Diversity, Equity and Inclusion (DEI) isn’t just a workplace initiative or academic talking point to me. It’s part of my family’s story, etched into the calloused hands of my grandfather and carried through generations of struggle, sacrifice and resilience. Long before DEI became a formal acronym, its spirit lived in the marches where my grandfather walked, in the chants for justice echoing through the agricultural fields and in the enduring call for dignity led by leaders like César Chávez and Dolores Huerta. Activism like in the Latino Freeze Movement is not new — they are modern echoes of the same decades-long demand: to be seen, heard and valued. And I carry that legacy with me.
The textbook definition of DEI is a framework that promotes fair treatment, equal access and representation of all people — especially those historically marginalized. But to me, DEI is more than just a framework. It’s a feeling. It’s the difference between shrinking yourself in a room and standing tall, knowing you belong. It’s being able to speak Spanish without fear of being othered, seeing people who look like your family in positions of leadership. It’s being respected for your identity because it is understood as essential.
DEI isn’t just about policies — it’s about people, stories and recognizing that lived experiences, especially those rooted in systemic struggle, deserve space and respect. I learned that not in a class lecture, but through my family. Through my Abuelito Guadalupe Angel.
My grandfather is 94 years old. He was a United Farm Worker (UFW) who participated in
the Bracero Program, a government initiative from 1942 to 1964 that brought Mexican laborers to work temporarily in American agriculture and railroads, often under harsh and exploitative conditions. He is one of the many Latino laborers who stood shoulder to shoulder with César Chávez, demanding humane treatment, safe working conditions and fair wages.
In our conversations, he’s told me about the heat of the fields, the long hours from dusk to dawn (at least 14 hour days making 40 cents an hour at most) and how workers were treated as disposable tools rather than human beings. He remembers being told to “just be grateful to have a job” even as pesticides burned farmers’ skin and rest breaks were considered laziness. Exploitation in the fields wasn’t an exception — it was the rule.
“Era muy duro … muy caliente todo. Si no trabajabas rápido, no ganabas nada. A veces me pagaban unos seis dólares por todo el día, desde el solazo hasta la lluvia. Pero no teníamos opción — teníamos que aguantar, porque había familia que alimentar,” my grandfather said.
“It was very hard … everything was so hot. If you didn’t work fast, you didn’t earn anything. Sometimes they paid me six dollars for the whole day, from the blazing sun to the rain. But we didn’t have a choice — we had to endure, because we had families to feed.”
But he also remembers the power of marching. The power of standing together in the face of fear. The power of boycotting grapes and picketing fields, not because it was easy, but because it mattered. Because someone had to say, basta ya. That fight wasn’t just about wages. It was about dignity. It was about telling America that Latino lives, voices and labor matter. My grandfather survived history and helped shape it too.
“Cuando tú ganas una cosa, ya te pagan mejor. Ya no te tratan tan mal. Por eso marchamos con César Chávez — porque queríamos ganar algo, cambiar algo. Y sí se ganó. Pero fue muy duro, muy duro,” grandfather said.
“When you win something, they start paying you better. They don’t treat you as badly. That’s why we marched with César Chávez — because we wanted to win something, to change something. And we did win. But it was very hard, very hard.”
That legacy lives on today in movements like the Latino Freeze Movement, a modern boycott calling for greater representation of Latine communities across media, politics and institutions. It asks us to “freeze” our consumption and support for systems that exclude us until we’re seen and heard. Just like the grape boycott, the movement advocates for reclaiming agency in a system that profits from our culture but often silences our voices. Both movements use economic and social pressure to highlight how deeply marginalized communities are woven into the fabric of society and how often that fabric is frayed by erasure.
When I see the Freeze Movement trending, I see my grandfather’s footprints in the dirt. I see a continuation, not a beginning. Our generation isn’t starting the fight; we’re picking up where our elders left off.
DEI showed up for me in a quieter, yet deeply meaningful way during my time at the University of California, Riverside (UCR). As a member of Líderes Avanzando, a program supporting Latine students, I was surrounded by people who understood my cultural background, language and references. It was a rare and beautiful thing to be both seen and celebrated.
The contrast hit me even harder when I spent a quarter at UC Los Angeles. There, I caught myself mispronouncing Spanish words on purpose. I laughed differently. I edited myself to fit in. Not because anyone explicitly made me feel unwelcome, but because I felt I had to dilute parts of myself to be accepted. That’s the invisible weight of exclusion. It lingers in spaces that weren’t built with us in mind.
But inclusion is healing. It’s walking into a classroom and seeing professors at your university who look like your tíos or tías. It’s having syllabi that include works by our authors. It’s not having to shrink and that is the quiet, powerful magic of DEI done right.
DEI matters to me because it’s a continuation of my family’s legacy. It’s in the dirt my grandfather marched across. It’s in the dreams my mom nurtured despite barriers. And it’s in the spaces I now step into, hoping to widen the door for others.
We can not let the erosion of DEI and countless other rights be stripped away. It’s imperative that we stand up, speak out and actively work to preserve the values of diversity, equity and inclusion that are fundamental to a just and representative society. We must challenge biased systems, support inclusive policies, amplify marginalized voices and stay engaged in our communities. Every action, no matter how small, contributes to a larger movement for equity and justice.
In today’s world, DEI is more essential than ever. It is necessary in classrooms that shape young minds, workplaces that create economic futures and in media that shape how we see ourselves and each other. Honoring the activism of our elders means more than just remembering — it means advocating for DEI while building a better present, protecting our futures and honoring past sacrifices.
