The town is tiny enough that most drivers speeding along Interstate 5 in California’s Central Valley miss it.
But on a recent weekend, twinkling white lights stretched over Thornton’s main intersection, the scent of linguica sausage clung to the cool autumn air and Portuguese flags flew proudly above throngs of visitors pouring into the streets.
It was one of the final festas of the summer, and Portuguese people from across the Central Valley flocked to Thornton to celebrate. There was a parade, a bullfight, several Catholic Masses — and ample opportunity to share the food, language and culture of a quietly powerful community tucked into California’s farmlands.
“You don’t have to be Portuguese to get elected in the Valley — but it doesn’t hurt,” joked Rep. Jim Costa (D-Fresno) with a laugh.
Far away from the centers of power in Washington, a small but sizable Portuguese population has played a meaningful role in shaping the Central Valley — and the community’s politics could prove crucial in determining which party controls Congress in November’s election.
Republicans must hold on to four seats in the House of Representatives to retain a majority. In deep-blue California, half a dozen congressional seats are considered swing districts, and two of them are held by Portuguese Republicans in the Central Valley.
Reps. John Duarte and David Valadao continue a tradition of Portuguese farmers representing the region in Congress as Republicans. Costa, also of Portuguese descent, is running for reelection in a safely Democratic district this November.
The congressmen follow a steady stream of Portuguese politicians from the Central Valley: former Democratic Reps. Tony Coelho and Dennis Cardoza, as well as retired Republican Reps. Richard Pombo and Devin Nunes, who now runs former President Trump’s Truth Social platform.
A row of tents with warm lights and cheerful rainbow umbrellas spilled out from frontyards and driveways in Thornton, as locals took advantage of the festa‘s hubbub to sell tacos, tamales and churros to the visiting crowds, a quintessentially Californian mix of cultures.
Latinos far outnumber any immigrant groups in California’s Central Valley, which is also home to sizable Swede, Sikh, Armenian and Basque communities. Although the Portuguese are now generations deep in the Valley, many are still close to their immigrant family roots. And in many ways, the story of Portuguese people in California — just over 350,000, according to the 2020 U.S. census — follows the arc of many immigrant groups in the U.S.
Most hail from the Azores, a cluster of nine islands off the coast of Portugal. When waves of Portuguese immigrants came to California in the latter half of the 20th century, many naturally gravitated toward work that reflected life on the islands: farming and fishing. A curve of California’s coastline near Rancho Palos Verdes is called “Portuguese Bend” after the whalers who settled there. Many farmers wound up milking at dairy farms in the Central Valley. Generation by generation, they worked their way up to become the supervisors, managers and owners of the Valley’s abundant dairy industry.
As the new crop of immigrants, Latinos have largely replaced the Portuguese as farm labor.
“You go to every single dairy and there may be a foreman that’s Portuguese, but the workforce is about 80% Latino,” said Diniz Borges, professor and director of the Portuguese Beyond Borders Institute at Fresno State University.
The Portuguese politicians vying to represent the region know their audience. Valadao, whose parents emigrated from the Azores, speaks Portuguese and Spanish, as a result of growing up on a dairy farm alongside Mexican farmworkers, Borges said. Valadao also rarely pronounces his last name with the nasal Portuguese ending akin to Vala-downg, Borges said. The only time he heard Valadao use the Portuguese pronunciation was on a trip to Lisbon, Borges recalled, adding, “It’s always Vala-day-oh here.”
“If David did not have the bond with the Hispanic community, he would not be able to be elected,” Borges said.
Valadao is running against Democratic Assemblymember Rudy Salas, the son of farmworkers who would become the region’s first Latino representative in Congress if elected. The population in Valadao’s 22nd Congressional District is 60% Latino. Salas, who lost by about 3,100 votes in the 2022 election, has also courted the Portuguese community by promoting Portuguese Heritage Month in the state Legislature.
Christine Nunes, a Democrat from Hilmar who works at a dairy, said she sometimes has to refrain from entering political conversations with her fellow Portuguese over the topic of immigration.
“We were the ones doing labor. We were the ones cleaning hotel rooms. We were the ones working in dairies, milking cows. Now the same generation is now owning the dairy,” Nunes said. “They’re in a different tax bracket. And they’ve forgotten the sacrifices that were made by their parents, by their grandparents, by their great-grandparents. Nobody leaves their homeland because it’s great. People leave their homeland because they can’t make a life.”
Nunes already has voted for Vice President Kamala Harris and congressional candidate Adam Gray, who hopes to oust Duarte from the House of Representatives.
Little formal data exist to show Portuguese people’s political persuasion. Anecdotally, the Portuguese who are closest to the immigrant generation are more likely to be Democrat. But over time, they acclimated to the conservative surrounds of the Central Valley.
“You go back to my grandparents, they were all Democrats. Now my father’s generation is mixed but way more Republican. And now mine is Republican,” said George Martins Jr., 35, a bullfight captain and frequent attendee at the Central Valley festas.
As generations of Portuguese people settled into the Central Valley, they also assimilated into their American surrounds.
“Portuguese people, they want to adapt and they want to be part of the society,” said Father Isaque Meneses, priest of Hilmar’s Holy Rosary St. Mary’s Catholic Church and an Azorean immigrant. “It’s just the Portuguese way.”
But many still held tight to their homeland ties. Some families still spend summers back on the Azores. Others stay active in their culture locally, crisscrossing the Central Valley to attend the weekly summer festas or joining a bullfighting team. “Which island is your family from?” is not an uncommon question, with Terceira, São Jorge and São Miguel as frequent answers.
“A lot of people say that they’re Portuguese, or claim to be Portuguese. But I think in reality, what they’re saying is, I don’t want to be called white,” Meneses said. The farther generations get from their immigrant ancestors, Meneses said, the more they want to know their Portuguese roots, because it is “something that distinguishes them from others,” he said.
And, as one festa-goer put it, “Portuguese people love tradition.” Portuguese Catholic parishes and Portuguese halls — where weddings, festas and soulful fado concerts take place — dot the tiny towns that stretch from roughly Bakersfield to Redding. KLBS, an AM radio station, broadcasts music and headlines in Portuguese, as well as political ads from Gray, Duarte’s Democratic opponent.
And even as Portuguese people are well integrated in the fabric of the Central Valley, immigration remains a top issue — especially for Republicans.
On a recent Sunday, huge tractors, backhoes and trucks blazed down a two-lane country highway, blaring their horns on their way to a “Farmers for Trump” rally near Hilmar. Alongside pro-Trump banners and at least one poster of Harris with devil horns, Portuguese flags speckled the crowd.
Kenneth Rose, who called himself “100% Portagee,” perched on a pickup truck tailgate to watch the spectacle, a beer in hand. At 71, Rose said, “I’ve seen enough. I don’t need any more liberals … running this country.”
His grandparents came to California from the Azores, and Rose said his father helped build the Portuguese hall in San Jose. But he insisted his family came to the country legally, through a sponsor.
“These ones who come now are illegal. They don’t come through the system,” said Rose, a beef rancher who lives outside Gustine. “As Trump says, we welcome them. They just have to come legally.”
Rose echoed the refrain of several Portuguese descendants at the rally, which filled the parking lot of the Turlock Livestock Auction Yard. Irmie Azevedo, 68, said her great-grandparents sponsored people from Portugal who had to promise to work and become citizens. She and her husband of 49 years, Tim, 74, now run a beef cattle business, which she acknowledged depends on a Latino workforce.
“Probably there are a lot of Americans who wouldn’t do the jobs they do, I get that,” Irmie Azevedo said. “But once they’re here and they’re getting these jobs, go through the process. Become a citizen. Don’t collect this money and ship it back to Mexico.”
Duarte’s green political signs say neither “Republican” nor “Democrat” but “Farmer.” Duarte, who is “kind of fourth- and fifth-generation Portuguese” as well as Swiss, is not targeting party die-hards, but low-propensity voters of both sides in his tight race against Gray, who lost the last election by just 564 votes.
“These people are working hard to sustain a decent level lifestyle — nutrition, energy, comfort, and then the American dream itself,” Duarte said, pointing to the row of cars and trucks lining the street in Ceres, where he was walking door-to-door on a recent Sunday afternoon. “These homes have a lot of kids living with their parents into adulthood. They want the American dream. And so those are the issues that swing this district.”
Before knocking on doors, Duarte had spent his morning at a tamale festival and was headed next to an event at a Sikh temple. Although he occasionally attends one of the Portuguese festas throughout the Valley, Duarte rarely mentions his Portuguese heritage on the campaign trail.
“As the community becomes more mainstream, they’re more in tune with their own political ideology and they’re not going to vote for somebody just because he or she has a Portuguese surname,” said Borges, the Portuguese scholar.
Focusing on local issues is how Duarte intends to win reelection. He can recite by heart the different prices per kilowatt hour that his residents pay for power on different sides of his district, and he leans heavily on his background working the family business, a nursery that grows almonds, grapes, pistachios and walnuts.
“Keep the farmer in Congress!” he told a resident as he left their stoop.
Like many agricultural businesses in the Central Valley, the Duarte Nursery employs many Latinos — which is part of the reason Duarte said he wanted to run for office. By advocating for more oil drilling and smart infrastructure projects, Duarte said, he makes an economic pitch to working-class voters who are sick of “values-driven kind of policy.”
“They’re very engaged, very highly Hispanic,” Duarte said of the voters he was targeting in what he called an “aspirational neighborhood,” where “lawns are mowed, cars are clean, the houses aren’t real big.” “You can just tell everyone’s trying to do the right thing and get ahead. And the price of gas, price of groceries is really beating them down.”
Swing district politicians such as Duarte and Valadao must tread a fine line on most issues, including immigration. Duarte was one of two Republicans who broke with his party to vote against the Secure the Border Act, saying he wanted to protect farmworkers without legal citizenship in his district.
Rose, the beef rancher, said he’s voting for Duarte “because I don’t vote Democrat, no matter what” — though he took issue with how Duarte voted on immigration in Congress. He attributed Duarte’s success in the last election in part to Portuguese dairy men who held fundraisers for him.
Asked whether Duarte’s Portuguese heritage matters for his vote, Rose said yes: “Because I love Portuguese.”
