American Spirit

by Taya Kyle

  Donating sweatshirts to a shelter for battered women was just a nice thing to do, he thought. He didn’t realize at the time that just by going he had a powerful impact on the women, reminding them that not all men are abusers. People can be kind without wanting anything at all in return.

  Conversations with people—genuine conversations, not things done in front of a camera for publicity or marketing—were what he learned to value.

  Small things. One on one.

  “Tuesdays, we get off in the NFL,” says Randall. Without big family commitments, he started using every Tuesday to do something in the community: bringing bagels to the fire department, shooting hoops with a local high school, helping a nonprofit raise money to fight diabetes.

  “After some games, I’d be so beat up, I wouldn’t want to go out,” he admits. “But after I saw the first person that day, my whole attitude changed. It sounds weird, but it was almost like a high, connecting with people.”

  Just listening to everything Randall does during the course of the year is impressive and pretty exhausting. Some are small things, others big. Some have personal connections, some don’t. There’s no history of spousal abuse in his family, but he doesn’t need that example to know it’s wrong. On the other hand, his grandma has diabetes, which is one reason he has worked with both the American Diabetes Association and the Junior Diabetes Research Foundation, or JDRF.

  Would you believe that a guy big enough to play in the NFL was bullied as a kid? Yes, Randall was, though he says it was mild compared to what children go through today. But those memories are still strong and inform much of what he does for Boo2Bullying, a national effort to decrease bullying among youngsters.

  Randall’s efforts not only caught the attention of his team but may have inspired others to make their own efforts. Soon after inviting the Browns’ other tight ends to get involved in one of his small events, he noticed other players hosting their own community efforts.

  “Whether inspired by me or not,” he says with a laugh, “I’m not asking questions. I’m just enjoying it.”

  To me, Randall is one more example that you don’t have to set out to change the world with every single gesture; a genuine conversation with someone can ripple goodness outward in ways difficult to map. The important thing is to make the thing you do genuine.

  There’s nothing inherently wrong with having your picture taken while you’re doing good or even showing up at a soup kitchen with the TV cameras rolling. But if you want to make a real difference, you have to ask yourself what Randall does: What is the real value of my actions?

  Who is truly benefiting from what I’m doing?

  Your motivations don’t have to be entirely pure, and most of us find that we get a lot out of helping others. But the more genuine your connection, the more impact ultimately it will have—for you as well as for others.

  Tie One on for a Cause

  Dhani Jones

  There are many ways to help others, sometimes directly, sometimes indirectly. It can even be done as a business, if your heart is in the right place.

  As an NFL linebacker, Dhani Jones was an expert at knotting up offenses.

  Now he knots ties. Bow ties, to be exact. Ones he designs for a variety of charities, including his own. They’re just some of the many products of a life that marries an entrepreneurial spirit with a philosophy that demands you make the world a better place than you found it.

  Dhani played for the New York Giants, Philadelphia Eagles, and Cincinnati Bengals from 2000 to 2010, ending his career with more than six hundred tackles and a couple hundred assists. Throw in nine and a half sacks and five interceptions, and you have a solid career, one that lasted a lot longer than average at a position notorious for the wear and tear it puts on a body.

  More of a hugger than a tackler these days, Dhani has an open, generous spirit, and in many ways he is the personification of someone who has achieved success while at the same time dedicating himself to helping others. An entrepreneur and cable TV star, Dhani is a man of many talents. Maybe you saw him on the Travel Channel with his series Dhani Tackles the Globe. Or on CNBC in Adventure Capitalists. If you’ve been in Cincinnati lately, there’s a chance you’ve had coffee at his café.

  Raised in Maryland, Dhani adopted Cincinnati as his home when he played for the Bengals. He’s been very active in the local community. Among other things, he’s a board member of the Cincinnati Art Museum and Breakthrough Cincinnati, a tuition-free summer program that aims at helping middle-grade students, particularly minorities, prepare for higher education.

  But his bow ties are what draw the most attention.

  The bow ties began as a private challenge.

  In 2000, his good friend Kunta Littlejohn was diagnosed with stage 4 leukemia. Among Littlejohn’s many attributes were an eye for fashion and a thing for bow ties; they were more than just a fashion statement—they were a commitment, a statement:

  If you want to be somebody, you have to rock the bow tie.

  Dhani started wearing a bow tie as a sign of solidarity and support. Littlejohn’s cancer went into remission, but Dhani’s sartorial passion had just begun. He began designing for himself. Soon, he was making them for others, and he eventually founded a company called Five Star Ties, which created ties and accessories for men.

  The chairman of Chiquita Brands International asked if he could make a bow tie for his son, who had juvenile diabetes. Dhani worked on the tie, and it ended up being used as a fund-raising and awareness-raising tool.

  The BowTie Cause was born. Other groups began contacting the company. Dhani worked with them to design ties that had a meaningful connection with their cause. The young man with juvenile diabetes had described his life as a series of up and downs; the design had up and down arrows. Blood cells populate a tie for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society.

  That tie is a tribute to Kunta Littlejohn, Dhani’s friend who started him on the bow tie journey. And it illustrates how deep some of the thinking behind the design goes. From the website where the tie is sold: “The meaning behind the design is very personal. When first diagnosed with cancer, Kunta thought that he was going to die, which is symbolized by the black base of the BowTie. As time progressed, Kunta began to improve, and grew largely optimistic about his survival. This is seen in the silver lining, symbolic of optimism. The red blood droplet is actually the logo for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. The pattern is representative of cell growth, which is something to be largely optimistic about for anyone with leukemia or lymphoma.”

  Today, the company partners with groups to create bow ties to be used as fund-raisers and awareness boosters. Though particularly popular with groups dedicated to fighting different diseases, the ties have been sold by everyone from the Armed Forces Foundation to the SPCA. And not just bow ties—they’ve also introduced scarves and jewelry.

  “I had no idea what it was going to become. I wasn’t creating BowTie Cause because this was going to be the biggest business in the world,” he says now. “I always thought about giving people the voice.

  “You have to believe in yourself and the ideas that you have. There are always going to be people who will look down on your idea. . . . As an entrepreneur, there are days when things are really good. There are days when things are really bad. You have to be comfortable with being uncomfortable. If it’s status quo, it’s no go.”

  Helping others with bow ties inspired Dhani to start (what else?) the BowTie Foundation to contribute to some of his own causes. The foundation funds outreach programs and provides grants to organizations that “foster the personal development of underprivileged youth,” such as the Friars Club.

  “I don’t look at it as making a difference,” he says of his charitable efforts. “I look at it like a responsibility to leave things better than you found it. You live in a house, the house should be better when you leave it. These are values that you should have learned as a child.”

  His career in football—in the NFL, in c
ollege at Michigan where he was named a three-time All–Big Ten player, and back at the high school level—taught him a lot. But this education and growth was built on the strong foundation his parents had given him as a child.

  “There are a lot of things that you learn about yourself through sport,” he says. “I learned about my own resilience. My ability to work through pressure-filled situations. Through travel, I learned to not judge. I also learned to ask a lot of questions and not be afraid of what the answers might be.”

  His advice for others? Expand your horizons and your circle of friends. “If you do the same thing every day, if you hang out with the same people every day, you’re not going to learn the things you would learn if you travel.”

  He preaches that as a businessman and consultant.

  “I get to come in and ask big questions as a Montessori kid,” jokes Dhani, referring to his days as an elementary schooler, “and hopefully don’t get tossed out of the room.

  “I think there’s a natural good in people. To do good for others and the world. But I also think there’s a selfishness in people that prevents them from doing good for others—a kind of catch-22—because they’re trying to protect their families or do what’s right for them. Now, as people become more selfless, expand their thinking, see things for the greater good, then the dynamic starts to shift.”

  A friend of mine breaks the world down into three groups: the 80, 18, and 2 percenters.

  Eighty percent of people just want to do what’s being done. Another 18 percent want to do what is being done but do it better. The final 2 percent want to blow out what’s being done, and in so doing, change the world.

  If that’s true, then Dhani is one of the 2 percent. He’s an idea person—a fire starter, a world changer.

  “The way I look at it, this is what you’re supposed to do in life,” he says of giving back. “[This] should be everyday practices of people. It should be the common occurrence. . . . When you live a selfless lifestyle, you walk around smiling.”

  Bad-ass with a Heart of Gold

  Jesse James

  Grandmothers can be the greatest inspiration in the world, simply by being who they are.

  Take “bad boy” turned reality TV star and celebrity bike and car builder, Jesse James.

  Jesse genuinely earned his reputation as a bad-ass, getting into more than his share of trouble as a teenager. But that was never all he was. Overcoming his tough childhood, he worked security for rock bands, moved on to become a master motorcycle creator, then hit the big time as a reality star. He had a series of marriages, each time hoping he’d found the perfect yin to his yang. When he married superstar Sandra Bullock, many thought he’d achieved the American dream, going literally from rags to riches, from hardscrabble childhood to adult wedded bliss.

  Then things crashed and burned. His marriage to Bullock collapsed—his fault, he says in his accounts—and he became embroiled in a custody battle with another former wife. He hit bottom.

  But only for a short while.

  Jesse went back to what he did best, working with his hands. Turning from vehicles to guns, he began crafting high-value guns and knives that are as decorative as they are utilitarian. Today, he has a wide range of business interests but remains at heart a blue-collar craftsman. I’ve heard people call him the “Pope of Welding,” and after watching him in his workshop, I think it fits.

  You can read about his dark side and his adventures in celebrityhood in his book, American Outlaw. What you won’t read there—or in any of the tabloid stories about him—is what he did for the homeless in Long Beach. Because while he may be a genuine bad-ass, he’s also humble when it comes to things like that.

  Maybe he’s afraid of crashing the bad-ass image.

  “Downtown Long Beach in the ’90s. Post–LA riots. Shop right in the middle of it,” he told me when I visited his current digs in Texas. I’d heard rumors of his helping others and wanted to know if they were true—and if so, how he’d gotten involved in the first place. “It was kind of a lesson in taking care of where you are.”

  His shop, famous now because of the TV show, was a renovated garage with some of the latest and greatest tools. But before Jesse found it, it was a squatter’s paradise—as were many of the buildings nearby. Jesse was part of the area’s rebirth.

  Fixing up the area properties was great for the city and the local economy, but it did nothing for the people who’d found shelter there. Anyone arriving at the shop around six in the morning would find the streets dotted with homeless men and women. The problem was acute. And while restoration of Jesse’s and others’ property in the area didn’t cause it, the work didn’t help. What it did was make residents and property owners more likely to complain. In their eyes, the hard work they had put in was being ruined by a horde of homeless.

  Things reached a peak about a year after Jesse moved in, when Catholic Charities proposed opening a homeless shelter in the neighborhood. What the group saw as a solution suddenly became the focus of the problem. Angry meetings, petition campaigns, even a movement to bus the homeless to another city—tempers rose.

  Jesse started talking to his neighbors. His message was simple: “You’re never going to clean up the city if you don’t take care of the problem.” Give the homeless a place to stay, he argued, and the problem will be less acute. Treat the disease, not the symptom.

  He didn’t just talk. When Catholic Charities was looking for a facility to use in their mission, he asked what their budget was. The amount was far short of what property in the area typically sold for and millions below what he could get for his building.

  Jesse gave it to them at their price nonetheless, shrugging off the difference as a donation. That may not have endeared him to his neighbors—but that’s one advantage of being a bad-ass.

  And hey, if people are going to be angry with you, let them be angry because you did something good.

  Among its other efforts in the area, Catholic Charities ran Project ACHIEVE, helping homeless and formerly homeless people get jobs. Jesse pitched in there, too, hiring two of the seven hundred and fifty or so the charity helped place that year. He and his kids worked as volunteers over the holidays in their shelter. When he opened a restaurant, he donated each day’s leftovers to the charity.

  In the course of all this, he met many of the people the program helped—and a few it didn’t. “Some people didn’t want the program,” he said. “The drug-free life, the rules. Too much. They didn’t take it.”

  But others were helped tremendously. One man with his wife stood out.

  “A string of bad events had taken them down,” said Jesse. “His wife got sick; he lost his job.”

  Jesse shook his head, maybe thinking that if life had taken him in a different direction, the man might have been him.

  In 2010, Jesse closed down the Monster Garage. He sold it—to Catholic Charities. At last report, it was being used as a thrift shop.

  Even though the group was obviously religious—it is called Catholic Charities, after all—Jesse wasn’t drawn to it particularly because of religion. (He’s Christian, but not Catholic.) Religion wasn’t a motivator at all—if anything, it may have been a turnoff. Many of the people he knows personally who profess to be religious he views as hypocrites in their daily lives.

  If church didn’t motivate him to help, what did?

  Empathy. Experience. And Grandma.

  Besides growing up relatively poor, Jesse often accompanied his father when he went to inspect and buy used furniture for resale. He remembers going into countless “filthy houses” and being disgusted by the despair and poverty so evident there.

  And in his own home.

  “We had a house that looked like the house in The Jerk,” he said. He didn’t mean it as a joke. “I didn’t even have a bedroom. I slept in a hallway on a cot for a couple of years.

  “I don’t think people realize how special a home, a place to be, a place where you belong, is.”

 
But the real inspiration for his good works was his grandmother—“Nana,” as he calls her.

  “My nana lived on Butler Avenue in Compton right by the train tracks,” he told me. “She used to make sandwiches for all the black transients and leave them on her windowsills. They would come by and take them. She would never turn anyone away.

  “She died when I was twelve. I think it was the most devastating thing in my life.”

  But her memory lives on, not just in Jesse’s acts but in the countless small mercies and kindnesses that started with her free food and rippled out as others paid it forward.

  “You don’t have to start a homeless shelter to be good,” he said. “Even on a small level, being kind and sticking up for the underdog—there’s stuff you can do to make a difference. Whether it’s dropping coins in someone’s cup or volunteering. Reading for the mentally challenged. There are a million ways.”

  At least.

  “There are lots of things in every part of this country where we can really make a difference.”

  Jesse’s life has changed for the better since the very public end of his relationship with Sandra Bullock and the high point of his tumultuous fame. He’s still a businessman, has an inspiring and interesting social media presence, is still seen occasionally on TV and is married to his perfect match, Alexis DeJoria, a successful businesswoman herself. They raise their daughters, go to church, and have a bunch of dogs, a monkey, and an adventurous life together. And he still gives back, spending time with high school–age kids in industrial arts programs.

  Working with your hands is often looked down on in these days of high tech. But as Jesse’s own life has shown, skills like welding, metalworking, and automotive mechanics are demanding and potentially rewarding. Even if they are neglected in schools.