Commentary

How would you feel about getting a dream gig only to see it end in disgrace because of, well, you?

That’s what Gregory Bovino gets to think about for the rest of his life. Friday is the Border Patrol lifer’s last day on the job after 30 years — and he ain’t leaving because he wants to.

For the past year, the self-described “hillbilly” was the personification of the Trump administration’s xenophobic deportation deluge. Helicopter invasions of apartment complexes, tear gas canisters thrown into large crowds, defying court orders, glamorous photo shoots: There was no municipality too big, no tactic too crazy, no quote too incendiary for Bovino to take on while he treated immigrant neighborhoods like the shores of Normandy.

The North Carolina native’s caravan of cruelty quickly earned him a promotion from El Centro sector chief to Border Patrol commander at large, a new position crafted just for him. He embraced the role of migra bogeyman like a tween boy scarfing down a bowl of Warheads, always promising more deportations, more chaos, more more.

Not anymore.

In January, Border Patrol agents shot and killed ICU nurse Alex Pretti during a protest against them a few weeks after an Immigration and Customs Enforcement officer did the same to Renée Good, a mother of three. Bovino threw napalm on the matter by claiming Pretti wanted to “massacre law enforcement” without offering any evidence. The incidents so soured the public on immigration agents that a Public Religion Research Institute poll released this week showed only 35% of Americans surveyed approved of how Trump is handling immigration, compared to 48% a year ago.

Bovino was sent back down to El Centro and lost his social media privileges, where he had long posted cringe-inducing videos about what a swell guy he was. Even Trump turned on his migra man, telling Fox News that Bovino was “a pretty out-there kind of a guy … and in some cases that’s good. Maybe it wasn’t good [in Minneapolis].”

I should’ve warned Bovino the one time we met that failure was his fate.

The setting: the Fox 11 Los Angeles studios in July. Bovino and I were in to do separate interviews with the station’s former anchor Elex Michaelson. Bovino was in the middle of his Los Angeles invasion, which saw immigration agents lay siege to MacArthur Park, storm Home Depots and car washes and show up outside the Japanese American National Museum while politicians inside were decrying Trump.

Dressed in full Border Patrol uniform complete with a clipped-on walkie-talkie on his shoulder, the guy was billing himself as a modern-day Charles Martel defending the homeland from invading infidels. The nasal-voiced Bovino rambled to Michaelson about how “Ma and Pa America” deserved a country free from undocumented immigrants and vowed to remain in Los Angeles “until the operation is over.”

Then-U.S. Border Patrol commander at large Gregory Bovino, center, along with Border Patrol agents as they march to the Edward R. Roybal Federal Building after a show of force outside the Japanese American National Museum where Gov. Gavin Newsom was holding a redistricting press conference on Aug. 14, 2025, in Los Angeles.

(Carlin Stiehl / Los Angeles Times)

After his interview, Bovino and three Border Patrol agents strolled into the greenroom to grab some homemade cookies while I sat on a couch. He looked me in the eye while bending down to sign Michaelson’s guest book, as if he expected me to not only recognize him but say something.

It was like staring at someone doing an impersonation that was one part Lt. Col. Kilgore from “Apocalypse Now” and two parts Henery Hawk, the short, brash Looney Tunes character that was always trying to capture the much larger Foghorn Leghorn. He really thought that his scorched-earth assault on L.A. would defeat the city and convince other communities to offer no pushback once Bovino’s self-titled “Green Machine” trolled into town.

The opposite happened.

People who had never bothered with politics — even some who voted for Trump or at least agreed with deporting immigrants with criminal convictions — rose up to resist. Everywhere became a front — social media, the streets, courtrooms — and activists across Southern California began to share notes among themselves and with communities nationwide to prepare them for la migra. Bovino flailed back at every affront instead of focusing on his mission, not realizing his recklessness was eroding public support for his cause and threatening it altogether.

Really, Bovino lost the day he has long claimed as a victory: the Battle of MacArthur Park.

That’s when he convinced the Trump administration to send a skeptical National Guard alongside his men to surround the historic L.A. green space in the ludicrously named Operation Excalibur. Armed vehicles parked on Wilshire Boulevard. A grinning Bovino strutted around with media in tow. A wannabe cavalry unit, anchored in the center by an agent on a white horse, swept through a soccer field where children were attending day camp just minutes before.

No one was arrested or detained that day. Instead, Bovino left to a chorus of cuss words and boo birds. The exercise allowed Americans to see the folly of burning millions of taxpayer dollars just so someone could star in a TikTok reel. It also broke the spell Bovino had cast over many critics — myself included — who had feared he truly was an unstoppable Punisher.

Nah, he was just a spiky-haired pendejo.

If Bovino was as smart as he thinks he is, he would’ve followed the longtime strategy of another longtime immigration enforcer. Trump border czar Tom Homan executed a yearslong roundup under the Obama administration with numbers Trump has yet to reach and with nowhere near as much public rancor. Homan, who loves the camera almost as much as Bovino, knew then and now that an issue as explosive as deportations must be approached quietly if it’s to be done successfully.

Instead, not only does he have to clean up Bovino’s mess, there’s now a real chance that the Republicans will lose the midterms because of Latinos who voted for Trump in 2024 but are now furious at his administration. That’s why even Trump is now telling Republicans to tone down their anti-immigrant rhetoric, stat.

Gracias, Bovino!

You thought you would go down in U.S. history as a domestic Patton, a borderlands Sherman. Instead, your last week coincided with the publication of a New York Times profile of you railing at enemies while downing coffee at a burger bar in El Centro.

You called Customs and Border Protection commissioner Rodney Scott “weak-kneed,” mocked Homan and said you could’ve deported 100 million people — a radically racist number considering even the Center for Immigration Studies, which has long pushed for reduced immigration of all kinds, estimated a record 15.4 million illegal immigrants were in this country at the start of Trump’s second term.

Instead, you’re heading off to the Tar Heel State to spend your days hunting… coyotes.

“Maybe I get me some dogs and we go hard,” you told the New York Times. “I’ll take it in my own hands.”

Which reminds me of another hapless cartoon character who thought himself a genius but who kept screwing things up in ceaseless pursuit of his quarry: Wile E. Coyote.

The photos currently flooding my social media stream are like a highlight reel of the life of Chicana civil rights icon Dolores Huerta.

The famous 1960s-era black-and-white shot of her looking like a bohemian in sweatshirt and black paints while she holds up a sign proclaiming “HUELGA” in the grape fields of California’s Central Valley.

Chanting at the front of picket lines, strands of gray in her hair, in the 1980s.

Beaming as President Obama awarded her the Presidential Medal of Freedom in 2012 for a lifetime of good work that expanded beyond the United Farm Workers union she co-founded.

What’s especially popular is admirers posting pictures of themselves with her — at protests, during art gallery openings, in classrooms, even dancing. It’s the type of public outpouring one usually sees when a celebrity dies. Sadly, there is grief involved in people sharing their encounters with her right now.

Someone didn’t die. But something did.

Earlier this week, Huerta’s disclosed to the New York Times that fellow Chicano civil rights icon Cesar Chavez raped her during the 1960s. It was part of a story that also interviewed two women who claimed the United Farm Workers co-founder sexually abused them when they were young teens in the 1970s.

One of the posts I saw soon after the story’s publication was an Instagram portrait Maricela Cueva took when the two met a few years ago during a conference in Burbank.

“Standing with Dolores Huerta,” said Cueva, president of the public relations firm VPE Communications, “means honoring her legacy in the farmworker movement as well as the victims who had the courage to come forward and acknowledging the personal sacrifices behind it.”

Former West Covina Mayor Brian Calderón Tabatabei shared on the platform formally known as Twitter a photo of him shaking hands with Huerta in Berkeley at a Working Families Party gathering for elected leaders in 2024, where she joined breakout sessions and listened to the next generation of leaders.

“I look at the folks who posted pictures and we are all children of the movement,” said Tabatabei, who’s also an El Monte High ethnic studies teacher. He kicks off each school year with a shout-out to Huerta. “She lived with that pain so we could be in these spaces. So we don’t have to be quiet.”

Together, the photos stand as a communal family album. It’s a show of love and solidarity to Huerta — but also a challenge to ourselves. Many of us immediately believed the longtime activist not just because of her stature, but because we’re sadly too familiar with the script playing out in real time.

A Latina abused by a trusted, powerful man. A terrible secret kept to not make him look bad and ruin his life. A need for the victim to consistently praise the abuser to others no matter what. A life of service in the form of sacrifice. Eternal grace masking an unimaginable pain.

Her story is the story of too many women I know and you know — and maybe the story of you.

Steely resolve in the face of suffering is not new in the Huerta story. For decades, reporters, activists, historians and others who formed the narrative of Chicano civil rights treated her as a modern-day Mary Magdalene — a woman who found purpose by following a man. Chavez was positioned as the Christlike figure who toiled for all of us at great personal cost and thus anointed the face of the farmworkers movement. Meanwhile, he and others relegated Huerta to sidekick status, both in the trenches and in the public — and the image makers followed his lead.

She found more prominence after his death in 1993, but Chavez’s shadow loomed over her for too long. Huerta became one of Chavez’s fiercest defenders even after revelations about his autocratic ways became public — but what else was she supposed to do when people tied so much of her identity to him?

Through it all, Huerta showed up not just for la causa but for those of others. People in Bakersfield, where Huerta lives, know she’s a supporter of arts and live music — she was seen dancing with family members at a Mardis Gras party just last month, gladly taking photos with well-wishers. I have run into her at my wife’s restaurant in Santa Ana, at movie theaters in Los Angeles, during online fundraisers for museums. My favorite memory is the time we both spoke to students at a high school summer conference. Afterward, the organizers told me her speaking fee was a pittance compared to that of a famous Latina author who demanded $25,000 for an hour-long chat.

That’s why Huerta’s recent revelations hit particularly hard — unlike the long-sainted Chavez, she always seemed more like one of us. Huerta has cycled through the stages of life in the public eye in a way that has seen Latinos relate to her over the decades as our daughter, our sister, our aunt. Our mother, grandmother and now great-grandmother in the winter of her years.

We all know women in one of those roles who suffered the same violations Huerta did. The same dismissals and insults. Who never spoke about their ignominies because they were afraid we wouldn’t be there for them.

Huerta was once one of them.

“I believed that exposing the truth,” Huerta wrote in a short essay, “would hurt the farmworker movement I have spent my entire life fighting for.”

By coming forward now, she’s speaking up for every woman who has kept their abuse private, every woman overlooked in favor of a man, every relative told to keep secrets lest they embarrass the family, every woman attacked for finally speaking up. By posting all those photos of Huerta — by herself, in a crowd, with others — people are publicly and unconsciously saying:

We can do better for the girls and women in our lives. We must do better.

“I have kept this secret long enough,” she concluded in her essay. “My silence ends here.”

May we all hear the Dolores Huertas in our lives. May we finally stand by them.

An eerie silence had settled.

As word evidently reached activists in the last few weeks that disturbing allegations of sexual abuse against Chicano civil rights icon Cesar Chavez were forthcoming, things started to happen without much explanation.

Groups began to cancel long-planned parades, dinners, lectures and fundraisers scheduled for Chavez’s birthday on March 31. People who I’ve known for years suddenly weren’t returning calls or texts about what was going on. Longtime defenders of Chavez — who stood by their hero even as revelations in this paper and in biographies over the past generation showed there was a dark side to the man — suddenly became hard to reach.

When the United Farm Workers and the Cesar Chavez Foundation put out statements Tuesday morning that “troubling allegations” against their patriarch were considered credible enough for them to offer help to his victims, the silence transformed into dread. There was a discomfort similar to waiting for a tsunami — that whatever was coming would change lives, shake institutions and make people question values and principles that they had long held dear.

And like a natural disaster, what emerged about Chavez was far worse than anyone could’ve expected.

Wednesday morning, the New York Times published a story where two women whose families marched alongside Chavez in the fields of California during the 1960s and 1970s disclosed that he sexually abused them for years when they were girls. Just as shocking was the revelation by Dolores Huerta, Chavez’s longtime compatriot and a civil rights legend, that he had once raped her at a time when their leadership in the fight to bring dignity to grape pickers earned national acclaim and amounted to a modern-day Via Dolorosa.

The silence has transformed into screams. Politicians and organizations that long commemorated Chavez and urged others to follow his ways are releasing statements by the minute. My social media feed is now a torrent of friends and strangers expressing empathy for Chavez’s victims and outrage, disgust and — above all — disappointment that someone considered a secular saint by many for decades turned out to be a human more terrible than anyone could’ve imagined.

There will be questions and soul-searching about these horrifying disclosures in the weeks, months and years to come. We will see a push for the renaming of the dozens of schools, parks and streets that bear Chavez’s name across the country and even the rebranding of Cesar Chavez Day, a California state holiday since 2000 devoted to urging people to give back to their communities and the least among us.

The reckoning is only right. Much of the Latino civil rights, political and educational ecosystem will have to grapple with why they held up Chavez as a paragon of virtue for too long above others just as deserving and, as it turns out, nowhere near as compromised.

In any event, the myth has been punctured.

A portrait of Cesar Chavez on a mural on Farmacia Ramirez, 2403 Cesar E Chavez Ave. in East Los Angeles.

(James Carbone / Los Angeles Times)

Chavez’s biography always reads like an entry in the “Lives of the Saints” genre of books that Catholics used to read about the holy men of their faith. The son of farmworkers who became a Mexican American Moses trying to lead his people to the promised land of equity and political power. An internationally famous leader who lived a mendicant’s life. Who devoted decades to some of the most exploited people in the American economy. Honored with awards, plays, posters. Murals, movies and monuments. President Biden even kept a bust of Chavez at his Oval Office desk.

It was a beatific reputation that largely persisted even as the union he helped to create lost its influence in the fields of California and a new generation of activists looked down on Chavez for his long-standing opposition to immigrants who came to this country to work without legal status. Admirers kept him on a pedestal even as former UFW members alleged over the last two decades that the boss they once idolized purged too many good people in the name of absolute control. The hagiography continued even as a new generation of Latinos came of age not knowing anything about him other than an occasional school lesson or television segment.

I was one of those neophytes. I first heard his name at Anaheim High School in the mid-1990s and thought my teacher was talking about Julio Cesar Chavez, the famous Mexican boxer. I was thrilled to discover that someone had bravely fought for the rights of campesinos like my mom and her sisters, who toiled in the garlic fields of Gilroy and strawberry patches of Orange County as teenage girls in the 1960s, the same time that Chavez and the UFW were enjoying their historic wins.

“Who’s Cesar Chavez?” my Mami responded when I asked if his efforts ever made her work easier.

My admiration for Chavez continued even as I learned about some of his faults. I was able to separate Chavez the man from the movement for which he was a figurehead. Long-maligned communities seek heroes to emulate, to draw hope from, to hang on their walls and share their quotes on social media. We create them even as we ignore that they’re flesh and blood just like us.

Chavez seemed like the right man at the right moment as Mexican Americans rose up like never before to battle discrimination and segregation. Now, Latinos and others who admired Chavez have to grapple with his moral failings of the worst possible magnitude at the worst possible time: when there’s an administration doing everything possible to crush Latinos and we’re looking for people to look up to like never before.

He remains one of the few Latino civil rights leaders known nationwide — and Chavez is nowhere near as known as acolytes make him out to be. Some people will argue that it’s unfair he will likely get wiped away from the public sphere while other predatory men from the past and present largely maintain their riches and reputations.

But that’s looking at the abuse revelations the wrong way. For now, I will follow what those most directly affected by Chavez’s actions are telling us to do.

The UFW and Cesar Chavez Foundation were wise to not try to defend the indefensible in their statements and instead consider any victims first before deciding how to decide what’s next for them.

The Chavez family put out a news release that states “we honor the voices of those who feel unheard and who report sexual abuse.”

Huerta wrote in an online essay: “Cesar’s actions do not reflect the values of our community and our movement. The farmworker movement has always been bigger and far more important than any one individual.”

Another of his victims told the New York Times of Chavez’s legacy: “It makes you rethink in history all those heroes. The movement — that’s the hero.”

The fountain in the Memorial Garden surrounds the gravesite of Cesar Chavez and his wife Helen Chavez at Cesar E. Chavez National Monument in Keene, Calif.

(Francine Orr)

The face of that movimiento brought inspiration to millions and improved the lives of hundreds of thousands. That’s why we shouldn’t cancel the good that Chavez fought for alongside so many; we should direct the adulation he once attracted and the anger he’ll now rightfully receive toward the work that still needs to be done.

To quote an old UFW slogan that Chavez transformed into a mantra, la lucha sigue — the fight continues. It’s a statement that’s more pertinent than ever, damn its imperfect messenger.

PHOENIX — Wait, what? That’s me whenever I see a list of the best pitchers in Major League Baseball that doesn’t include the Dodgers’ Yoshinobu Yamamoto in the top three — or not until No. 7, like MLB Network’s did.

It’s hard to believe there are professional ball-watchers who want us to believe there are a handful of pitchers better than the Dodgers’ righty who’s steadily filling the fingers on his hand with championship rings.

Respectfully, the Philadelphia Phillies’ Zack Wheeler and Atlanta Braves’ Chris Sale are great. So are the Philadelphia Phillies’ Christopher Sánchez and Boston Red Sox’s Garrett Crochet.

But they’re not greater than Yamamoto.

I’m not saying criminally underrating someone like Yamamoto should be prosecutable, I’m just wondering why anyone would?

“It could have something to do with him not throwing 100 like some other guys,” Dodgers pitcher Ben Casparius said. “But just in terms of pure pitching and what he’s able to do and where he’s able to locate certain pitches and how he’s able to read the hitters?”

Elite.

“In our eyes, I would for sure say Yamamoto is very underrated,” catcher Dalton Rushing said. “I think what goes into your role as a player is your willingness to win, whatever you’ll do to win. I don’t have to go back to the World Series and bring anything up, everyone watched those games, everyone saw what he did.”

Maybe it was a power outage at some folks’ homes during the World Series? Or a subtle form of protest against the Dodgers, champions of capitalism? Maybe Yamamoto’s unassuming everyman act is just that good?

We’ve all marveled at Shohei Ohtani’s Superman quick change, how he’ll go from dynamite pitcher to fearsome hitter in a few bats of an eye. But the truly superheroic character on the Dodgers’ roster is their 5-foot-10, 176-pound ace, Yamamoto.

His Clark Kent-esque transformation, from unimposing nice guy — “the nicest guy in the entire world,” Casparius said — to smirking menace whenever the day needs saving is the stuff of comic book legends.

In last season’s World Series against the Toronto Blue Jays that went the distance and beyond, Yamamoto earned MVP and three of the Dodgers’ four wins.

He had a 1.02 ERA. Got the Dodgers squared away with nine innings of one-run baseball in Game 2. Staved off elimination in Game 6, giving up just one run in six innings. And closed the deal in Game 7 when he pitched 2 ⅔ innings of scoreless relief in the Dodgers’ 5-4, 11-inning victory.

Dodgers pitcher Yoshinobu Yamamoto is all smiles as he’s hugged by a teammate following the Game 7 win over the Blue Jays in the World Series.

(Robert Gauthier / Los Angeles Times)

Oh, and of course Yamamoto was warming in the bullpen when Freddie Freeman hit his walk-off home run to end the 18-inning Game 3 epic at Dodger Stadium.

Yamamoto also showed up for Japan in the World Baseball Classic. He tossed 2 ⅔ scoreless innings in one pool-play start and started again in a knockout game Saturday in Miami, striking out five in four innings and leaving with the lead before Venezuela roared back to win 8-5.

“Part of being a gamer and being a great competitor in big moments is the preparation,” Dodgers manager Dave Roberts said. “And when you prepare the right way, that eliminates a lot of doubt and fear. And that, for me, that’s the core of who Yoshinobu is.”

Hyper-competitive and exceptionally nimble, Yamamoto is also super strong — in body and mind.

Bruce Wayne had Alfred Pennyworth; Yamamoto has Yada Sensei, personal trainer Osamu Yada, a 60-something Japanese judo therapist whose unique training regimen has helped turn his star pupil into a world-beater.

So while the Pittsburgh Pirates’ Paul Skenes and Detroit Tigers’ Tarik Skubal are baseball’s kings of the hill, if you had to pick one arm to decide the fate of the universe, whose would it be?

Cue the Yoshinobu Yamamoto anthem.

“He’s probably the best pitcher I’ve ever seen live,” Casparius said. “He’s definitely the guy I’m taking in a must-win game.”

Said pitcher River Ryan: “Yoshi, he is just a natural freak athlete” with a “routine that’s incredible to watch.”

And it isn’t merely the pitcher’s willingness to go to bat for his team and country, all the metrics make his case, too.

Last season, Yamamoto had the fourth-best ERA in the big leagues (2.49) and gave up two or fewer runs in 20 of his 30 starts. He was also tied for first in barrel rate (5.7%), fifth in strikeout rate (29.4%) and seventh in FIP (2.94).

Pick a category, and it paints the picture almost as well as Yamamoto does corners.

I’m not asking people to put some respect on Yamamoto’s name, I’m asking them to put mad respect on it.

“I would say yes, I don’t think he’s fully appreciated for what he’s done,” third baseman Max Muncy said. “Not just yet. He will.”

Eventually even people around Clark Kent have to catch on: This guy might not walk around like he’s a superhero, but he is one.