Fail Up (5 page)
Accept Responsibility,
Make Amends, and Recover
Because of one stupid, desperate act, everything had exploded in the young college student's world. Keisha didn't know if she'd be heading back to school to start her junior year or not. Her mother and father were going through a bitter divorce. The thought of depleting more of her mother's scarce resources troubled her deeply. She had secured a summer job at a clothing store but hadn't earned nearly enough to survive another semester.
One day, when no one was looking, she stole a few hundred dollars from the store's cash register. As it turns out, someone
was
looking. The police were called. The honors student who had never committed a crime in her life was arrested. Although her mother made sure the store was reimbursed, she feared charges would be filed against her daughter.
Keisha's mother was an acquaintance of mine. She had read my memoir and recalled my experience with Mayor Allison.
“You were a college student around the same age when you almost lost your way,” she said. The failure had taken a heavy toll on both mother and child. “Will you please talk to her, Tavis?”
When Keisha and I met, I saw a female version of my younger self. Her shame was palpable. At first, she had trouble even looking me in the eyes. She didn't need me to chastise her. Everybody in her circle had already done that.
She needed clear-eyed support, direction, and affirmation as well.
I sat with Keisha and explained that I'd heard lots of good things about her academic achievement and potential. Then I shared my failure and what I had to do to truly learn my lesson. I explained why saying
I'm sorry
isn't enough. What I had learned from the mayor was that my betrayal of trust not only required an apology; it also required making amends.
Sorry
is a convenient word, but
making
amends
means admitting that you were wrong and making a change. There was a price to pay for failing to maintain her integrity, I said, but hopefully she had learned that a failure or falling down is irreversible only when we fail to take responsibility for our actions and correct our behavior.
Let's compare the stories of New York Congressman Charles Rangel, former House Majority leader Tom DeLay, and Philadelphia Eagles quarterback Michael Vick. The 11 counts the House Ethics Committee issued against Rangel in 2010 charging him with violating its rules were pretty damning. Rangel protested, saying that his actions didn't rise to the level of House censure, which is the strongest punishment short of outright expulsion. Considering some of the personal misdeeds of Members of Congress within the past 20 years, Rep. Rangel makes a valid point. Although his lawyers insisted that he had not intentionally violated any laws and had not misused his office for personal financial gain, the legendary Congressman is now recorded in history as someone who was censured after violating House ethics, and whose detractors judged him as someone who never accepted full responsibility for his actions.
Tom DeLay faces a similar designation. In January 2011, the once-bulletproof Texan was sentenced to three years in prison for illegally plotting to channel corporate contributions to Texas legislative candidates. Even after his sentencing, DeLay maintained his innocence based on the defense that he was simply doing what “everybody was doing” and that he was the victim of political persecution. The responsibilitydodging DeLay has vowed to appeal the verdict.
Michael Vick, on the other hand, claimed his crime and seems to be on an admirable road to redemption. In July 2007, his football career with the Atlanta Falcons came to a screeching halt. After he was indicted for running a dog-fighting operation, Vick was suspended by the NFL without pay and lost all his well-paying endorsement deals. Months before his sentencing, Vick went before the media and apologized to the NFL, the Atlanta Falcons, and his fans for “using bad judgment and making bad decisions.
“I will redeem myself. I have to.”
An article in the December 27, 2010, edition of
The
Christian Science Monitor
discussed Vick's “rehabilitation both as a person and a football player” and his “fairy tale year“ in football after serving 18 months in federal prison. According to the article, Vick credits his sentencing and time in prison with making him a better player:
“Arguably the best running quarterback in the history of the NFL, Vick has now added patience and better passing to his repertoire, making him a complete pro quarterback for the first time in his career.”
It's important to note that someone with power gave Vick a second chance. As the newspaper article pointed out, there was “only tepid interest among NFL teams” when Vick was released. He was signed by the Eagles in 2009 as a backup starting quarterback. When Kevin Kolb was named the Eagles's starting quarterback, Vick did not complain and showed unequivocal support for the young player. When Kolb was injured early in the 2010 season, Vick got the chance to show what he could do. According to the article, “His performances have turned the Eagles from a team scrapping to make the playoffs into a legitimate threat to reach the Super Bowl.”
Although Vick and the Eagles didn't make it to the Super Bowl in 2011, as I was writing this chapter, it was reported that Vick had been named starting quarterback for the NFL Pro Bowl game in Honolulu. His resurgence would have never been as widely celebrated had he not had the courage to admit his misdeeds and the integrity to work toward redemption.
When You Fall Prey to Human Failing
What I tried to share with Keisha was the value of integrity. Staying on an honorable path means that you work to identify the temptations and weaknesses and always strive to “catch yourself” before they lead you into difficult situations. I wanted her to understand that, if she does fall prey to human failings, it is so important to take personal responsibility, acknowledge the error, accept the punishment, and make amends to rectify the mistake. You can't fail up if you cast yourself as a victim or try to rationalize your behavior with a myriad of excuses.
I asked Keisha to vow to herself that she would not let a thoughtless act turn into a definition of her character. I reminded her of her innate worth and assured her that if she employed the moral compass that her mother had instilled in her and remained true to her values, she would indeed overcome this
failure
to be all that she really was.
Thanks to a lesson learned from a powerful woman and the blessing of a second chance, I was able to confidently leave Keisha with an empowering message:
“While there's nothing honorable about trying to get ahead in life by cheating, there's almost nothing in life from which you cannot recover,” especially if you have help.
This part applies to those who encounter someone like a young Tavis, a Keisha, or a Michael Vick. When you discipline, it isn't necessary to destroy. You have the power to reprimand, affirm, and allow individuals to redeem themselves. I believe in redemption and resurrection in both the spiritual and the philosophical senses. Although I'm not much for third, fourth, or fifth chances, I have embraced the value of extending the second chance.
Shortly before writing this chapter, I had to call an emergency meeting with three employees who had made some very bad decisions that cost the company serious money. Frankly, I laid it on the line. If it happened again, I said, they'd all lose their jobs. But in that same conversation, I made sure that they knew that I valued them, trusted them implicitly, and appreciated everything they had done to help grow our enterprise. Because of that affirming second chance, the employees doubled their efforts to show me that my decision not to fire them was the best decision I could have ever made.
Remember, when Mayor Allison gave me the opportunity to pay back all the money I owed the city, she said, “Tavis, I think you're going to learn a lesson from this.”
She was right. I learned that cheaters never win. I also learned that some cheaters deserve a second chance. Sometimes redemptive second chances allow you to fail up.
A
lthough I make my living on television, I'm no expert on the formula that makes a particular show a hit or miss with its audience. However, there was one HBO series that I figured out pretty quicklyâ
Entourage
. It's about four childhood friends from Queens transplanted to Hollywood via the success of their curly-headed leader, Vincent Chase (actor Adrian Grenier). The testosterone-heavy show, loosely based on the life of celebrity Mark Wahlberg, revolves around the gang's party-hopping, woman-chasing, star-gazing, and movie-making adventures.
I understand the appeal. The entourage has the hookup, thanks to Vince's sudden ascent to A-list status. And, as we all know, everybody wants the hookup! Inside or outside Hollywood, everybody wishes they had a go-to person, a powerful friend who can grant magic-wand-like favors and provide instant access to big-name concerts, sporting events, chic night clubs, jaunts with the rich and famous, or the right connections to help secure a sensational, high-paying job or other opportunities.
I know I did. When this Kokomo kid arrived in LA in 1985, I was instantly hypnotized by the city's glitz and glamour and eagerly anticipated running with the big dogs. I didn't have a “Vince.” But I did have Jim Brown, the best player to ever bulldoze his way up and down a football field.
Through a failure I experienced with Jim, I learned an invaluable lesson about the real price tag of the
favor
game.
A Lesson in Tinseltown
Earlier that year, I met Jim by way of Chi, my college roommate. We had gone to LA to attend a national convention of student leaders. Tamara, Chi's cousin, was Jim's friend. After driving us to his home in Hollywood Hills, Tamara introduced me to the pro football Hall-of-Famer-turned-actor-turned-activist, who was in his kitchen engaged in a serious game of backgammon (a game he loves). After Tamara told him I was a promising student leader, Jim said, to my delight: “Great. We need a couple more young men like you.”
Jim then introduced me to his backgammon buddy, George Hughley, a former Washington Redskins football player. The chance meeting was a testament to a favorite saying of my grandmother, “Big Mama”: “That's the kind of God we serve!”
Once I landed in LA, I started formulating a plan to stay. The idea that I could do another internship, this time with LA Mayor Tom Bradley, was percolating in my head. Meeting George was a blessing. Not only was he incredibly helpful, he had also worked for Mayor Bradley.
The next day, George drove me to City Hall. I was introduced to several members of the mayor's staff, including Craig Lawson, the official in charge of internships. Craig told me to write a letter when I got back to school, and he'd give my internship request every consideration.
After more than nine months of writing weekly letters, making numerous phone calls, and enduring two frustrating flights back to LA to plead my case, I eventually received a phone call from the mayor's office. My perseverance had paid off: The mayor invited me back to Los Angeles to intern for him.
Jim graciously agreed to let me stay with him until I got settled. So there I was, my first few weeks in California, crashing in the guest house of one of the most well-known celebrities in all of Hollywood. I spent a good month living the high-life, gawking and greeting visiting celebrities and notables I'd seen only on TV, movie screens, and magazine covers. With the kind of raging ambition I had, it was impossible for me to avoid greedily lapping up as much of Jim's world as I possibly could.
He was accommodating, making sure I was comfortable in his home and, on occasion, offering me tickets to concerts and other events. It was his kindness combined with my star-struck naïveté that began to fuel my habit of asking for things before my host even offered. With parrot-like persistence, I'd ask: “Jim, can I go here ⦠Jim, can I go there ⦠Can I do this, Jim ⦠Can I ⦠Can I ⦠Jim, Jim, Jim?”
