You know that friend who gets madder about your situation than you do?

They know you might let something slide, but they also know that if this person did it to you, they’ll do it again—to someone else. And they’re not having it. That friend who looks at injustice and says:

“Not again. Not on my watch. Not with anybody else. But especially not with my friend.”

They’re the ones with wisdom in one hand and razor blades and lemon juice in the purse, just in case. Because what you’re not about to do is mess with someone they love. They’ll clock you, correct you, and remind you:

“I’m not the one. Or the two. So find you something safe to do.”

That’s advocacy. Not loud for no reason. But loud when it counts. Because being a great advocate means knowing when to turn the dial. It’s not about hitting every situation full force. It’s about showing up with intention, clarity, and heat when it matters most. I didn’t know I was becoming that kind of advocate. Honestly? I didn’t even choose the path.

My mama did.

I still remember filling out my high school course selection sheet—bubbling in electives, crossing my fingers like everyone else. I was ready to take Spanish like most of my classmates. My mom stopped me and said, “Pick ASL.” No debate. No negotiation.

She made a deal: take ASL for ninth grade. If I didn’t like it, I could switch the next year. And when it was my sister’s turn, she’d get the same deal. That felt fair. So I took it. At first, I thought I was just going to learn fingerspelling and greetings. I had no idea how deep it would go.

ASL wasn’t just a language. It was a worldview. A culture. A community.

It was expressive, layered, visual, emotional. I didn’t just learn signs—I learned how to see. And that changed everything.

Then came the moment that tested everything I thought I knew.

I was working as a cashier, giving my usual chipper customer service whether people wanted it or not. One man rolled up in a scooter and didn’t respond when I greeted him. I started to get annoyed—until he tapped his ear and let me know he was Deaf.

And I froze.

Not because I didn’t care. Not because I didn’t know what to do. But because I was afraid I’d mess up. I had enough ASL to try. But fear almost made me withhold access. Not out of ignorance—out of discomfort. I took a breath. I tried. And something clicked. That was the moment I learned: silence won’t save anybody.

Not them. Not me.

That experience never left me. Because once I crossed that line—once I chose courage over perfection—I stopped seeing ASL as something I was learning and started seeing it as something I was responsible for.

When I stepped deeper into Deaf spaces—when I began spending time with Deaf friends, students, interpreter colleagues, when I started working in Deaf education—I realized I had stepped into something much bigger than language.

I was now the one literally voicing for students, walking the halls, facilitating conversations that Deaf people had every right to own but were often denied. And I told my people:

“You’re going to stand here and say what you need. I’ve got your voice—but you’ve got your power.”

That’s when I truly understood the role of an advocate: Not to speak over, but to bridge. To help two worlds connect—one with the power, one still fighting for basic access—and keep the center focused on the person who’s too often overlooked.

In Deaf education, we used to talk about “the triangle”—that visual space between the Deaf person, the interpreter, and the hearing person. The goal was always to make the interaction feel like it’s just between the two people directly. But there’s always a triangle. There’s always a gap.

Being an advocate means standing in that triangle. Not as a barrier, but as a bridge. Once I fully stepped into that role—not just as someone who knew ASL, but as someone who lived in between two cultures every day—that’s when the anger kicked in.

Because I finally saw just how deeply this world was failing Deaf people.

Let me be real with you.

These aren’t rare situations. These are everyday obstacles:

• Booking access: Deaf people often have to submit interpreter requests far in advance for cruises, concerts, or public events. Even then, it may not happen if someone drops the ball.

• Movies: Not all showings are accessible, and closed-captioning devices are frequently broken or missing.

• Employment discrimination: Disclosing deafness on a job application can immediately trigger bias and assumptions that hiring you will be “too complicated.”

• Phone access: Relay services are often hung up on before the message is even delivered, simply because the hearing person on the other end doesn’t understand or doesn’t want to deal with it.

• Interpreter visibility: At churches, conferences, and events, people block interpreters without a second thought, ignoring the fact that they are someone’s literal access point.

• Mockery of the language: People imitate ASL like it’s a joke, twisting their fingers and laughing. As if it’s not a real language or a real culture watching them in real time.

The emotional cost of navigating this, day in and day out, is so high that many Deaf folks stop fighting. Not because they don’t care—but because they’re tired. That’s what fuels me. Because once you’ve stood in that triangle—once you’ve seen the power imbalance up close—you don’t forget it. You can’t unsee it.

You know that concept: fight, flight, or freeze? It’s what people do when they encounter danger.

Like when someone runs into a bear in the woods.

Well, for me, injustice is the bear.

Some people run.

Some people freeze and go quiet.

But I fight.

If I see that bear attacking someone, I’m swinging.

Even if I don’t win, I’m going to try. Because silence won’t save them. And it won’t save me either.

But best believe—

I’ll make a whole lot of noise.

And everybody nearby will know about this damn bear.

The only time I choose flight is when I know the battle cannot be won today. When I’ve fought long enough, and I need to protect my energy to live and fight again. That’s not giving up. That’s wisdom. That’s survival.

But freeze?

Freeze makes me feel complicit. Because when I could have acted but didn’t, I’m not just a bystander. I’m part of the harm.

So, here’s my call to action:

• If you lead, fight. Fight like someone is being mauled or harmed.

• If you care, speak. Speak like you are the interpreter. It's not about you, it's about them.

• If you see injustice, name it.

• And if you freeze, ask yourself—who’s getting hurt while you stay comfortable?

We don’t need more cute advocates. We need principled ones. We need people who understand that advocacy doesn’t require perfection—just presence. People who carry both courage and humility.

People who know: just because it’s not your fire doesn’t mean you don’t have a hose.