Perhaps there is no more sublime work in human relationships than advocacy. From the Latin “vocare,” meaning “to call.” An advocate is one summoned to stand at the side of us, especially to aid in matters of justice. In this, then, a lawyer is an advocate. Your defense attorney is paid to know the law, and to ensure that the powers of the state are neither unjust nor unfair to you. The prosecutor advocates for the people, and fights to bring justice to a crime or an evil.
If you’ve ever been in a worthwhile course of therapy, you know that your therapist is an advocate. He/she offers you an essential respect for your separate selfhood, not dependent on the equation of what about you is right or wrong, competent or incompetent, lovely or unlovely. Therapists, if they are honest, certainly have opinions about such equations. But those opinions do not — or at least should not — prevent your counselor from standing by you in the quest to find a whole, creative, free and contented self.
Advocacy is the mark of great friendship. “I’ve got your back,” my friends say. Or, my favorite, “I will never throw you under the bus.” I strive to be that kind of friend, too.
Advocacy is the ground of competent and loving parents. I can’t imagine something my children could do changing my commitment to be their advocate. Certainly there are behaviors I could imagine for which I would not advocate, but what could make me stop advocating for them? I will always be their advocate, even if I had to visit them in prison to do so.
Advocacy is the heartbeat of thriving, growing marriage. Sure, an occasional “dust up,” some conflicts, some bad days, some bickering. But, while times of thriving romance might ebb and flow, the constant of great marriage is knowing that here in this house, when we return home each day, is our best friend, our advocate.
There is one experience of advocacy — offered or received — reigning supreme above all other meanings of the word: advocacy offered or received in the wake of moral failure. We have “made a mistake,” we say. But putting the wrong time on your calendar and missing a meeting is a mistake. A moral failure is when we behave badly. We knew it was wrong as we did it. We did it anyway. And now we face consequences. And we anguish. We’re scared and ashamed.
Think of these moments in your life. Think of the people who were your advocates. You did not, strictly speaking, deserve an advocate. But still, one or more people came to stand by you in your guilt, your failure and your shame. They came not to cover up what had happened, and not necessarily to interfere with whatever wheels of justice were now turning — interpersonally or legally.
They came not to judge, but to stand next to your dignity. Probably standing next to a dignity that, in the moment, you were certain was lost. Your advocates offered no quarter to your self-loathing. They offered support for the necessary time of grief that was your guilt. They encouraged you to act now with integrity, to move to redeem your misdeeds with right action. Think of your advocates, and give thanks.
I have been rich in advocates. These memories inspire me — demand of me — to advocate for my patients and my friends in similar circumstances. People come to my office holding their shambled life in a crumpled paper bag. They have wounded themselves and others in an act of reckless, selfish absurdity. It’s easy not to judge them. All I have to do is remember the times I have held my own life in a crumpled paper bag.
When I think of advocacy, I think of Tinker Bell. That’s right, the erstwhile fairy from “Peter Pan.” Every time you say, “I don’t believe in fairies,” a fairy falls down dead. Your job is to clap your hands and say, “I believe in you.” That’s advocacy.
It is my honor to say “I believe in you” to a broken, ashamed human being. “I feel so guilty,” these people say. “Welcome,” I say. “Join us.” Meaning, join the rest of us — and that would be all of us — who have unlovely chapters in our lives.
All of my friends are blind and lame. Pretty much just like me.
Steven Kalas is a behavioral health consultant and counselor at Las Vegas Psychiatry and the author of “Human Matters: Wise and Witty Counsel on Relationships, Parenting, Grief and Doing the Right Thing.” Contact him at skalas@reviewjournal.com.
