A is for advocate

We fight for men and women whose poetry is not yet written. –Robert Gould Shaw, abolitionist

In 2008, I will be a better advocate for those who need—and want—my advocacy.

Long ago on a faraway planet, I once worked in an organization where I sat through a management meeting every Monday. Dante’s Ninth Circle of Hell no longer scares me. Been there. No, actually, it wasn’t that bad. I learned a lot. But sometimes…

One memorable Monday morning, the debate centered on what kinds of notices employees could—and, more importantly, COULD NOT—put on the employee bulletin board in the break room. Nothing sparks a good week at work like legislating the behavior of people you presumably trust enough to represent your organization on CNN to the entire universe, to spend the organization’s money by the thousands, and to write your news releases. Just can’t trust ’em with that employee bulletin board, no-sirree-bob.

The debate centered on the appearance of a notice about a gay-friendly picnic that was being held the next month. Up to this point, all had been right with the world, what with all the notices for yard sales and pet sitters and used bikes, until the “gay” word appeared. Add “picnic” and presumably the world as we know it is ending.

I listened incredulously as my peers debated for more than an hour whether this, in fact, was an appropriate use of the employee bulletin board. Hmmm…let’s see. An employee put the notice on the employee bulletin board about something that obviously meant a great deal to the employee. I’m not sure how many more times we can use the word employee in that equation.

One vice president in particular was agitated by the very idea. The debate raged on: “What if?” and “What if?” and “What if?” as I thought to myself, “Man, what if I get hit by a bus on the way home. I’m gonna be really pissed that I spent my last two hours on earth like this.” “What if a picnic is just a picnic,” I thought, continuing my internal reverie. “And what if gay people are as fully human as you are?” I screamed inside my head.

“What if this is just a way to recruit people to be gay?” I heard him say loudly and angrily. “I guess if the KKK wanted to put up a recruitment poster or a notice for a march, we’d let them, too!”

I fell out of my chair. My eyeballs popped out of their sockets. I lunged for his throat.

At least figuratively.

I started sputtering and protesting and negating his fallacious argument in my best “I’m so smart and you’re obviously not only an idiot but a homophobic and bigoted one, too” approach. It was not an effective way to be an advocate of any kind.

This isn’t a story to put down my colleagues who were both ignorant and fearful–two states of being that often go together–rather, it’s a story about me: The passion I feel about the human rights of people who are gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender—or who are minorities in other ways–doesn’t help anyone if it is inarticulate, angry, reactive, and judgmental. I needed to find a better way to be an advocate for my GLBT friends and colleagues. I found a course a few months later, “How to be an effective advocate for gays and lesbians in your workplace,” and signed up.

Nader was a quiet man, serious, gracious, and gentlemanly. A nontraditional student, he was older than me. Somewhat stoic, he didn’t show a lot of emotion, but it was clear in our last meeting that he was appreciative of my help. “I’d like you to have this,” he said, “to remember me by.” He handed me a package. “May I open it now, or shall I wait?” I asked, not wanting to embarrass him, and knowing that his cultural norms might call for me to wait. “You can open it now if you’d like,” he said quietly.

The print that illustrates this essay was the gift from Nader. Beautifully expressive, bold, and generous. He had a wonderful career ahead of him as a commercial artist. We said our goodbyes with a smile and a handshake that lingered.

A week later, the phone rang, late one night. It was Nader. I was surprised, since he had never called me at home before, and especially since it was late. I started to congratulate him about his graduation, knowing the Big Day was coming up in a week or so. Nader, always so quiet, broke into tears. “I cannot graduate, Patti. I am being sent home. I am calling to say goodbye.”

The story unfolded: Nader was Iranian. He had been informed that afternoon that he was being deported to Iran. “If I go back there,” he said, “I’ll be killed. But they told me I have to go, and I have to go soon.” I promised to meet him the next day and look at the deportation documents he had received. Before I met him, I called a professor of mine whose wife was a well-known attorney for the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU). “It sounds like your friend is one of many students being deported merely for being Iranian,” she reported when I called her. "This is happening as a result of the Iran hostage crisis." She pledged her help.

I told Nader I could take him to Charlotte to the immigration office to see what could be done. And so, off we went, driving to the big city in my tiny blue Chevette.

We finally found the immigration office, and it was clear immediately that Nader would have had no chance if he had gone alone. The officer we finally met with was a font of bureaucratic doublespeak, in some cases noting regulations that either were not yet in force or had expired. When I asked for copies of some of the regulations, he informed me they had no copy machine. “In a government agency, there is no copy machine?” I asked. “I find that…um…ironic,” I said.

He was nothing short of rude to Nader, sweet, quiet Nader, making no effort to speak clearly enough for Nader to understand him and mocking him when he didn’t. He interrogated us about our relationship. At one point in the interview, after asking time after time to see the printed copy of the regulations he was spouting, I stopped short. “You know what?” I said, “I’d like to make a phone call, if you don’t mind. You do have a phone, don’t you?” I asked with a smile. (Okay, so I was a bit of a smart-ass at that point, but truthfully I was almost blinded by holding back hot, furious tears about what they were doing to Nader—this was his life they were so in control of. And they couldn’t have cared less).

“Who do you want to call?” he asked. I mentioned the ACLU attorney’s name. Rather than hand me the phone, he suddenly decided to review Nader’s case.

We emerged from that office with a new visa for Nader. He was able to graduate days later, with a quiet smile. I hope that somewhere in the world, he is still making art.

I would learn later that 50,000 Iranian students were required to report for official immigration interviews at that time. Not all were as fortunate as Nader.

There is value in being an effective advocate. It can save lives. The first example was me being against something. The second story, was about me being for something, for Nader. The direction of our intention matters, it turns out.

Intentions: In 2008, I will be a better advocate for those who need my advocacy. Not those I pity, or consider myself better than, but those who need my voice to join theirs—as equals. I will do it not to look good, but to do good. I will save lives by being an effective advocate, including my own.

From the last alphabet challenge: A is for ankle

If you’ve enjoyed this essay, perhaps you’ll also enjoy my upcoming book, LIFE IS A VERB, to be published by Globe Pequot Press in the fall of 2008. For more info, click here!