“A Sister’s Love and Grief” is a three-part series that explores what Keyana Dixon’s life has been like since January 2023, when five former Memphis police officers beat her younger brother, Tyré Nichols, to death. This series aims to broaden how we view safety and justice in the face of publicized horror and state-sanctioned violence.
Part two explored how Dixon navigated a new and unexpected reality in the aftermath of her brother’s death.
In the third and final part of this series, she explains how she’s choosing to uplift her brother’s legacy and memory.
Note: This piece has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.
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.
Brittany Brown is the public safety reporter for MLK50: Justice Through Journalism. Email her at brittany.brown@mlk50.com
This story is brought to you by MLK50: Justice Through Journalism, a nonprofit newsroom focused on poverty, power and policy in Memphis. Support independent journalism by making a tax-deductible donation today. MLK50 is also supported by these generous donors.