Jennifer Andrea Porras was 18 when they arrived at La Paz, the California headquarters of United Farm Workers co-founder Cesar Chavez, expecting to work as a field organizer. What unfolded that summer in 1990 was a pattern of sexual harassment and assault that has haunted them for decades.
Now 53, Porras is speaking publicly for the first time about being groomed and abused by Chavez, joining a growing chorus of survivors whose allegations have shattered the civil rights icon's legacy. Their account adds weight to recent reporting that detailed accusations from multiple women, prompting California cities to remove Chavez murals, rename streets, and pull down statues.
The Bay Area artist says the abuse began years before that summer job. Porras first met Chavez at age 16 in Stockton and recalls him as charming and attentive. He obtained their address and later sent letters expressing interest in having them visit La Paz. Those initial gestures felt like an honor to a teenager raised in the Chicano and labor movements, with parents who were longtime community organizers.
"Looking back, I can see how my family as a unit was convinced that this was a Chicano dream, a safe and honorable space," Porras said. "The whole time he was figuring out how to get in my shirt, in my pants, how to force his mouth on me."
When Porras arrived at Sacramento State University as a freshman in 1990, Chavez accelerated his pursuit. He visited campus as a guest speaker, asked Porras to call him Tata, and arranged a dinner where he insisted on driving alone with them while two other girls took separate transportation. At the restaurant, he spoke about the sacrifices required of union workers, telling Porras they would need to become vegetarian and keep their body "pure" and ready.
"They sold me this idea that I would have the experience of becoming an organizer," Porras recalled. "Instead, I was told I would be his personal assistant and personal driver."
Porras' parents dropped them off at the compound believing their child would be safe with a man they admired. Chavez personally introduced the family around, telling staff that Porras was now part of the UFW family. In photographs from that day, everyone is smiling, Porras noted bitterly.
Throughout the summer, Porras worked alongside Chavez, driving him to meetings and speaking engagements on long, isolated roads. In the final month, he began asking them to meet him in his locked office after hours, claiming he wanted to teach breathing techniques and pressure points.
"He would insist on the door being locked more days than not, and these breathing techniques and pressure points are where he would begin to fondle parts of my body that had no business in his hands," Porras said.
During car rides that month, Chavez asked inappropriate questions about Porras' virginity and sexuality. He tried repeatedly to touch them. On one occasion at a rest stop, he forced himself on Porras at a bathroom door.
"I said, 'What the fuck are you doing?', and I ran out," Porras recounted. "I think it was already bad to be touched by him while driving, and a whole other level to have him stick his tongue and face on me."
When Porras threatened to tell others what was happening, Chavez allegedly responded with threats of his own. "You will never tell people because if you tell anybody anything, no one will believe you, and you will cause everybody's life to mean nothing, you will cause this movement to end," Porras recalled him saying. "Do you want me to hurt your parents? Everybody knows to leave me alone."
Porras decided not to return to La Paz. After leaving, they told people they trusted about the abuse, but some in the movement pressured them to stay silent. For years, Porras carried the trauma alone.
Multiple sources corroborated Porras' account, including family members and others in the labor movement who say Porras disclosed the abuse to them at different points over the years. Verification included review of dated photographs and documents, as well as confirmation of locations, dates, and names of union organizers who were told about the incidents at the time.
Porras comes from deep roots in the Chicano movement. Their mother worked with Head Start programs in farm fields during the 1970s, while their father, a syndicated columnist, organized educational conferences for Chicano and Central American communities. Porras literally grew up in the movement.
"I learned how to march before I learned how to walk, sitting on my father's shoulders or my mother's hips, raising my fist up high like I'd see everyone around me do," Porras said.
This deep connection to the movement made leaving it unthinkable. Even after Chavez's death, Porras remained involved in labor advocacy and community work, finding meaning in relationships with mentors and chosen family who emerged from that time.
The timing of recent revelations has reopened old wounds. When news of the Times investigation broke, Porras experienced visceral flashbacks. "It was very visceral, very gross, gross in that I felt I could taste and smell Cesar again," they said. "Which I thought I was over ever smelling or sensing him in that way for a long time."
Porras has channeled their healing into art and advocacy as an Indigiqueer artist who tells stories of murdered and Indigenous women. They credit their son, their art, and their community with keeping them alive during the darkest periods.
For Porras, speaking out now is about protecting others and changing the culture of silence that allowed abuse to persist within movements and families.
"Believe children of all genders, believe survivors," Porras said. "Those things stick with you over the years. My body still remembers, my cells remember, my bones remember."
They hope their testimony encourages parents, guardians, and caregivers to listen to children the first time they disclose abuse, without question or judgment. Porras emphasizes that abusers remain present in today's movements, homes, and places of worship and power.
As for Chavez's legacy, Porras said the movement itself was never about one man. "The movement was for the campesinos, and that work continues."
Author James Rodriguez: "Porras waited over three decades to speak, and their account is a stark reminder that institutional failure to believe survivors protects predators and extends trauma across generations."
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