A Sister’s Love and Grief

Keyana Dixon agreed to meet on her day off. It was a warm yet cloudy and rainy Monday morning — Dixon’s favorite type of weather. The rain recharges her, she said. The conditions seemed ideal for the heavy conversation ahead: discussing what her life has been like since January 2023, when five former Memphis police officers beat her younger brother, Tyré Nichols, to death.

The conversation started light. Then, she opened up for nearly two hours.  

Through her words, Dixon shared the last two years of her life: losing a close family member in such a public way, facing her brother’s killers in court, moving from California to Memphis and navigating expectations placed on her and her family to grieve in a certain way.

With Dixon’s voice at the center, “A Sister’s Love and Grief” aims to broaden how we view safety and justice in the face of publicized horror and state-sanctioned violence. 

Editor’s note: This piece is by Keyana Dixon, as told to MLK50: Justice Through Journalism’s Brittany Brown, and has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

Opening up about my brother’s death

I’ve never watched the video. I tried to sneak and watch it when nobody was around, and I threw up. I couldn’t even see still images. I’m a visual person, so it gave me nightmares. So, when I went to court, I covered my eyes, covered my ears.

To hear them laugh, high-five, and mock my brother — calling him a “bitch-ass n—a crying for his mama” — it was too much. Knowing that they just tortured him, that they were able to just stand there and have a disregard for his life — that wasn’t just violence; it was hate.

The fact that Demetrius Haley took a picture and sent it to people as if my brother’s lifeless body was a trophy: The first thing that came to my mind was how they used to take pictures when they hung a man. 

It made me cry, and then it made me think about the self-hate of another Black man. What really hurts is that they were Black officers, first and foremost. 

Seeing them in court and all their personalities, I started reading each of them. I called them the Monstars, like from “Space Jam.” Each one had their own role. I know it’s a crazy comparison. 

Like Justin Smith, he was new. He was a follower. I believe he’s played it back in his mind so many times of what he should have done. Desmond Mills is big as a box, but when he got on the stand, he sounded like a baby. He said, “I froze. I didn’t know he died until I saw it on the news.” He started crying. His voice was soft, like a third grader’s.

Tadarrius Bean, to me, is just a follower. He didn’t stand up as a man. He was super young. He was new. He didn’t have a voice yet. I think the longer he would’ve worked on the police force, the more he probably would’ve pulled back and said something — or he would’ve become as corrupt and gone along with it. But I don’t think he slept well that night.

Then, there was Emmitt Martin III, the one who’s fighting against his own identity as a man in this world. He started all this shit: lying about my brother reaching for his gun, lying about my brother coming at him. Just selfish. He was looking to make a name for himself. When he got on the stand, he immediately put his head down. He could never look at us in our face. He was very adamant in his testimony about how he was wrong. That also lets me know that he’s trying to make peace with whoever he prays to.

Demetrius Haley — he’s a psychopath. I believe that with everything in me. I think he’s that kind of dude that doesn’t keep up well with himself, but when he puts on that uniform, he’s somebody. That’s when he feels powerful. He smiled at me in court every chance he got. Every time I looked up, he was smiling. At first, I thought I was tripping, but no. He was smiling. That’s sick. That’s some real psycho shit.

None of them acted with any humanity that night. That made me mad, because I realized everybody was hiding behind something: the badge, the benefits, their excuses. That’s what I saw in that courtroom, not justice.

When I did finally see some parts of the footage, I saw my brother’s body give out. His body language, it was like he knew. It was like his spirit said that’s what it is. To know that he felt that breaks my heart. In the beginning, I thought, it’s on video, so this is cut and dry. But years later, we’re still in court, and they’re all out. 

Now, I know there’s no such thing as closure. My brother can’t come back. That’s the root.

Navigating a new normal

I went from living my normal life one day to being on TV the next day after my brother died. CNN was at my front door while I was trying to take my kids to school. It felt unreal; I didn’t understand the magnitude of it all.    

There was a second funeral to bring national attention to my brother. We had already laid him to rest. We had our service at M.J. Edwards Funeral Home. Then, a week later, there was a huge shift with different support from different people. It wasn’t just something that happened in Memphis; the whole world knew.

It was a new experience to be around people in public while dealing with one of the worst things in my life. At first, I cared how people saw me, but I’m so unapologetic now, while I’m still navigating through my grief.

When I first came to Memphis, I didn’t even know who half the people were showing up to my mother’s house. I just knew my brother was gone. 

I immediately went to my mom’s room to tell her that I was here, but she just laid there with her eyes wide open. She was in a paralysis state. I just closed the door. Then, I went straight into action. 

We marched, but I had never done one before. We went into action because we didn’t have body camera footage at that point. We didn’t know what happened. 

I felt helpless.

After my brother’s death, I had some very unhealthy coping mechanisms. I had just landed my dream job as a probation assistant. I wanted to work more in the realm of helping people getting out of prison and getting them help. But after Tyré was killed, I couldn’t breathe in that office. 

I worked with police officers. Every uniform was a trigger. I took six months off. But when I went back, it was cold. People didn’t talk to me. One guy looked at me and said, “Are you back or not? Because I can’t work with this.” He didn’t understand; I was surrounded by the same kind of people who killed my brother. 

I had to sit there and act normal, type my notes and go on home visits, but I was drowning.

I didn’t want to deal with people anymore. I shut down. I tried to keep it together for my sons, but they told me later they felt abandoned. That hurt. I was like, “damn.” But they don’t hold it against me. My biggest goal is for them to see me win again.

My oldest son called me after the verdict, crying, saying, “Mama, why?” That was all he said. “Mama, why?” 

He’s 6’3” like Tyré and smiles like him, sounds like him. When I hear his voice, it strikes me how similar they are. We have very strong genes in our family. 

I moved back here to Memphis to be closer to my mom. Her house has a whole room for Tyré. His urn sits on a shelf by the window that faces west, so he can see the sunset. She keeps all his things — his skateboards, his samurai swords, letters from people all over the world. She talks to him every day. 

I go in there, kiss the urn, and tell him I love him.

Redefining justice in his memory

I don’t feel like it’s possible to reform a police force from what it’s based and structured in. So many families have not gotten justice. We’re still going through court. With all the things that have happened over the past two-and-a-half years, we still haven’t received the justice we’ve been seeking. All of the officers are now free. Where is the justice in that?

They say, “Justice for Tyré.” Justice, to me, would’ve been my brother walking through the door. Real justice would’ve been him getting to skate at the park, come home, talk about his day, hug his mama. We’ll never get that back. The officers can go to jail, but that’s still not justice. 

Justice would have been my brother not being yanked from his car, targeted, and beaten to death.

So, I had to redefine justice for myself. For me, justice is keeping his name alive the way he lived.

These days, I don’t want to turn my brother into a brand. My way of keeping his legacy alive is simple: by honoring his life and his creative vision. I want people to remember that. 

That’s why I started the Tyré Nichols Foundation: to work collaboratively with the community of Memphis to raise social justice awareness through the arts. My dream is for there to be a scholarship program that honors my brother’s imagination and creativity. He was into everything: skateboards, colognes, photography, videography. 

He was a dreamer, and he loved to eat. He was peaceful, creative, kind, and goofy. He was a person. 

We get so caught up in “the movement” that we forget the person. My brother loved the sunset. He’d call my mama just to say, “Look at the sky.”

His room at my mama’s house is like a museum now. People from all over the world have sent paintings and drawings. There are photographs from people in Germany, letters from people in Canada, art projects from schools here in Memphis. My mama keeps everything. Sometimes I go in there, sit by the window, and talk to him. I tell him about the foundation, about how we’re trying to make something out of all this.

I don’t really know what I’m doing half the time. I’m figuring it out as I go. I do know that this foundation is something he would’ve loved. It’s what he would’ve done if he were here: help people, make something, and create.

As for myself, I’m still standing and navigating through this grief. I’m focusing on having a healthy mind and body, embracing life head-on, and keeping my brother’s name alive forever.