There is nothing more poignant than the death of a Rebecca and nothing less shocking than that of a Tyrell; if there is one thing we come to realize during our time on this earth, it’s the fact that certain things are supposed to happen to certain people in certain places. We find solace in believing that the world is governed by some cosmic order that ensures that everything has a proper place: babies belong in cribs, humans in belong in homes, and animals belong in cages. We sleep soundly at night knowing that bad things only happen to bad people. It’s only when when we open our eyes just a crack from that blissful slumber of self-imposed naivete that we start to see the cracks in this foundation, we start to question the virtue of the institutions we rest our beliefs on.
Meet Bloodsport. He was born in Crown Heights on June, 6th, 1974, and contrary to popular opinion, had more than a loving and supportive childhood. He attended private school, never went to sleep hungry, and always had clothing on his back and shoes on his feet. He is an accomplished musician, having rapped with industry titans, from Junior Reed to Wu Tang. He is an activist who has converted his first-hand experience of gang-culture into grassroots political organizations that lobby for unity and non-violence. He is the author of My Life, You Heard, a memoir dropping with Dover Street Market and Paradigm Publishing about his life and the experiences that have come to shape him. He is a prisoner at Rikers Island. But, as opposed to saying what he is, why don't I tell you what this isn't: Bloodsport isn’t the martyr, I’m not a brave, and this article isn’t an expose or some noble call to arms for the plight of the marginalized. Bloodsport has a story he wants to tell: his own. The least we can do is listen.