1970s - Present
On the battlefield
When President Richard M. Nixon took office in January 1969, he became the fourth president to handle a troubling Vietnam War. It was not to be a quiet end to the decade either. At the start of the year, Harvard was seized by protesting students. By year's end, hundreds of thousands were protesting across the nation. Social unrest had not only taken hold in the U.S., but Sudan and Libya were each overtaken in government coups. Curacao and Malaysia, El Salvador and Northern Ireland all saw rioting. Hurricane Camille wrecked the coastlines of Mississippi, Alabama and Louisiana. And Charles Manson's cult sent Los Angeles into shock with the murders of several prominent citizens.1
That year a study was released, examining Hispanic participation in the Vietnam War. The study compared Hispanic casualties during two stretches of time: January 1961 to February 1967, then December 1967 to March 1969.
The study found a combined 8,016 casualties from the states of Arizona, California, Colorado, New Mexico and Texas. Almost 20 percent had Hispanic surnames - nearly double the 1960 census at 11.8 percent in these five states. The Hispanic contribution may have been even higher, but the study had excluded two key states with a substantial Hispanic population - Florida and New York.2
The findings were significant because Hispanics made up just 10 percent of the country's population. The research also revealed that many Latinos were involved in higher risk branches of the service, such as the U.S. Marine Corps.
The Hispanic contributions and the price of their involvement were heavy, but there was also an unspoken price. As science learned how to save more lives on the battlefield, many more soldiers returned from the war with lost souls and lost limbs.
Thunderbird Post 41 would start the new decade with a loss of its own. One of its founders, former post commander Tony F. Soza, passed away of a heart attack in August 1970. Despite 70% disability from grenade blast injuries in New Guinea during World War II, Soza had remained active. Only two years before passing, he had been the Arizona District commander. The post voted to change its name in his honor. Thunderbird/Tony F. Soza Post 41.
With so many other organizations taking up causes and achieving success, Post 41's political-social involvement became quieter in the 1970s. It still served as a gathering point and a heartbeat for the barrios, along with places such as Sacred Heart Church and the Calderon Ballroom.
Individually, the post's members continued to broaden their success. Post 41 member Steve Zozaya was elected state director of LULAC. Zozaya and his wife, Julia, would later own the first Spanish-language F.M. radio station in the valley, KNNN Radio.
The charter government powerbrokers had helped five Latinos get elected to the Phoenix City Council, starting with Adam Diaz in 1953 and Valdemar Cordova in 1956. Optometrist Dr. Ray M. Pisano served from 1962-63, Air Force Gen. Armando De Leon would serve from 1970-1974, and Rosendo Gutierrez from 1976-1980.
The city changed to a district system and the Charter Government Committee that had helped Latinos gain political clout and office for 30 years was fast becoming an outdated organization. Rosendo Gutierrez threw off its support and won his second term as an independent. Margaret T. Hance was elected the second female mayor of any major U.S. city.
The population had grown 10 times what it was in 1950, and few in the city remembered the political climate of the 1940s when the CGC was created.
Modern Phoenix was emerging. While there would be lingering issues of racial equality, the city had become a major metropolitan area. By 1980 it was the ninth largest city in the U.S. and still growing.
Alfredo joins the senate floor
In 1969, one year after the laundry walkouts at ASU, Alfredo Gutierrez was instrumental in organizing Chicanos Por La Causa, an organization that within three decades would be known as the second largest Latino nonprofit in the U.S. Gutierrez also worked as program director for Barrio Youth Project in South Phoenix.
Gutierrez won a Ford Foundation fellowship and made plans to take classes at the University of Maine. He was hoping to study under a political philosopher that he had grown to admire, and toyed with the idea of becoming a teacher. But the boredom of summer played havoc with his loose plans.
Gutierrez noticed an election approaching. Suddenly, he felt the urge to run for office.
He announced his bid to run for a senate seat against District's Cloves Campbell. Gutierrez did not expect to win. He printed thousands of flyers, citing Campbell's high absentee rate and lack of involvement. Manuel "Lito" Peña pitched in a help to his campaign, and the flyers "went like hotcakes."
"The incumbent had been in office a long time. He was an executive with APS, and in my opinion was totally out of touch with the needs of his constituents," Gutierrez recalls. "People in my district really depended on the county hospital, and it was common at that time for a person to wait hours to see a doctor."
By a mere 136 votes, Gutierrez defeated Cloves Campbell, the African American incumbent who had held office since 1966 - and the first African American to do so in Arizona. Campbell would mount numerous comeback attempts, forcing Gutierrez to constantly battle for the position he had earned.5
The clout and legacy of Post 41 can also be seen in 1993. Alfredo Gutierrez rejoined Post 41 when he saw Rudy Lopez had rejoined. Though he had often worked in the same circles with South Phoenix communities, Gutierrez was an example of the power in Post 41's growing legacy. Where Ray Martinez and Pipas Fuentes founded the post and went on to make change, Gutierrez, who had first joined in the 1960s, made his name, and then was drawn back to the post by its legacy.
A quiet time and loss of community
"You know, I've been known for a long time as a bad boy and I want to thank you all for closing your eyes to that," the elderly man spoke from his wheelchair. Bishop Edward McCarthy had just heaped praises on during a Mass. It was two days before the 4th of July 1975.6
After Mass concluded, the old man was surrounded by hundreds of his friends congratulating him on 60 years of service to the Catholic Church. His weathered skin was proof of what he had given to the people of South Phoenix, what he had given to the Mescalero Apaches of New Mexico. And as a Japanese POW during World War II.
Looking down at his swollen feet, Father Albert Braun spoke again. "I've been wanting to die for a while, but God won't have me and I don't like the other place, so I just keep hanging on."
With a sigh, he mused quietly, "I used to be a hard worker in those days."
The mid-1970s were not an easy time for many in South Phoenix. Some Latinos reached new heights in the Valley, and yet many were suffering low blows.
The most notable high was Raul Hector Castro. He finally succeeded, on his second attempt, at what many could not have expected so soon. In 1976 the Tucson native became the first Mexican American governor of Arizona.
The same year Castro announced his second run for governor, the city of Phoenix was preparing for expansion of its airport with an environmental impact study. The final report described a relocation program to move people out of the largely Mexican-American barrios to make way for the airport. High unemployment rates and low property values in the barrios were cited as reasons the program would prove successful.
The study ignored the disruption this plan would cause. Developers and city officials moved forward with the proposals. In June 1977, a notice in the Arizona Republic announced Phoenix would start buying properties to the west of Sky Harbor and razing them. As property values in the area plummeted further, the residents were often taken advantage of. Some stood firm, refusing to move, but the community was collapsing around them.
In 1981, Golden Gate was declared a slum and wholesale demolition of the community began. The barrio would be just one of several sacrificed for the desires of a city and its airport. Communities continued to fall, house by house for another three decades, until just a few last bastions remained, such as Sacred Heart Church, American Legion Post 41 and a few streets of old homes tucked away, unnoticed.
One of the barrio's most valiant defenders, Father Albert Braun, could only sit by and watch, confined to his wheelchair after heart surgery in the early 1970s. In 1982, God finally took Father Albert Braun at the age of 92. His beloved Sacred Heart Church was boarded up three years later.
Another of Post 41's bright stars was extinguished on June 18, 1988, when Valdemar Aguirre Córdova died. He had retired four years earlier after suffering a stroke. One of the last high profile cases he presided over was the 1982 decision that ended a political fight to redraw district borders in Arizona.7
As the barrios faded around Post 41, the legionnaires began to focus more on veteran's affairs.
Then, one after another, the founders passed on. Frank "Pipas" Fuentes would also pass away in 1982 at the age of 73.
On Dec. 3, 1993, Ray Martinez was laid to rest. After his active years as the commander of Post 41, he was elected Arizona District Commander in 1950. He had spent most of the following decades working to improve the lives of children as the legion’s children and youth chairman.
In 1988, Post 41 co-founder Lencho Othon was elected Arizona district commander and succeeded in mobilizing Arizona legionnaires in a push to gain a national veterans' cemetery. The 225-acre cemetery, dedicated in 1978, was finally transferred officially into VA control and renamed the National Veterans' Cemetery of Arizona on April 1, 1989.
Into the 1990s Lencho Othon continued his efforts with involvement in the development of a new Arizona Veterans Home, opening in November 1995 next to the Carl Hayden VA Hospital in Phoenix. Just months after the facility opened, it was at risk of closure. As co-chair of the legion's District 12 Rehab Committee, Lencho joined in the successful effort to convince the city to apply for new funding.
In 1993, Post 41 immersed itself in the task of organizing a memorial that was to be erected in honor of Father Albert Braun, who had died a decade before. A Father Braun Committee was formed to handle the logistics, which included the acquisition of three large stones. One came from the Philippines, where Braun had been captured during World War II. The second was to be shipped from the Mescalero Apache reservation in New Mexico, where Braun had helped the tribe construct its church in the 1920s and 30s. The third was a stone from Yarnell. Artist Carlos Ayala was contracted to create the sculpture.
The post's reputation was recognized nationally for its work with communities and the voice it gave veterans. One of its members, Tony Valenzuela, was named commander of the Arizona Department of the American Legion.
"Post 41 is probably the best recognized and respected post in the whole country. Now, being that I've traveled all over, I know. And people have asked me. They say, "Hey. I see you're from Post 41. I'd like to go. I've heard so much."
"Well you come over." Valenzuela would respond. All are welcome.
Post 41's biggest benefit? It was there for those veterans who could not find a kindred soul that might understand what they had seen in battle.
Along a highway
On Aug. 2, 1990, Sadaam Hussein invaded the small, oil-rich country of Kuwait. The U.S. moved swiftly, launching Operation Desert Shield to protect against a possible invasion of Saudi Arabia, where they had interests in the oil reserves.
In 1990, the U.S. fought the Persian Gulf War. By now the Hispanic inclusion in the military was far-reaching, with about 20,000 Latino service men and women deployed in Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm.
Post 41 member, Adam Hernandez watched the attack unfold on the evening news, thinking, "Ahh, man! There's gonna be a real thin possibility I'll get activated. Transportation. I thought we were just a small unit that they probably wouldn't call us. We're, like, 130 guys."
He had already served in the Marines as early as 1975. After a break from the military, he signed up again in 1985, this time with the Army National Guard. "After 5 years back, I still wanted to serve again. The national guard seemed like a good thing to do for the community. That's why I joined." He was listed with the 220th Transportation Division. Thinking it was a small division, he didn't believe he'd be called.
In September, he was activated and sent to Fort Huachuca for training in Operation Desert Shield. The sudden activation took Hernandez by surprise. "Things happened so fast. Soon as we got called up, we went and started training at Fort Huachuca. And we trained there and by November we were in Saudi Arabia.
"I didn't really realize how involved we were in it until we were flying into Saudi Arabia in a commercial airline and a couple F16s pulled up to the side of the aircraft we were flying in and escorted us down to the Saudi Arabia airport. And that's when it hit me that this was serious."
Adam Hernandez never fired a shot in the Gulf War, but what he saw struck him deeply, nonetheless. "When we went towards Kuwait, we went down the 'Highway of Death.' There was a lot of pictures of that in the magazines, to get to 'Camp Freedom' up there. It was right after the Iraqis were trying to get out of Kuwait. They took the highway, and they were attacked by the aircraft.
"A lot of destruction. A lot of bodies ... just... A lot of destruction."
A long pause. "I thought about the horrors of war. Seeing actual destruction of human life... um... kinda felt... almost guilty about... you know, the soldiers that I saw there. The Iraqi soldiers. I know I didn't personally... attack them, you know, with my own weapons, but ... I felt like I was still part of it because it was U.S. forces. There was a lot of grief about it in me for a while.
"A year. Almost a year we were over there. We were one of the first units in there to move everybody in. And of course, we were one of the last units to leave because we were transportation."
Like Manny Lugo and Ruben Lopez who returned from Vietnam struggling with what they had seen, Hernandez would find some comfort through the VA. And through Post 41.
A hundred guys... or one
By 1979, Puerto Rican Horacio Rivera had risen to the rank of full admiral in the Navy, the first Hispanic to reach that rank in the U.S. armed forces since Spaniard David Glasgow Farragut in the 1860s. In 1982, Richard E. Cavazos became the first Hispanic four-star general. Nationally, Latinos were reaching for the highest positions.
The same year Rivera was named a full admiral, Latino Edward Hidalgo became secretary of the Navy. Before and during the 15 months he would serve this post, Hidalgo advocated for more Latinos in the military. He changed the face of recruitment campaigns. Television ads targeted Latinos. Well into the turn of the century, the Marines and the Navy would remain the top choice for Latinos enlisting in the armed forces.9
But by 2003, when the U.S. entered Iraq again, there was a growing change among the Latino soldiers' demographic. In March 2003, Major General Freddie Valenzuela attended a funeral for the first casualty of the Iraqi War. The young soldier, Army Spc. Rodrigo Gonzalez-Garza, had not yet received U.S. citizenship.
There seemed to be a new focus on poverty levels and citizenship of U.S. soldiers. A 2005 article started the conversation by citing rough vernacular for the troops that now had joined the armed forces for economic improvement or to achieve U.S. citizenship; "working class mercenaries, green card troops, non-citizen armies, or desperate recruits of the U.S. government's "poverty draft."10
After the tightening of U.S. border restrictions and empowerment by a 2002 executive order from President Bush, the armed forces made promises of citizenship to new recruits. The article continues to cite the results: By 2004, between 31,000 and 37,000 troops out of a total of about 130,000 were non-U.S. citizens serving in the Navy, Marine Corps, Army and Air Force.
And yet, as the military was gaining more soldiers, the American Legion was losing its veterans. Post 41 was no exception. Despite these new veterans, Post 41 has struggled to maintain its membership. Indeed, the entire organization. In 1996, the organization announced it was losing 30,000 members worldwide a year.
Former post Commander Henry Daley is aware of the difference. "I think I felt more like coming here than they do now. So many other things to do in this town. Back in 1954, there wasn't that much. There were maybe three or four dance halls or places that they had music. The legion being one. And the Riverside and Calderon (ballrooms).
"And that was about it. Now they have so many places to go to."
But the camaraderie and community awareness at Post 41 seem to have become a very special bond to both veterans and their families. And though soldiers had been known to show preference to veterans of their own wars, the 1970s showed a broad inclusion at Post 41 that continues to this day.
The Gold Star Mothers and Sisters of Post 41, with help from the Auxiliary Women's Post, has helped with the sorrow of fallen soldiers for more than 50 years. And they do it on their own. The National Gold Star Mothers organization, founded in 1928, does not have a local chapter. Mary Moraga has been a member since her brother died in Korea in 1951. Each year the organization holds a Memorial Day service in honor of their fallen soldiers. “To me, it (Memorial Day) has always been special. So many young men died. My brother was one," she says holding back her tears.11
Rudy Lopez had left the post, unhappy with the rift he saw between older veterans and Vietnam vets. As time had gone on, Vietnam veterans had become more involved in the post and carried the legacy into the present. Rudy decided to return, unable to resist the connection he felt at Post 41. "A lot of heritage. A lot of Hispanic heritage. I left Post 1. It's a real good post. That post is mainly Anglo. When I got there, the Adjutant said 'I heard about you, you're a troublemaker, huh!?' I said, 'Nope, nope. I just wanna be a member and ... I won't do anything.' The adjutant says 'no, that's what we want. We want members asking questions. We want fresh eyes. You see anything wrong, you let us know." And true to their word, they did. At Post 1, I was accepted. But my heart was always here.
"Now we're unifying. Now we're doing things."
Many survivors of these wars, such as Vietnam veteran Manny Lugo, cannot imagine having found a safer haven than Post 41. His steady voice grows passionate when he thinks of Post 41 and what it has meant to him.
"I'm just glad I found this post here. Every time I walk in here, if there's a hundred guys in there or one guy, you know you're a friend. It feels comfortable. It's like a family. I'm not saying they're closer than my family, but. I see 'em more often. And it's more comfortable coming over here than going anywhere else.
"I wish everybody could have a place to go to that was what this is to me. This is my home. Well, you probably have some place that you go, and everybody knows you and they shake your hand and give you a little hug and they treat you right. And that's what this place is for me.
"And I tell some of the older guys, they built this place here. They made this place for us. And now it's our turn to give back to them by keeping this place maintained. Keeping it going. And telling them thanks for giving a place to come over to."
Post 41 turns to its own ranks
Some have carried the Post 41 tradition and made their membership a family affair. Chandler city council member Martin Sepulveda related in a newspaper article that his father, a Korean War veteran, would often meet him at Post 41 to hang out. Years later, after a tour of duty in the 1991 Gulf War, Sepulveda joined. "Thinking back, it must have been the assortment of characters, veterans of World War II, Korea and Vietnam, who made these visits memorable. All were proud of their service to this nation.
"It wasn't like I was planning on being a regular there, living in Chandler, but it was an opportunity to become part of a veteran lineage that isn't replicated anywhere else in the state. I've maintained the tradition of taking my son to be with these unsung American heroes at least twice a year. He's a corpsman in the Navy Reserves, serving with a fleet Marine force unit."2
In November 2005, then-post commander Robert Peralta explained bluntly the difficulties Post 41 faced in achieving some of its goals. "A lot of people have been dying off, and we've been trying to recruit new members."3
Between 1995 and 2005, the post lost more than 100 veterans of World War II and the Korean War. In May 1998, one of the post's closest friends and an honorary lifetime member, Barry Goldwater, passed away at 89.
Henry Daley remembers the week of his death. "I was commander at the time. So we wanted to do the honor guard for him. It was pretty hard to get in to talk to somebody about doing that. I went down to the church he belongs to there on 3rd Street and Roosevelt. Goldwater's wife quickly stepped in and allowed the men of Post 41 the honor of the first in to pay their respects.
"So we were the first ones allowed into the church before the other people came and we walked in. All the members. We walked in and we paid our respects to him and saluted and paid our condolences to the wife. Then we went to their auditorium. Mrs. Goldwater came in. We all saluted her. She came and thanked all of us."
Tony Valenzuela also recalls the day and considers it one of the post's more treasured moments. "His wife made sure that before anybody went through that, the members of Post 41 went through there first. We were honored to say goodbye to Barry."
Into the new century, the post remains a gathering place of Latino pride. LULAC has continued to have its local meetings there and in 2005, their national convention convened there.
Then the time came for the community to turn around and do something for the post that had worked so hard for it. It was time to save Post 41's legacy. It was time to save the legacy for all Latino veterans.
Full circle
Fifty years after the opening of Thunderbird Post 41, the world has changed and evidence of its founders' achievements is fading.
The 158th Bushmasters no longer hold their fall reunions. It is no longer feasible. Too many have passed away over the years.
The original desegregated swimming pools of Tempe Beach have sat empty since 1975. They were then demolished in 1998 to make way for Tempe Town Lake and Park.
In April 1996, the gavel sounded and Arizona's regular senate session came to an end. Manuel "Lito" Peña's long political career was ending as well. He was stepping down after 30 years seated in the state House of Representatives.
Even the post's coveted $1-per-year lease agreement with the city was nearing its end after 50 years. Suddenly the post seemed at risk. In 1997, the lease was extended another 15 years, but as the city entered a multi-billion dollar renaissance of development in its central district, the venerable Post 41 was vulnerable as a property with non-historic designation. (At the publication date of this book, just three year remain on this new lease).15
In 1997, members renegotiated a 15-year lease extension with the city. At the time, thoughts of purchasing the property from the city were brought up. But a shrinking membership meant shrinking dues. They didn't have the money.16
In 2005 Phoenix city council member Michael Johnson told reporters that there were no plans to uproot Post 41. And as the U.S. economy hit rough waters in 2008, the post may have been saved from the jaws of property investors and developers.
To shut the doors of their building would have been a tragedy of Phoenix heritage. But voices were already beginning to speak up in defense of the South Phoenix icon and of the unspoken contributions made by Latinos in the U.S. war efforts of the 20th century.
At the University of Texas, an associate professor of journalism, Maggie Rivas-Rodriguez, noticed a large hole in the story of World War II. An estimated half million Latinos seemed to be missing from the histories that comprised one of the most important events of the 20th century.
She also saw that the opportunity to have those stories told was fading. Time was short, and these guardians of lost history were in their sunset years. Rivas-Rodriguez moved quickly to fill the gaps. With the U.S. Latinos & World War II Oral History Project, she began to compile stories from Latinos across the United States that had experienced the war.
In 2006, the materials collected by Rivas-Rodriguez's project became resource material for a play portraying their stories. "Voices of Valor" told the story of Latinos who returned from World War II to fight for their rights at home. It was performed onstage in Tempe and in Austin, Texas.17
Then an increased urge to defend and honor the heritage of Latino soldiers in World War II became a roar. When Ken Burns released a documentary called "The War" in 2007, many Latinos spoke out over the absence of their story. Burns acquiesced by tacking a new Latino segment to the end of his documentary, but several other documentarians would produce videos of their own.
One of those documentaries, "Los Veteranos," had been filmed by the son of a Post 41 founder before the controversy of Ken Burns' "The War." Dr. Pete R. Dimas is a historian and professor who was able to get his documentary aired on the local PBS station, KAET Channel 8, following airings of "The War." The story of Post 41 was now being shared with an entire community that had grown up, unaware of its accomplishments.
As Phoenix enters a new era, the South Phoenix area is poised to enter a renaissance as the memory of floods and factories and segregation have begun to disappear. Comfortable in the land's desirability, Phoenix dropped the need for flood insurance requirements in many neighborhoods in 2008. New development plans have emerged for the vacant land around Sacred Heart Church. A massive rental car facility was constructed in 2004, and South Phoenix barrios continue to disappear. Few bastions of the barrio legacy remain in Phoenix. One is Post 41.
Post member Manny Lugo is just one of many who refuse to let Post 41 fade into memory.
"I think it's important to give something back to the old timers that made this place for us. I wanna keep this post going.. This post should be going to the end of time. And I think it's important to open our arms to the guys that are coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. Just like the Vietnam guys when they came back, they weren't welcomed openly."
That love and respect for the founders of Post 41 carries forward. Ray Martinez' daughter Norma Kiermayr shares a moment when her two sons returned from duty during the second Iraq war in 2003. They had been members since the first Gulf war in 1990.
"They walked into Post 41 and the bartender asked them, "Can I help you?" They said "yeah, we'd like a drink?" When the bartender explained it was a membership only place, they pulled out their American Legion cards."
When they were asked how they came to be members, they explained their grandfather's name was Ray Martinez.
With that, the bartender brought their drinks - and refused to let them pay for anything they ordered that day.
Though the sound of gunfire has stilled
On Nov. 26, 2007, in Glendale, a family member walked into Silvestre Herrera's bedroom to wake him for breakfast. He did not respond. One of the icons of Arizona's military pride had passed away, one month shy of his 91st birthday.
Arizona claimed him as its hero. He was a regular in Memorial Day parades throughout the years. Post 1 made him a member when he returned.
But it was Post 41 he called home. Here, he was with men who knew him as a member of the community, not just a hero. They had all been through battles, both against enemies abroad and at home. At Post 41, he could still hear the echo of barrios he had known since 1928.
Nine days before Silvestre Herrera passed away, he granted an interview to Sgt. Benjamin Cossel of the military publication, Desert Sentinel.
"You can never feel sorry for yourself," Silvestre explained. "I've never let anything be an obstacle. When I couldn't walk, I crawled. I don't cry for my legs. I never did. They're gone, they don't care."
And so it was with the veterans of Post 41. The struggles of their barrios and the tragedies served to bring them together more as Latinos. It united them to fight for the American Dream, be it in war or at home.
Still to this day, Post 41's mission statement stands relevant. It bears repeating as the first 60 years of Post 41 conclude, and the next 60 begin.
"Ever since it can be remembered, Americans of Spanish speaking ancestry have striven to promote the welfare of our country to uphold and defend its constitution and to fight for it proudly in time of war. It is not intended to drop the battle of justice, freedom and democracy merely because the sound of gunfire has stilled."
