Sehila Mota Casper

Posted April 23, 2026

 

Across the country, conversations are emerging about the future of places that hold deep meaning for Latinx communities, including the César E. Chávez National Monument. Questions about whether its name should change are part of this moment, as new information reshapes how historical figures are understood and communities begin to ask harder questions about how that history is represented.

 

Those discussions deserve space and rigor as communities work through what it means to hold history with care, but removing the monument is a different decision—one that reshapes how that history is carried forward.

 

The monument does not belong to César Chávez. He was the face of a movement, not the movement itself, and what stands there carries the history of farmworkers—their labor, their struggles, their organizing, their families, and the collective force that shaped the struggle.

 

We cannot stand by and allow others to write, reshape, or erase our histories.

 

What is at stake is how we understand ownership of memory and who has the authority to shape it over time.

 

Murals honoring César Chávez exist in barrios, schools, and community centers across the country, created in moments when communities came together to reflect what they understood to be true—images of farmworkers, huelga eagles, families, and collective struggle that speak to something larger than any one individual. These murals hold memory in visible form, shaped by what communities chose to honor, protect, and pass forward.

 

Memory, in that sense, has never been fixed. It evolves as communities revisit, question, and carry it forward.

 

As the United States approaches its 250th anniversary, the country is being asked to reckon with how history is told and retold. New information can complicate long-held narratives, and that process can feel unsettling, especially when it touches figures and symbols that have shaped our collective identity. This is not a breakdown of history, but part of its ongoing formation.

 

Within the field of preservation, this moment calls for a deeper level of responsibility. For years, the work has focused on inclusion, ensuring that Latinx histories are recognized within national narratives. That work remains essential, and it also requires an expanded commitment to the full story, including the parts that are difficult, incomplete, or unresolved. It asks us to hold ourselves accountable to histories that were excluded, histories that were incomplete, and histories that bring both pride and discomfort.

 

We cannot stand by and allow others to write, reshape, or erase our histories. When that happens, what is lost is not only narrative, but the nuance, care, and community context that give it meaning.

 

What is unfolding in national conversations about monuments and memory reflects how quickly complexity can be flattened.

 

Discussions about places like the César Chávez monument are often framed in ways that reduce history to a single decision point, when in reality these sites hold layered meanings shaped by communities over time.

 

Removing a monument does not honor survivors, and it does not tell a fuller story or preserve history; it simplifies it, reducing something complex into a single interpretation that communities themselves did not shape. Simplification, and erasure, are things our communities have long fought against.

 

The question that remains is who has the authority to guide what these places become, and the answer returns us to comunidad, to the people who carry this history and continue to shape its meaning in their daily lives.

 

Murals, like monuments, were never meant to be static. They are expressions of collective memory that reflect what a community values and chooses to carry forward. Some communities may choose to keep them as they are, while others may choose to add context, expand the narrative, or create new forms of representation that speak to the present moment.

 

These decisions require proximity to the history itself. They belong to farmworkers, families, elders, organizers, and those who continue to carry this legacy in their daily lives. This is shared stewardship, shaped through processes that are grounded in community rather than imposed from the outside.

 

At its strongest, preservation creates space for communities to engage with their own past in ways that are honest and evolving. It allows for reflection, for revision, and for a deeper understanding of what has been carried forward across generations. In that sense, preservation becomes part of a broader process of repair, one that acknowledges where history has been incomplete or distorted and works to hold it with greater care.

 

This moment also asks something of us as Latinxs. It calls for a stronger commitment to documenting our own histories, to ensuring that stories are told with the depth and context they deserve, and to resisting the conditions that allow others to define those narratives without community grounding. When we do not document our histories fully, others will, and they will not always do so with care.

 

As the country moves toward this milestone, there is an opportunity to move beyond narratives centered on individuals and toward those rooted in collective experience, recognizing that movements are made up of many, not one, and not only men. Farmworkers deserve to be honored, and women deserve to be honored as well, as they have always been present—organizing, leading, and holding movements together, often without recognition. Their labor, organizing, and sacrifices helped shape this country, and that history must remain visible.

 

How that history is honored, interpreted, and carried forward should remain in the hands of the communities who live it. When communities lead, history does not become fixed. It remains alive, open to reflection, and capable of holding complexity over time.

Paz, solidaridad, y fuertes abrazos

 

Sehila Mota Casper, Executive Director, Latinos in Heritage Conservation.