An 18-year-old Mexican American was yearning to fight in Vietnam, and so in the summer of 1968, he was set to enlist in the United States Army. At the last minute, he chose a different path, and 13 years later, Ricardo Chavira became a Time magazine foreign correspondent.  Chavira’s incredible journey is chronicled in his autobiography

In 1984, reporting his first major story for the magazine, Chavira found himself in northern Nicaragua, embedded with a group of Contra rebels. The situation took a perilous turn as a larger Sandinista patrol closed in, pushing Chavira to the brink after a grueling fifteen-hour forced march.

 Six days deep into his foray with the rebels, exhausted, his feet mired in painful blisters, he decided to surrender to the troops hot in pursuit. Suddenly, he realized the Sandinistas would kill him if he abandoned the rebels. In his own words, he became “the quarry in a brutal war.”

A Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, Chavira recounts his tumultuous upbringing in Pacoima, California, a marginalized community plagued by gang violence and inadequate education. Remarkably, he defied the odds, avoiding gangs, evading serious crimes, escaping the Vietnam War draft, and earning undergraduate and graduate degrees. Journalism became his passion, offering an avenue to shed light on the lives of Latinos overlooked or misrepresented by mainstream American media.

Chavira stood out as one of the few Latinos in prestigious American newsrooms. He covered natural disasters, including the devastating 1985 Mexico City earthquake, and interviewed prominent figures like Mexican presidents Carlos Salinas de Gortari, Vicente Fox, and Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega. Interweaving his journalistic exploits with his family’s American history, Chavira delves into his dual Mexican and American identities and how they shaped his ability to navigate and report stories worldwide.

Here’s my book’s intro

One day in 1870, a teenaged orphan saddled a mare and left San Francisco Javier de Satevó in southern Chihuahua. He traveled northeast across 225 miles of desert to Fort Davis, Texas.

Jesús Chavira, my great-grandfather, unimpeded by American officials or anyone else, crossed the bor- der in search of economic survival. He found work as a stable boy at the Fort Davis US cavalry post. In time, Jesús would marry Estefana Molina and have eight children, all just outside of Shafter, Texas. José, my paternal grandfather, was the eldest.

He was born in 1896. Jesús and his family put down roots that would spread across Texas and California as he and Estefana’s off- spring had children and grandchildren of their own. This book tells their story and my own as a third-generation American. I have contended with the same inequality, poverty, and withering racism my ancestors did. Mexicans of my generation typically took the path of acculturation, adapting to mainstream America’s ways. Some distanced themselves from Mexican culture, failed to learn Spanish, and viewed Mexico as a foreign land rather than their ancestral homeland. In Mexico, they were derisively called pochos because many of them spoke little or no Spanish and had been cut off in their education from Mexican culture. They were proud Americans, yet they were conscious of the fact that they were of Mexican origin. I was considered a pocho during much of my childhood. In the following pages, I recount how my journalism career has helped me understand who I am and where I came from. In fact, my cultural hybridity allowed me to flourish as a journalist, as I told the stories of the United States and Latin America from a profound and rare perspective.

My story is a tale of reconnection with Mexican culture and retaining my American identity. I became fully bi-cultural and bilingual, but over time, I became more at home in Mexico than in my native country. I identify as American in the broadest and most authentic sense: America is a hemisphere, not just the United States. My odyssey led me to all parts of my native land, nearly all of Latin America, and other regions. This book took me many years to write because I was reticent to talk about myself. It struck me as presumptuous to assume that anyone would find my life interesting.

One day in 1870, a teenaged orphan saddled a mare and left San Francisco Javier de Satevó in southern Chihuahua. He traveled northeast across 225 miles of desert to Fort Davis, Texas. Jesús Chavira, my great-grandfather, unimpeded by American officials or anyone else, crossed the bor- der in search of economic survival.

He found employment as a stable boy at the Fort Davis US cavalry post. Over time, Jesús married Estefana Molina and they were blessed with eight children, all born just outside of Shafter, Texas. José, my paternal grandfather, was the eldest, born in 1896. Jesús and his family established strong connections that would extend across Texas and California as he and Estefana’s descendants had children and grandchildren of their own.

This book tells their story and my own as a third-generation American. I have contended with the same inequality, poverty, and withering racism my ancestors did. Mexicans of my generation typically took the path of acculturation, adapting to mainstream America’s ways. Some distanced themselves from Mexican culture, failed to learn Spanish, and viewed Mexico as a foreign land rather than their ancestral homeland.

In Mexico, they were derisively called pochos because many of them spoke little or no Spanish and had been cut off in their education from Mexican culture. They were proud Americans, yet they were conscious of the fact that they were of Mexican origin.

I was considered a pocho during much of my childhood. In the following pages, I recount how my journalism career has helped me understand who I am and where I came from. In fact, my cultural hybridity allowed me to flourish as a journalist, as I told the stories of the United States and Latin America from a profound and rare perspective.

My story is a tale of reconnection with Mexican culture and retaining my American identity. I became fully bi-cultural and bilingual, but over time, I became more at home in Mexico than in my native country.

I identify as American in the broadest and most authentic sense: America is a hemisphere, not just the United States. My odyssey led me to all parts of my native land, nearly all of Latin America, and other regions. This book took me many years to write because I was reticent to talk about myself. It struck me as presumptuous to assume that anyone would find my life interesting. My wife Yoleinis, son Ricardo Jr., and daughter Marlena Medford Chavira ultimately convinced me I had a story worth sharing. So, here it is.

amazon.com/We-Were-Always-Here-Americans/dp/1558859136

Today, I searched for the border crisis.

Just as countless politicians have done, I traveled to where Mexico and the United States meet. This was at least my 500th time spending at the border.

I saw hundreds of pedestrians, some walking north, others south. U.S. and Mexican officials looked on, as usual appearing bored or engaged in chit chat.

But the crisis was elusive. It hid from me, just as it always does.

Less than 12 hours ago, my family and I crossed the border at Nogales, Arizona. It was a grueling experience, because just two traffic lanes were open. As usual, many United States Customs and Border Enforcement officers were standing around, leisurely chatting among themselves. If there is a border crisis, why weren’t they working?

The incident brought to mind the stereotypical notion that Mexican immigrants are troublesome people who “steal” jobs and commit crimes. My grandfather, Juan Parra, who moved from Chihuahua and settled in Los Angeles in the early 1930s, offered a solid rebuttal to this stereotype.

Juan moved to Los Angeles right after divorcing my grandmother. Here is an excerpt from my book that recounts some of Juan’s story.

The Great Depression hit along with the divorce, and Juan was fired from his job. At that point, he moved to Los Angeles. He had brothers there, and he just wanted a fresh start. Jobs were scarce, but Juan found work as a dishwasher at a fancy hotel. He told my mother he was pretty poor and ate lots of potatoes and oatmeal. They filled him up and were cheap.

Before long, he was promoted to the food preparation crew and eventually head chef. He did well in his new position and bought a house in South Central LA. Even then, it was primarily an African American section of the city. Bit by bit, Juan set-up a modest variety store in his house. He sold canned goods, thread, and miscellaneous items.

Eventually, he opened a neighborhood store on Hooper Street. By the early 1950s, Juan had established a large market on Main Street at the corner of Clover Street, about two miles from downtown. He named it “Toma y Daca,” Spanish for give-and-take.

My grandfather Juan was in his third marriage when I first met him. As a six-year-old, I would ride my bike to Juan’s store on some Sunday mornings after Mass. The promise of a dollar and a bowl of menudo—spicy tripe and hominy soup—lured me there.

For the dollar, Juan had me do a few minor chores, such as dust canned goods with a feather duster, sweep up sawdust from the floor of his walk-in meat locker, spread fresh sawdust, and handle the sale of penny candies to eager kids. I was fascinated by how this modest capitalist venture worked. My grandfather explained that he bought wholesale, which allowed him to sell goods at a profit. He extended credit to some of his customers, a practice that struck me as novel and generous. One day, my grandfather asked me if I would like to work with him once I had grown up; I eagerly accepted what I took to be a job offer. Lung cancer took Grandpa Juan in 1959. He was just 62.