups:

“Officer Sumaya, did you find any communists in the organization you were sent to infiltrate?”

“At their meetings they read stuff by Che and some other communists. But no, I don’t think they were.”

“Didn’t you hang around with them like a carnal? Wasn’t your name Frisco at the time?”

“Heh, heh…Well, that’s what the guys called me.”

“And you’d worked with Sergeant Abel Armas of the SOC Squad, right?”

“Yes, sir. He is my superior.”

“And you told him of the plans of the CMs the night before the march?”

“Yes, sir. I called and told him that the guys planned to start a riot.”

“And were you given any special instructions for that day?”

“I was just told to stay with them, report in once in a while…and not to break my cover.”

“Even if you saw felonies being committed, you were not to interfere, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Even if it meant death?”

“I guess I would have stopped it if someone was going to get killed.”

“Didn’t you in fact see someone killed?”

“Not when I was with the defendants.”

“Didn’t you in fact see Roland Zanzibar have his head blown open with a tear gas projectile?”

“Objection, your honor!”

“Yes, please come to the bench, counsel.”

We walk up to the bench to talk to Alacran.

“Mr. Brown, do you want to open up that line?”

Torrez says, “I hope he does.”

“The murder of Zanzibar is crucial to our defense.”

“Proceed, please.”

“Now, Officer…You did, in fact see the killing of a person on that day, didn’t you?”

“No. I was close, but I didn’t see it.”

“You were at the Silver Dollar Bar on the afternoon that tear gas was fired into the place, is that correct?”

“Yes. I’d gone in there to get something to drink.”

“Were you familiar with any of the persons who were in there?”

“I had seen Mr. Zanzibar before. And I knew that the three men with him were employees of KMEX.”

“Were they already there when you arrived?”

“Yes. They were at the bar.”

“Didn’t you talk to them?”

“I, uh…I think I said hello.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I…went to the toilet.”

“And then you made a phone call, didn’t you?”

“I don’t remember. It’s been a long time.”

“Didn’t you in fact, call your superior, Sergeant Armas?”

“Well, I called him several times that afternoon…There was such commotion…I don’t know if I called him from in there.”

“All right…What happened after the visit to the bathroom.”

“I went back in the bar and had a drink…”

“Yes…Then what happened?”

“I saw Mr. Restrepo, one of the television reporters with Mr. Zanzibar…I saw him talking to Roland and then I saw a…a can of tear gas on the floor.”

“Next to the jukebox?”

“Yes…and then I heard a shot.”

“Did you see where it came from?”

“From the door…the curtain was partly open…”

“Did you see anyone at the door?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I think his name is Wilson.”

“Don’t you know him?”

“I didn’t at the time…I’d been working undercover since I’d become a policeman. I only talked to Armas. He was the only one who knew I was a police officer.”

“What did you see after you saw Wilson fire into the bar?”

“I hit the deck?”

“You did not, by any chance, notice the bleeding body of Zanzibar on the floor a yard away?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I got up and ran out.”

“Which way did you go?”

“The back door was open. I just ran out into the alley.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I went back to the CM office.”

“Didn’t you make any calls before getting back?”

“Oh yes. I think I called Armas.”

“What did you tell him?”

“What I’d seen in the bar.”

“Did he give you any special instructions?”

“No. He just said to go look for the CMs.”

“Now, during the time you were in the bar…did you see anyone with a gun or weapon of any kind?”

“No.”

“And you are certain that you didn’t report a person with a gun?” You didn’t call the police or Sheriff to report an incident at the bar prior to your exiting?”

“Not that I remember.”

“In other words, you might have done it?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t remember.”

“But you do remember throwing bombs with Waterbuffalo and Bullwinkle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You threw some, too?”

“No sir. I just watched them do it.”

“And did you see where they prepared them?”

“They said they got them from your house, sir.”

“This is the house on Sixth Street? Where you saw all the arms and ammunition?”

“Yes, sir. And the dynamite, too.”

“Did you report that to your superiors?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time did you tell them what you’d seen?”

“Early in the morning, before the march.”

“And you had reason to believe that some of the persons present were going to use those weapons during the demonstration?”

“That’s what they said.”

“And did you make any attempt to stop them?”

“I was told not to break my cover.”

“Did any police make an attempt to stop them?”

“I guess it was too late by the time they got there.”

“Oh, did they go to my house?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I have no more questions of this lying spy.”

“Objection!”

“Contempt, Mr. Brown!”

“Ah, just put it on my tab.”

(ibid, pgs.235-39)

Was Sumaya’s call to Sergeant Armas the action that ensured the murder of Ruben Salazar? Was he the connecting dot which gave away Salazar’s exact location? The innuendo in Thompson’s Strange Rumblings in Aztlan becomes fleshed out in the testimony of those involved later in the courtroom. Acosta completely believes in their guilt, but once again it’s difficult to prove something beyond a reasonable doubt, particularly if there is a deep conspiracy in place. Next on the stand is officer Tom Wilson, a twenty-year veteran with experience in the gang wars of East L.A. and is the one who fired the projectile which killed Salazar that day. His testimony is as follows:

“We received a call from an unidentified source at approximately sixteen-thirty hours on 29 August. We were instructed to proceed to the area of the Silver Dollar Bar on Whittier Boulevard. Upon our arrival we were confronted with a mob of rioters. Fire engines blocked all the streets. The buildings next store and across the street were in flames, smoke was shooting up and there was general commotion.”

“How many of you were there?” Torrez asks.

“I don’t remember.”

“What did you do?”

“We got out of our cars and called out to the persons inside the bar. We told them to come out with their hands in the air. When they refused to come out, I fired into the bar.”

“Did anyone give you specific instructions when to fire?”

“We had general orders to fire when we thought it necessary to protect life and property.”

“Could you see inside the bar?”

“No, sir. A curtain hung across the door.”

“Did you know who was in there?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you know how many persons were inside?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you know that certain personnel with television station KMEX were inside?”

“No, sir.”

“Why then, did you fire?”

“Because we had information that a man with a gun was inside.”

“And is it common to fire a bazooka into a building with people inside?”

“It seemed reasonable to me.”

“You were the head of your squad at the time?”

“I was senior officer at the time, yes, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Wilson,” Torrez says. He starts to walk back to his table, but suddenly turns around. “One last question.” He looks at me with his sneaky eyes. “If you would have wanted to murder anyone, would you be likely to do it by shooting a tear gas projectile through a curtain which made it impossible for you to see your victim?” Both he and Alacran wait for me to come up screaming. But all the idiot has done is to open the subject for my cross-examination. I smile delightedly.

“No, sir,” lies Wilson.

It is now my turn at bat: Sergeant Wilson, isn’t the weapon you fired supposed to be used only in a situation where a suspect has barricaded himself behind walls?”

“Yes, sir. That’s what the instructions read.”

“Do you consider a curtain a barricade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you fire into an open door?”

“I didn’t know the door was open.”

“You didn’t see the curtain swinging, how should I put it…swinging breezily in an open doorway?”

“I didn’t see it like that, no.”

“And the back door? Didn’t you know it was open?”

“No sir. I didn’t know. I wasn’t familiar with the building.”

“Not familiar? Isn’t it true that in twenty years of police work you had been in that bar many times?”

“Well…now and again.”

“And you have sworn that you had no knowledge that Roland Zanzibar was inside the bar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I take it this means you did not receive a phone call from Officer Sumaya which pinpointed Roland Zanzibar at a table which your police training would allow you to hit regardless of any curtain…”

“Objection shouts Torrez, almost upsetting his table.

“Sustained!” shouts Alacran, but I am looking at the jury smugly. “Mr. Brown, you will not badger the witness!”

“All right, Sergeant Wilson, returning again to your testimony. You received information that a person inside had a gun. You did not receive any firing instructions about…”

“Objection!”

“Contempt!”

I still plough on.

“You were told it was a man?”

“I assumed it was a man.”

“You saw a woman coming out of the bar when you first got there, didn’t you?”

“I told some people coming out to move out of the way.”

“How did you know they weren’t the ones with the gun?”

“I had no way of telling either way.”

“So you just decided to blow the place up, didn’t matter who got hit, right?”

“I evaluated the situation, sir. We were in the middle of the bloodiest riot I’ve ever seen in my twenty years on the force. There had been lots of shooting all around that day. They went wild, beating up police officers, breaking and entering, looting and burning…If I misjudged the situation…I guess you could blame it on the circumstances.”

“Did you ever find a man with a gun inside?”

“One of the men who owned the bar had a rifle…And a man who owns the bakery next door, he had a gun.”

“Did you arrest either of them?”

“No, sir.”

“Why not?”

“They’re businessmen. They keep those weapons to protect their property. There’s a lot of strong arms around that neighborhood.”

“Did you check to see if they had licenses to carry those weapons?”

“I was of the opinion that those men needed those weapons to protect themselves and their property. You don’t need a license in a situation like that.”

(ibid. pgs. 239-42)

Next on the stand is Officer Valencia, the Officer who arrested Corky on the day of the Moratorium. He also is a Chicano who was raised in Tooner Flats, the gang-riddled part of East L.A. where most of Acosta’s cohort hails from. Apparently, he and his partner see a flatbed truck going down Whittier Boulevard with a group of about twenty-five people waving their arms from the side of the vehicle. As this is considered unsafe, he pulls the truck over. Inside the cab Corky Gonzales is seated between the driver and a woman called “Elena Lowrider.” Valencia claims at one point he saw Gonzales make a furtive move under the seat, so he pulls out his service revolver and orders them out. He then claims to have seen a gun fall out of Gonzales’ hand as he exits the vehicle, at which point Elena Lowrider yells out, “Liar!” The Judge immediately tells her to quiet down or be held in contempt. Valencia claims the order to arrest all the people in the truck was made by his superiors, that he only wrote up the report, but they were booked by them. Acosta asks if that is normal procedure, Valenica replies it is not, but as there were special circumstances that day due to the mass rioting, he had asked for help. It is revealed he listed Sergeant Armas and Chief Judd Davis on the report.

Of course, it’s odd the Chief of Police should be listed on a common arrest report, and consequentially Acosta is of the belief that Armas and Chief Davis are orchestrating things behind the scenes. To that end, he subpoenas Chief Davis to testify, and a couple months later they are back in court where Davis is to appear. Ironically, Acosta and Davis have a collegial history, as they co-taught a course in the Department of Religion at USC several years before called “Conflict in Urban Society.” Acosta claims in Revolt that the first day of class the primarily WASP students booed him off the stage, yet by the end of the semester, after hearing all the details of his cases, on the last day of school it was Davis who was booed. Davis became Chief after Chief Reddin quit LAPD in May of 1969 to become a news commentator, going on to give technical advice for the TV show Dragnet as well as Adam 12 (even having a cameo role), he was replaced by interim Chief Roger E. Murdock for several months before Mayor Yorty appoints Judd (Ed) Davis to the position. Upon hearing he had been appointed Acosta sent him a note saying, “I hope you remember that classroom discussion is protected by the First Amendment…from one chief to another…Zeta.” To which Davis purportedly replies, “Dear Buff, I know that deep down inside you are a good man. I know that someday you and I will both be on the same side…Chief Davis.” Acosta describes Davis as a “a big Irish cop that teaches Sunday school,” and when he greets him that day, he says, “Hi Judd,” to which Judge Alacran immediately says, “Mr. Brown! You’ll address the witness with the proper respect!” Davis replies he doesn’t mind, saying he and Acosta used to teach school together. Acosta adds that between he and Davis, “Our smiles and good humor are the professional touch of deadly enemies.” Accordingly, after the initial ‘hello’ Acosta dispenses with the pleasantries and gets right into his questioning of the witness:

“Now Chief…You’re aware of the incident which surrounds this prosecution, are you not?”

“I’ve kept up…it’s very important.”

“And when did you first hear of the defendant Gonzales in connection with the arrest of August 29?”

“That was the day of the Chicano riots, correct?”

“Yes sir. The day the police murdered…”

“Mr. Brown! The judge shouts at me.

“I’m sorry. Your honor, I couldn’t resist.”

“Proceed.”

“…I heard about you first, Brown.”

“In connection with his arrest?”

“Yes…My men told me about the incident at the jail.

…You should be more careful.”

“Mr. Brown…uh, come up to the bench.”

“Mr. Brown…Where are you going with this witness?”

“The chief is referring to an incident at the jail after the arrest of Mr. Gonzales. I went over to visit him…”

“Just a minute, your honor…” Torrez buts in. “What happened after the arrest is irrelevant.”

“Well, let’s hear what it is first…Then I’ll decide if the jury should hear it. Mr. Brown?”

“I went to the East LA Sheriff’s Substation to visit my client. I’d just gotten off the plane a few hours before. At the station, three men with rifles stopped me from entering the station. We had a few words. They ordered me at gunpoint to leave the area. They said a curfew had been ordered. I showed them my bar card and they pointed their rifles in my face. So I left.”

“And what does that prove?”

“That Davis knew I was hooked up with Gonzales as well as Zanzibar.”

“So what? It’s a matter of public record that you and your client belong to similar organizations. And, in fact, Mr. Zanzibar had interviewed you many times…Isn’t that so?”

“Yes sir…And that’s exactly why they first ordered the death of Zanzibar…He talked too much. And specifically because they knew he had photographs of what really happened that day back at the park. He had those films with him at the moment he was killed. They were never recovered.”

“Wait a minute. You’re losing me.”

“Me, too, your honor,” Torrez says.

“I’m saying…that the motive for the death of Zanzibar was the fear that he’d expose the true facts of that day. …He could show who started the riot and document some of the specific acts of brutality…And…”

“But his death is not the issue here…It may be slightly circumstantial evidence of the fact of a riot…but we can’t go into the causes of his death…Besides, the Coroner’s jury already disposed of that issue, didn’t it?”

“Their verdict of justifiable homicide is mere opinion as well as hearsay,” I say.

“Well, I could argue…Anyway, Mr. Brown, I am not going to allow another public airing of the causes of the riots or the causes of the death of Zanzibar…Let’s proceed.”

“But we cannot establish our defense without it.”

“Let’s proceed. I’ve ruled.”

“I’d like to make an offer of proof.”

“I’d offer to prove…that if Davis were permitted to testify, he’d say that the decision to book Gonzales on felony conspiracy charges was motivated by the fact that the cops had murdered Zanzibar.”

“The question,” says Torrez, “is so absurd. I have no objection to Brown making a monkey out of himself.”

We march back to our tables.

“Chief, what motivated you to book Gonzales on a felony charge?”

“I didn’t make that decision. I left it up to the men in the field.”

“But you were asked about it?”

“There’s discussion about a lot of things, Mr. Brown. We even talk about you.”

“I’ll bet…What was said, and by whom?”

Judd Davis looks at Judge Alacran. Fred looks at me. Am I nuts? I smile and wait for the answer.

“Well…we had information that your house was being used to store weapons and dynamite…”

“Go ahead, Chief.”

“We knew that you were the reputed mastermind…Our information had led us to believe that you were the person primarily responsible for all the bombings, the burnings…That is, that you were the brains behind the operation.”

“And who told you that?”

“Officer Sumaya, for one We have other informants.”

“And what did they tell you?”

“They told us quite a story…Do you want to hear all of it?”

“I’d only like to hear the parts that are relevant to this case, Chief Davis,” Alacran says.

“Well…our information is that you directed the bombings during the riots.”

“From Acapulco?”

“No, not the riot of the twenty-ninth.”

“Which one?”

“Well…they say that you’ve been the leader ever since you got kicked out of the inquest.”

“You mean the inquest into the death of Zanzibar?”

“They say that ever since then, you have been directing the activities of the Chicano Liberation Front.”

…So I laugh. I smile. “Now, Chief…Tell me…Do you believe those stories your undercover spies tell you? I mean, do you really believe that I am the leader of those persons who are throwing firebombs every other day at banks and schools and government offices?”

Judd Davis looks at me and purses his wet fat lips. “You know, Brown…I told them you and I both taught in the Department of Religion at USC…I told them you used to be a Baptist Preacher. I told them…I listened to you myself for almost a year. I heard you drive those innocent kids up the wall with all your talk of revolution…And, you know, that’s the problem. You people say things that sound well, like radical. But it’s really those swimming-pool communists that do most harm…Those people who tell the poor people to take up arms from out of their comfortable homes in Beverly Hills…”

“Do you think I’m telling people to pick up the gun?” Come on, Davis!”

“No…I told them that you probably just let them use your house…I can’t say that I have any hard information that you actually direct people to commit acts of violence.”

“Do you think that Corky did?”

“Well…Officer Sumaya says not.”

“Objection, your honor!” Torrez shouts.

“Yes, we’ve already heard from that witness.”

“Do you know who the man was that called in reporting that there was a man with a gun inside the Silver Dollar?”

“No, sir.”

“Isn’t it a fact that Wilson killed Zanzibar because you felt he knew too much?” The jury is leaning forward.

Judd Davis looks me straight in the eye. “That’s no more true than the allegation that you’re personally ordering the bombing of our government buildings…You’re getting paranoid, Brown.”

“I have good reason for it, Chief.”

“If you two are finished,” Alacran says.”

“Yes, your honor…No more questions.”

(ibid, pgs. 242-49)

The preceding account is Acosta at his most incendiary. He has given up on mounting a traditional defense based on facts. From the outset, his lofty goal of subpoenaing judges to the end of establishing the entire legal system in Los Angeles is racist and biased was far-fetched. The odds of establishing such a precedent would have taken the assistance of the Supreme Court, coupled with political support across the board; and even then, it was more a dream than an attainable goal. The discussion in sidebar between Alacran, the D.A. Torrez and Acosta where Acosta says, “Yes sir…And that’s exactly why they first ordered the death of Zanzibar…He talked too much. And specifically because they knew he had photographs of what really happened that day back at the park. He had those films with him at the moment he was killed. They were never recovered,” would have been stricken from the record had it been heard outside the sidebar. It’s amazing Torrez didn’t seriously object later when Acosta point-blank asks Davis, “Isn’t it a fact that Wilson killed Zanzibar because you felt he knew too much?” A statement which seriously leads the witness, and draws its own conclusion. More than likely, these attempts by Acosta were done out of frustration from the full-frontal attack of the LAPD, the Sheriff’s, the District Attorney, the Supreme Court of California, and the political backing of City Hall. However, there’s no denying the grassroots support he had, as well as marginal support growing nationally, made him feel there was still something worth fighting for. Drawing on the appeal of a national base of support, Acosta invites Cesar Chavez to testify, more as a character witness for Corky, than as someone with pertinent knowledge of the matter at hand. Acosta knows that Corky and Cesar are “number one and two in the Nation of Aztlan,” writing he has brought him in “during this period of crisis for the entire Chicano movement.” Cesar being the hardened labor-leader he is; tempered by the fire of the times and veteran of stages big and small, is put on the stand without any preparation by Acosta, and doesn’t fail to impress:

“Mr. Chavez, will you please tell the jury of your acquaintance with the defendant Gonzales.”

“Yes…I’ve known Corky for eight years. I’ve met him at various places throughout the country during demonstrations against the war, in the struggle for justice of the black, the Chicano.”

“And do you know persons that have stated an opinion of him?”

“Yes.”

“And what is that opinion? What kind of reputation does he have?”

“They say he has a good one. He is an honest man.”

“Thank you. No further questions.”

I look toward Torrez. I know he will go for Cesar’s blood. And I’ve not prepared him as I do other witnesses. I just told him to name drop once in a while. The jury is staring at Cesar up on the stand. The court is hushed. His testimony, although it has nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of any defendant, has become crucial in our struggle for credibility.

Corky has already testified. He merely said that he had authorized his bodyguards to carry weapons to protect the women and children he brought with him from Denver. Louie testified that he carried the .22 blue-steel Beretta found in the cab of the truck but that he’d given it to Elena to carry in her purse. Elena has testified that she had it in her purse and that when she moved out of the cab, the purse fell open and the gun dropped out. She said that Corky knew nothing about it. And both Waterbuffalo and Bullwinkle have testified that they only drove around in Sumaya’s car during the riot. They said that he, the cop, wanted them to stop and throw firebombs along the way.

All of them…every single witness, both prosecution and defense…is lying. Or not telling the whole truth. The bastards know exactly what we have done and what we not have done. They know for a fact that Corky was not involved in any conspiracy, in any arson, in anything. And they know how and why Zanzibar was killed. But they have all told their own version of things as they would like them to be.

“Mr Chavez…You know Mr. Gonzales’ reputation in Denver?” Torrez asks.

“Yes, sir. I know many people in Denver.”

“And you say that he has a good reputation up there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, if I were to tell you that the Denver Police Department has a different opinion of him…would that affect your opinion?”

“Well…it could…But I don’t know any policemen in Denver, so I can’t say.”

“I see…Now if you heard that the Los Angeles Police Department had a poor opinion of Mr. Gonzales’ reputation for truth-telling… How would you feel about that?”

“I guess they do now, since the death of Zanzibar…but I don’t know any policemen around here. I’m from Delano.”

“And what if I were to tell you that the Delano police thought Mr. Gonzales had a bad reputation?”

“Oh, well that’s different…”

“Yes? How so?”

“It would affect my opinion quite a bit…You see, I know the Delano policemen…They’re a bunch of liars.”

Laughter in the court! Alacran yells and pounds for order.

“Any more questions, Mr. Torrez?”

“No.”

The witness is excused…Is this your last witness?

“The defense rests.”

(ibid. pgs. 249-52)

Fifteen days later, the jury comes back favorably for the defense: all are innocent of felonies. However, Corky is guilty of the gun possession charge, and the matter of racial discrimination in jury selection among the California courts is virtually ignored. The judicial fraternity closed in on itself and allowed Acosta to engage in his exercise in futility, knowing full well it would never amount to anything. In perhaps the most telling exchange between Acosta and Judge Alacran, Acosta attempts to address the issue of racial prejudice and the guilty verdict of Corky, and he is essentially waved off by Alacran and chided one last time:

“The sonofabitch refused to even listen to my motion for a new trial. He just laughed when I told him that he’d not yet made a ruling on the Grand Jury issue. He said, “Your motions are denied. Take it up on appeal.”

“But you know that the precedents say that a disparity of such proportion is prima facie, discriminatory.”

“Yes, Mr. Brown…But I believe those cases were politically motivated…I believe by the time this case gets up on appeal, if it does…I believe that the new Judges on the Supreme Court will rule my way.”

“But that isn’t the law of the land now…You are bound to rule according to present law…not anticipated future decisions by the Nixon court.”

“Ah, Mr. Brown, now you’re talking politics…You seem to confuse politics with law quite a bit…Is that what they taught you in law school? What kind of place did you learn to practice in as you do?”

And then he laughed. And then he sent Corky to jail for forty days and nights. In the usual gun possession case, the defendant is given perhaps a day or two in jail. I even got Gilbert off one time on a simple gun possession case — they’d found it in the glove box of the car —with a fifty-dollar fine. But because Corky is who he is and my client, the bastard gave him forty days.

(ibid, p.254)

The irony in Alacran telling Acosta, “You seem to confuse politics with law quite a bit” while knowing full well that the two are inextricably intertwined, and is a reality he takes full advantage of himself, shows the hostility towards not only Acosta, but toward the movement in general. Their tone and meaning harkening back to what Thompson wrote in Strange Rumblings in Aztlan regarding the findings in Ruben Salazar’s death inquest:

“This is the point they want to make. It is a local variation on the standard Mitchell-Agnew theme: Don’t fuck around, boy—and if you want to hang around with people who do, don’t be surprised when the bill comes due—whistling in through the curtains of some darkened barroom on a sunny afternoon when the cops decide to make an example of somebody.”

(Strange Rumblings in Aztlan, pgs. 250-251)

This would be the end of Acosta’s presence on the grand judicial stage. He will never have another case as big as this, or the other two mentioned in this piece. If we take Acosta at his word, he opts for the anarchist route after the legal way proves unfulfilling, dropping out of law altogether. He heads back out on the road in search of a way to cope with the world, writing down his story to make sense of it. Acosta has written he never wanted to be a lawyer, at one point saying “he’s the only lawyer who hates the law.” That much is true. Zeta Acosta, the Brown Buffalo, hated the law, but loved justice. It was in his attempt to reconcile the one with the other where he fell short; for this is a task unattainable to all. We oftentimes confuse justice with the law, forgetting the former is a concept based on what one thinks is fair and equal, the latter a process of rules and regulations benefitting a few and enforceable by politics and force.

Identity & Individuation: Reconciling the Past, Planning for the Future

“You are looking for a miracle, a leader who will do everything for us,” he once said. “It doesn’t happen. People have to do the work.” Elsewhere he said: Nothing changes until the individual changes.”

(Peter Matthiessen on Cesar Chavez, from Matthiessen’s, Sal Si Puedes: Escape If You Can. UC Press, 1969)

It is frequently recognized that the mere act of referring to oneself as “Chicano” can be a quixotic gesture; the meaning of the hyphenated terms in its description being the root of the problem. There is the “Mexican” component and the national definitions attributed to it, and conversely, the “American”; completely different matters. The two nations have been at odds since 1848 and their almost forgotten “war,” which created a previously unknown border between the two, and has remained a battlefront since its inception, with that battle now firmly ensconced in the conscious and subconscious of a people which existed on either side of it for millennia. In addition, the border has become a rallying cry for conservative militia-minded politicians appealing to xenophobic racists. Aside from these geographical and political ramifications of the border, for the Chicano, there is also the psychological problem of being “Mestizo,” that race born from the miscegenation of Cortez and Malinche, which contains the clash of values and worldview between the Native American and the European, yet to be reconciled. It is therefore true that when one refers to themselves as “Chicano” they admit to being neither “here,” nor “there,” but betwixt the two. This dilemma obviously creates its own set of problems, both socially and psychologically, and these are evident in the statistics regarding violence, poverty and education in the designated land of the Chicano.

Oscar Acosta refers to this dilemma in his Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, confirming the problem has been around since at least the Sixties:

“My single mistake has been to seek an identity with any one person or nation or with any part of history…What I see now, on this rainy day of January, 1968, what is clear to me after this sojourn is that I am neither a Mexican nor an American. I am neither Catholic, nor a Protestant. I am a Chicano by ancestry and a Brown Buffalo by choice.”

(The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, p.199.)

However, Acosta uses the term “Chicano” in a limited manner, not addressing the obvious schism within. He also goes on to refer to himself as “a Brown Buffalo by Choice,” a classification that further removes him from being Mexican, American, or even Chicano. It was his hope this term would catch on with other Chicanos, but it’s clear it was only associated with him and part of his persona. Acosta admits his father was a proud Indio from the mountains of Durango, yet it’s also known his mother was a typical Mexican-American of the time who opted for assimilation into Anglo society, viewing her Mexican roots as something less than her current American identity. This dichotomy is oftentimes the root of confusion in the offspring of such alliances, and it obviously affected Acosta in ways he struggled with into adulthood.

As a child in Riverbank, Acosta recounts his “Okie buddies” referred to him as “Jigaboo,” due to the dark brown color he would attain in summertime, though he wrote this slight off to the fact that in the San Joaquin Valley of the 50’s, the title was meant to be a “means of classification,” adding that “Everyone in the Valley considers skin color to be of ultimate importance. The tone of one’s pigmentation is the fastest and surest way of determining exactly who one is.” The first love of his life, an Anglo girl he dated in high school was forced to stop seeing him by her stepfather, a Deacon in the Baptist Church from Arkansas who had tried to rape her, and who apparently hated Mexicans more than he hated himself. The episode affected Acosta deeply, and it’s evident the feelings of shame and injustice followed him throughout his life.

If, indeed “pigmentation was the fastest and surest way of determining exactly who one is” in the black and white world of the 50’s, the segregated nature of society was a fait accompli. This, of course was also reflected in manners and laws, written and unwritten, which ruled the day. Under these circumstances, the act of referring to oneself as “American” when obviously of Mexican descent often proved to be an exercise in futility, for, while one might say one thing, the rule of pigmentation often disqualified the statement from being true, unless it pertained to applying for military service. So, despite the quandary of the term “Chicano,” the reality is that the term was a welcome addition to a repressive reality. The term was created as a means of self-survival for a group of people caught up in the past and hoping for the future.

During the “Tooner Flats Seven” case, when Acosta was trying to attack the California Supreme Court as a racist institution, he attempted to establish racism against Chicanos by first defining what being a “Chicano” meant. To that end, he brought Dr. Joan Moore to the stand, an Associate Professor at USC whose ground-breaking book The Mexican-American People: The Nation’s Second Largest Minority (1970) brought to light and defined the problems endemic in East LA. Dr. Moore was an extremely liberal-minded Educator sympathetic to the Chicano cause, and took the stand that day with her fist raised in the “power salute” of the militant groups of the time. However shows of support like this ultimately backfired on her, as sometime later Dr. Moore was denied tenure at USC for her affiliation with those groups deemed “dangerous” for that time.

However, her perfunctory answers to Acosta’s questions that day in court stand as one of the most complete and thorough definitions of what it means to be “Chicano”:

“Doctor Moore…Is there a class of persons known as Chicanos? And, if so, what are the peculiar characteristics that make up the class? If any?...”

“Oh, of course. Chicanos are as definable as, say an Afro-American, or black person. And Chicanos certainly have more definable characteristics than the so-called Anglo, or white Caucasian.”

“What’s that, Doctor?”

“Objection, your honor! Torrez shouts.

“Overruled. Proceed.”

“The WASP, or White-Anglo-Saxon-Protestant, is the common definition…but that also includes persons from the European countries as well as persons from Iceland and Australia.”

“Who, then, are the so-called Chicanos?”

“First of all, the name is relatively new. It’s been used throughout the years to refer to persons whose ancestors were native to this continent and whose last names are Spanish, or Spanish-sounding. Originally, it referred to a poor immigrant from Mexico, a mexicano, shortened by slang to chicano.”

“Are you familiar with the names of the defendants?”

“Yes.”

“Are you familiar with the defendants personally?”

“Some of them.”

“Do you have an opinion as to their classification?”

“If you mean racial-ethnic classification…Yes, I do.”

“Can you describe their peer group?”

“They call themselves Chicanos rather than Mexicans or Mexican-Americans…Most of them are Catholic. Most of them speak some Spanish. Most of them have had a relative in prison. Most of them have parents or grandparents who were born south of the border.”

“And what do they consider themselves to be in terms of citizenship?”

“Objection.”

“Overruled. Please proceed.”

“Unlike the black American who cannot return to Africa, the mother country, the Chicano is within his own mother country. The international border at Jaurez, at Tijuana, at Nogales, at Laredo…these lines are but reminders to the Chicanos of what their grandparents did to them…It was their own presidents, their own generals, who sold both the land and the people thereon to the United States Government for something like sixteen million dollars.”

(ibid., pgs. 219-220)

At this point Judge Alacran jumps in, wanting to know what the point was in that line of questioning, saying, “What if we are the descendants of the prior possessors of the land? Are you saying that because the treaties between this government and the Mexican government were broken —assuming they were—are you saying that we, that is the Mexican-American, is not subject to the jurisdiction of this court?” Given Judge Alacran’s statement, it’s evident how far apart the degrees of separation between Alacran’s and Acosta’s views on the issue of race and identity are, though both are technically Mexican-American; this also speaks to the wide variations in thought and attitude between the self-described “Chicano” and one who oftentimes begrudgingly refers to themselves as “Mexican American.” While Alacran attempts to belittle the line of questioning as irresponsible, Acosta deftly brings it back under the scope of legality by responding, “No, your honor…I’d like to argue that position some day before the United Nations…but for now, we are claiming the rights to citizenship under the United States Constitution as well as the right to equal protection under its laws…”

These are very important points which underlie the key causes in the movement, essentially the basic rights pertaining to citizenship and equal protection under the laws of the Constitution. The struggle for these basic rights had been transpiring in the dark until the Chicano movement started making noise, demanding they be brought to light.

One night, shortly after the appeal of the verdict in the trial of the St. Basil Twenty-One, and in the heat of Acosta’s run for Sheriff, with the presence of the movement at an all-time high, the glitterati of Hollywood and the high-profile politicians came out to the Sports Arena on the USC Campus, where Acosta and Chief Davis had once co-taught their class. Acosta calls the assembled there that night, “The old-timers who have hidden behind their grass skirts, the ones with the mustaches, with the broken accents, the Chile Charlie types, the Sancho Panzas of America, los tontos, sidekicks of Zorro…The ones who have hidden for so long, those who have not spoken up for the two years we have been at war.”

His disdain for them; for all who have not come out in support for the cause is evident, though Acosta seems to forget that everyone must come to their own epiphany in their own time — as he did — and they must do so on their own terms. Still, the magic of the night is inspiring, with none other than Anthony Quinn — perhaps the most famous Mexican-American of them all — acting as a sort of master of ceremonies. He takes the stage mere feet away from where Acosta sits in the front row and says:

“Ladies and gentleman…Señores and señoras…Brothers, hermanos and fellow Mexican-Americans… This is a historic moment…We are ten-thousand strong tonight. It is the first time we have publicly come out…Many of us have been in the aisles for years. We’ve been backstage, or looking at the television set while so many of you have been on the firing line…Tonight is just a beginning. We have formed an organization called the Mexican-American Organization. We intend to support all Mexican-American candidates for office…Not just for this campaign, but for all of them. We have dedicated ourselves to involvement with our own people. We who have reaped the rewards of this society because we are Mexican-Americans and have hidden in our anonymity, now we come out and publicly declare that we are of Mexican-American ancestry; that we are, in truth and fact, and proudly so: Mexican American!”

(ibid. pgs. 168-69)

Going one step further than Quinn, Vikki Carr (Florencia Vicenta de Casillas-Martinez Cardona), who was born in El Paso, Texas and raised in the San Gabriel Valley of California takes the stage, and in her fiery manner whips the crowd up, as related by Acosta in Revolt:

“A short lady comes on stage in a swirl of colors, in a rainbow dress from the mountains of Michoacan, where the men pack guns and the women make cheese, from the land of the bloody Tarascans who never signed a peace treaty with the Spanish invaders.

She takes the mike and Quinn fades into the blackness.

She tells us she too is from East LA… “And I’m gonna say right off even though some of you might not like it…Soy Chicana… I am a Chicano and proud of it.” She tells jokes about growing up in Tooner flats. She sings and makes us melt and tells us how she puts hot sauce on her bagels.

When she finishes the clapping is soft and slow at first. Then it builds up and up, faster and faster, harder and harder, faster-harder-faster-harder, until we are drowned in a sea of madness. Into the night ripples our hysteria.”

(ibid. pg. 173)

While Carr exhibited the sort of exuberance and pride which would bolster her career, extending it to present-day by releasing multiple albums in Spanish, and assuring her presence as a cross-over multicultural star, Quinn took a more cautionary approach on stage that night, perhaps displaying a generational divide regarding identity. Quinn was born in 1915 in Mexico, smack-dab in the middle of the Mexican Revolution, Carr, in 1940, and part of a generation seeking to assimilate into America, yet still defined as “Mexican,” if for no other reason than the segregation laws in effect during that period. In any event, Quinn would go on to further expound on the Mexican-American dilemma experienced not only by him, but by many of that time by stating:

“You know, all my life, all my professional life, I have fought the battle of…I have been against nationalism from my earliest days. My father was Irish and my mother was Mexican…They would both agree with those backstage who would have me call myself a Mexican-American. …And I have called myself that all my life…I have acted every part, every race, every religion…I’ve been Japanese, Italian, Pole, White, Black and Brown…And yet, I feel like a Chicano tonight…Yes I feel like those guys up there who were just shouting for El Zeta…whoever he may be… I feel like I’d like to feel like I think he must be feeling…Heh, heh, I guess I’m a little confused…Anyway, to hell with it, here goes a little speech which some Indian Chief gave before Congress around 1790…”

“…And now, my White Father, you would have us leave our homes on the range, in the mountains and near the streams where we have hunted and fished for so many moons…And you whom we welcomed and fed, now you would enclose us in a land that is unknown to us, a land without the buffaloes which we have learned to live upon. …You would put us in a corner, in a corral surrounded by wire with iron pricks, you call it a reservation…as if we were criminals to be caged under a lock…”

(ibid. pgs. 174-75)

Quinn’s affiliating the Mexican-American experience with that of Native Americans is a salient point. For, there can be no denying that this struggle is part of the “Mexican” experience on either side of the border; going back to Cortez and the Conquistadores. Oftentimes we forget that the term “Native American” applies to nations and peoples across a border instituted in only 1848. The history of the nations and “tribes” of the Southwest in particular, are rife with records of assimilating peoples from the south and of nations whose territories spanned across the modern border. Even today in the Pueblos of New Mexico and Arizona, there are still two “Houses,” or groups of clans. The “Winter” People, or clans, part of the pueblo since time immemorial, and the “Summer” houses, later arrivals of groups from Mexico, generally, who, for one reason or another were displaced and looking for a home. Once they demonstrated their worth to the Pueblo they would be assimilated and considered part of the group.

The Chicano movement somewhat picked up on the Indio nature of their existence, yet chose to affix their identity to a sort of pan-Aztecan history, in the process bypassing a wealth of history and knowledge which might have further closed the gap between their movement and that of Native Americans of the time, i.e., while the proud history of the Aztecs may have been the central theme in the nascent Chicano movement, due to their accomplishments and continued presence in modern populations; the fact is the Aztecs themselves were once perceived as the “conquerors” by other Native Americans. The disdain felt towards them part of what led to their eventual downfall. Native Americans south of the border were, and are looked down upon by colonizers, just as their northern counterparts. This battle was unfortunately overlooked by the movement, and in the process, they lost out on valuable means of identification and pride which could have helped to further insinuate themselves into the fabric of time and ally with Native American causes.

However, on that night at the Sports Arena, Acosta informs us there was only exuberant warmth in hearing that all the vatos locos, Chicano Militants and community organizers; the downtrodden and repressed present were all tied in some way to the stars of Hollywood; to the legends of music and film; they were one of them. Quinn is so touched by being able to make his public admission on his true identity, and his feeling for his people, he is crying onstage. Sweating and exhausted he stands with head bowed at the end while the roof is blown off with the deafening roar of a crowd lost in rapture.

With nights like that, it seems implausible to think that soon thereafter the whole thing would come crashing down; the tide turned irrevocably against the movement. Yet, even with gatherings like this, which raised the profile of the Chicano movement locally and nationally, the growing pains and enhanced spotlight would soon display the cracks in the foundation. While these faults can’t be attributed to any one person, it is safe to say that Oscar Acosta embodied many of these shortcomings in his own psyche. He did not purposefully act with malice or forethought, but was more a victim of his time and place. And while he was just one example of what was wrong, he was a formidable force in what would exacerbate the situation.

Abby Aguirre’s aforementioned New Yorker piece touches on this when she attempts to define Acosta by giving an account of his language and attitudes in his Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo:

“Gender and sexuality were also features of the caste system. “It seemed that the sole purpose of childhood was to train boys how to be men,” he writes. “We were supposed to talk like un hombre, walk like a man, act like a man and think like a man.” As with the book’s racial animus, Acosta exhibits a degree of self-awareness on the subject, but there is a disturbing thread of misogyny and homophobia throughout the novel nonetheless. Women are “broads” and “hussies,” objects to be subjugated; at one point, he writes of a former girlfriend, “I no longer cried myself to sleep thinking of her. I’d even gotten to the point where I no longer fantasized about stabbing her with a butcher knife, then raping the shit out of her while she begged for forgiveness.” When a man offers to light his cigarette at a bar, the narrator says, “I simply nod, for I have already noticed the short distance between his right and left eyes. It is my secret way of detecting fags.”

By today’s standards, Acosta’s behavior would be far less tolerated, his statements losing him respect across great swaths of the population. However, we should not lose sight of the fact that in the time he was operating, homophobia and repressive attitudes toward women were commonplace. Acosta is also correct in the role machismo plays in the life of young Mexican-American males. The expectations for young men were (and oftentimes still are) rooted in misogyny and an oftentimes violent attitude which is considered “masculine.” These shortcomings also applied to the greater Chicano movement and this was definitely the case with the more militant Chicano groups, such as the Brown Berets.

One of the key female members of that group, Gloria Arellanes, recounts in a 2020 L.A. Times piece by Vanessa Martinez and Julia Barajas, The Chicana Revolt: The Women of the Brown Berets — Las Adelitas de Aztlán — break free and form their own movement, that the tension between the sexes within the movement began somewhat early, and while the women saw themselves as counterparts to those Adelitas, the female fighters of the Mexican Revolution who bore arms and fought side by side with the men, their Brown Beret male counterparts oftentimes kept them out of the spotlight, having them focus more on administrative duties and grunt work. For a short period of time, this worked for Arellanes, who, through the Berets, served as Director for the East LA Free Clinic on Whittier Boulevard, formed in 1969. Partnering with volunteer health care professionals, the clinic — later renamed El Barrio Free Clinic offered drug addiction counseling, immunizations, physical exams, STI screenings and some small surgical procedures. However, by February 25th, 1970, the women had had enough, collectively resigning via a letter which stated they felt “a great exclusion on behalf of the male segment,” adding that “We have been treated as nothings, and not as Revolutionary sisters,” and “We have found that the Brown Beret men have oppressed us more than the pig system.”

Around that time, Acosta himself made an ill-advised attempt to chide the women for their part in the dissension within the movement by writing the following in Con Safos magazine, a Chicano literary Journal:

“For months now if not for years we muy macho guys

of the movement have longed for your involvement in the

drinking of our booze smoking of our dope and most importantly

the making of our brown babies who shall bear our names and not yours.

“For now among other things I hear you now wish to

be my equal y mi camarada proposing an end to separation

and discrimination which of late you’ve learned to articulate so well …

“And so you write poems, speeches and little bits of

propaganda which you’ve copied from some white woman’s

notes at the SYMPOSIUM ON THE CHICANA beginning as

it did and ending as it did with an attack on my machismo.”

The Times piece remarks that in response to Acosta’s inflammatory letter, a reader from Pittsburg, California responds:

“Dear Zeta: Your love letter sounds like a proposition, and not a very good one at that.”

This re-hashing of the rift between the sexes within the Chicano movement is done to the end of relating it to the concept of identity previously mentioned. It was a near impossible task to achieve the common goal of equal rights for Chicanos within larger society among the differing internal opinions within the group, including — how ‘equal rights’ would be achieved and would it would look like — not to mention the act of defining Chicanismo. While definitions provided by outsiders like Dr. Moore were extremely descriptive and wholly accurate, the onus was on each member of that group to thoroughly understand their part within the whole; to accept the variances in personality and demeanor while focusing on the bigger picture. Unfortunately, these sorts of goals are rarely accomplished by mass groups, but are part of individual exploration.

About this time, there was a national movement wherein psychedelics and pharmaceuticals were used as a viable means to engage in subconscious thought for individual exploration of one’s place in the grand scheme of things. While this sort of experimentation was relatively new at the time, the growing fascination with consciousness expansion was spreading quickly due to the recent breakthroughs of Timothy Leary and their dissemination by Ken Kesey and his cohort through the likes of their Electric Kool-Aid Test movement. However, this undertaking was by no means widespread and was culturally alien to Mexican-Americans as a whole, being mainly an Anglo/Hippie phenomenon due to its East-Coast inception and Chicano culture being focused on social mobility, not consciousness expansion. In the case of Acosta’s East LA cohort, accessibility to LSD would have been a problem, and they seemed to be content with the combined effects of various types of speed and alcohol to achieve the desired result of agitation to strike out against the repressive forces surrounding them. Ironically, it’s also at this time when Carlos Castaneda was reviving the spirit of ancient Mesoamerican medicine and its holistic properties under the tutelage of his Yaqui Indian benefactor, Don Juan Matus. While the validity of Castaneda’s scholarship has come into question with time, his description of, and expounding on indigenous psychedelic Mexican plants and herbs has remained constant. However, these observations of Native American knowledge were generally ignored by La Raza; coming from a place alien to a generation far-removed from said knowledge and positioned squarely in the world of socialization and cognition. The knowledge of the Yaqui sorcerer came from infinity, Castaneda writing that Don Juan Matus said:

“The world of everyday life cannot ever be taken as something personal that has power over us, something that could make us, or destroy us, because man’s battlefield is in his strife with the world around him. His battlefield is over the horizon, in an area which is unthinkable for an average man, the area where man ceases to be a man.”

(Carlos Castaneda, The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge. Author’s commentaries, p. xiii, UC Press, 1998.)

On this “battlefield with the horizon,” the two most common substances from ancient Mexico used to this day are, peyote, with its psychoactive power coming from the mescaline in it, and what the Aztecs referred to as teonanácatl; “flesh of the gods” or simply, mushrooms; its psychoactive molecule being psilocybin. However, as previously mentioned these ancient ritualistic drugs were by and large ignored by the rank-and-file Chicanos focused on social battles.

The use of Psychedelics such as LSD (Lysergic acid diethylamide) to a select few Chicano Militants was oftentimes initiated by Acosta, due to his time with Thompson and the “fun-hogs” of the Rocky Mountains and San Francisco, becoming somewhat of an ambassador of psychedelics to his comrades in the Chicano movement, writing about one incident at a small lake “twenty-five miles and two mountain peaks from Edwards Air force base”:

“We stand and move toward the water. The acid has taken hold.

We slush through the mud, our black legs dripping ooze. The water is warm, the wind is kind and gentle while the sun shines brightly. Mountains of sand and stone, brown and yellow bushes; no trees, nothing but stillness and calm; no ants, no bugs, no birds.

We are sitting at the shoreline contemplating our legs of mud and laughing in sensuous abandon at my brown stomach. I am fat again. Mangas is lifting stones high above his head and casting them into the muddy waters at his feet. Gilbert is puffing on a reefer.

“Hey, ese. Is this stuff supposed to do something? “Gilbert asks. The black frog who geezes with Pelon in the garages and alleys of East LA wants to know if the LSD is supposed to make him silly like Mangas or Buffalo Z. Brown, who is sitting contemplating how he has ended up at the edge of Lake Elsinor in the company of such strange Chicanos.”

About that time, a plane appears overhead and swoops down on them to let them know they are trespassing, and definitely not welcome. All but Acosta scatter, while he stands to face them:

“They are all on the path at the side of the lake, starting to run into the bush. I have seen this paranoia before. I’ve taken this stuff with Stonewall and the hippies a million times, and usually someone gets bent out of shape for a while. Bad trips are not uncommon. The devil simply grabs you by the neck and twists it off like a chicken for Sunday’s dinner. I laugh at my friends.

And then I hear a new roar, not a plane but a machinegun coming around the bend in the lake. I turn to see a motor boat coming at full clip toward me, standing in my skivvies with my head full of acid madness.

“Hey, you. Get the hell off my property!” a man with a shotgun yells.

I stare at the red boat, at the three men all with rifles pointing at me.

“Hey you fucking greaser, you better get out of here before we shoot your ass full of lead.”

“Fuck you!” The gods are testing me.

Bang, Bang, Bang!

Bloop, Bloop, Bloop. Little puddles in the water before my eyes, at my legs.

I whirl around and begin to run. Up the path. Run.

Laughter in the back. To my heels the bastards are laughing. Big croaking laughs. Stomps in the stomach. Whiskey belly laughs. “Hot damn, but did you see that fat greaser run?”

I run up the hill. Into the sun. Struggle to breathe; strain at the hot lump in my burning chest; the wind is hot into my flaming red cheeks.

I stop at the crest. I turn and see the red motorboat skiffing away, around the bend. I am in total confusion. It is the lake at Chapultepec in the Valley of Mexico and I am scanning the water for the bodies of the dead Spaniards. Where are the white horses they came on? Where are the long boats and where is the White Man of whom Quetzalcoatl spoke? And the woman in downtown LA who read my fortune and said to beware the same White Man in a red boat? Where is she now?”

(Revolt of the Cockroach People, p.70)

Acosta oftentimes engaged in hallucinogenic myth-making, stretching the boundaries of reality, from the courtroom to his personal life. It was how he created his fluctuating identity, riddled out his philosophy, and for better or worse, steered the course of the local Chicano movement. Unfortunately, more often, than not, his engaging in hallucinogens merely led to a breakdown of his inhibitions, which allowed his deep-seeded desires to come to the fore, oftentimes resulting in personal fulfillment rather than expansive social action. Although Acosta wore many hats in his lifetime; musician, lawyer, writer, preacher, social activist; throughout all these incarnations was a deep connection to libido and self-aggrandizement which invariably led to some sort of crisis; personal or social, this in turn would lead to a change in scenery and occupation; for Acosta there was only ever the eternal searching, never finding answers or resolution. The egregious manner which he and Thompson engaged in psychedelics seemed to be more a cry for help rather than intense soul-searching. The fact these drug-addled explorations were oftentimes accompanied by firearms and other sorts of weaponry only furthers this point. Riding this razor’s edge of mortality is dangerous for the individual; and with the influence either Thompson or Acosta wielded on society-at-large made it somewhat irresponsible. To that point, one of Thompson’s famous quotes goes, “I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence or insanity to anyone. But they’ve always worked for me.”

What also didn’t work for either Thompson or Acosta was their journalistic relationship and expectations of one another in this arena. Affecting this process was the large amounts of drugs and alcohol consumed by the two during the process, which had the double-edged effect of a loss of one’s inhibitions coupled with a massive dose of paranoia. As a result, the social-justice basis which was purportedly at the heart of either of their work was ditched when the idea of recognition or restitution for that work was put into question. Aguirre’s New Yorker piece recounts that:

“As the Las Vegas story headed toward publication, Acosta and Thompson exchanged sharp letters. In Acosta’s view, he and Thompson had formed a partnership on the Salazar story; by extension, that partnership included the Las Vegas adventure. “Like, did you even so much as ask me if I minded your writing and printing the Vegas piece?” Acosta asked. “Not even the fucking courtesy to show me the motherfucker.” (In fact, Acosta saw the first half of the Rolling Stone piece at the Flamingo.) Acosta was also frustrated by Thompson’s condescension. “All I want,” he explained in a long letter to Thompson, “is for you to quit playing the role that I’m some fucking native, a noble savage you discovered in the woods.” Thompson fired off a ferocious reply:

“You don’t know how fucking lucky you are that I didn’t run into you cold, as a stranger, on something like the Salazar piece — because, with an act like yours, I’d have crucified you on general principles. Shit, you’re lucky that the L.A. press is a bunch of lame hacks; anybody good would screw you to the fucking floor.”

*Hunter S. Thompson. Re-worked by Aztlan Times*

Obviously, the issue of race was a point of contention for them from the beginning to the end. It clouded their judgement to the extent neither could see how much they were influencing one another. The issue arose from time to time in an oblique manner, other times outright. In 1972, when Acosta learned Fear and Loathing was going to press with an unidentified photo of the two on the back cover, he threatened with a libel action, prompting Thompson to write a scathing letter to him that said:

“Dear Oscar,

You stupid fuck; send me a mailing address so I can explain what’s happening because of what you’ve done.”

Thompson added that Acosta’s legal threat served neither of them, then sarcastically called Acosta, “a credit to his race,” closing with, “I assume you had some excellent, long-stewing reason for doing this cheap, acid-crippled, paranoid fuckaround.”

Acosta replies he is planning to sue for gross fraud over the sale of the film rights of Fear and Loathing, despite the fact Rolling Stone’s book division had just published his The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo. Yet, rather than being grateful, Acosta adds:

“I’ve been silent on the subject for almost two years because of the blackmail threats from both you and Jann that ultimately my book could be stopped. Well, old pal, the book is out now, and I’m coming after you. You cocksuckers have been ripping me off for a long time.”

Despite the acrimonious nature of their relationship at this time, Acosta stayed focused on financial remuneration above all else, writing, “It would be better for all if we settled it and forgot it. Besides, you can afford it now.” However, the subject of race is still a point of contention between the two, with either of them seeing themselves on either side of an invisible divide. This is evident when, in late 1972 Acosta is charged with illegal possession of Benzedrine and is blackballed in San Francisco and Los Angeles, living on food stamps and petty theft, writing to Thompson:

“I am still looking to you as my only serious white connection for the big contract … the way it looks from here, I’d even settle for a small one.”

Despite these dire circumstances, Acosta gives some indication he is still interested in the social causes of the time by suggesting to Thompson they explore a political alliance between Thompson’s “Freak Power movement” and the Chicanos, yet asks him for seed money to initiate the process, closing with, “Money-wise, I am desperate. Send help to the above address, quick … thanx.”

Aguirre’s New Yorker piece adds that Thompson immediately wrote back — though in a tone which would indicate he’d had enough of his “Samoan attorney” messing with his livelihood:

“What in the fuck would cause you to ask me for money — after all the insane bullshit you’ve put me through for the past two years?”

Thompson then goes on to blame Acosta for the film rights to Fear and Loathing not being sold, and continues the attack on him as a person; the divide obviously having something to do with race, among other things:

“Anyway, good luck with your grudge. No doubt it will make you as many good friends in the future as it has in the past.” He closed with a salvo:

As for me, my attorney advises me that I can at least deduct something around $10,000 for losses you have caused me in ’73. In the meantime, why don’t you write a nice movie? Or a book? You shouldn’t have any trouble selling the fucker, considering all the people you’ve fucked over & burned …

Good luck,
Whitey”

(The New Yorker. What “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” Owes to Oscar Acosta. Abby Aguirre, July 13, 2021)

*Hunter S. Thompson. Via the world wide web.*

The vociferous tone Thompson takes in his reply speaks to the many aspects of the Oscar Acosta he knew. There was the firebrand civil rights attorney; the Chicano Militant operative and leader; the free-wheeling spirit on a bona fide search for what’s on the horizon; the damaged, insecure spirit whose weight, color of skin and manhood had been a constant source of anxiety since childhood. However, what Thompson seems to be alluding to, is how Acosta willingly used everyone and everything around him to fuel the saga of his life. The irony, of course, is that Thompson could be accused of exactly the same. While Thompson constantly attempted to deprive Acosta his slice of the Fear & Loathing and Strange Rumblings pie, he seemed to be making the very point which Acosta desperately tried to; which is that period of Thompson’s work and ideas were directly tied to Acosta and his world.

Even after Acosta disappears without a trace, Thompson has some of his greatest literary success writing about Acosta. With Acosta clearly out of the picture, Thompson freely capitalizes on the character of Acosta; of the “Dr. Gonzo” of literary fame, by hiring a private detective to look into his disappearance (and perhaps to make sure he really was gone), then writing about what’s been gleaned from that endeavor in Rolling Stone as The Banshee Screams for Buffalo Meat. Also, with Acosta presumably gone, and therefore, the possibility of litigation, Thompson scores his first film deal for that piece, which would be released as Where the Buffalo Roam in 1980.

I was sixteen when Where the Buffalo was released, and a huge fan of Fear and Loathing, so upon its release, my buddy, Esteban and I finagled a six-pack of beer somehow, and went to the Drive-In one weekend night to witness the madness. I did not know of Oscar Acosta at the time, and was years away from really caring about Chicanos, my main goal being that of just “fitting in.” Indeed, I had no idea that Peter Boyle’s character of “Lazlo” the Hungarian Lawyer he played in the film was based on Acosta. I was too focused on the humor of Bill Murray, the stellar soundtrack which compiled some of the best songs of the decade, and the crazed shenanigans of the Murray/Boyle duo. The film made a hero of Thompson for me, and I did my best to cultivate his incomprehensible, illogical manner of speech. The film posited its characters as counter-cultural heroes, yet, unbeknownst to me, glaringly missing was anything to do with the Chicano movement, or what Acosta was about. In fact, there is a hostility towards anyone or anything Mexican-American or Hispanic in the film, its most pathetic characters (or caricatures) being a motley group of “third-world” gun runners who seem to be of Central American origin and are childishly violent and unintelligent. Thompson seemed to get the last word on race.

By 1998, when Fear and Loathing finally made it to the big screen, I had been through enough Chicano Studies classes in College, had read and studied enough of the movement that I could appreciate that at the very least, the film’s Director, Terry Gilliam had cast the Puerto Rican Benicio del Toro as “Dr. Gonzo” and managed to place a poster for Acosta’s 1970 sheriff campaign among a United Farm Worker’s flag alongside a photo of Cesar Chavez. Yet, the film’s main premise still revolved around taking copious amounts of a variety of drugs, hard drinking, weapons, fast cars, and sketchy situations where things can go sideways in a hot minute, rather than having anything to do with social justice.

Unfortunately, in real-life, these themes would lead to the eventual demise of both Acosta and Thompson. Acosta has been missing in action since May 1974, just before he told his son on the telephone that he was “about to board a boat of white snow” in Mazatlán. For those that hold-out for his return from the unknown; who still believe that perhaps he’s hiding out in some exotic locale; perhaps in Cuba with Tupac Shakur or something along those lines, can give up that hope. Oscar Acosta sleeps with the fishes. He flew too close to the cocaine-fueled sun of the Mexican Cartels, also, the F.B.I. and the L.A.P.D. shadowed him as part of the COINTELPRO program, and it’s within this tangled web where he met his end.

Equally tragic is the fact that among a bevy of ever-worsening physical maladies, Hunter S. Thompson went down to his basement in February of 2005, put a shotgun in his mouth, and pulled the trigger. He and Acosta had never reconciled their oftentimes contentious relationship, never made any significant steps towards achieving any sort of justice for Ruben Salazar, the Chicanos, or anyone else for that matter. In 1970, the year they both ran for Sheriff; Acosta in Los Angeles, and Thompson in Aspen, there was a glimmer of hope that, win or lose, the exposure both might get — particularly Acosta, whose run was in a major metropolitan area where he managed to garner a half-million votes — would create a platform where they could springboard their respective movements into the legitimate sphere of politics. Unfortunately, they themselves would be the largest impediment to this goal. Their mutual disdain for “straight” politics and institutions not allowing them to play the game on anyone’s terms but their own.

*Oscar Acosta & Hunter S. Thompson working on Thompson’s campaign for Sheriff. Courtesy world wide web.*

For example, in 1974 — the year Acosta sailed off into the sunset — Thompson convinced Rolling Stone to foot the bill for a conference he planned in the far-reaches of Elko, Nevada, wherein he assembled a group of political heavyweights from the Democratic Party to the end of re-grouping after humbling losses to Nixon and the Republicans. Attendees included Robert F. Kennedy campaign veterans Adam Walinsky, David Burke, Richard Goodwin and Doris Kearns, and McGovern operatives Sandy Berger, Patrick Caddell, Rick Stearns and Carl Wagner.

Writing about the event in their Tuesday, December 25th, 2007 Las Vegas Sun piece, Hunter S. Thompson, how all went wrong in Elko, Michael J. Mishak and J. Patrick Coolican focus a critical eye on that gathering through interviews with some of the attendees who were asked why nothing seemed to come from a gathering of some of the brightest political minds of the time. There were a variety of responses, but its pointedly noted, “one thing everyone recalls though: The only problem with Hunter S. Thompson's plan was Hunter S. Thompson.” Thompson’s usual modus operandi of imbibing copious amounts of drugs and booze, then riding roughshod on one’s surroundings was alien and unappealing to the career politicians and legislators he had assembled. David Burke, who worked in John F. Kennedy’s staff as legislative assistant, was Vice President of ABC News and President of CBS News from 1988-90, and in 1995 was appointed by Bill Clinton as the first Chairman of the Broadcasting Board of Governors is quoted as saying, "It certainly wasn't a well-structured, serious conference. It was Hunter Thompson. He didn't lend himself to that kind of stuff." Rick Stearns, who worked on the Mc Govern campaign and was special assistant from 1972-73, before working with the Norfolk County, Massachusetts District Attorney’s Office, where, eventually he was nominated by Bill Clinton in 1993 to a seat on the U.S. District Court in that state says that Jann Wenner of Rolling Stone, who footed the bill for the gathering “got taken by Hunter, who would get himself gassed up and make world-changing plans. It was sort of a lark. We thought, 'Why not have a good time and take advantage of this opportunity?' I do not believe the so-called participants took it seriously at all." In succeeding in gathering the crème de la crème of the Democratic Party of the time for a weekend of potentially serious debate and planning for the future, Thomspon responded in kind by acting in Thompson-like fashion by “eating acid the first night and running off with the Goodwin’s babysitter to a town named Wells. There, at a truck stop, he purchased 16 tire checkers, heavy, billy club-size tools that truckers use to check tire pressure. When he returned to Elko, he gave one to each participant. The reason: Tensions were riding high between the Kennedy and McGovern camps, and Thompson thought each side should have weapons.”

While it could be argued Acosta fared much better in the “straight” realm, notably with his “Castro V. Superior Court” decision, among his other legal victories, and his successful organizing and notable run for Sheriff, in the end it didn’t amount to much. His turning his back on the movement and essentially walking away from several years of hard work left him in a no-man’s-land; between a rock and a hard place, where he would eventually be smashed to bits. Invariably, both Thompson and Acosta’s lives might serve as cautionary tales; reminders that ego and desire left unchecked can leave one lost in a world where action and retribution constantly react to one another, creating lightning in a bottle which might be a sight to behold, but when one attempts to handle it, receives a violent shock to the system.

Regarding the vast dichotomy Thompson and Acosta frequently engaged in between personal thought and action, and its effect on one and the world-at-large, after years of exploring the sexual, or “Freudian” and then the “Adlerian,” or latent layers of the unconscious, C.G. Jung happened to come upon a “spiritual” or gnostic layer over many years of clinical and psychotherapeutic study, whose findings, when applied to Acosta and Thompson are illuminating. Discovery of this un-before studied layer of human consciousness was a revelation, and Jung realized it held the causes of specific types of psychic disorders, but also, and more importantly, it held what he referred to as the “process of individuation.” This powerful psychic process Jung referred to as the eventual birth of a new, or, “higher” self in one’s ordinary ego. This process, however, is by no means easily achieved, with very few having the wherewithal to navigate it on their own. It is a process relating to symbolism and the unconscious, and therefore there are many dangers within, primarily in what Jung refers to as “inflation,” or, the state of consciousness of the self inflated to excess, and which is known in psychiatry in its extreme manifestation by the term “megalomania”.

(Meditations on the Tarot, Letter VII, The Chariot. Anonymous, p.153.)

In the case of either Acosta or Thompson, it’s fair to say that their paths were oftentimes riddled with the trappings of the megalomaniac mind. Neither of them shied away from this form of self-aggrandizement, and in the case of Acosta, he freely wrote about it in his Autobiography:

“Once in every century there comes a man who is chosen to speak for his people. Moses, Mao and Martin are examples. Who’s to say I am not such a man? In this day and age the man for all seasons needs many voices. Perhaps that is why the gods have sent me into Riverbank, Panama, San Francisco, Alpine (Aspen) and Juarez. Perhaps that is why I’ve been taught so many trades. Who will deny that I am unique?

(The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, p. 198-99)

Acosta here displays what Jung lists as the most common trappings of “inflation,” an exaggerated importance attached to oneself, superiority complex tending towards obsession and, lastly, megalomania. The part of one’s consciousness which crafts this viewpoint is the “subordinate personality” or, the self as it really is, not as one thinks of oneself and which also uses the unconscious psyche to project their image. Jung refers to this simply as the “self,” distinguishable from the “ego” whose limits are reached by the confines of the conscious mind. The two are halves of the whole and therefore, interdependent of one another, with the “self” experienced empirically:

“not as subject but as object, and this by reason of its unconscious component, which can only come to consciousness indirectly, by way of projection.”

(C.G. Jung and C. Kerényi, Introduction to a Science of Mythology; trsl. R.F. C. Hull, London, 1951, pp. 223-224)

While inflation of one’s ego to create an exaggerated sense of self is a common trapping of this complex, the gift of individuation which awaits one at the end of the process is a goal which reaps many interpersonal rewards, allowing one to navigate human existence; the wins and losses, highs and lows, with more equanimity and understanding. Generally, the process of individuation reveals itself through a long series of dreams revealed through symbolic motifs, which may seem incoherent at first, but when closely scrutinized reveal a path for the process of development. Jung also refers to individuation as “the spontaneous realization of the whole man,” giving it the simple formula:

“psyche = ego conscious + unconscious”

(C.G. Jung, The Practice of Psychotherapy; trsl. R.F.C. Hull, The Collected Works of C.G. Jung, vol.16, London, 1954, p.90).

While the use of phrases like “ego consciousness” or “unconscious” are part of the process of individuation, it’s important to remember it is the world of symbols which make the dialectic sing. The power of these symbols being represented by archetypes, which, according to Jung, invade, inundate and engulf consciousness. When consciousness identifies itself with archetypes, they are generally ones such as “the wise old man” or “the great mother” — i.e., with a cosmic figure, although Jung tells us that:

“At this stage there is usually another identification, this time with the hero, whose role is attractive for a variety of reasons. The identification is often extremely stubborn and dangerous to mental equilibrium. If it can be broken down and consciousness reduced to human proportions, the figure of the hero can gradually be differentiated into a symbol of the self.”

(C.G. Jung and C. Kerényi, Introduction to a Science of Mythology; trsl. R.F. C. Hull, London, 1951, p 137)

It is at this point where things can get tricky. Jung warning that if the figure of the hero becomes primary in consciousness, a “second identification” or “epiphany of the hero” takes place”:

“The epiphany of the hero (the second identification) shows itself in a corresponding inflation: the colossal pretension grows into a conviction that one is something extraordinary, or else the impossibility of the pretension ever being fulfilled only proves one’s own inferiority, which is favourable to the role of the heroic sufferer (a negative inflation). In spite of their contrariety, both forms are identical, because unconscious compensatory inferiority tallies with conscious megalomania, and unconscious megalomania with conscious inferiority (you never get one without the other). Once the reef of the second identification has been successfully circumnavigated, conscious processes can be cleanly separated from the unconscious, and the latter observed objectively. This leads to the possibility of an accommodation with the unconscious elements of knowledge and action. This in turn leads to a shifting of the centre of personality from the ego to the self.”

(C.G. Jung and C. Kerényi, Introduction to a Science of Mythology; trsl. R.F. C. Hull, London, 1951, pp. 137-138)

It is our belief that it is in this dangerous space of viewing oneself as either the impeccable hero, or the inferior loser where Acosta and Thompson spent a good amount of time; where they did the most damage, both to themselves and to their respective movements and causes. While Thompson’s trove of symbols might be tougher to pin down, Acosta’s archetypal and symbolic associations are readily available, as he wrote and spoke about them freely. His pantheon was made readily-accessible by the greater Chicano movement; its prevalence already established among his cohort. Or, as one of the icons of the Chicano movement, Rudolfo Anaya has written:

“The legend of Aztlán never died; it was only dormant in the collective unconscious. For people of Mexican descent, Aztlán exists at the level of the symbol and archetype. It is a symbol which speaks of origins and ancestors, and it is a symbol of what we imagine ourselves to be. It embodies a human perspective of time and place.”

(Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland, Introduction, iii. Anaya/Lomeli Editors.)

Additionally, the Chicano poet and early organizer of the Chicano movement, Alurista writes about Acosta’s Revolt of the Cockroach People that:

“His novel is written in what has come to be called a “gonzo” style where the author is a participant observer in the world of events he narrates. Acosta focuses on the Chicano revolt in Los Angeles, California between 1968-70, a period which thousands of Chicanos mobilized publicly to assert their self-determinant presence in the U.S. It is during this period that Aztlán becomes the metaphor which best codifies the nationalist Chicano fervor of the sixties. Acosta mediates the alienation of the days of the “revolt” through mythic, nonordinary mental states and a stark and cynical irony. Aztlán, in Acosta’s narrative code, though not enunciated significantly, is evoked as a force, the force of history and class, sexual and cultural contradictions that prevail during the social space between the sixties and the eighties.

(p.227, Myth, Identity and Struggle in Three Chicano Novels: Aztlán…Anaya, Méndez and Acosta by Alurista, in Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland. 1989 El Norte Publications/ Academia. 1991 by UNM Press)

While the “gonzo” style of writing is often solely attributed to Thompson, Alurista connotes it with Acosta, perhaps in attempt to give him his due where none had previously been given. Indeed, if Fear and Loathing is the birth of the “gonzo” style, then it could be said it is somewhat of a co-creation, and Acosta should be credited. Regarding the psychological process of individuation, particularly in relation to the world of Archetypes and symbols, it is when Acosta engages in the “mythic” and “nonordinary” where the paradigm breaks down. For, this mythology is Acosta’s own brand, born from the inflation of his own egotistic desires and interpreted as such. The “nonordinary” states which Alurista speaks of are generally drug induced and are only unique from that perspective. The “metaphor” of Aztlán is a far-more elevated idea than the one utilized by Acosta:

Aztlan is a cry for struggle, redefinition, and self-determination; it abhors war, misery and the total annihilation of the human species in any of the novels here examined. Aztlán is positioned as an origin and a promise of a future possibility for a more humane social formation.

(ibid.)

Acosta’s version is grounded in anger and romantic idealism; a short-sighted view of a long-term problem which is innately complex and dynamic. His view of Aztlán and the world-at-large are deeply cynical and rooted in a sense of anarchy which punctuated the time and place in which it transpired. He says as much at the end of Revolt:

P.S. I was just one of a bunch of Cockroaches that helped start a revolution to burn down a stinking world. And no matter what kind of end this is, I’ll still play with matches.”

(Revolt: 257-58)

It is this perspective and way of thinking in which Acosta has been memorialized. He now stands as a figure of defiance and rage; madness and disruption. There is no other way to cut it. Perhaps he can only be seen in the light of the era in which he shone. Unfortunately, it is in these wild and wanton ways which he is remembered, rather than by the tenets of the movement he chose to identify himself with. There is no discussion regarding the rampant racism he fought against, only his vociferous attitude towards it. The plight and even the recognition of the Chicano is a thing of the past, replaced by the image of a marauding wave of crime-riddled Mexicans who seek to invade America by breeching the wall that has been built in attempt to keep them out.

Whether he would admit to it, or not, Thompson does have something to do with this. His absence from the movement over the decades until his death speak volumes regarding this point. Even in his Introduction which he wrote for the re-print of both Autobiography and Revolt (in which the same Intro is used for both books) in 1989 focuses more on the Acosta of Fear and Loathing than the image of the social crusader; on the bar-brawling, weapons wielding, drug-induced companion who suffered from a violent bloody ulcer. Even when writing about the Chicano movement, Thompson can’t help but be somewhat critical of it, writing:

“Oscar managed to create an instant political base for himself in the vast Chicano barrio of East Los Angeles — where even the most conservative of the old-line “Mexican Americans” were suddenly calling themselves “Chicanos” and getting their first taste of tear gas at “La Raza” demonstrations, which Oscar was quickly learning to use as a fire and brimstone forum to feature himself as the main spokesman for a mushrooming “Brown Power” movement that the LAPD called more dangerous than the Black Panthers.”

(Hunter S. Thompson, Introduction, The Autobiography of the Brown Buffalo and The Revolt of the Cockroach People, p. 6, 1989)

His critique of the “old-line” Mexican Americans in particular, is egregious, as Thompson is judging a group whose circumstances and experience are alien to him. He has not “walked a mile in their shoes” and therefore is unqualified to critique how and when they came to relate to the Chicano cause. Once again, he seems to be conveying Acosta’s thoughts, not speaking from his own experience. Indeed, this issue of “Mexican-American” versus “Chicano” as previously discussed is complex and labyrinthine, which brings us back to the question of “identity.” This issue has taken on additional complexity in the twenty-first century, particularly regarding the issues of gender and sexual identity. There is also the broadening scope of “Hispanics” and “Latinos,” antiquated terms which fail to truly identify.

In his commentary on this issue posted on the University of California website titled, What’s the difference between Hispanic, Latino and Latinx? Author Antonio Campos states he is Mexican-American and his family has “deep roots” in the Southwest. Regarding self-identification of his ethnic group, Campos adds “some of us call ourselves Hispanic, others Latino or Latinx, and some a combination of both or neither.” Campos also adds that “How one identifies is a lifelong journey that lends itself to nuance, and not necessarily a fixed construct.” Using the research of Dr. Cristina Mora, associate professor of sociology and Chicano/Latino Studies at Berkeley, Campos goes on to trace the origin of some of these terms, stating that “Hispanic” refers to any of the peoples in the Americas and Spain who speak Spanish or are descended from Spanish-speaking communities,” adding it was “coined in the 1970’s by the U.S. Census Bureau to offer a pan-ethnic name for peoples such as Puerto Ricans, Mexican-Americans, Cuban-Americans and others, whose social, economic and political needs were often ignored.” Paraphrasing Mora, Campos adds that while the census bureau used this catch-all phrase, they correspondingly referred to Mexican-Americans as “White” which, for all intents and purposes rendered their mundane worlds invisible. Or, as Campos writes while quoting Mora, “Latinos lived their everyday reality as Latinos, a sometimes Spanish-speaking world with places where they were not allowed, in swimming pools, school districts and other public places.” The use of the term “Latino” while markedly different than “Hispanic” still uses medieval European terms to describe 20th and now, 21st century groups of people. While it’s true that these groups have traditionally inhabited colonial outposts of America which spoke languages derived from “Latin” (the Italic branch of Indo-European languages now considered a “dead language”), the term is still colonial in its import and meaning.

Our point here is that these labels and references all stem from imposed designates coined from colonialism. Pre-contact Native Americans did not refer to themselves as “American,” and there definitely are no Latinate associations. To this day, the indigenous peoples of the American geographic region still refer to their ancient names at their core for identification purposes. There can be no doubt they recognize they currently exist within the political boundaries of “America” whether it be North, South, or Central, but their insular histories precede these labels. The Chicano movement was the first Hispanic, or Latino group to recognize their native roots, seeking to use the connection as further evidence of their right to the land taken over from colonial European expansion; whether it was a Spanish, Mexican, or American takeover. However, as previously mentioned, this connection was loosely affiliated with a sort of “pan-Aztecan” history, which is altogether different than the true history of Native America, and itself an invention of a colonizing Aztec force which chose to re-write local history to their advantage. Still, the attempt to identify with “Indian” America was a first for Chicanos, who chose to separate themselves from “Hispanics,” “Latinos,” or whatever one might have referred to themselves as in the name of inclusion and social mobility. Unfortunately, this separation also transferred over many of the negative traits of its colonial predecessors, chiefly in the aforementioned stigmas of machismo and homophobia. As evident from Acosta’s books, as well as the history of groups like the Brown Berets, these attitudes led to the eventual decline of the Chicano movement and to the further splintering of its base; because the fact of the matter is, times change. Who could have seen the mass changes the LGBTQ or non-binary movements of today would have on society back in the 70’s? They are evidence of powers which are operating beyond the scope of politics or social influence and speak more to the inner-workings of the collective unconscious and universal forces probably still misunderstood.

To that end, one must assess the time of the birth of the Chicano movement, as well as the Black Power movement, the Hippie movement, and that general period of change and revolution. While not widely understood, and currently only marginally accepted, the work of Richard Tarnas, professor of philosophy and cultural history at the California Institute of Integral Studies and founder of the program in Philosophy, Cosmology, and Consciousness at that institution, gives relevant information to the time of the birth of Chicanismo in his voluminous work, Cosmos and Psyche: Intimations of a New World View (2006, Plume Publishing) wherein he notes that in his studies of planetary conjunctions within our solar system from the previous century it was revealed that between the years of 1960-1972 the conjunction of Uranus and Pluto was the dominant galactic force affecting Earth via energies which can be archetypally described as “Promethean” for Uranus and “Dionysian” for Pluto. The former imparting energies displayed in the behaviors of humanity which were emancipatory, rebellious, progressive and innovative, awakening, disruptive and destabilizing, unpredictable, serving to catalyze new beginnings and sudden unexpected change. While the latter, Dionysian, or Plutonian energies imparted energies which were elemental, instinctual, powerfully compelling, extreme in its intensity, arising from the depths, both libidinal and destructive, overwhelming, and transformative, ever-evolving. (Cosmos & Psyche, p. 142.) Ironically, these are the energies which can be used to describe the essence of either Acosta or Thompson; particularly disruptive and destabilizing, as well as libidinal and destructive.

The universe, and our understanding of it are just now beginning to show us the true nature of reality, which is far-more complex than previously thought. Our global existence is considered an insular one; exempt from the universal forces which surround and are part of us. One of the major failings of any of the “emancipatory” or “rebellious” movements of the 60’s and 70’s was the failure to include this level of understanding. It’s a matter of perspective. Focusing too intently on the “here and now” presents a conundrum which fails to recognize all the elements at work at a given time and place. While it’s important to advocate for a humanistic approach at all times, it behooves one to identify the times and attitudes of global society; where humanity is affected by the eternally ever-changing cycle of time, influenced by archetypal powers comprehended by the collective unconscious.

Currently, in attempt to be seen as “progressive,” terms like “Latino” or the now popular “Latinx” are being used to further separate Latino, Hispanic and Chicano groups from their historical base. While it is understood that there are non-binary individuals and homosexuals, and have always been, it seems puzzling that antiquated terms be applied to them in attempt to further separate one from other racial and ethnic groups in the name of “progress.” These terms fall prey to the trappings of language, which in this instance are the domain of the Spanish-language separatist trap of masculine and feminine endings. Indigenous language is more inclusive and accepting, and perhaps it is here where there is room for the development of a new consciousness — which is actually old consciousness — one merely need to go back far enough. The abandoning of the term “Chicano/a” is a shame; primarily in the regard it was borne of a marked movement of self-identification from the grassroots level, up. It connotes a sense of non-conformity and un acceptance of a world of inequality, containing the seed which sprouted and paved the way for many rights and luxuries afforded to its people today.

The fact the Chicano movement even came to be was somewhat of a miracle itself. The social and racial climate of the 60’s and 70’s prior to the birth of Chicanismo provided an environment where denying one’s Mexican and indigenous roots could easily lead to conformity within larger society, particularly within the rampant Americanism of the bicentennial era and the lack of Mexican-American role models. To deny one’s Mexican heritage for fear of association with a group that was considered “less than” was commonplace. Even Chicana Brown Beret Gloria Arellanes, who is both Mexican and Native American (Tongva) admits as much in an article for KCET News, La Lucha Continua! Gloria Arellanes and Women in the Chicano Movement by Juan Herrera in March of 2015, wherein she relays a story about how she came home from school one day to proudly announce to her dad that she is an “American,” to which he replies, “No, you’re a Chicano.” Gloria responds by breaking into tears and insists, “No way, no, no, no. I’m American.” She also discusses the brawls which would oftentimes break out on her High School campus between the Surfers and the Chicanos, which reminded one of the same brawls which broke out between these same groups at my High School in the early 80’s of Southern California. Every Mexican-American kid at that time probably went through similar emotions and bouts of denial, including myself, who was asked at about age eight “didn’t I want to learn to speak Spanish?” by my immigrant, lifetime picker grandfather, who had immigrated from Guanajuato to Pueblo, Colorado in the 1920’s, and to whom I replied, “heck, no!” knowing full well at that point (around 1972) that was no way to get ahead in society. This is why the Chicano movement needed to happen, as this form of self-hate was damaging to one’s psyche and deepened negative behaviors already displayed by the community. Regarding the current “Latinx” movement, it is understood that repression, misunderstanding, vitriol and hatred are all part of its experience, and this is shameful. Non-binary and queer will be part of the human story from here on out. Once again, though, it seems necessary to point out the fact that the “Latinx” label seems to be regressive and doesn’t really speak to gains made by the many who dedicated themselves to a greater cause. Perhaps something like “Xicanx” might be more appropriate. However, this is something which will have to be worked out by the gestalt of that particular group, and is a concern solely for them.

Epilogue

“And when Moteuczomatzin was ruling, the Spaniards came here for the first time. They first appeared, arrived, at the place called Chalchiuhcueyecan.

And when Moteuczomatzin’s overseers, the Cuetlaxtlan people, whose leader was the Cuetlaxtecatl called Pinotl, became aware of this and were able to find out about it, they started off to visit these Christians. When they saw them, they took them for gods. Later, however, they called them Christians.

The reason they said they were gods is that this is what they called their devils 4-Wind Sun, Quetzalcoatl, etc.”

(History and Mythology of the Aztecs: The Codex Chimalpopoca, pg. 137 v. 68:9-68:19. Translated from the Nahuatl by John Bierhorst.)

It only seems fitting to end with the beginning; the above quote detailing that point in time we generally attribute to where cultures clashed, cyclical time met linear time, and differing races were melded into one. This new race, born from the miscegenation of this time, the Mestizos, a mixture of Spanish and Indian, are todays Latinos, Hispanics, Chicanos, etc… However, recent research has uncovered varying complexity within this traditional blend of what was thought to be solely comprised of these two. On the European side, we must consider the additional components of Jewish and Moorish blood. Sometime around the eighties, the re-discovery of Jewish bloodlines (or, rather, a reaffirmation of Jewish bloodlines) took place in the Southwest and Mexico and has now been duly recorded in such important works as David Gitlitz’s Secrecy and Deceit: The Religion of the Crypto-Jews (1996, UNM Press) or Stanley Hordes’ To the End of the Earth: A History of the Crypto Jews of New Mexico (2005, Columbia University Press). Less documented, but equally as relevant would be the presence of Moorish bloodlines in “Spanish” families. Both these phenomena speak to the mass exodus which took place in Spain after the Christian overthrow, and leading up to the period of the Inquisitions. On the Native American, or Indian side, we must consider the addition of Asian bloodlines, first from China and their discovery of America in the voyages of 1421-23, wherein some seaman stayed on to live out their years in Mexico and California (1421: The Year China Discovered America, Gavin Menzies, Harper Perennial, 2002), as well as similar Japanese expeditions taking place, well-documented in works such as Nancy Yaw-Davis’ The Zuni Enigma: A Native American People’s Possible Japanese Connection (2000, W.W. Norton & Company).

The broadening scope of genetics are challenging long-held notions concerning the history of our species. The addition of Neanderthal and Denisovan bloodlines in modern populations alone forces us to re-examine our collective history. But for now, let’s stick with the growing wealth of peoples who are connected to Hispanics, Latinos, Chicanos, or whatever they may be referred to as, yet choose to be identified primarily with their sexual identity or origin. There can be no doubt there is a wide chasm of understanding between these individuals and the general populace. A significant amount of fear, hatred, and deniability, due to misunderstanding and ignorance have created this rift, and as is with all battles on this front, there is undoubtedly a long uphill climb before there is widespread acceptance and inclusion. These challenges are part of a long period of awakening in the collective consciousness. Going back to the recent past and the movements of the 1960’s, there is a lineage of defiance which has sought inclusion and acceptance. The politics of gender and sexuality are the latest in this struggle. However, there can be no doubt there has been a long interruption in the efficacy of the past racial movements. Concerning the Chicano movement, this is addressed in Ilan Stavan’s Foreword in Peter Matthiessen’s Sal Si Puedes (Escape if you Can) Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution, where he writes:

“A growing Latino middle class — what historian Rudolfo Acuña, in his book Occupied America, defined as “the brokers” — embraced ambivalence as its worldview. Its language got closer to Spanglish, and it began to see itself as the owner of a hyphenated identity, a life in between. The shift was perceived as a ticket toward assimilation. This middle class, eager to cross over, found itself courted by savvy politicians and by a merchandise-oriented society. Clearly, the mainstream was ready to open its arms only if Chicanos were ready to define themselves elastically enough to become “Hispanics,” the rubric that predeceased “Latinos,” large enough to also encompass those hailing from Puerto Rico, Cuba, Ecuador, El Salvador…”

(Sal Si Puedes (Escape if you Can) Cesar Chavez and the New American Revolution, p. xix, xx)

However, prior to this “middle-class sellout” there were conditions which precipitated it. As early as the late 60’s, it was recognized that rampant institutionalized racism was in effect, and that the conservative powers that be were not about to take any sort of “revolution” lying down. Regarding this, Matthiessen writes:

“One of the most ominous developments is the appeal for law and order by many politicians. Ernesto Galarza, author of Merchants of Labor and a veteran defender of the farm workers, has said, “They are lining up on one side the Negro and the Mexican who are dependent and who know it, and who feel the humiliations and frustrations of this dependence, and on the other side the middle-class taxpayers, who are hard pressed by the growing tax burden. This is the confrontation of the future. The anger it will generate will make the Black Panther movement seem trivial.”

(ibid, p.270)

While the seed of this confrontational situation sprouted in the eighties and nineties, leading to the harsh reality of today’s conservative juggernaut which has “Immigration” (read xenophobia and racism) at the top of its agenda, it must be noted that this situation did not occur in a vacuum. There are two sides to every story, and while we do not condone any of the current conservative agenda, we must realize any shortcomings within Chicanismo are part of what has historically transpired. Regarding this dilemma, on February 19, 1968, Cesar Chavez gave a speech to UFW strikers and staff which long-time comrade, Farm Worker member, and Christian Brother-educated social activist Leroy Chatfield was present at, remembering that Cesar had said:

“We were falling back on violence because we weren’t creative enough or imaginative enough to find another solution, because we didn’t work hard enough. One of the things that he said in his speech was that he felt we lost our will to win, by which he meant that acting violently or advocating violence or even thinking that maybe violence wasn’t such a bad thing — that is really losing your will to win, your commitment to win. A cop-out. This seems like a very idealistic position, but there’s truth in it. Anarchy leads to chaos, and out of chaos rises the demagogue. That’s one of the reasons he is so upset about “la raza.” The same Mexicans that ten years ago were talking about themselves as Spaniards are coming on real strong these days as Mexicans. Everyone should be proud of what they are, of course, but race is only skin-deep. It’s phony, and it comes out of frustration; the “la raza” people are not secure.”

(ibid. pgs. 178-79)

When reading the above quote, one couldn’t help but think of Oscar Acosta. He had admittedly gone astray from Chavez’s point of view as time went on, engaging in violent acts and invariably meeting a violent end himself. Oscar was an insecure person, yet to his credit he didn’t shy away from his shortcomings, choosing to openly write about them in both his novels. Yet it could be argued that being open about one’s problems is only the beginning to a long process of tackling them head-on in the hopes one might overcome or make them more manageable. In any event, in Acosta’s case, this is now just a matter of history, and therefore open to interpretation. He isn’t the only tragic figure of the Chicano movement, and his loss is only one of many blows suffered. The biggest losers in the battles of yore are those of us who are left with their fractured legacy. The death of the widespread Chicano movement opened the door for the current dilemma of gangs and cartels which exists in the barrios and hoods of today. The fear and paranoia harped on by those who profit off the current state of cartel violence fail to address the fact that the cartel and gang base is fueled by the voracious appetite of ever-more dangerous drugs consumed by Americans north of the border. It is their participation in the process which ensures the problem will be a component of our society well into the future. Correspondingly, the “gangs” of law enforcement, particularly in the East Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, continue to swell, giving themselves names like “Bandidos” in East LA, or the “Executioners” at the Compton station, playing into the hands of politicians and legislators caught in a destructive mindset.

These problems are inescapable. So long as there is a market for drugs in America, there will be a bevy of groups intent on supplying the need. Politics and law enforcement continue to go hand in hand, their tactics incumbent on the tone of the day. To continue to look to anyone but ourselves to fix the problem is sheer folly. The work to be done is on ourselves. The lofty process of individuation; of going beyond basic archetypes of the hero and seeing the world as bad/good is something we all might benefit from to break free from the tired processes of “democracy.” Or, to reiterate what Cesar Chavez once said, “You are looking for a miracle, a leader who will do everything for us…It doesn’t happen. People have to do the work.” Elsewhere he said: Nothing changes until the individual changes.”

Bibliography

Acosta, Oscar, The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo, Straight Arrow Books, 1972.

Acosta, Oscar, The Revolt of the Cockroach People, Straight Arrow Books, 1973.

Anaya, Rudolfo, Lomeli, Francisco, Editors. Aztlán: Essays on the Chicano Homeland. University of New Mexico Press,1989.

Anonymous, Translated by Robert Powell. Meditations on the Tarot: A Journey into Christian Hermeticism, Element Books Limited, 1993, Tarcher/Putnam, 2002.

Bierhorst, John, Translator. History and Mythology of the Aztecs: The Codex Chimalpopoca. University of Arizona Press, 1992.,

Castaneda, Carlos, The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge. University of California Press, 1969, 1998.

Eliade, Mircea, Myth and Reality. New York, Harper & Row Publishers, 1963.

C.G. Jung and C. Kerényi, Introduction to a Science of Mythology. R.F. C. Hull, London, 1951.

Matthiessen, Peter, Sal Si Puedes: Escape if You Can. University of California Press, 1969.

Tarnas, Richard, Cosmos and Psyche: Intimations of a New World View. Plume Publishing, 2007.

Thompson, Hunter S. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream. Random House, 1971.

Online Resources

Acosta, Oscar, The Autobiography of a Brown Buffalo. Con Safos Magazine, Volume 2, Winter, 1971. Courtesy Rick Cortez (Tijuana Rick) via his website Low Rider Fever. https://issuu.com/lowriderfever/docs/consafos-v2-n7 . https://www.lowriderfever.com/

Aguirre, Abbey, What “Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas” Owes to Oscar Acosta. The New Yorker, July 13, 2021. https://www.newyorker.com/books/second-read/what-fear-and-loathing-in-las-vegas-owes-to-oscar-acosta

Barajas, Julia, Martinez, Vanessa, The Chicana Revolt: The Women of the Brown Berets — Las Adelitas de Aztlán — break free and form their own movement. https://www.latimes.com/projects/chicano-moratorium/female-brown-berets-create-chicana-movement/

Coolican, Patrick, Mishak, Michael J. Las Vegas Sun, Dec. 25, 2007. Hunter S. Thompson: How all went wrong in Elko. https://lasvegassun.com/news/2007/dec/25/hunter-s-thompson-how-all-went-wrong-in-elko/

Campos, Antonio, What’s the difference between Hispanic, Latino and Latinx? University of California website. https://www.universityofcalifornia.edu/news/choosing-the-right-word-hispanic-latino-and-latinx

Herrera, Juan, La Lucha Continua! Gloria Arellanes and Women in the Chicano Movement. East of East in KCET Departures March 26, 2015. https://www.pbssocal.org/history-society/la-lucha-continua-gloria-arellanes-and-women-in-the-chicano-movement

La Raza Newspaper, Online Archive of California. https://oac.cdlib.org/findaid/ark:/13030/c82f7vq1/entire_text/

Lopez, Enrique Hank, Con Safos Magazine, Volume 2, Winter, 1971. Courtesy Rick Cortez (Tijuana Rick) via his website Low Rider Fever. https://issuu.com/lowriderfever/docs/consafos-v2-n7 . https://www.lowriderfever.com/

Richardson, Peter. Strange Rumblings: The Prickly but Productive Friendship Between Hunter Thompson and Oscar Acosta. Los Angeles Review of Books, November21,2021 https://lareviewofbooks.org/article/strange-rumblings-the-prickly-but-productive-friendship-between-hunter-thompson-and-oscar-acosta/

Thompson, Hunter S. Strange Rumblings in Aztlan. Rolling Stone Magazine. https://eastofborneo.org/wp-content/uploads/2016/08/Strange_Rumblings_in_Aztlan_small.pdf

Aztlan Times https://aztlantimes.org

Fear & Loathing in Aztlán: Hunter S. Thompson and Oscar ‘Zeta’ Acosta’s Precarious Quest for Justice

Introduction

The Dreamers and the Vatos Locos: Dividing and Conquering a Movement

Of Brown Berets & Buffaloes

Home Court Advantage? Justice… Aztlán Style

Identity & Individuation: Reconciling the Past, Planning for the Future

Epilogue

Bibliography

Online Resources

The Monkey-Mind Gang: Spiritual Calamity and Edward Abbey