The afternoon sun glimmered off the ocean as I drove down MacArthur Boulevard in Newport Beach to fulfill a promise.
This September marks five years since I debuted as a columnist for The Times. My first dispatch was from the mausoleum niche at Pacific View Memorial Park that holds the cremains of one of my predecessors, Ruben Salazar.
Exactly 55 years ago, Salazar was killed in an East Los Angeles bar by a tear gas canister launched by an L.A. County sheriff’s deputy that tore through his head. He was one of three people who died that day during the Chicano Moratorium, a rally against the Vietnam War that out-of-control cops turned into a melee.
Salazar was only eight months into his columnist gig. He was a well-respected Times veteran who had done stints covering immigration, as a foreign correspondent and Metro reporter for the paper. Once he got a Friday slot on the op-ed page at the start of 1970, the journalist became a must-read chronicler of the Chicano experience.
In death, Salazar became immortal. Murals of him sprang up around the Southwest. Wearing a suit jacket and tie, with a full head of hair and a confident look on his face, he symbolized the potential and peril of being a Mexican American in the United States. Even as the decades passed, and his clips were relegated to archives and the memories of those who had read him in real time, Salazar has thankfully yet to fade from L.A.’s physical and spiritual landscape.
A high school is named after him in Pico Rivera, as are Salazar Park in East L.A. and Salazar Hall at Cal State L.A. The U.S. Postal Service sells stamps with his likeness.
United Teachers Los Angeles gives out a scholarship in his name, just like the National Assn. of Hispanic Journalists. The nonprofit CCNMA: Latino Journalists of California honors reporters who cover Latinos with the annual Ruben Salazar Awards, handing out medallions bearing his image.
When I visited Salazar’s final resting place in 2020, I brought a bottle of Manzanilla to toast the hard-charging bon vivant’s memory and ask for his blessing in my new role. I promised to visit and offer an update about my career every year near the anniversary of his death … but, well, the job got in the way.
A historic pandemic. The storming of the U.S. Capitol. A racist audio leak scandal that upended L.A. City Hall. Corrupt politicians. Increasing poverty. The rise, fall and return of Donald Trump. Horrible fires. A cruel deportation deluge. I’ve barely had time to spend with friends and family, let alone an afternoon driving to a far-off cemetery for a few minutes with a long-gone man I had never met.
For 2025, there would be no excuses. Because in a year that seems to get worse by the day, we need to remember Salazar more than ever.
A painting of former Los Angeles Times journalist Ruben Salazar and a copy of his last column, published on Aug. 28, 1970, the day before he died, are on display inside Ruben Salazar Hall on the campus of Cal State Los Angeles.
(Mel Melcon / Los Angeles Times)
Every time my Times colleagues report from a protest, I invoke Salazar’s name in my prayers to God that He watch over them. Our profession faces existential threats — and I’m not just talking finances.
The Trump administration has pursued scorched-earth campaigns against news organizations it doesn’t like with lawsuits and funding cuts, while limiting access to mainstream reporters in favor of sycophantic press coverage. Journalists have suffered injuries at the hands of LAPD officers while covering this summer’s anti-migra protests, from being struck with less-lethal projectiles to getting smacked with batons.
The climate against my profession is so ugly that the L.A. County Board of Supervisors unanimously passed a motion this month requiring the Sheriff’s Department to send them a report about what training, if any, deputies receive on allowing reporters to do their jobs during protests. Supervisor Hilda Solis, who authored the motion, cited Salazar as an impetus, calling his killing “one of the most painful chapters in Los Angeles County history.”
She also described him as “a crucial voice for the Latino community, dedicated to covering stories that mainstream outlets often ignored” — a legacy that all Latino reporters at The Times must try and live up to. So every time I open my laptop to start my next columna, I ask myself:
What would Ruben write?
That Salazar died in the course of doing his job has sadly eclipsed what he actually wrote, so I always encourage people to read his columns. The Times republished them online for the 50th anniversary of his death, so there’s no excuse not to familiarize yourself with his work. It would have seamlessly fit into this hell year — the 1970 in his columnas reads eerily similar to what we’re going through right now.
Immigration raids were terrorizing Los Angeles. Democrats were still lost after suffering a historic beatdown from a once-defeated Republican presidential candidate. Young progressives were disgusted with their moderate Democratic elders and tiring of the party altogether. Latinos were pushing for more political power. A redistricting battle in California was about to explode. The rise of computers was upending life. Politicians were going after nonprofits they accused of fomenting wokosos.
And there was Salazar, covering every development and hero and villain with crisp columns that got better with every month. All of this at just 42, four years younger than I am today.
I think he would have been thrilled to see regular people filming the cruelties of la migra as a counternarrative to the lies of the Trump administration. He would have urged young reporters who believe in so-called movement journalism — unapologetically leftist, with talking to the other side considered unnecessary and even immoral — to not let their biases get in the way of a good story.
I know he wouldn’t have been lionized the way he is today. In a June 19, 1970 columna, he antagonized the left by describing the pachucos of a previous generation as “anarchistic.” In the same column, he angered the right, arguing that because of programs such as Head Start and Chicano studies, gang members were “experiencing a social revolution and so is learning and liking political power.”
And that’s what makes Salazar more important today than ever.
He wanted Chicanos to better themselves, so he wasn’t afraid to call out their failures. He was skeptical of our legal system but wanted it to succeed — “A Beautiful Sight: the System Working the Way It Should” was the title of a July 24, 1970, column about the federal grand jury indictment of seven Los Angeles Police Department officers in the deaths of two unarmed Mexican immigrants.
As an immigrant himself, he loved a United States he had no problem criticizing. For his sole Fourth of July column, he urged people to tone down their pomp and circumstance and to relate to their fellow Americans rather than “to fixed ideas that apparently are not working.”
To paraphrase a 2014 PBS documentary about his life, Salazar was a man in the middle. His business was truth-telling for the greater cause of a just society. He literally lost his life for it. The least we can do is follow his example.
A bronze marker hangs outside the niche that holds the cremains of former L.A. Times columnist Ruben Salazar, who was killed in East L.A. on Aug. 29, 1970, while reporting on the Chicano Moratorium, a protest against the involvement of Chicanos in the Vietnam War.
(Gustavo Arellano / Los Angles Times)
No one was around when I finally got to Salazar’s niche, in a section of the cemetery called the Alcove of Time. A simple bronze plaque included the accent over the “e” in “Rubén,” which his Times byline never had. Instead of Spanish wine, I brought a flask of mezcal — I don’t think he would have minded the stiffer drink in this 2025.
I thanked Salazar again for his work — I learn more from it every time I read it. I told him about some of the columnas I’ve published and those I want to do. I shared how there are far more Latino reporters at The Times and beyond, but still not nearly enough. I apologized for not visiting more often and swore to never stop talking about him and his words.
“To you, Ruben,” I quietly said. I hoisted my flask in the air, took a small swig and splashed some in front of where he rested.
I made the sign of the cross, offered a short prayer, then drove back home. Another columna loomed. I’m sure Salazar would have understood and hopefully would have been proud.