In 1975, in a state with no immigration lawyers and no roadmap, Jeannie Rizza and I—both former United Farm Workers volunteers—started something radical: the first Immigrant Rights Group in Colorado. Our group was made up entirely of immigrant workers. We had no funding, no legal training, and no blueprint. But we had purpose.
I had just left the Molders and Allied Workers Union because it failed to treat undocumented members with dignity. Around that time, I was fortunate to receive training from Bert Corona and CASA in Los Angeles. Bert was a giant in the immigrant rights movement. He had helped found La Hermandad Mexicana, one of the few Latino organizations that stood up for undocumented immigrants. In 1968, he opened a Los Angeles branch and later launched Centros de Acción Social Autónomos (CASA), which provided housing aid, medical care, and legal advice to undocumented Latinos. These centers quickly became hubs for neighborhood political action.
Bert believed something radical for the time: those undocumented immigrants deserved the same protections as U.S. citizens and permanent residents. “Once inside U.S. borders,” he often said, “the laws apply the same to everybody.” That principle became my compass.
In the 1970s, I began representing immigrants at hearings. Back then, you didn’t need a law degree or certification to do so—just courage, preparation, and a deep sense of justice. Legal Services attorneys coached me as best they could. My friend Theron O’Connor, a Legal Services attorney, even gave me a tip: if my hearing was in the afternoon, I should wander the halls of the Federal Building and casually chat with the judge beforehand. I’d say I had a hearing later and didn’t want to cover it just yet. Somehow, in those hallway conversations—between bad jokes and small talk about the Denver Broncos—I’d manage to get my key points across. By the time the hearing started, I had a better shot at a fair ruling.
People often asked how I got such good cooperation. I’d just smile and say, “Maybe they like my name or my tan.”
Our group operated out of a humble space near the Federal Building. Many of our members worked at a Mexican restaurant just half a block away—bartenders, wait staff, dishwashers. Immigration officers would eat and drink there, unaware that our members were taking notes. We always knew days in advance about upcoming raids or press conferences. At one point, immigration officials tried to infiltrate our group by sending in a Catholic woman who was also representing people. We weren’t fooled.
Then came 1976. Jimmy Carter was elected president, and by 1977, his Chief of Staff, Hamilton Jordan, convened a committee to explore immigration reform. Legal Services attorneys from across the country were invited. Theron insisted I be included—not just because I was representing immigrants, but because they needed at least one person of color in the room.
We met for two days in the West Wing. I was the only non-lawyer and the only person of color. They handed us binders filled with immigration laws, regulations, and court decisions. It was overwhelming. The law at the time included the “Dry Foot” policy, which allowed any Cuban immigrant who set foot on U.S. soil to stay and begin a path to citizenship.
Most of the undocumented immigrants crossing the border then were Mexican. And yet, they received no such welcome.
After two long days of debate, some attendees floated the idea of forming a permanent commission on immigration reform. It was clear we needed more time. “There is no quick solution,” many said. “It’s way too complicated.”
That’s when I decided to throw my jab.
“Well, I have the answer,” I said loudly from the far end of the table.
Everyone turned. “What is it?” Jordan asked.
“If Cubans get the Dry Foot policy, why don’t we just have the CIA overthrow Mexico’s government and make it a communist state? Then we can give Mexicans the same policy.”
The room went silent. “No, that can’t be done,” several said.
But I pushed back. “If it’s good enough for the Cubans, why not the Mexicans?”
It was finally out there—the double standard, the political bias, the racial inequity baked into our immigration system. The Cubans were right-wing, anti-communist, and future Republican voters. That’s why they were welcomed.
Almost everyone in the room thought my idea was outrageous. But sometimes, outrageous is the only way to expose the truth. Women’s rights, LGBTQ+ rights, environmental justice—none of these advances came from playing it safe. Even Muhammad Ali had to be “crazy” to become a champion.
The answer to immigration reform, then and now, is not easy. But it is necessary. America needs immigrants to grow, to prosper, to stay true to its ideals.
In 2003, I became Director of the Northwest Immigrant Rights Project in Seattle—one of the premier immigrant rights law firms in the country. I wasn’t a lawyer then, and I’m still not. But I’ve spent a lifetime fighting for dignity, fairness, and the right to be seen.
Immigration reform isn’t easy. But neither is justice. And we’ve never let that stop us before.