Radio Figure’s Death a Reminder of an Old Injustice

The voice was passionate and angry.

“They say that this deportation campaign is to secure jobs for North American citizens,” it told listeners of L.A. radio station KMPC. “It’s a trick. It isn’t true. It’s really nothing more than a racist attack against all Mexicans. We are neither illegals or undesirables. They say that we came to this house and (that) it is not our home. It’s the complete opposite. Like it or not, this is our home and we have every right to be here.”

Another caller to talk radio riled about Proposition 187?

No, it was Pedro J. Gonzales’ way of connecting with his radio audience in the early 1930s when he reigned as the city’s only Spanish-language program host. After a few moments, he picked up a guitar and sang a ballad that struck close to home for his early-morning listeners on KMPC:

“Adios paisanos queridos. . . .

“Beloved countrymen farewell,

“They are about to deport us.

“But none of us are bandits,

“But none of us are bandits,

“We only came here to work.”

*

I think of Don Pedro, as he called himself on the air, and I get angry too. But that’s nothing compared to the outrage felt by L.A.’s Mexican community when he was forced off the air for a crime he didn’t commit. The reluctance of local and state authorities to admit that they had set up Gonzales only fueled the disgrace.

The reason I bring up Don Pedro is because he died recently at age 99 in Lodi. His passing attracted little note in the mainstream media, but many still remember him.

“My family listened to him all the time,” recalls Whittier real estate broker Manuel E. Hernandez. “I have memories of listening to him.”

Adds Mike Castro, a reporter for the Sacramento Bee who used to work for this newspaper: “He sang from the heart, and his songs were unusual. Usually, Mexican corridos (ballads) use two or three chords, but his songs used many more. It made his music a lot richer and more complex. I still sing his songs.”

Gonzales had already led an adventuresome life by the time he arrived in L.A. in 1923.

As a teen-ager, he joined Pancho Villa’s forces during the Mexican revolution and served as the charismatic leader’s personal telegraph operator. Later, in 1919, he faced a firing squad in Chihuahua for his allegiance to revolutionary figure Pasqual Orozco. At the last moment, a 14-year-old girl stepped in front of the 24-year-old Gonzales and prevented his execution.

Three months later, Gonzales married Maria Salcido--the girl who saved his life.

The couple and a young child settled here and he found work as a longshoreman. His habit of singing on the job led by 1932 to his reading commercials in Spanish on English-language station KMPC.

He got a 4 a.m. wake-up show aimed at Spanish-speakers, featuring him singing with a group called Los Madrugadores (The Early Risers). The program, which discussed issues concerning Mexican workers in Southern California, was wildly successful as Gonzales gave biting commentaries on the anti-Mexican sentiment in Depression-era L.A.

Some of his most popular songs were “La Vida Infausta” (The Unlucky Life), “Las Casadas” (Married Women) and “La Vanidosa” (The Vain One).

Gonzales was too outspoken for some in L.A., however, and was accused of raping a 16-year-old girl. Those who once wanted his on-air support, including the district attorney, now accused him of debauchery.

In 1934, Gonzales was convicted and sentenced to 50 years in prison. While at San Quentin, he continued to protest his innocence. Then, six years later, the girl recanted her story and Gonzales was released.

Authorities then administered a last indignity--deporting Gonzales to Mexico. But when his train home arrived in L.A., his listeners spoke up. More than 30,000 came to the train station to cheer him.

He settled in Tijuana, where he resumed his radio career for the next 30 years--with his characteristic tirades against social injustice.

He obtained a green card in 1971 and came back to the U.S., moving to the San Diego border community of San Ysidro. He became a U.S. citizen in 1985.

His life was the basis for the 1988 film “Break of Dawn.” Gonzales also was the subject of a 1984 PBS documentary, “Ballad of the Unsung Hero.”

Yet the bitterness remained. In 1989, a campaign was mounted for a gubernatorial pardon for Gonzales, but it went nowhere. As president of the California Chicano News Media Assn., I wrote then Gov. George Deukmejian on Gonzales’ behalf. I got no reply.

Now with news of Don Pedro’s death, I get angry all over again.

*

“And I come and go alone,

“Like the waves of the sea. . . . “