Salazar’s column career was cut short, as he had only been writing for eight months. A respected journalist, he had previously covered immigration and worked as a foreign correspondent. His Friday column on the Open page during the early 1970s soon became a vital voice for the Chicano community.

In death, his legacy thrived. His image exists in murals and public spaces, and he symbolizes both the hope and challenges of being Mexican-American. Even with the passage of years, his writings remain impactful, not just archived memories but essential parts of LA’s narrative.

Schools, parks, and even Post Office stamps bear his name, and various organizations offer scholarships in his honor. The honorary reporter for California’s Latino journalists holds awards every year in his memory.

When I visited his grave in 2020, I brought a bottle of manzanilla to toast his spirit and sought his guidance regarding my new writing journey. I intended to return annually around the anniversary of his passing; alas, life got in the way.

There were so many distractions—a historic pandemic, the unrest at the U.S. Capitol, various political scandals, rising poverty, and the chaotic rise and fall of Donald Trump. Finding time for a brief visit to honor someone I had never met became difficult.

This year, though, I know I have to return. As the circumstances seem to worsen, remembering Salazar feels more necessary than ever.

Every time my colleagues cover a protest, I invoke Salazar’s name in hope that he watches over them. Our profession faces serious dangers—not just the financial challenges. The previous administration waged an aggressive campaign against news outlets deemed unfavorable, limiting access while exposing reporters to violence. Just this summer, journalists were harmed by police while reporting on protests.

This climate is alarming enough that the LA County Board of Supervisors unanimously passed a motion demanding the Sheriff’s Department report on training regarding press accessibility at demonstrations. Director Hilda Solis highlighted Salazar’s murder as a painful chapter in history, emphasizing his role as a vital voice for the Latino community, often overlooked by mainstream media.

With each new article I draft, I find myself asking: What would Reuben write? I urge everyone to read his work because, unfortunately, his legacy was a reminder of the peril journalists face today. His columns were republished online for the 50th anniversary of his death, and they resonate disturbingly with our current reality.

Los Angeles still grapples with fears surrounding immigrant raids, while political tensions rage. Young progressives feel exhausted by their party’s moderation, and Latino voices yearn for greater representation. Issues simmer, and Salazar, who was only 42 at the time of his death, was there documenting it all.

He would have highlighted the struggles of the common man against the backdrop of the administration’s falsehoods, encouraging young reporters to seek the truth from all angles, even when it felt uncomfortable.

In his time, he faced criticism from both sides—left and right. He once called out the changing dynamics of his community, advocating for improvement while remaining skeptical of the systems meant to serve them. His love for the United States was undeniable, even as he critiqued it. He encouraged a collective dignity that connected people rather than divisions.

As a PBS documentary about his life encapsulates, Salazar was a bridge, committed to conveying truths that served the greater good. He paid the ultimate price for that dedication, and today, more than ever, we need to honor his memory.

When I finally reached his niche, it was empty. The simple bronze plaque displayed an accented “E” for “Ruben.” Rather than wine, I brought Mezcal this time; I guessed he wouldn’t mind. I thanked him again for his legacy. Each time I revisit his work, I learn something new. I shared some of my writings and my ambitions. Even though there are more Latino journalists today, it still feels like there’s so much more to achieve. I apologized for not visiting more often, but promised to keep sharing his words.

To you, Reuben, I whispered. I raised the flask in a quiet toast, took a sip, and poured a bit on the ground before his resting place.

After a moment of reflection, I made the sign of the cross, said a brief prayer, and headed home. As another column looms on the horizon, I’m certain he would have been proud.