The Big Dog’s 15-second Leadership Lesson

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In the run up to last week’s Super Bowl, former President Bill Clinton appeared on ESPN’s Mike & Mike in the Morning Radio Show. And in a brief exchange, he provided a memorable illustration of what makes a great leader.

Toward the end of the interview, after speculating over which famous athletes would make good presidents and reminiscing over White House visits by championship teams, the president shared a few words with Tampa Bay Buccanneers defensive tackle Gerald McCoy. The hosts, Mikes Greenberg and Golic, informed the President the All-Pro lineman was with them and that he wanted to say hello.

“Uh…hello…Mr. President,” McCoy tentatively began.

“He’s shy,” one of the Mikes interjected, a bit rudely.

“I am,” he continued, visibly embarrassed. “This is uh…Gerald McCoy, and it’s an honor just to say ‘hello.’” He chuckled nervously and mumbled that he didn’t have much more to say. He had wanted to say “hello” so he could tell his wife he had.

At this point of the interaction, about eight seconds in, Clinton could have said “Nice to meet you.” And that would have been fine. McCoy would have remembered the awkward pleasantry fondly, though probably with a touch of embarrassment.

But Clinton went another way. He responded with an enthusiastic rhetorical query: “Hi Gerald. Hey, let me ask you a question…true or false: Most football games are decided in the line.”

“Oh that’s true,” McCoy beamed. “That’s a fact, for sure.”

By the 15 second mark, Clinton had completely transformed the moment. The two men chatted for another minute about football and said goodbye cordially. And in a brief exchange, the president had completely won the man over. How did he do that?

By honoring time-tested leadership fundamentals. Think about his comment again: “Let me ask you a question…football games are decided in the line.” What was the president really saying by with this response? A lot:

  1. Forget embarrassing or awkward. I’m not going to let this be a regrettable moment for you.
  2. Stop kissing my ring. We’re going to connect as equals.
  3. We’re not going to talk about me. We’re going to talk about you. I want to hear your perspective.
  4. What you do is important and doesn’t get enough appreciation.

That's a lot to communicate in a few seconds. But it's easy for an experienced leader. Because leaders understand a simple truth: Each person matters, and everyone wants to feel appreciated.

Sexual Assault is a Men’s Issue

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Why men and boys are the key to ending sexual violence

“Rape is an important women’s issue.”

“Whoa. How did a man get involved with that?”

“Sexual assault? Yeah, I never really know what to say about feminist issues…”

I spend a lot of time volunteering for a nonprofit in Chicago called Rape Victim Advocates (RVA), which does exactly what its name sounds like it does. The comments above are ones I received recently about my involvement. They all occurred in a single evening, and they weren’t the only ones. People often ask me why I care so much about rape awareness, or what men have to do with it at all. Well…

There are countless reasons men should be involved in this issue. Here are the only three you need:

1)  Men are victims, too. 

8 to 12% of the clients RVA serves each year are male. That may surprise you, but it’s typical among rape crisis service organizations. And the actual male percentage of victims is probably much higher—it’s notoriously difficult to calculate because the perception that rape is a women’s issue makes male victims less likely to come forward. Many survivors fear being doubted or shamed. Or blamed. Even ridiculed. This can ring twice as true for men and boys, often fearful of having their strength and sexuality questioned, or their very masculinity challenged.

2)  We care about the women in our lives. 

Even if rape only happened to women, it would still be a cause for men to rally around. These are, after all, the women we love. They are our wives and girlfriends, our daughters and granddaughters. Our sisters. Our mothers. Our neighbors and friends. Gentlemen, imagine for a moment listening to a horrific story of prolonged child abuse, or perhaps a violent and brutal street assault. Then imagine learning that the victim in the story is the woman or girl you love more than anything on Earth. Now tell me men shouldn’t care. Tell me rape is only a women’s issue.   

3)  It’s men who rape.

Yes, men are affected. And of course we care about women. But the single most important reason men need to get involved in fighting rape and ending rape culture is that it’s men who perpetrate this violence. Advocates and experts in the field teach us that anyone can be a victim or a perpetrator of sexual assault, regardless of gender. This is an important truth, one more people need to know. But another truth lies here: Approximately 99% of sexual assaults are committed by men. Statistically speaking, it’s men who rape, overwhelmingly. When you uncover a public policy issue—particularly one involving violent crime—that is almost exclusively the result of male behavior, what you have on your hands is a men’s issue.

It really is that simple. Reaching men and boys—that’s the key to a world without sexual assault. We need to focus less on telling girls how to avoid being raped, and more on teaching boys not to rape. And not to tolerate or condone rape in any subtle way. If we want to end violence, we must reach those who have the highest potential to engage in it.

We need to teach boys from an early age that part of being manly is respecting and protecting women and children—and even other men if the situation warrants. We need to create an environment where competitive young men, eager to demonstrate their masculinity, vie to be the first to help someone in need. To protect the vulnerable, to prevent violence or the endorsement of it. We need a young party culture where it’s the cool kids who say “Hey man, leave her alone,” where those who don’t respect others’ privacy and dignity are chastised and corrected. We need to get through to boys.

And that starts with us, men. Women can tell boys how to behave and they might even listen sometimes. But it’s older guys they will emulate. We men need to recognize that we are role models, whether we choose to be or not. We must lead by example, and intentionally teach the boys in our lives about respect and personal rights. It’s men who teach boys how to be men.

Fellas, we have work to do.  

 

My Remarks at the Rape Victim Advocates 40th Anniversary Celebration

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Delivered Thursday, June 26, 2014, at Revel Chicago:

Thank you, Marta, [previous speaker Marta Coronado, sexual assault survivor] for sharing those powerful words with us. Please let’s recognize again Marta’s testimonial. That really speaks to the heart what we do at RVA.

Hello, everyone. My name is Michael Happ, and it’s been my privilege to serve on the Board of this wonderful organization for the past five and a half years. And it’s an honor to have played some small part in the incredible 40 years of work we're celebrating tonight.

As I look at this room, I see staff and volunteers, survivors, supporters, friends and family. But more than that, what I see is a community. A remarkable community of survival and strength, support, and advocacy. It’s a blessing to be a part of that community. 

Also looking at the room, I think it's important to remember (as I'm sure many of you do) that while we're here tonight in this beautiful venue, enjoying one other's company, celebrating decades of tremendous work, somewhere in our city, possibly not far from where we are right now, someone is having the worst night of her life.

Someone is having a bad night that may not be the worst night, because this has happened before. Someone's being told it's her fault, that she had it coming. Someone's being told he should stop crying and man up, that this isn't something that happens to boys. Someone's not being told anything because she hasn't said anything, out of fear or misplaced shame.

And somewhere, someone is sitting in an emergency room, beaten and bloodied, physically or spiritually and emotionally, or all of these. And she may feel shocked, or frightened, or furious. Or a mix of all these feelings and more. She may feel lost and alone, like she has nowhere to turn. And she may feel that she can’t see a way forward from here.

But what she may not realize yet, is that also at this very moment, thanks to this community, she is not alone. She is not alone. Because right now, rushing to her side is a very brave, compassionate, highly-trained advocate who will say, "I can help." "I believe you." "You have options." And she does.

In addition to the many difficult conversations and moments she’ll have tonight—which her advocate will help her through—she may choose to report her assault to the police, and need someone to go to court with her. She may take advantage of our counseling services to help rebuild her life.  And while all this is happening, our education team is out there trying to prevent this happening to even one more person, working toward a world without this kind of violence.

Now in the powerful personal story Marta just shared with us, we heard her say "I wouldn't be here without RVA." We heard her use the words "saved my life." And we’ve heard those same sentiments from countless other survivors. I think it’s important to recognize that when these people use those words, they’re not using them lightly. It’s not simply a turn of a phrase. They’re not speaking metaphorically. They're choosing those words very deliberately, to tell us what they know in their hearts to be true, which is that this service literally saved them. 

That’s the impact that all of us have the opportunity to play a part in by being a part of this community.

Now this community has supported this vital work in so many ways: You’ve given your thoughts and prayers, which matter—ask anyone who’s personally connected to this issue.  They matter a lot. And you’ve given your time and energy, your labor—volunteering and serving on boards and committees, planning events, joining us at demonstrations like Standing Silent Witness. And we thank you for that. And you’ve been educators yourselves, raising awareness with your friends and through social media. We’re so very grateful for all of that support.

But the truth is, the indelicate truth, is that none of this work that we're celebrating tonight, none of it can continue without your financial contributions. We need your money.

So on behalf of the Board and Rape Victim Advocates, I ask you tonight to dig deep and give what you can. If you’re able, please step up and say yes, I'm ready to support this work that's gone on for 40 years and I want to make sure it goes on for another 40 years or as long as it has to.

If you’re ready and able, please find one of our volunteers around the room holding up glow necklaces and make a donation of any size. Thank you all so much.  Good night. 

On Service, Burnout, Guilt, and Permission

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Several widely-read posts and articles have circulated recently about “the problem with little white girls and boys,” or “why volunteerism is counter-productive,” or “why you should think twice” before serving with a nonprofit.  These pieces echo others from the past few years which argue that many well-intentioned service efforts do more harm than good, and ultimately don’t result in the sort of personal fulfillment their implementers desire.

Anyone involved with a nonprofit organization or advocacy effort can identify with these feelings. Service is tiring, and often frustrating. Working with other flawed human beings with varying talents, convictions, and opinions is not always fun, even when it’s in a noble pursuit. I’ve certainly felt burnout. Who hasn’t felt frustration with their church, or their charity board, or their neighborhood committee? And who hasn’t doubted the value of his or her contributions?

Who hasn’t felt like giving up for a while? Or for good?

Here’s the real problem, with girls and boys and the rest of us in 21st-Century America: Much like the economic philosophy that took over U.S. politics in the 1980’s and has dominated it ever since, these works seek to justify selfishness by telling people that not only is it permissible to stop thinking of the welfare of others and focus solely on one’s own comfort and desires, but that it is actually morally superior to do so. Rationalizations for this outlook sometimes include cherry-picked scripture, quoted out of context and questionably interpreted, or isolated examples of aspiring do-gooders allegedly harming the intended recipients of their generosity. Sometimes, most maliciously, we are told those recipients are undeserving of help at all. They are morally responsible for their own condition.

Now in fairness, this isn’t a universal perspective or motivation among these authors. Most of them care, and recognize a call to make some sort of difference. But they’re tired and frustrated. And perhaps jealous of peers who have focused on themselves while the authors were out saving the world, and who sometimes seem happier for it. They simply want to stop, and not to feel bad for doing so.  

So what these pieces are truly doing is seeking permission. To be selfish. To stop serving. To relax and enjoy privilege, and to stop fretting over the plight of others, because honestly, these issues are so big, what help was I going to be, anyway? I’d probably do more harm than anything. And besides, did you know that some of these problems are actually CAUSED by people trying to address them? Please, please, please tell me I’m not a bad person for stepping away from my ethical responsibilities to my fellow human beings. Tell me I’m a great person, an even better person than those who are donating time and doing the hard work and sacrificing. Again, an unfair extrapolation, but one that shows how easily we can slip into self-justification.

Actually, the fact that they feel the need to beg this moral absolution speaks highly of them—it places them in a category above those who have never given a second thought to their comfortable stations or the less fortunate circumstances of others. It shows guilt, which only good people can feel.

And it illustrates an underlying hypocrisy within us all. We want to be good people, and be known as such. But we also want, sometimes, to take a break, and not think about the Really Sad Stuff. To have an extra helping and feel fine about it, even though we know in the back of our minds that some didn’t have a first. We want to take but not be called greedy. To serve ourselves, unconcerned with others, without those others thinking us immoral.

So what to do? There are problems in this world and people suffering. There are causes that are worthy and necessary. And those of us who feel that special twinge know it’s our responsibility to get involved. But it’s exhausting. And it can’t be healthy to live with that kind of guilt and stress all the time. We need to serve. But we need a break.

The answer, I think, is conditional permission. We need to reject the false choice between serving the needy and nurturing one’s own mental and emotional health. We must grant each other, and ourselves, permission—not to abandon all service and donations, but to periodically step away from our beloved causes and refresh our minds and bodies. Doing so will not only enhance our sense of happiness and fulfillment, but will make us better-equipped and more motivated servants when we are ready to reenter the fray.

March Madness and Why We Root (Even When Our Team Isn’t Playing)

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Sports are irrational. No, scratch that—sports are a fine, healthy enterprise. It’s sports fandom that makes no sense. There are plenty of advantageous reasons to engage in athletic endeavors, competitive or otherwise. It’s healthy, and it hones strategic thinking skills. Plus it’s fun. Humankind has played competitive games since the dawn of recorded history, and almost certainly much longer. Even animals in the wild race and wrestle for entertainment.

But rooting? Investing ourselves emotionally in the competitive fates of people we don’t know, in silly games, the results of which will not affect us at all? It’s illogical behavior. Surely there is an innate thrill in observing the practice of a highly specialized skill. We enjoy watching dancers, listening to musicians, following the tales of storytellers. On that level, it can be mesmerizing to watch a man jump higher than most are able or fling an object through a small target repeatedly. For a more dramatic effect, we often prefer to see two such performers—or best of all, two entire teams—each striving to practice their skill better than the other, while simultaneously trying to disrupt their fellow performers in their similar pursuit. Now we have conflict. Hence, we have drama. We have storytelling.

And in most stories, there are heroes and there are villains. So we mentally cast our competitors accordingly and proceed to pull for the good guy. How do we decide who is who? Oh, geography, perhaps. Or superficial details like uniform colors or funny mascots. Or maybe we pull for State U because we went there. Or our Dad did. Or that one fella we used to know, what’s-his-name. Great guy. Go State.

But what if neither team is from our school? What is our favorite team isn’t playing and we’re left with a neutral contest, one in which we have no connection to the participants whatsoever? Why do we sports fans still care so much who wins? Why do we still insistently place the white hat upon the crown of one competitor and hope he wears it to glory? It’s because these athletes, through the improvised stories they tell us, come to represent so much more than players in a game. We view these contests as metaphors for life and society. In these teams, we perceive parallels to social communities, philosophies, even entire cultures. And in their quests, we see the very battle between good and evil. It’s completely irrational. But humans are not rational beings.

This past weekend, in the 2014 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament, affectionately called “March Madness,” perennial powerhouse Duke lost to tiny upstart Mercer. And as Eric Idle would say, there was much rejoicing. Sports enthusiast across the nation, most of whom had never previously heard of Mercer, celebrated gleefully. For decades, Duke has been the great villain in the story of college basketball. Duke wins a lot of games, sure, but that’s not why they’re vilified. Seemingly overly populated with kids of wealthy upbringing, with few memorable players from low-income areas or unstable homes, Duke comes off like a private club for CEO’s kids. Its much-lauded coach, unlike many of his colleagues, seems to show little interest in recruiting troubled teens to experience the formative and redemptive powers of sports.

And because this is America, where issues of economic class are unavoidably linked to those of race, there’s something else uncomfortable about Duke squads. There’s no way around it—Duke has a lot of white players. A lot of good white players. Every year. In a sport that many, many black kids play and play well. Other expensive, academically elite schools compete at a high level, but the teams from Georgetown or Stanford usually appear as diverse as most teams they play. And other schools, like BYU, regularly field largely white teams, but they don’t dominate. This fits with our modern sense of justice—diversity in a workforce indicates a wide, unbiased talent search, which should increase an organization’s chance of excellence. But Duke doesn’t seem to suffer in performance for limiting its talent pool.

Adding to that is the ever-growing popular perception that Duke receives special treatment from officials, administrators, television personalities, and others in positions of influence. Fairly or not, every year sees more entries added to the grand mythical list of egregious favoritism, from horrible referee whistles, to questionable NCAA decisions, to unbridled Dookie enthusiasm from broadcasters.

So to the common-man sports fan, Duke represents the preening, exclusive, elitist cabal that he’ll never be invited to join. It’s the country club, the corporate board room, the clique of rich kids with fancy cars. Duke is the power and the privilege, the lake house party to which you’re not invited. And like any truly detestable foil, Duke always seems to be on top, living the good life, grinning smugly without guilt or shame. In Duke, we see every spoiled, undeserving, selfish asshole we’ve ever come across. 

But in the Mercers of the sporting world, we see ourselves. It’s the classic everyman tale, as old as legends themselves: a small band of dedicated souls, pure of heart, somehow overcomes great obstacles to defeat a much more powerful enemy. What allows our heroes to accomplish the impossible? Why, the human spirit, of course. The X-factor. That which cannot be measured, and cannot be squelched. It’s the mysterious, magical force which leads the righteous to victory. These stories give us hope, and reinforce everything we want to believe about life.

Which is why it hurts so badly when it goes the other way. And it does, often. Duke teams win a lot—many, many games every year, a championship every so often. And they have to, otherwise their comeuppance at the hands of a Mercer wouldn’t feel so good. The mighty must be mighty in order for the triumph of the meek to hold meaning.

Two days after the big Mercer win, Wichita State fell to Kentucky. To the uninitiated, the game might have seemed like an upset, another feel-good story. Undefeated Wichita State was seeded first, while Kentucky, losers of several games, was seeded 8th. But sports fans know better. Kentucky is basketball royalty, one of the crown-jewel programs of the sport, with decades of success and multiple championships. In recent years, the Wildcats have come to epitomize everything wrong with college sports. 

About a decade ago, the National Basketball Association adopted a rule that stipulates that a player must be 19 years old or have completed one year of college in order to play in the league. Though the rule was intended to prevent players from skipping college altogether, it has created a bizarre and troubling phenomenon, whereby most of the best prospects play only a single year of college ball before jumping the pros. To many fans, the de-facto “one and done” rule, as it’s derisively known, makes a mockery of higher education, and produces a watered-down version of basketball—on both the amateur and professional levels.

Many top programs have used these “super freshmen.” But none have taken advantage of the system like Kentucky. Captained by a slick, fast talking, multi-million dollar coach, a man with a lengthy record of recruiting violations at other schools, the Wildcats have repeatedly showcased entire starting lineups of one-and-done pro draft prospects. They are there for basketball, nothing else. This is not about school, and it’s not about amateur athletics. It’s big business, and they act like it. In a way, Kentucky’s brazen attitude is refreshing; at least we are spared any hypocritical talk of valuing education or tradition. Other schools are known to at least pretend to care. Not Kentucky. In 2012, they won a championship with a nearly all-freshman roster. This season, Kentucky brought in their most celebrated class yet, and was pegged as number 1 by the media before the season even began. Then this collection of young, entitled hotshots proceeded to lollygag through the season, losing many more games than expected. They played as if they should be handed victories based on talent alone.

Wichita State is a small school, a “mid-major” in the parlance of college sports—not the type of team typically considered a power. The Shockers don’t have the budget or the capacity to run a Kentucky-style basketball factory. And to their credit, they don’t seem to be interested in doing so. By sheer will and tenacity, and years of hard work—basically all the elements we look for in our heroes—Wichita State has built a winning team. A veteran team, full of junior and seniors. A high-functioning group of mutually supportive colleagues, working together, complementing one another. A true team, bucking the cynical one-and-done trend. They’re the little guys who can, the Hickory Huskers, Rocky Balboa, the rebels from Star Wars. And this year, they were trying to pull off the unthinkable: a perfect season, something that hasn’t been done in almost 40 years.

When these two teams clashed in the tournament, we neutral fans wanted the Shockers to win because it would validate so much of what we want to believe—that hard work beats entitlement; that the pure of heart will outlast the greedy. That the little guy can make it to the top. But it didn’t go that way. Kentucky won. In a tremendous, heart-stopping contest, the powerful prevailed. The good guys went home. And we care. It hurts. It bothers us because we don’t like what it says about life. If we’re going to consider the Mercer triumph as confirmation of any great truth, then we must consider the Wichita State loss as equally significant. Which it is, because the truth is that sometimes the little guy loses. Sometimes the other army just has too many arrows.

But that’s not, of course, the most important truth. The real deal is this: it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t matter who wins. A ball goes through a hoop or it doesn’t. The ball has no morality. When the “good guys” lose, it hurts because we ascribe meaning to it. Just as we cry when a beloved character dies in a story, feeling real emotion for a make-believe person, we mourn when our hero fails in the improvised story of a game. But just as we draw lessons from stories, morals to adhere to in our own journeys, so must we consider the sports fan experience. The final step in enjoying the game is to realize that it’s only a game, and that any parallel to our lives is only metaphorical. We crave justice in our stories, and in our sports. But true justice lies within.