No one is born an extremist. Jan. 6 shows virtually anyone can be swept up by hate groups.

In April 2020, the company Banjo was a high-growth tech startup based in Utah with hundreds of millions of dollars in funding.

Damien Patton, its founder and CEO, was a self-acknowledged formerly homeless gang member who went on to become a Navy vet, NASCAR mechanic and then a self-taught coder. 

His story was an inspiration.

Until it wasn’t.

That month, the technology-news website OneZero ran an investigative report that revealed a secret he had kept from everyone outside his immediate family: As a teen, Damien was an active white supremacist, complete with a photo from a 1992 newspaper showing him giving a Heil Hitler salute. 

Weeks later, in a spectacular fall from grace that made national headlines, Damien resigned as Banjo’s CEO.

That’s how I first came to know Damien Patton. Today, I consider him my friend. 

Descent into white supremacism

Damien’s journey into and out of white supremacy provides invaluable insight into the true and often unnoticed reasons people join hate groups, as well as paths toward redemption that may seem counterintuitive.

His descent into white supremacism took place over an extremely short period.

As a freshman in high school, Damien began hanging out with members of Latino gangs. But by his sophomore year, he realized that the older gang members regarded him as an outsider. 

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Not wanting to be left out, he did something astonishing: He joined the skinheads. As an alienated, homeless white kid, Damien found the skinheads filled his needs, and he gravitated toward them because of the safety he felt as a member. As his identity as a skinhead solidified, he became even more deeply enmeshed in white supremacist circles. Soon enough, he was helping to organize groups of skinheads to provide security at Ku Klux Klan events and was being invited to secret meetings of white supremacists. 

On the evening of June 9, 1990, Damien was introduced to the grand dragon of the Tennessee White Knights of the KKK. 

With other white supremacists, they went into downtown Nashville and, as a group, harassed some Black motorists. Then they drove by and fired shots at a synagogue that was, fortunately, unoccupied. 

In my new book, "It Could Happen Here," I trace the story of his transformation from white supremacist to tech CEO to his fall from grace, then his redemption, because it has incredible relevance to the current moment.

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At a time when disinformation is rampant and conspiracy theories are flooding the internet and social media like never before, we need to pay careful attention to modern pathways to radicalization.

The Anti-Defamation League’s research has shown that while some domestic extremists were involved in the attack on the nation’s Capitol, the majority of those who were involved in the violent insurrection had no connections to extremism whatsoever.

Of the 727 people arrested because of their actions on Jan. 6, about 155, or nearly a quarter, had ties to a wide range of right-wing extremist groups and ideologies, including the Proud Boys, anti-government Oath Keepers, QAnon and white supremacists. 

Perhaps more alarming, however: 79% of those arrested had no explicit ties to extremist movements or groups. This suggests that a significant number of seemingly ordinary Americans decided that mob violence was an appropriate response to the election results.

How did these everyday Americans get swept up in a violent insurrection? We need look no further than social media.

In the aftermath of the 2020 election, social media platforms such as Facebook were inundated with disinformation alleging that the election had been stolen, including from President Donald Trump himself. 

And alternative social media platforms such as Gab appear to have played a key role in fomenting the violence on that day. 

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Likewise, in the years leading up to last year's insurrection, we have seen numerous examples of violent domestic extremists – from the Pittsburgh synagogue shooter to the El Paso gunman – whose terrorist plots were hatched after they were radicalized online. 

While it's difficult to know how many white supremacists are recruiting young people online across the United States, the volume of educators who have been contacting ADL to ask for help has increased substantially since last Jan. 6. 

No one is born an extremist

The language and symbols of white supremacy are showing up at home and in school in alarming ways. Which brings me back to Damien Patton.

Damien’s story is a reminder how virtually anyone – particularly young people – can be swept up into a hate movement given the right conditions and circumstances.

Damien had never publicly owned up to his past misdeeds before they were exposed by the news media. Yet, he had privately been making amends all along. He donated to Jewish causes and encouraged diverse hiring at Banjo. His pathway out of the movement was started when he was caught by law enforcement and turned into an informant. And it has continued through our friendship, as Damien continues to work to make amends and positive change. 

At ADL, we believe that no one is born a violent extremist. But people can be led down that path, especially young and impressionable youth like Damien. If we are to interrupt and stop this vicious cycle, we need more people like Damien to step forward. We also need legislators to enact meaningful reforms that will prevent disinformation and hate from running rampant on social media.

The path to radicalization has many byways. We need everyone – social media companies, educators, legislators, courts, law enforcement and civil rights organizations and, yes, everyday people – to be on guard for the warning signs.

Jonathan A. Greenblatt, CEO and national director of the Anti-Defamation League, is author of “It Could Happen Here: Why America Is Tipping from Hate to the Unthinkable – And How We Can Stop It.”