Lou Ferrigno remarked that James is “…a true American hero. We need more people like him.” But James doesn’t see himself that way at all. In fact, far from it. He’s just a normal guy who’s had extraordinary opportunities to be apart of other people’s lives. This interview shares a little about the man behind the mission.
A Hard Beginning
When my mother learned she was pregnant with me, she was barely in high school. Unmarried. Alone. My father wasn’t in the picture. Some people told her to end the pregnancy. Others pushed her to give me up for adoption. But in a moment of courage —and grace—she chose life. That choice came with a cost.
A young mother. Little support. Constant judgment. She faced doubt, fear, loneliness, and rejection—from family, friends, school, society, even the church. The stress was real, and it changed her. Like too many women in that position, she carried the weight of it mostly in silence. Her story isn’t unique—and that’s exactly why it matters.
Growing Up in Poverty
Poverty is something I thought I understood. My mother and I bounced from place to place, never knowing how long we’d stay. We didn’t have much of anything. I remember standing in line for government cheese and powdered milk, and paying for groceries with food stamps back when they came in booklets—not discreet cards like today. When you pulled out that booklet, everyone in the store knew exactly who you were.
It’s strange how childhood memories stick. Those moments brand themselves into you. The embarrassment. The hunger. The instability. And I know we weren’t the only ones. There are families all across this country, and the world, who understand exactly what that feels like—because they’re still living it. I’ve been to countries where people have it way worse than we do, so when I said I thought I understood it, I was looking at it from a limited world view. As I began to travel overseas, my perspective changed and I came to understand that America, even with all its issues, is truly one of the wealthiest places on the planet. And we can do better. Not just locally, but across continents.
A Small Act of Kindness
Sometimes the smallest moments end up changing your life in ways you don’t understand until years later. When I was about five, my mother and I were living in a tiny farmhouse out in the country. We were surrounded by pear orchards, fields, and dirt roads—quiet, rural, ordinary.
Just down the road was a small family butcher shop. The kind of old-fashioned place where everyone knew your name, and neighbors still helped each other without asking why. It was the 1970s, and life was simple, even when it was hard. I didn’t know it at the time, but the people in that little shop would help shape the course of my life in a way that still matters today.
One day, I was out running around with a pack of neighbourhood kids. Think less Little Rascals and more a bunch of unsupervised troublemakers who had too much time and not enough supervision. I was the youngest and the smallest—tagging along where I probably didn’t belong. But that’s how it goes when a child is raising himself while his parent is barely more than a child too.
At any rate, all of us piled into the shop and started stealing candy bars off the rack. I grabbed a Hershey bar—which, for the record, was about the size of my entire torso—and tried to hide it down the front of my pants. If you’ve never seen a five-year-old attempt to conceal a full-sized candy bar in clothes two sizes too big, just imagine someone trying to smuggle a dictionary under a napkin. Subtle it was not. We all headed for the door. The older kids made it out. I didn’t.
Just as I reached the threshold, a hand came down on my shoulder.
Grace Instead of Punishment
Now, pause for a moment and put yourself in my shoes.
I expected to be hit—because that was normal where I came from. I won’t go into details, but violence was part of the atmosphere I grew up in. So when that hand landed on my shoulder, I braced myself.
Instead, when I turned around, a man with dark chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes knelt down to meet me face-to-face. He didn’t yell. He didn’t hurt me. He just said, gently and calmly:
“If you ever want anything, all you have to do is ask—and I’ll give it to you.”
He could have humiliated me. He could have thrown me out. But he chose grace over punishment. And in that instant, he changed the trajectory of my life.
We don’t often realize it in the moment, but the smallest acts of kindness can leave permanent marks. Sometimes the simplest words can reroute a child’s entire future. I didn’t fully understand it that day—I just sprinted out the door. But something stuck.
A few days later, curiosity—and hunger—got the better of me. I’d been peeking through the shop windows trying to catch a glimpse of Dave. Finally, I walked in, marched up to the deli counter, and asked his daughter, Rena, if I could have a sandwich.
She looked at him. He nodded.
“What kind?” she asked.
“Salami,” I said.
“Cheese?”
I nodded.
“Hot or cold?”
“Hot.”
She put it in a little box and pressed a button. That was the first time I’d ever seen a microwave.
That sandwich wasn’t just food—it was dignity. It was belonging. It was someone telling a kid who had nothing that he mattered.
Service and Purpose
Years later, I joined the military. I’ve always jokingly called my service “exceedingly average,” but it gave me things no classroom ever had: discipline, teamwork, purpose, responsibility, and a family that didn’t share my blood, but shared the uniform. Active duty and the reserves took me to places I never imagined and put me alongside people I’ll never forget.
But it all started with a stolen candy bar, a kind man, and a lesson: Sometimes grace does what punishment never could.
Education and Calling
I’ve been incredibly fortunate in my life. I graduated from a police academy, studied philosophy and law, earned an post-graduate degrees, and became the only American to earn a Master of Science in Global Security from the Defence Academy of the United Kingdom at the Royal Military College of Science in Shrivenham, England. Professor Richard Holmes—Brigadier General, military historian, author, and host of the BBC’s War Walks—supervised my MSc and part of my PhD.
I’ve traveled the world. I’ve worked in fields I once dreamed about. I’ve appeared on television. I’ve written books. But the truth is, none of that really matters when measured against eternal things. Titles and accomplishments are temporary. What lasts—what actually matters—is what you do for others.
Katrina: The First Mission
The real turning point came the first time I deployed to a disaster zone without being ordered by the military. I showed up on my own—to help strangers I’d never met.
After Hurricane Katrina, I spent weeks in Mississippi and New Orleans. It was chaotic, heartbreaking, and unforgettable. I helped families who had lost everything. I saw communities devasted and lives shattered. And it changed me. It opened my eyes to what one determined person can do—and how ineffective massive top-heavy systems can become when bureaucracy replaces compassion.
Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced. I kept thinking, Surely the big organizations know better than I do.
Haiti: The Calling Becomes Clear
Then Haiti happened.
In January 2010, a 7.0 earthquake struck the island. In minutes, hundreds of thousands were dead. Buildings collapsed on top of families. More lives were lost that day than at Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined. Watching it unfold on the news shook me to the core—and for the first time, I truly understood my calling.
Within days, my boots were on the ground in Haiti. No orders. No paycheck. No government assignment. Just a conviction that when human beings are suffering, you go. You show up. You help.
In Haiti, I saw the best and worst of the world:
- the suffering of those trapped in rubble,
- the courage of ordinary people pulling strangers to safety,
- and the tragic waste when governments and large NGOs moved too slowly to save lives.
It crystallized something in me: Service shouldn’t require permission. Compassion shouldn’t wait for paperwork.
Boots on the Ground
When I returned home, I walked away from almost everything else and focused on Boots on the Ground—a volunteer-driven effort focused on showing up where people are hurting, without bureaucracy, without fundraising galas, and without photo ops. Just action. If someone is suffering, you go. If a community is broken, you show up. If you can make a difference, you do it.
That’s how I see public service.
In every respect BOTG is part of my personality, desires, dreams for the world, hope for the future, and view of responsible global citizenry personified. This organization represents my love for others acted out, rather than simply talked about–the same way love was shown to me so many years before.
What I learned from all of these experiences is that life is just way too short to waste it on complaining about rather my high priced gourmet coffee is the right temperature or not.
Recognition and Reality
The work I’ve done has taken me into disaster zones and some of the hardest places on earth. Along the way, I’ve been honored with a Hero Award on national television, and my work in New Orleans and Haiti, for example, has been featured on CNN, the BBC, Fox News, the CBS Evening News, Heroes Among Us, and The Doctors.
Those are strange things to experience. I don’t consider myself special. I attribute anything good in my life to the grace of G-d. But here’s what I learned: when your work appears on television, people see it—and when they see it, they help. Awareness matters. Compassion spreads. Lives get saved. That’s the only reason media ever mattered to me: not attention, but impact.
Critics and Character
I’ve met extraordinary people along the way—people whose courage, sacrifice, and love put the world back together one broken piece at a time. They shaped me. They forced me to become better than I was.
When I was younger, I chased the wrong things—degrees on the wall, titles, money, and stuff that doesn’t matter. And honestly, a website like this still feels uncomfortably close to narcissism. But here’s the truth: if people don’t know what you’re doing, they can’t join you. And you can’t change lives without contact—real contact.
I’ve been attacked for the work I do. Some people have mocked it, minimized it, twisted it, and thrown stones from the sidelines. That’s fine. They’re entitled to think whatever they like, even if they’re wrong. Every person who has ever tried to make a difference has faced loud critics who have never lifted a finger to help anyone else.
But here’s what matters:
- The people I serve.
- The lives I’ve helped change.
- The families we can lift up.
I don’t do this for applause. I’ve slept on floors, rooftops, and tents. I’ve worked in blown-out buildings and places most people couldn’t find on a map. I’ve carried the wounded, buried the dead, comforted the grieving, and fed the hungry—not for recognition, but because it was right. Because it’s what my faith calls me to do. Because duty matters.
Critics talk. Leaders put their boots on the ground and act.
The Lesson
And I would rather be remembered for what I do when it matters the most, than what I said or the selfies I posted.
Because here’s a hard won lesson I picked up on the way: one person can make a difference. One person can change a life. It always starts with one person deciding to help, to start a movement, to make a change.
I know, because strong men of character did that for me in my life. They corrected me, encouraged me, and saw who I could become—not who I was. For me, that’s a daily effort I want to embody. The difference between them and everyone else? They chose to show up. They chose to serve. And any of us can—if we try.
With Respect
With respect,
James
James is a superb individual whom I know will continue to powerfully contribute to the communities he serves. I have huge respect for his commitment to serving others in time of need. ~Senator Bill Frist, MD (R-Tenn)