What Labor of Love Taught Me About Solidarity
The past months have been a test of balance. Change has arrived in every direction—globally, locally, and personally. The noise of politics, the weight of transition, and the strain on our communities have forced many of us to see what holds and what doesn’t. Labor of Love was born in that tension. It wasn’t an escape from the chaos; it was a decision to create joy in the middle of it. Solidarity begins with that kind of choice. It grows when people commit to building something hopeful even when conditions are hard. It is the steady reminder that community is not cancelled by uncertainty.
The concert carried deeper meaning this year. Labor of Love marked the 60th anniversary of the Delano Grape Strike, when Filipino and Mexican farmworkers joined forces in one of the most powerful moments of intercultural solidarity in U.S. labor history. Their courage reshaped the landscape of workers’ rights and proved that unity across difference can move mountains. Honoring that history felt especially urgent now, as workers and families across the country continue to face violence, exploitation, and fear. The show became both a tribute and a call to action—an affirmation that solidarity is still possible, still necessary, and still alive in our communities.
We came into this project with the good fortune of a 25-year friendship. The trust was there, but working together required a new kind of alignment. Friendship doesn’t automatically translate into shared workflow or pace. We had to learn each other again—as collaborators, not just friends. That meant clarifying roles, naming expectations, and creating space for honest feedback. Over time, the rhythm settled. Communication became steadier, decisions clearer. The friendship gave us a foundation, but the alignment turned it into movement.
True collaboration is an act of care. It asks for attention to how people feel, not just what they produce. During Labor of Love, there were tight timelines, limited resources, and moments of tension. The way through was not control, but clarity and empathy. Care meant slowing down when someone needed to be heard. It meant lifting one another instead of pushing for speed. That approach didn’t just make the event possible; it built relationships that could last beyond it.
When the evening arrived, the result was more than a concert. It was a living expression of solidarity. Filipino and Chicano communities filled The Ford with sound, color, and pride. Families, elders, and youth saw themselves reflected onstage and in one another. The energy in that space came from recognition—each person understanding they were part of something larger. In a time marked by isolation and injustice, that togetherness felt both rare and necessary.
The music has faded, but the work continues. Relationships formed that night are still active, and new collaborations are taking shape. The lesson is simple: solidarity is not an occasion; it’s a discipline. To practice it means showing up, listening, and staying connected when it would be easier to turn inward. Labor of Love proved that when people build with care and clarity, they create more than an event—they create momentum for what’s next, carrying forward the spirit of those farmworkers who showed us that love, labor, and unity still have the power to change the world.