reading

The stories in the book are historical accounts from 30 years of my life. In order to maintain their anonymity, in some instances I have changed the names of individuals and places. Additionally, some stories and circumstances have been altered to protect anyone involved while remaining true to the point or lesson learned. So if you think I was talking about you, you are likely very wrong.

This book is copyrighted. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

My grandparents, Rev. John Malone Sr. and Fay Malone. Thank you for your unyielding confidence in me and for pushing me to dream. I will see you again.

Thank you to my family and friends for encouraging me to write this memoir. To my editor, Carol Jones, thank you for your advice and for meeting the challenge. To my marketing guru, Michael Broughton, your strategic insights were amazing. To my friends, Orson Aguilar, John Gamboa, Dr. Nicolas Dungey, Chris Stefan and Ron Tiongco. And to Tyamaniacs around the world.

I not only served in the U.S. Civil Rights Movement, I served alongside Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., former United Nations Ambassador Andrew Young, and U.S. Congressman John Lewis. Those American icons and countless others are my close friends. I recall learning Dr. King was arrested and sitting in a Birmingham, Alabama, jail cell after a non-violent march. Under threat of imminent Ku Klux Klan attacks, I rushed to the police department and brought Dr. King's bail money. On several occasions, I have been arrested, beaten, and tortured by police officers while fighting segregation through non-violent means.

We adamantly fought with moral conviction and faith, galvanizing America’s conscience to eradicate government sponsored segregation and private sector discrimination. We leveraged our movement to pass laws granting voting equality, fair housing, and affirmative action policies. We made tremendous strides in improving the lives of tens of millions from traditionally underserved people (domestic and abroad).

Although the United States has made considerable progress, elements of our nation are fractured over race and economic opportunity, while other parts of the world extend personal freedoms and aim to benefit from a globalized economy.

The Mountaintop is a timely book. It describes the life of Rev. Ty Bledsoe, who was raised by a single mother, relocated across California for quality schools, and emerged from deadly surroundings to become a third-generation ordained minister, public elected official, non-profit innovator, and an accomplished corporate leader. This gripping memoir delves into his family’s struggles in the Deep South, his rise as a faith-based organizer, and his historic election as the first full-term black Student Body President of the University of California – Davis (UC Davis).

Ty’s journey about overcoming insurmountable odds, leading diverse coalitions, risking personal loss, and displaying forgiveness is inspiring. He pays homage to leaders who have torn down barriers, including Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., and those fighting for a higher cause today. I am encouraged to witness a rising leader harness teaching from his forerunners, build upon my generation’s achievements, and integrate them into his philosophy and servant-leadership style.

Reverend Ty Bledsoe is a proven leader in ministry, politics, non-profits, and private sectors. He’s an ordained minister, a former elected Student Body President of UC Davis, a former Greenlining Institute Fellow, and currently is an executive in Corporate America. He is unapologetically Christ-centered, opposed to bigotry, driven to empower those marginalized and to improve their quality of life. Additionally, he has a history of unifying people from diverse races, creeds, and nationalities.

In a time where sitting on the proverbial sidelines and turning a blind eye to injustice or poverty are today's norm, Rev. Ty Bledsoe emerges with a powerful and uplifting memoir. His story reminds us of the toil, persecution, and triumphs so many Americans from diverse backgrounds have endured and overcome. I trust you will discover The Mountaintop to be riveting, emotional, and inspiring.

“The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy. The true neighbor will risk his position, his prestige, and even his life for the welfare of others.”

In 2001, I found myself embroiled in a battle that catapulted me into a level of public scrutiny that was beyond anything I could have ever conceived. That battle set a trajectory for my life that fueled me ever onward. I learned not only to believe that my dreams were possible, but also to chase hard after them, fighting whatever Goliaths might come before me in the process.

I was born in Oakland, raised in Richmond, lived in Fresno, and entered my fullness in Davis. And while nothing in my California life came easy, I established a foundation early on to dream big, blaze trails, and leave a positive impression through hard work, perseverance, and faith.

By sixteen years of age, I was a licensed Pentecostal Minister for the Church of God in Christ, and by the age of 21, following years of coordinating revivals and preaching across northern California, I was ordained as an Elder, or Reverend, by the same Christian denomination. Then, just weeks before my twenty-second birthday, I was popularly elected as the Student Body President of the University of California at Davis.

I wrote this book for those whose dreams have been deferred, whose flames have been snuffed out, and whose hopes have been vanquished. Hopefully, my epic journey will generate a spark in you that becomes a flame and emerges into an inferno—motivating you to fulfill your life's purpose, serve others, and leave a blessed impact on the world. Hopefully someone, somewhere, reads or hears about my journey, and like myself, says, “I’m not a victim of my circumstances; I’m not a victim of my environment; I’m neither a victim of bigotry nor hatred, and I will keep fighting for my dreams.”

Regardless of your stage in life–whether you have given up on your aspirations, feel you have lost opportunities, or have attained success and are looking for a new venture—hopefully this book renews your faith, rekindles your passion, and propels you to new heights.

I’m compelled to tell my story for the millions of Tys across this country, and tens of millions of Tys scattered throughout the world. Hopefully my journey, my tribulations, and my triumphs will offer a glimmer of inspiration for those fighting despair, yearning for a higher prize, and dreaming of a better tomorrow. I want you to know God has not forsaken you, justice is not blind, and victory is on the mountaintop. Let us begin.

On February 22, 2001, I, along with seven other ethnically, socially, and religiously diverse students rocked the University of California – Davis, by sweeping the Student Body election and winning all eight open seats, including the offices of President, Vice President, and six Senate seats. I’d love to tell you that the election and subsequent results, though hard-fought as most elections are, were received with applause and with the recognition that both as a university and a country we were continuing to break racial and cultural barriers.

But that isn’t what happened. In fact, the next two months would prove that in many ways we had not come very far at all.

Our political slate was arguably the most qualified, as well as the most diverse and inclusive ASUCD (The Associated Students of the University of California, Davis) slate in the University’s eighty-six year history. It included me, (an African American, Christian male), one Latin American male, a biracial gay male, one biracial female, a Persian, Indian, and Asian female, and one white male. Our ticket was deemed a full slate, meaning we showcased candidates for all eight open student government positions.

Months of due diligence, sleepless nights, and thousands of hours campaigning were worth the toil when the ASUCD Elections Committee Chair announced we not only won, but also swept all eight seats.

Before the Elections Committee chair completed her sentence, our coalition burst into celebration. I was hoisted up by a supporter. Lifting my hands in praise to God, I pointed my index fingers upward and yelled, "Jesus," over the raucous celebration. Fittingly, the California Aggie newspaper's next day cover photo captured me in that very moment and the headline read "LEAD Sweeps Elections." Our political party and progressive coalition was L.E.A.D., whose acronym meant Leadership, Empowerment, Activism, and Determination.

I can only describe the experience as pure euphoria. The relief of hearing my name announced took a thousand pounds off my shoulders. And the exhilaration surging through my body was powerful.

As the victory started to sink in, I made my way to my family, who sat in audience chairs. Mom, Dad, my maternal grandmother, and my girlfriend all attended the election night gathering in person and shared the experience.

Upon reaching Grandma, I could see her eyes were bright with tears. I saw her chin stiffen and spine straighten as we grasped each other's hands. Overcome with emotion, I looked into Grandma's eyes and said, "I did it." The emotion was so intense I could not crack a smile or hold my face still. Similarly, she nodded and said, "Don't cry," and with a smile, she motioned me to return to the festivities with my running mates.

I was reminded of Dr. King’s message when he said, “Well, I don’t know what will happen now. We’ve got some difficult days ahead. But it doesn’t matter with me now. Because I’ve been to the mountaintop. And I don’t mind. Like any man, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place. But I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain. And I’ve looked over. And I’ve seen the Promised Land.”

In that moment, I truly felt like we had climbed to the mountaintop and were looking over the Promised Land.

But perhaps making history and shocking our part of the world was too audacious, too monumental, and too unsettling for others to bear.

If you knew my life before I arrived on the campus of UC Davis, you’d know it was no small miracle I was even in attendance at a university, much less elected as the Student Body President of one.

I was not born on third base or with a silver spoon in my mouth. I was born into a working class family and was raised by my single mother. I thought other households resembled mine, and I did not give mind to coveting others' possessions or flaunting the few items I had.

The concepts of racism, household economic discrepancies, and single parent families were foreign throughout my formative elementary years. As any child would be, I was naïve: ignorant to society's underbelly, the vast difficulties people faced, and the battle they waged to attain their aspirations.

I’ve often heard it said that I was born with two strikes against me. Metaphorically speaking, my strikes were being born African American and out of wedlock to a single mother.

Now, one should not require any case that being African American, particularly in the United States, is an inherent advantage unless one is the beneficiary of a valuable financial inheritance, a wealthy family, or part of a family with powerful name recognition. Even then, I would argue, an African American with the aforementioned benefits still faces considerable social and structural obstacles that his peers from other ethnicities do not face.

Similarly, there is substantial quality research¹ revealing the benefits of a child raised by both parents² relating to the child's quality of life, economic circumstances, educational prospects, self-esteem, and potential future earnings. Fortunately, my mother and maternal grandparents did not dwell on the precarious conditions of my origins, nor on the existing and future societal discrimination, if not outright racial bias, against untraditional community members.

When you recall your past, some details are vivid. You remember blossoming flowers as spring began, the NFL season completed with a Super Bowl victory, the scent of your aunt's perfume, and countless people’s faces, frozen in the moment. One such face I remember is Jimmy "The Walker,” our neighborhood homeless person who walked insatiably across Richmond and our adjacent East Bay Area communities.

It seemed like Jimmy was everywhere, at the El Cerrito BART station, the neighborhood liquor store, downtown Richmond, and occasionally in the cities of San Pablo or Berkeley. In some sort of dysfunctional symmetry, Jimmy sported new shoes and seasonal coats with worn, dingy attire. As the years passed, Jimmy’s slim physique and silent speed walking remained the same, but his face and hair reflected advanced aging and life on the streets.

I often thought to myself, “He’s someone’s son; someone cares for him and someone is providing him resources, so why is he on the street?” Even during a visit back home in my undergraduate years, I caught a glimpse of Jimmy as I drove down the street. And then it hit me, Jimmy had been walking the streets of Richmond all of my life. I had observed abject poverty, substance abuse, and severe mental health issues firsthand through the life of this one man. Jimmy was as much a part of our south Richmond neighborhood as any of us were.

In the mid 1990’s, my family and I moved from south Richmond to north Fresno. Fresno was growing into a bustling Central Valley city with increasing residents from northern and southern California. Fresno was also defined by glaring economic and racial divisions, wherein one’s quality of life and status was partly impacted by the section of Fresno in which they resided. Similar divisions exist in countless American cities today.

North Fresno was predominately Caucasian, with affluent households, high quality public schools, and expensive homes. Being the polar opposite from the north side, west Fresno was overwhelmingly African American. It had less affluent households, higher violent crime, underperforming public schools, and rampant urban decay. And east Fresno had sizable Latino, Hmong, and Southeast Asian populations, with lower median household income, struggling public schools, blighted neighborhoods, and increased gang activities.

Fresno was the first city where I observed distinct ethnic and economic segregation, whether it was intended or unintended. Driving from one part of town to the next, you could not overlook the obvious demographic discrepancies. Upon conversing with residents across the city, I could not ignore divergent opinions about law enforcement, public education, economic opportunity, and race relations among residents.

Based on my experiences, your ethnicity and the neighborhood in which you resided impacted how you viewed problems and opportunities in Fresno. Ironically, I lived on the north side, and I attended Edison High School on the west side. Centered in the projects, Edison matched a traditional urban high school, yet it also featured a college-track magnet program. The magnet school attracted students from more affluent homes who would have typically attended a north side school. It was the magnet program that brought me to Computech (Edison’s Middle School) and subsequently to Edison High School, right in the middle of the projects of west Fresno.

Foolishly, I spent the first two months of my freshman year being a rebellious knucklehead. In the blink of an eye, I went from being a model honor roll student in Middle School to cutting class and hanging out with troubled teens. One fateful morning, I joined two guys I didn’t know and left campus. Not only was this a violation of school policy, it was just about the dumbest thing to do at Edison.

As I mentioned earlier, Edison High School was in the heart of the west Fresno projects, where the majority of the residents were good people, but some neighborhoods were rife with gangs and violent crime. Although I attended Edison High, I did not reside in the immediate, predominately black community, but was bussed in from the predominately white and more affluent north side. I didn’t speak the slang, didn’t understand the rules of the road, nor did I look the part. Traversing on foot during school hours in the proverbial “hood” was not smart for any adolescent and very dumb for an impressionable freshman with zero street smarts.

Just before returning to the campus grounds, I found myself confronted by two local gangbangers and had a gun pointed at my head. The five of us, two gangbangers, two fellow students and I, stood less than ten yards from the school’s auto shop fence.

The confrontation was over which one of us threw a rock at the wall of an apartment a block away. Unfortunately, I threw the rock and led the sprint away from the projects back to campus grounds. I was oblivious to the fact that the rock had struck the residence of a gangster’s grandmother. I was also oblivious to the fact that two of the gangsters watched the entire event across a barren field.

Upon interrupting our mad run to campus grounds, the gangsters stopped us and began demanding immediate answers. No one claimed responsibility for throwing the rock. Getting severely beaten or stabbed was not an option, so I kept my mouth shut.

Actually, I was the only person to throw a rock, so when asked if I knew who threw the rock, I shrugged my shoulders. And while the other two quickly denied they had thrown the rock, they did not implicate me. Neither revealed that I threw the rock or even so much as gestured in my direction. It seemed as if they had developed instant amnesia and did not remember what just happened. Totally baffled that they did not rat me out as the culprit, I silently prayed that God would somehow allow me to escape a certain horrible ending.

One of the gangbangers pulled out a .22 revolver, pointed the gun at each of us and asked one poignant question, “Did you throw that rock at my grandmother’s mother-fuckin’ house?” Internally fearful and outwardly poised, I looked the gangster in the eye and said “No.” Telling the truth would have killed me, I still feel certain of that today.

His growing frustration evident, he yelled, “Unless y’all say who threw the rock, I’m gonna put a hot one in yo’ ass.”

Edison’s auto shop students watched, only a few feet away, as the gangster spewed his threats and pointed his gun at each one of us. His grimaced, scarred face reflected a rough life. This wasn’t his first time wielding a gun, and you could sense he wasn’t hesitant to pull the trigger. As he stepped toward me, eyes ablaze and with the gun fixed at my forehead, I asked God to forgive my disobedience and receive my spirit.

Just as I thought my death was imminent, a police car pulled up out of nowhere, the other gangster yelled, “Five O,” and everyone ran in different directions. Without any pause, I jetted toward the campus, catapulted over the auto shop chained fence, landed on my back, and sprinted onto campus.

My entrance back onto campus was during a transition between classes, and you can bet I wasn’t going to stop running until I was safely seated in my next class. As I ran for my life, a campus security staffer known as Bicycle Bob stopped me. I remembered Bob from the eighth grade, since Edison High and Edison Computec Middle School shared a massive campus that was only separated by a playground buffer.

Bicycle Bob was infamous for profiling African American students, sparking student confrontations that led to unwarranted discipline, and was viewed by many of us as a flashlight bike cop. He routinely sported a thick grey mustache, a baseball cap, and jean shorts, and spent his days cruising around on a ten-speed bike. Bob relished having authority and acted as if he was a campus police officer. Crossing him meant bad news for any student who dared.

In his mind, my heavy breathing indicated that I was running from something (in this case he was correct) and Bob beckoned a police car driving on campus. Come to find out, the police car he flagged down was driven by the same officer that had just prevented my likely murder. It’s odd how certain details stand out when recalling traumatic events, but I remember him as an African American officer and recalled that I had seen him patrolling on campus before. The officer explained to Bicycle Bob that he was searching for African American teens embroiled in an off-campus dispute and a gang member brandishing a gun. Bob was oblivious to the described event, had not seen me jump the fence or even run back onto campus, but he fixated on sticking it to me nonetheless.

Before that moment, I was never suspended, sent to detention, or even reprimanded for academic performance. Although Bob and I had no prior negative encounters, he remembered me as a brash middle school track star who flaunted high grade point averages and was popular with girls, and apparently he had an axe to grind with me.

As the police car arrived, Bob smiled a crooked grin and said, “You’re the smart, pretty boy from Computech…I caught you this time speedy.” I didn’t respond. Bob aggressively tried to convince the officer that I was a troublemaker (though I had never given him any indication as such) and wanted the officer to place me in custody. Vulnerable, and once again awaiting an execution of sorts, I stood in exhaustion trying to compose my breathing and heart rate.

The officer looked me in the eye, glanced at my oversized black military boots, and replied, “The guy I’m looking for had shiny boots. He seems like a good kid, let him go.” Bob looked at me and reluctantly let me go, but I understood the look on his face that clearly said, “I might not have gotten you this time kid, but someday I will.” In turn, I gratefully nodded to the officer for helping on two consecutive occasions, then I went on to attend my next class.

My days of rebelling ceased, and I returned to a straight-laced lifestyle. Knowing God had saved my life, I was more determined to display my worthiness and aim for a higher prize.

Growing up, I knew gang members. I attended middle and high school with them in the Bay Area and Fresno alike, and considered many of them pals. Most were gang members by association, due to an older brother or cousin being a tenured member. During the time I knew them, they were not hardcore troublemakers. Fortunately, neither friends nor acquaintances ever pressed me to join their gang, indulge in drugs, or commit petty crime with them. For some fortuitous reason, I was off limits.

My gang member friends viewed me as a ‘church-boy.’ Add to that, I had an overprotective mom and a gun-carrying lawyer for a father, and I guess they saw no point in wasting their time trying to recruit me.

Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on which side of the street you were looking from) most of my friends chose a different path in life than I did. As time passed, and I distanced myself from them, many of those gang members I knew became statistics: just another African American male mired in poverty and gun violence. Some started selling drugs, others became survivors of drive-by shootings, and many entered juvenile hall. The ones who escaped those fates became under-aged parents who carried adult responsibilities too young in life and regretted not concentrating on college.

But living in a predominately African American community did not prevent me from befriending children from other ethnicities. My grade school best friend, Stewart, was Caucasian. We regularly celebrated our birthdays, school breaks, and passion for martial arts together. As children, we aspired to become lawyers, care for our single mothers, and dazzle the world with our brilliance and skills.

As the years passed, we attended different schools, moved to new cities, and maintained little contact. Then weeks before graduating from high school, we went out one evening to catch up. It was evident Stewart and I had chosen different life paths. While I was excited to attend a university in the fall, Stewart had a pregnant girlfriend, a propensity for public fights, and no real plans for his future.

Four years later, we reconnected. Our smiles and embraces reflected the timeless bond of our friendship. I could not dismiss the glaring physical changes in him since the end of our high school careers. Stewart looked rough, worn down by life. Come to find out, alcohol, cigarettes, and stress had weighed heavily upon him. I was approaching college graduation and applying to graduate school, while Stewart juggled his police record, drama with his four-year-old daughter’s mother, and working as a martial arts instructor.

We reminisced about our childhood dreams, life decisions we made, and the different realities we faced as adults. He admired my accomplishments, as I empathized with his challenges. The road Stewart chose took him farther from his boyhood dreams, while the road I chose brought me closer to my own aspirations. Eventually Stewart and I lost touch, but I often think about him and how differently my life could have looked.

Before I enrolled in college, my family moved a lot. I attended two elementary schools, four middle schools, and three high schools. My junior and senior years were spent at Pinole Valley High School. Nestled adjacent to Richmond, Pinole is an East Bay suburban city with schools that was part of the Richmond Unified School District. Since we lived in Richmond’s Hilltop community, I qualified to attend Pinole Valley.

At the time, many parents viewed Pinole Valley as delivering a higher quality education, presenting better college prospects, and avoiding disciplinary issues found at Richmond public high schools. Even my mother agreed with this perception and preferred that I attend Pinole Valley over Richmond based schools. But in the end, societal ills and troubled students transcended city boundaries, zip codes, and school districts. The same problems found at Richmond High School were present at Pinole Valley.

Trouble often finds those in search of it, and success finds those worthy of its honor. At Pinole, I came into true form. There I met Lisa Brown, an honors English teacher and Head Forensics Coach, who introduced me to the National Forensics League, also known as Speech and Debate. She took my raw oratorical ability and molded me into an efficient and dominant machine that carved through Forensic tournaments like a Thanksgiving turkey.

I qualified for the California State Championship at my first tournament. Without any prior exposure or event training, I was fortunate to win second place overall among a very talented peer group. That tournament was the last time I finished in second place during the general Forensics season.

Shortly thereafter, Coach Brown proposed that I enter individual speaking categories, such as Oratorical Interpretation and Original Oratory. Those events allowed the competitor to own the audience, avert interruption, and build to a speaking crescendo. From there she embarked upon intense coaching sessions with me. Most of these sessions took place in front of my teammates, who served as mock competitors and audience. Coach Brown made a point to simulate every aspect of the competition environment.

My first tournament in Oratorical Interpretation was at El Cerrito High School. After a very early start, and six grueling elimination rounds, I found myself standing at center court of a basketball arena rather than a stage, waiting for the runner-up and first place winner to be announced from among the hundreds who had competed. My competitor and I stood next to one another. With anticipation building, the announcer read her name as the runner-up. Being the last person standing, a rush of emotion poured over me as thunderous ovations rang through the facility. Audience applause drowned out the announcer’s voice saying, "From Pinole Valley, Ty Bledsoe."