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Dolores Huerta, the fiery and resolute activist who helped launch and guide the nation’s first enduring labor union for poor farmworkers and later became an inspiration to women and liberal true believers, has died. She was 96.

Erik Olvera, a spokesman for Huerta’s family, told The Times on Wednesday that Huerta died in Bakersfield, surrounded by members of her “huge family.” The cause, he said, was cancer.

“It’s a tough time,” Olvera said. “She was incredibly beloved, and not only was she beloved, but she was an icon to so many people around the country and around the world, really. If anything, her family is clinging to memories and clinging to each other as they mourn.”

Huerta never gave up on her dream of a more equitable distribution of wealth in America, campaigning for working people for years beyond standard retirement age.

The emotional compass of the United Farm Workers of America for decades, the petitemother of 13 attained singular stature as a rule-breaking proto-feminist, godmother of the Chicano power movement and doyenne of American labor.

Huerta’s fervent crusading for the dispossessed made her the potent alter ego to her union co-founder, the soft-spoken and methodical César Chávez, though the full complexity and pathology of their relationship only became apparent late in her life.

The duo’s history took an unexpected and dark turn in March 2026, when two women came forward to say they had been sexually assaulted by Chávez when they were teenage girls, with Huerta telling the New York Times that the venerated labor leader also had twice forced sex on her, resulting in a pair of pregnancies.

Nearly 96 at the time, Huerta said she had remained silent for six decades to protect the farmworker movement. But she added: “I now understand that I am a survivor — of violence, of sexual abuse, of domineering men who saw me, and other women, as property, or things to control.”

Some wished Huerta had spoken out earlier, at least within the insular union, in order to prevent others from being victimized. But her many champions insisted the late-life revelation reflected badly only on Chávez, who for decades before his fall from grace had been an American civil rights icon and a virtual secular saint to the political left.

Some historians insist that Huerta be given full recognition for teaming with Chávez during much of the early foundational work that produced the UFW, from its founding in 1962 in the San Joaquin Valley farm town of Delano through her leave from full-time work with the union in the late 1980s.

It was Huerta who hurried from pickup truck to back stoop to pool hall, to recruit many of the union’s first members; Huerta who stormed up and down the picket lines to keep striking workers out of the fields; Huerta who helped negotiate one of the first contracts ever for farmworkers in North America; and Huerta who struggled to keep the union relevant, as its membership and clout faded. She turned the phrase “Sí, se puede!” into a chant that animated rallies and marches well into a new century.

Complications and byzantine controversies helped stymie the union in its adolescence, with Huerta usually supporting Chávez, even as he became distracted from the union’s central work and demanded absolute power. Their obsession with loyalty and often-imagined conspiracies ended with purges of some of the UFW’s most dynamic leaders and organizing stagnation, even as field hands continued to labor under abysmal conditions.

Huerta later devoted much of her time to women’s rights, Democratic Party politics and community organizing.

In 1999, the 69-year-old great-grandmother helped obtain extra government benefits for workers who lost their jobs in a citrus freeze and stared across the contract bargaining table at lawyers for the giant Gallo wine company. Even late in life she still toured the nation as a public speaker and used her foundation to register voters and campaign for progressive causes. Liberal groups clamored to have Huerta at the front of their marches. Often sporting a jaunt red beret, she locked arms with activists one-quarter her age.

Her Dolores C. Huerta Foundation supported endeavors as diverse as a performing arts camp for children, higher education mentoring for high school students and food distribution to victims of floods that inundated the Central Valley in 2023. The foundation became something of a family business — headed by her daughter, Camila Chávez, and supported by legal advice from her son, Emilio Huerta, while four other relatives served on the board.

In another step to cement Huerta’s legacy, one of her nonprofits broke ground in 2025 for the Dolores Huerta Peace & Justice Cultural Center in Bakersfield, the San Joaquin Valley city she called home. The $35-million project, paid for largely by the state of California, will include an academy to teach future generations how to become community organizers. “They are the ones who are going to guide us forward,” the 95-year-old told a crowd, which stood under a scorching sun for the groundbreaking.

Through it all, Huerta insisted her primary loyalty remained la causa — the struggle to win better wages, working and living conditions for poor people, particularly farmworkers.

Beginning with the early organizing days in the 1960s, Huerta inspired passions almost as intense as her own. She won almost breathless admiration from followers for the way she faced down sometimes violent anti-union forces, worked for days with little rest and negotiated late into the night, while others faded. She alienated others with a waspish temper, an unwillingness to forgive even small slights and inattention to some of the details that make a union work.

To the union faithful, she was the “Madonna of the Fields.” Some said Huerta reminded them of the soldaderas, a handful of women warriors who followed Emiliano Zapata and Pancho Villa into battle during the Mexican Revolution. The growers, whom she almost always scorned, had another name for her: “the dragon lady.”

A woman of frenetic energy who lived in a world of myriad contradictions, Huerta was one of the only women in many board rooms and union halls full of men. She was a jet-setting, president-schmoozing pragmatist, who in unguarded moments spoke mystically about her two youthful encounters with UFOs. She was the devout Catholic who had the last four of her children with a man she never married, Richard Chávez, Cesar’s younger brother. (Only in 2026 did she acknowledge having two other daughters, given to others to raise, fathered by César Chávez.)

Her relationship with Cesar Chávez was as complex as it was volatile — a fact acknowleged by UFW regulars long before Huerta’s charges about his sexual misconduct.

The two met through their work for the Community Service Organization (CSO), a progressive group that sought better government services and equal rights for poor and minority people. Both were called to the cause by the organization’s founder Fred Ross Sr. — Huerta in Stockton and Chávez in San Jose — and later united over their common concern for farmworkers. But even when he became statewide leader of the CSO, Chávez could not persuade the group to focus its energies on organizing field workers.

It was 1961 and Chávez was living in East Los Angeles when he called Huerta to his home one day and said, “We have got to start the union. If we don’t do it, nobody else will,” Huerta once recalled. He left the CSO, and Huerta followed.

Both soon moved their families to the Kern County farm town of Delano. Chávez relied on Huerta for nearly everything. When she wasn’t going door-to-door to recruit new members, Huerta negotiated with growers and created union hiring halls. She formed farmworker ranch committees and moved to the East Coast for months to promote the union’s national grape boycott.

But Chávez and his right hand also clashed routinely during their decades-long collaboration. The two would explode in shouting matches over strategy, while other union leaders shrank from the room. In audio recordings of one 1979 confrontation reviewed by the New York Times, Huerta fought back and demanded respect as Chávez called her a “stupid bitch” and accused her of stealing. Huerta might quit, or be fired. Inevitably, she would be back in the fold within a few days or weeks.

“Their commitment to the cause trumped all else and grew into a mutual dependence that survived decades of discord,” wrote Miriam Pawel, a former Los Angeles Times editor, in the biography “The Crusades of Cesar Chávez.” Asked by ABC News if she tried to protect Chávez, Huerta replied, “Always. Always.”

During a wine grape strike in the Central Valley, Huerta and other UFW women once locked arms in a human blockade between the union’s male picketers and replacement workers wielding two-by-fours. She blocked one worker’s car with her own, to prevent him from going to work and breaking a 1965 strike against rose growers in McFarland.

Chávez never doubted Huerta’s resolve. He once called her “totally fearless, both mentally and physically.”

Her years of community organizing in Stockton taught Huerta how to inspire even the most humble of her poor constituents.

In the union’s founding days, Huerta helped recruit a 19-year-old grape picker named Eliseo Medina to perform a one-man picket at the Port of Los Angeles — supposedly to stop the loading of a shipment of non-union grapes. The grapes never materialized. But Medina recalled how Huerta’s spirit and determination galvanized him.

“Dolores had a gift for making you believe in yourself,” Medina said. “She has an ability to inspire you and urge you to do things you could not think were possible. She is one of those life-changers.”

An Echo Park mural features Dolores Huerta alongside artist Frida Kahlo.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

Medina left the Chávez-Huerta led union, believing it had strayed from its core work. He went on to become the international secretary treasurer of the more than 2-million-member Service Employees International Union (SEIU) — just one of many UFW acolytes who fueled the labor movement as it staged a modest resurgence in the 21st century.

Huerta was at the center of many of the union’s landmark achievements, including the negotiation of a contract in 1966 with the Schenley Wine Co. It was the first labor agreement obtained by farmworkers themselves with an agricultural company, according to the union’s history.

But the UFW’s fortunes would rise and fall. One low ebb came in 1973 with the loss of many contracts to the Teamsters Union, which struck sweetheart deals with growers. But some union insiders also complained that the UFW had failed by not winning enough concessions for the workers it represented. The union’s membership plummeted.

Two years later, momentum swung again, as the union helped persuade California Gov. Edmund G. “Jerry” Brown Jr. to impose the toughest farm labor regulations in the nation.

The union’s membership would spiral downward until Chávez’s death, at 66, in 1993. There was a sense among many insiders that the union became overly insular, with repeated purges designed to promote absolute fealty to Chávez.

In one incident, students graduating from English classes at the union’s headquarters, La Paz, ended a slide show with the words: “The Union is not César Chávez, the Union is not La Paz, the Union is the farmworkers.” Huerta, fuming, demanded to know which of the teachers had planted this message, which she viewed as an act of treason against Chávez — an episode detailed by one of the teachers, Jeffrey W. Rubin, who went on to become a history professor at Boston University.

“Confronted there by Huerta, Richard Chavez, and Cesar Chavez himself, we were accused of being part of a subversive plot, railed at, called ‘chicken s—’ by Cesar, and thrown out of La Paz and the union,” wrote Rubin, who kept the episode quiet for years.

At the same time, the UFW lost contracts and sometimes failed to provide the benefits it promised to workers. Huerta was one of many union leaders unable to set Chávez, and the UFW, on a better path.

Dolores Huerta at rosary, standing next to the body of labor leader and civil rights activist Cesar Chavez (1927 – 1993) at rest in the pine coffin in Delano, Calif., on Wednesday, April 28, 1993.

(Jose Galvez/Los Angeles Times)

As Chávez’ son-in-law Arturo Rodriguez took control of the union in 1993 and began clawing to regain members and clout, Huerta remained the UFW’s most public persona.

At hundreds of marches across the nation that she attended with regularity throughout her life, parents would push forward, telling their children they were witnessing a historic figure. Asked for an autograph, she would boldly scrawl: “Sí, se puede.”

The phrase — “Yes, it can be done” — had been part of the union’s fabric since 1972, when some doubters suggested the union would fail in its campaign against an anti-union law in Arizona. Huerta responded, “Sí, se puede,” creating a mantra for the American left.

Born April 10, 1930, in Dawson, a small mining town in the mountains of northern New Mexico, Dolores Clara Fernandez moved to Stockton when she was 3, along with her mother, two brothers and two sisters. Her father and mother had divorced, but Juan Fernandez’s legend had been fixed — a brawling union leader and New Mexico state legislator. Her mother, a hotel operator, believed in public service and would not let the poorest guests go hungry.

Dolores thrived on a middle-class upbringing of Girl Scouts, violin lessons and tap dancing, describing her mother’s generosity as a guiding force. She was bright and popular and even founded a teen center where she and other kids hung out.

But Dolores would recall her high school years as a time of slights and rewards not received — injustices she linked to her Mexican American heritage. When police ordered her teen center shut down, it became clear it was because they did not like whites socializing with Mexican American, Black and Filipino kids.

Those setbacks would not be forgotten.

Dolores Huerta in Santa Fe, N.M., in 2019.

(Associated Press)

After community college in Stockton, Huerta became a teacher. But she left after just a year, because, she said: “I thought I could do more by organizing farmworkers than by trying to teach their hungry children.”

Soon she met Ross and Chávez and her life’s path would be set. Even her name seemed to brand her for the work. When she divorced her second husband, Chávez advised her to hold on to her last name. Dolores Huerta means Sorrows of the Orchard.

Along the way, there would be great personal heartache.

In 1968, she was at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles on the night Sen. Robert F. Kennedy was shot. The Democratic presidential front-runner had just finished his California primary victory speech — thanking Chávez and Huerta — when an assassin gunned him down.

Twenty years later, her politics thrust Huerta even more directly in the path of violence. A television camera captured the images of a San Francisco police officer clubbing her as she and others peacefully picketed an appearance by Vice President George H.W. Bush. The blows ruptured Huerta’s spleen and nearly killed her.

She later won an $850,000 settlement from the city for the attack. Some in the union said that Chávez‘s insistence that Huerta give the money up to the UFW created another rift that caused her to leave the union.

Huerta would struggle, as well, to find time for her expansive family — which in the end included 13 children, counting the two fathered by César Chávez.

Among her greatest heartaches grew out of the struggles of her oldest daughter, Celeste, a schizophrenic who, on occasion, would leave the institutions where she lived and wander the streets.

Huerta’s union zealotry would inspire a range of emotions from her other children.

“We understood very quickly she wasn’t ours to have,” said son Emilio, the lawyer, a Central Valley activist.“She sort of belonged to the farmworker movement. And it was our job to support her.”

He and several other of the Huerta offspring devoted their lives to the UFW and related causes, basking in a sense that their family played a part in history. That did not always make up for the personal slights — the times their mother would fob them off on union allies or neighbors, or miss a birthday.

In a bittersweet essay, Dolores’ daughter Juanita once recalled how her mother forgot to pick her up from junior high school. She compared Huerta to a train “rattling all the windows behind me, blaring out its horn, announcing its simultaneous arrival and departure with an incredible clamor, but rushing constantly forward.”

At a 69th birthday party in 1999, Huerta told a large dinner gathering that her own sacrifices had been overblown.

“It was our families who sacrificed,” she said. She then told a story about driving a carload of children to school one day in an automobile limping along because a tire had been slashed by union opponents. “That,” she said, “was kind of how we made it through life.”

Approaching her 90th birthday in 2020, Huerta spent a day that might have been more typical for someone half her age. She protested at the Fresno County Board of Supervisors for increased pay for home healthcare workers, who made just $12 an hour. Huerta hadn’t planned on being arrested that day, but when she felt police used excessive force on one of the protest leaders, she changed her mind. Take me too, she said, according to USA Today. Officers cinched a plastic zip-tie around her wrists and led her away.

More typically in her later years, she supported her foundation. In one moment, she might be campaigning for a bond measure for a middle school gym in the poor San Joaquin Valley community of Weedpatch; in seemingly the next, she would be stumping via Zoom for Joe Biden, during his fight to take the White House from President Trump.

In 2020, USA Today named Huerta one of the 100 women “who’ve made a substantial impact on our country or our lives over the past 100 years.” By then, at least half a dozen schools across America bore her name. Others considered taking her name after they removed Chávez’s following the sexual abuse revelations.

President Obama presented Huerta with the country’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom, in 2012; the one-time community organizer, who made his way to the White House, honoring a woman still doing the work.

“The great social justice changes in our country have happened when people came together, organized and took direct action,” Huerta said in accepting the honor. “It is this right that sustains and nurtures our democracy today.”

Olvera, the family spokesman, said Wednesday that Huerta’s relatives would be announcing the details of a public memorial in the coming days.

The Hotel Clark has been throwing its stately shadow across Hill Street since 1914, first as a fancy lodging in the formative years of downtown Los Angeles, then as a last-resort residential hotel for the aged and desperate, then as a vast, lifeless structure between Grand Central Market and Pershing Square (now Biddy Mason Park). The 11-story hotel hadn’t seen a paying guest for more than 30 years.

That is, until now.

Last month, downtown historian Nathan Marsak was at Angels Flight when, as he recalls, “A guy comes up and says, ‘You like the Clark? I just had drinks there.’ And he slaps his receipt down. And I lost my damn mind.”

The lobby inside Hotel Clark.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

Marsak, who admits to “a fetish for old, lost Los Angeles,” once called the Beaux-Arts hotel a “great gray monument to grinding attrition.” Since the 1990s, Marsak has kept watch on the Clark, often labeled a “zombie building” because of its long idleness. Marsak included it in his 2002 book “Los Angeles Neon,” and has looked down upon it from his part-time gig taking tickets atop the Angels Flight Railway on Bunker Hill.

In the downtown community, there had been rumors of a reopening over the years, but that seemed less likely as time went on. Kim Cooper, a close observer of downtown politics and co-owner of Esotouric tours, said that after a while, it seemed that the hotel’s owner, the Chetrit Group, “just locked the door.”

To see that structure “so dilapidated and dirty and covered in bird droppings and decades of grime, it broke my heart,” Marsak said. Still, “as long as they didn’t tear it down, there was always hope.”

A ‘zombie building’ awakes

When he and relatives bought the hotel 27 years ago, owner Michel Attias of the Chetrit Group said people assumed they would flip the building.

“I guess they know by now that’s not the case,” he said. “Many of those people have left town by now.”

Michel Attias at the Hotel Clark.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

Attias stood in the hotel lobby, whose design leans toward gray, black, white, earth tones and chrome. Guest rooms include zebra-print wallpaper and faux alligator-skin panels.

“We wanted chic modern but also comfortable and warm,” said Attias, noting that new artworks and rugs are still arriving. A “luxury sports bar” is due to open by Super Bowl Sunday. As of Oct. 21, general manager Adrienne Craig said, about 120 of its guest rooms were ready to rent, with others soon to follow. Rates start at about $200 nightly.

There have been at least three near-openings during his firm’s ownership, Attias acknowledged. But now, he said, it’s the right moment.

“We have a lot coming,” he said. “We have the Olympics. Downtown is starting to move again. I’m very, very confident that downtown is going to get back on its feet.”

Members of the Chetrit family, based in New York, hold extensive real estate through multiple companies, some of which have suffered legal and financial troubles in the last two years. In Los Angeles, the Chetrit Group also owns the long-idle Trinity Auditorium, also known as the Embassy Auditorium and Embassy Hotel. Also a 1914 Beaux-Arts building, it includes about 180 guest rooms along with an 1,800-seat performance space. Attias said he hopes to open the Trinity Auditorium before the Olympics.

“We’re not done,” Attias said.

Added Craig: “Hotel Clark is amazing. Trinity is out of this world.”

Vintage postcards and photographs are from the collection of historian Nathan Marsak.

(Courtesy of Nathan Marsak)

The Clark’s rise, fall and long slumber

Look closely at the Clark, including the rooftop neon and the old fire escapes with the initials “CH” in ironwork (for Clark Hotel), and you may catch hints of its tangled history, from early opulence to urban decay, international intrigue and municipal dysfunction.

Eli P. Clark made big money as a railway pioneer in Los Angeles and beyond. But by 1914 he had moved on to other investments. He built the Clark Hotel with 555 rooms, each with a private bath (a notable luxury at the time) and a bold sign outside proclaiming its “absolutely fireproof” construction.

The building’s rooftop neon signage was apparently added a few decades later, along with the rounded letters that spell the hotel’s name and run vertically down one corner of the building. Dozens of vintage photos of the Clark’s ballrooms, restaurants, ashtrays, room keys, menus, postcards, matchbooks, coat hangers and candleholders are visible at BunkerHillLos Angeles.com, having been gathered by Marsak.

A mosaic by the pool inside Hotel Clark.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

But somewhere in the middle decades of the 20th century, as investors began to look away from downtown, the Clark hit the skids. In a 1975 classified ad in the L.A. Times, the Clark offered rooms at $75-$95 monthly, including “special waterbed suites.”

By the 1980s, the Clark had become a residence of last resort, housing many seniors and others on limited incomes. The nearby Rosslyn (built in 1914, now a mix of low-income and market-rate apartments) and Hotel Cecil (built 1924, now low-income and supportive housing) followed similar paths.

The pool inside Hotel Clark.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

By 1989, the Clark had been acquired by May Wah International Enterprises, which was rooted in China and associated with the Chinese government, Attias said. May Wah vowed to revamp the building with a “friendship store” to market Chinese imports and hotel above that might rival the Biltmore. But first May Wah wanted the old tenants out. Twenty of them filed suit against May Wah, saying they were subjected to spells without heat or water, and won a $1.7-million settlement. But by 1992, May Wah had succeeded in evicting the last two tenants.

By 1999, when May Wah sold it to the Chetrit family, the building was empty, its historic interiors rearranged in anticipation of the Chinese hotel that never opened. (During this period, Attias said, the building’s guest-room count changed from 555 to 348.) As Attias tells the story, the hotel was close to opening in 2008 when that year’s financial crisis hit. It came close again in 2013-14, when the Chetrit family invested in another renovation but ran into opposition from the hospitality workers union Unite Here Local 11 and L.A. City Councilman José Huizar.

“José Huizar,” said Attias dryly. “We know where he is now.” (Huizar, who served on the city council until 2020, pleaded guilty to corruption charges in 2023 and was sentenced to 13 years in federal prison.)

Though the hotel’s owners eventually got the city permissions they needed, Attias said, a partnership with other hoteliers dissolved and the Clark went to the back burner again, as did the Embassy Auditorium. Another near-opening followed in 2019.

Attias said the family decided in 2025 to finally open the Clark, later retaining OTH Hotels Resorts to manage it.

And now, said Attias, “we’re here.”

‘Nowhere to go but up’

In mid-September, the Clark had begun a quiet, soft reopening. Now configured with 348 guest rooms, it includes a Mediterranean restaurant called Votana; a cocktail lounge; a 17-by-29-foot courtyard pool, poolside bar and (in homage to Chetrit family history) a pair of Moroccan tile fountains.

In addition, a ballroom with space for 600 is due to be completed soon. Craig estimated that the business, a nonunion shop, employs about 100 people now and will likely reach 200 workers in coming months.

A guest room inside Hotel Clark.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

This rebirth may not comfort those seeking more affordable housing downtown, but for anyone eager to see more legal commerce on Hill Street or more hotel rooms in the run-up to the 2028 Games, it’s progress. This boost in room supply may also encourage travelers who have seen downtown hotel rates jump by more than 10% in the last year. Analytics company CoStar reports that downtown hotels averaged $200-$210 per night from June through September.

“There’s nowhere to go but up,” Craig said. “The possibilities here are endless.”

A few weeks ago, Craig’s team gave Marsak a tour of building (and bought a batch of Angels Flight tickets to distribute among guests. The historian declared himself mostly delighted.

“Having the Clark open, facing Hill Street — which can get rough — is so brave of them,” said Marsak. “I can’t applaud it enough.”

As for the inside and that zebra-print wallpaper, it’s “not what I would have done,” he said. “I believe that Beaux-Arts buildings should be Beaux-Arts inside and out. But you can’t have everything.”

Marshall Faulk is an extraordinarily active 53-year-old. The first-ballot NFL Hall of Fame running back is the head football coach at Southern University in Baton Rouge, La. He runs a foundation in his name that assists underprivileged youth. He works out. He plays a lot of golf.

And he has Parkinson’s disease.

Faulk revealed his diagnosis on The Caring Neurologist podcast this week, saying he noticed Parkinson’s symptoms on the golf course.

“The rigidity in my hand, just sometimes after I play a lot or I practice a lot,” he said. “I just thought it was normal nerves when putting and stuff like that. But it started to be times where I was playing, but I wasn’t in a match, and it would still do that. I was like, ‘Wow, is that normal?’”

Faulk said he was diagnosed about 18 months ago. An unfailing optimist in his social media dispatches and a fiery truth-teller when addressing his team, the former Rams Super Bowl champion described himself on the podcast as “one of the lucky ones” because he caught the disease early.

“The doctor was like, ‘You need to go get checked,’” he said. “You need to go have X, Y and Z done. You’re at an age, it’s possible; it’s likely that it’s not, but you need to go get checked.’”

He jumped on the phone to speak with other former NFL players who share the diagnosis.

“They told me about some of the symptoms and things they had that they thought [were] just football-related, that it didn’t relate to Parkinson’s in any manner,” Faulk said. “They wish, in those early stages, if they had maybe just known a little earlier, they would be in better shape.”

Former Green Bay Packers greats Brett Favre and Ahman Green currently live with Parkinson’s. So does former quarterback Bernie Kosar.

St. Louis Rams’ Marshall Faulk, left, straight-arms Lofa Tatupu of the Seattle Seahawks during a 2005 NFL game.

(Elaine Thompson / Associated Press)

Perhaps the most noteworthy sports figure to battle Parkinson’s was boxing great Muhammad Ali, who died in 2016. Faulk met Ali at a dinner and said on the podcast that he is comforted by the memory.

“He leaned over to me and he whispered, ‘You a bad boy,’” Faulk said. “And then he made a couple other comments. I was like, ‘He’s all there.’ So knowing that, I didn’t look at it like life is going to end.”

Faulk was seemingly indestructible as a player. An All-American at San Diego State, he was drafted second overall by the Indianapolis Colts in 1994 and immediately made an impact, rushing for more than 1,000 yards for the first of seven times and being named NFL rookie of the year.

Faulk was traded to the then St. Louis Rams ahead of the 1999 season and led their “Greatest Show on Turf” offense to a Super Bowl XXXIV victory in January 2000. The following season, Faulk was named NFL MVP. He transitioned to the NFL Network broadcast booth after retiring in 2005 having rushed for 12,279 yards and 100 touchdowns while also catching 767 passes for another 36 touchdowns.

He got into coaching in 2025, joining Deion Sanders’ staff at Colorado. When the opportunity arose to become the head coach at Southern, Faulk didn’t hesitate even though he already had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.

“I could have stayed at Colorado. I was comfortable. But I’ve never done well in life when comfortable,” he said at his introductory news conference at Southern. “And I’m not gonna lie to you. This is uncomfortable, and I like it.”

The Jaguars, an HBCU school competing in the FCS, are 3-4 in Faulk’s first season after going 2-10 in 2025. Faulk’s messages to his players go beyond football. On Thursday he posted this on Instagram: “Protecting your game goes far beyond avoiding injury.⁠ Protect your body.⁠ Protect your mind.⁠ Protect your circle.⁠ Protect your future.

“The decisions you make away from the field can have just as much impact on your future as what happens between the lines,” he continued. “Choose the people, habits, and environments that move you closer to where you want to go.⁠ Send this to a young athlete who needs this reminder today.⁠”

Helping others is why he decided to open up about his Parkinson’s diagnosis, he told host Dr. Sandeep Thakkar on the podcast.

“I want to help as many people as I can,” he said. “What you want to do with that information is pass it on to the next generation to make sure that they have it better, that they know more. And you’re doing it to leave this world a better place than it was when I got here.”

On a blazing hot Silver Lake morning, ushering in yet another heatwave day, Anna Holmes and I say “no” to a steamy sidewalk table at Millie’s Cafe, opting instead for an indoor, air-conditioned spot. Our server reads our order back to us, shaking his head in theatrical disbelief. “Pancakes. French toast. Biscuit. Waffle with whipped cream.” He glances from one of us to the other. “No protein?” he asks. “Just the carbs?”

“I guess I’ll have some egg whites, too,” I cave. Not so my brunch companion who confirms, “Just the carbs.” Holmes grins, “I’m not a fan of fad diets that make women hate ourselves.”

In fact, Holmes has built a career of saying “no” to woman-hating of all kinds — starting in 2007, when she founded the boundary-pushing feminist website Jezebel, the sister site of the notoriously provocative Gawker. “I decided that NO would be our mantra of sorts,” she writes in her new book, “The Power of No: A Celebration.” “‘No’ to diet tips, ‘no’ to sexist gossip, ‘no’ to conspicuous consumption. We drove the point home again and again … creating new definitions and examples of what it means to be female.”

Raised in a biracial, working-class family in Davis, Calif., Holmes escaped to New York at 18, chasing her writer’s dream. “Davis was a safe, homogenous little town,” she tells me, spearing one of the sliced strawberries fanned prettily across her waffle. “Being Black, I wasn’t one of the homogenies. I couldn’t wait to get out.”

“The Power of No: A Celebration” by Anna Holmes

(Crown)

Accepted by several top universities, Holmes said ‘yes’ to New York University. “They gave me money,” she explains. “And they had a journalism school.” After graduating, Holmes grabbed a rung on the media ladder and started climbing: writing and editing for Glamour, InStyle and Entertainment Weekly. Holmes published her first book, “Hell Hath No Fury: Women’s Letters from the End of the Affair,” featuring a collection of breakup letters from the likes of Anaïs Nin, Charlotte Brontë and Sylvia Plath, in 2002.

“So, you’ve always been a slacker,” I say.

Holmes laughs. “I come by my drive honestly. It stems from my fear of failure. And growing up lower-middle class, without the kinds of connections the wealthier kids had.”

Next came the breakthrough media success of Jezebel. Her project quickly reached 10 million monthly views, exceeding Gawker’s. But the bold irreverence that drew droves of devoted readers to Jezebel brought contention, too. In June 2010, Jezebel reported that women’s exclusion from senior positions at “The Daily Show” — which the article called a “boys’ club” — was “frustrating and alienating” for women. The story earned an on-air mention by Jon Stewart, who announced “Jezebel thinks I’m a sexist prick” — and an open letter signed by more than 30 female “Daily Show” employees, refuting Jezebel’s allegations.

Author Anna Holmes.

(Annie Noelker / For The Times)

Weeks later, under the header “How feminist blogs like Jezebel gin up page views by exploiting women’s worst tendencies,” former Gawker employee Emily Gould wrote in Slate, “When Jezebel was founded, it proposed itself as an explicit alternative to traditional women’s magazines … but the easiest way for Jezebel writers to be provocative is to stoke readers’ insecurities — just in a different way.”

Holmes says some Jezebel haters were anti-feminist or far-right. “Others were politically aligned with Jezebel, but felt we were too pop-culture-focused. Some accused us of being snarky to other women,” she adds.

After three years, Holmes resigned. “I’d done what I went to Jezebel to do,” she says. “Also, the 14-hour workdays were threatening my marriage, my sanity and my health. I was smoking too much. Drinking too much. Gaining weight.”

Holmes said a final goodbye to her creation in 2013 by publishing “The Book of Jezebel: An Illustrated Encyclopedia of Lady Things.” Despite — and because of — having founded one of the internet’s most provocative publications, she helped lift up journalists, and journalism, in her wake.

“I would follow Anna off of a cliff, professionally and personally,” says Reyhan Harmanci, Wired’s editorial director, who reported to Holmes at Topic magazine a decade ago. “She channels her curiosity in a way that opens the world to readers.”

Former Gawker editor A.J. Daulerio also lights up at the mention of Holmes’ name. “If you look back at Anna’s history of finding and developing talent, you can see her impact. Writers who’ve worked with and for her can be found on podcasts, on mastheads at major publications and on bestseller lists.” Meanwhile, New York magazine’s Emily Gould, who wrote the biting Slate critique of Jezebel in 2010, has come to admire Holmes. “Nobody’s right 100% of the time,” Gould says, “especially when publishing around the clock and reacting to news as it unfolds. My current sense of Anna is that she’s genuinely brave, clear-sighted and wise. I’m eager to read her new book.”

Post-Jezebel, Holmes wrote the “Bookends” column for the New York Times Book Review. Her byline grew a few picas when she replaced Roxane Gay as editor of the Times’ popular “Work Friend” column. Having “made it there,” Holmes decided to leave New York.

“I never considered myself a New Yorker,” she says, stirring a foam flower into her latte. “When people asked, I’d say, ‘I’m from California but I live in New York.’”

While deliberating about where to go next, Holmes says, “I got a job offer with the Obamas’ production company in L.A.”

“The Obamas?” I blurt. Holmes nods. “I was tired of New York. And wanting to be closer to my elderly mom.” In the first week of the COVID shutdown, Holmes packed her two hissing black cats, donned an N95 mask and flew to LAX. Six years later, after several moves around town, she shares the upper half of a sun-splashed 1920s duplex with Ewok and Harriet.

“I didn’t have a writing community in New York and I don’t have one here,” Holmes says about her L.A. move. “I had a media community in New York. If that exists here, I’m not invited to those parties.” She cocks her head. “Every once in a while, I wonder, ‘Does Susan Orlean have regular salons? And if so, can I please go?’”

Holmes continues to settle into a slower, more domestic groove. “I’m 53 now,” she says. “I don’t want to go out all the time. I like going to bed early. All the cliches are true of me: moving from NYC to L.A. and ending up in Silver Lake — with a Volvo, no less. In my defense, I dress like a tomboy, I don’t have tattoos and I’ve never been to Bar Stella.”

Since her big move, Holmes has written “The Power of No” and is finishing up her fourth book, a sexual memoir. Her articles on wildly divergent topics continue to appear in the New York Times, the New Yorker, the Atlantic and L.A. Material.

“The Power of No” is a slim but impactful guide to the human dance between yes and no; vulnerability and ambition. The book consists of readily digestible yet smart, sophisticated bits, including quotes from luminaries, research findings, anecdotes from Holmes’ own life and others, practical tips, and lists like “Ways to Say No” (which is especially helpful to have on hand during the upcoming holiday season).

“No,” Holmes writes on Page 1: “As uttered by a woman, a provocation. Has there ever been a more fraught relationship between women and word?” By way of example, she cites what she calls “my biggest NO, my strongest rejection of what was expected of me as a woman: founding Jezebel.”

“Has writing about ‘no’ made you better at saying it?” I ask Holmes.

“I don’t purport to be good at it,” she answers. “But I’m more cognizant now of wanting to say it, at least.”

Maran, author of “The New Old Me” and other books, lives in Silver Lake.

Oct. 14, 2026 10:13 AM PT

COLUMBIA, S.C. — U.S. Rep. Nancy Mace’s former fiance and two of his business associates were charged with sex crimes and voyeurism on Wednesday over an episode the South Carolina congresswoman described in detail during a speech last year on the House floor about how crimes against women are not investigated thoroughly.

John Douglas Osborne committed sex acts on a 23-year-old incapacitated and intoxicated woman while Mace’s ex-fiance Patrick Bryant and Eric Bernard Bowman watched, according to sworn statements by agents from the State Law Enforcement Division, which brought the charges.

The men talked about who would assault the woman beforehand, took photos and recorded the assault, which was also seen on a security system feed at the home in Sullivan’s Island, an affluent suburb of Charleston, state agents said. The woman had fallen into a pool and was passed out on a couch covering herself with a pillow, agents said.

Another woman who happened to be watching the feed saw the assault and took pictures and wrote about it in a journal, police said. Mace and Bryant were not yet engaged at the time of the October 2018 assault.

Osborne, 46, is charged with first-degree assault and battery and two counts of third-degree criminal sexual conduct. Bryant, 53, and Bowman, 46, are each charged with voyeurism.

Along with the voyeurism charge, Bowman was also charged with obstruction of justice after agents said he did a factory reset on a cellphone he knew investigators were seeking in a search warrant, and with publishing the name of a victim of criminal sexual conduct after posting the victim’s name and a video of her on X.

Bryant didn’t return a message seeking comment on Wednesday, and attorneys who have been listed as representing Bowman and Osborne in other cases did not immediately return messages.

Mace, a Republican, described the assault at length in a nearly hourlong speech in February 2025 that named the men and described other photos and videos found when she looked at Bryant’s cellphone when they were still together.

Mace said she “accidentally uncovered some of the most heinous crimes against women imaginable. We’re talking about rape, non-consensual photos, non-consensual videos of women and underage girls, and the premeditated, calculated exploitation of women and girls in my district.”

At the time, Bryant completely denied the allegations. “I take this matter seriously and will cooperate fully with any necessary legal processes to clear my name,” he told the Associated Press.

The State Law Enforcement Division didn’t say if their investigation into any of the men is continuing.

After the arrests, Mace released a statement detailing the 25 bills she says will protect victims of sexual assault, harassment or discrimination, including in retaliatory defamation and libel lawsuits that may result from allegations they bring to light.

The Republican, who is leaving the House this term after losing her bid to be South Carolina governor, introduced a proposal this week to require that anyone who brings such a case and loses must pay attorney fees for the defendant.

“Protecting women and holding predators accountable isn’t a slogan. It’s been one of my top priorities in Congress. For too long, survivors have faced broken systems while predators exploited loopholes and walked free,” Mace said in her statement.

Kinnard and Collins write for the Associated Press.

It never has been about the glory for Semaj Morgan.

Not the touchdowns. Not the name, image and license deals. And not even the 2024 national championship he won with Michigan.

For the UCLA wide receiver, all of that plays second fiddle to giving back to his community in Detroit and touching the lives of the people around him through the Semaj J. Morgan Foundation — an initiative he started when he was 17 years old.

“My foundation is definitely the best thing that I do. It’s great being a football player, but being able to give back and show people that I really care for others and not just about football and money, I want to be able to pour back into the people that support me and show me love,” Morgan said. “A lot of people don’t get to wake up every day and know that there’s going to be food around. A lot of people in the city of Detroit don’t even know if they’re going to eat at all.”

UCLA receiver Semaj Morgan is surrounded by children he has helped through his foundation.

(Courtesy of the Morgan family)

Morgan decided he wanted to start the foundation when he handed out toys with the Dream Team Male Mentoring group, telling his dad, Semaj T. Morgan, that community service was his calling. But at 17, he was too young to have his name on the paperwork, so his parents opened the foundation for him.

Since the foundation’s launch in February 2023, Morgan has hosted turkey drives, during which he gives away 2,000 turkeys, 2,000 food bags and 1,000 hot meals along with hats, coats, scarves and gloves, in an effort to tackle the health and food gaps in his community.

Morgan also has spearheaded back-to-school giveaways, handing out backpacks and supplies to children.

“We don’t do it just to do it. We do it because we’re trying to close the educational gap that our kids in Detroit suffer from,” Morgan’s father said.

“When you have a kid that’s going to school with the same notebooks and pens and highlighters and erasers that their counterparts have, now they have more confidence when they go to school.”

Morgan received a grant from the Ballmer Group, founded by Clippers owner Steve Ballmer and his wife, for the foundation’s DiscoverWorks Summer program. The initiative serves 250 families, giving students the opportunity to get their test scores up in the morning and go on field trips in the afternoon, alongside other enrichment activities such as robotics and mentoring.

UCLA quarterback Nico Iamaleava celebrates with Semaj Morgan after scoring a touchdown against Purdue at the Rose Bowl on Sept. 19.

(Ronaldo Bolanos/Los Angeles Times)

But the endeavor closest to Morgan’s heart is the foundation’s Mother’s Day and Father’s Day events.

“These are mothers and fathers who lost their sons to gun violence. Semaj is their son, and he takes his NIL money, and he takes them to dinner, buys them gifts as if their son was here,” Morgan’s father said. “These are parents that a lot of these children’s murders have not been solved, so this is a way for us to bless these parents, let them know that they’re not forgotten. There’s never a dry eye in the room.”

The events — which started out with 10 moms and five dads and are up to 35 moms and 20 dads — are particularly special to Morgan, who was friends with some of the sons of the parents involved. Morgan said that seeing the parents and hearing their testimonies puts everything in his life into perspective.

While Morgan is humble about the effect his foundation has had on the people around him, others are taking notice.

UCLA receiver Semaj Morgan holds up a Michigan state Senate certificate recognizing his foundation’s work to support people in Detroit.

(Courtesy of Morgan familiy)

Morgan was recognized on the Michigan House floor by state Sens. John DaMoose and Rosemary Bayer for the community service that he’s led in Detroit.

And during the 2024-25 academic year, Morgan was nominated for the inaugural Big Ten Jackie Robinson Community & Impact Award by his previous school, Michigan, for his philanthropic work.

“He understands his mission and call in life, and that’s to bless other people. He’s not about him; he’s about other people, and it’s very rare that you see individuals at such a young age understand their mission and cause in life,” Morgan’s father said.

“Football is one thing, but when he’s giving out turkeys, food bags, hats and coats, he has a bigger smile than getting in the end zone because he understands these people need help.”

Morgan’s desire to help others was inspired by Curtis Blackwell — Morgan’s travel football coach and president of Sound Mind Sound Body Sports Academy. Morgan’s father said Blackwell always urged players to give back to others.

Blackwell, who coached Arizona Cardinals cornerback Will Johnson, Buffalo Bills cornerback Maxwell Hairston and former Michigan safety Makari Paige alongside Morgan, stresses education before football and places an equal emphasis on academics, athletics and life skills.

And because Michigan does not get the same high school football exposure as Texas, Florida or California, Blackwell was keen on getting his players on college visits, leading to Morgan receiving more than 25 offers — a direct result of the travel the team made to raise players’ exposure.

“Growing up in a single-parent home, I was fortunate to get a scholarship to college, and it was because of my coaches. And had it not been for my coaches, I don’t know where I would be,” Blackwell said. “If we as coaches are the best people to really influence young people, they will listen to their coach more than their mom, their teacher. And so if we can get the coaches to be the teachers off the field, we could really change their attitude.”

Blackwell was astounded that Morgan was the pupil who took the program’s mission the furthest, surpassing the efforts of NFL players and affecting people well before he’s turned 21.

“You don’t have to wait till you get to the NFL to make an impact. You don’t have to wait till you retire to give back. You can do something every step along the way, and that’s what we teach to our kids — lift as you climb,” Blackwell said. “Semaj took that and ran with it. He has a really big heart and he’s a person that is a giver, not a taker. He’s going to give you the shirt off his back.”

UCLA receiver Semaj Morgan catches a touchdown pass against Purdue at the Rose Bowl Stadium on Sept. 19.

(Kevin Terrell / Getty Images)

Morgan earned his bachelor’s degree at Michigan and is working on his master’s degree at UCLA while playing football and running his foundation from the West Coast. But he may miss his first foundation event when UCLA travels to Ann Arbor to play his former school in November, although coach Bob Chesney already gave him permission to stay in Michigan after the team leaves.

Morgan’s greatest achievement that weekend may not involve the scoreboard at the Big House.

“I might not have done the best on the field last year, but being able to come home knowing that I’m touching people’s lives, that’s the biggest thing for me,” Morgan said. “To do this at such a young age, and grow so rapidly and touch so many lives, it’s great for me. After football, I want to continue to give back to people. I eventually want to be able to start football programs.”

The Democratic National Committee on Thursday filed a lawsuit alleging that President Trump’s administration secretly changed a postcard used by U.S. citizens overseas in a way that makes it harder to register to vote.

The lawsuit contends that the Department of Defense made the change by declaring an emergency, which allowed it to eliminate a specific box on the form. That box is typically checked by potential voters who acknowledge they are U.S. citizens but who have never lived in the United States.

They are usually the children of U.S. citizens, and 38 states allow them to cast ballots provided they have close family connections. Since 2013, the box has appeared on postcards sent to overseas voters.

Republicans have filed lawsuits in multiple states trying to prevent those voters, who typically support Democrats, from casting ballots. Thursday’s lawsuit contends that the administration simply made the change on its own without giving proper notice.

“These American citizens pay U.S. federal and state taxes, but now a years-old plan has culminated in a manufactured ‘emergency’ to justify impeding their right to vote in American elections and potentially disenfranchising them entirely,” the lawsuit states.

The Department of Defense, which administers the form, did not immediately respond to a request for comment.

The number of Americans overseas who have never lived in the United States yet cast ballots in the country was estimated at about 11,500 in 2016. The lawsuit contends the number has likely grown.

Some are already registered and are due to receive ballots for November. Others can opt to check other boxes saying they’re citizens who either intend to return to the U.S. or do not intend to return in order to receive ballots.

The move follows Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth urging members of the military to cast ballots en masse, implying they could out-vote Democratic jurisdictions, such as Detroit, if they all cast ballots. The same federal law that lets members of the military who live overseas cast ballots also requires that civilians who live overseas be given the same opportunity.

But as Democratic-leaning civilians overseas have out-voted Republican-leaning members of the military in recent years, the GOP hasstarted to target the law, known as the Uniformed and Overseas Citizens Absentee Voting Act, or UOCAVA. Republicans were able to win a court case forbidding the votes of overseas citizens who have never lived in North Carolina from being counted there, but have not yet succeeded in lawsuits in other states, including swing state Michigan.

Susan Dzieduszycka-Suinat is a U.S. citizen in Munich whose 28-year-old daughter also is a U.S. citizen who has never resided in the country but votes regularly. She said the administration’s move was alarming.

“If this works in slicing off a piece of the electorate,” said Dzieduszycka-Suinat, who is president of the U.S. Vote Foundation, “wait until the next emergency.”

Riccardi writes for the Associated Press. AP writer Konstantin Toropin in Washington contributed to this report.