My daughter is 16 years old. For all intents and purposes, she’s done with me. I’ve wrestled with this fact for nearly two years – since she started hanging out with friends with cars. In March, she started driving legally, and Olivia Rodrigo ain’t got nothin’ on the sadness of this version of a driver’s license story.
For my daughter, having the freedom to drive was the last stop on her road to autonomy. That’s me in the rearview mirror, cooking supper, paying bills, and putting a roof over her head. Im fine, though. Really.
My daughter moved to Jackson to live with me full-time two years ago. Before that, she lived outside of Dallas, and I would travel – west down I-40, through the god-forsaken wasteland of Arkansas – every other weekend. We spent our weekends and extended breaks during the school year in the suburban utopia of North Texas. In the summers (Christmas, Thanksgiving, and every other Spring Break), she slept in the same bed she sleeps in now on Division Avenue in Midtown Jackson. She would cry every time she had to go back to Texas. So would I. So, even though she’s leaving here in two years to go to college, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been because she’s under my roof, and I get to be a dad all the time.
Two years from now, she’ll be a Freshman at some colossal SEC powerhouse, living her best life. I can see the end coming, and it’s a little sad. Knowing that I have two years before things dramatically shift – in a completely normal way – helps soften the blow of the change – like clenching your abs before an expected uppercut to the gut. It’ll hurt, but it won’t shock me.
I acknowledge my privilege of being a parent every single day, multiple times because I know not everyone can.
On May 20, 2022, Sabrina Parker laid down for a nap. Her son, Tyler, was home. When she woke up, he was gone. He never came back.
Sometimes, pain is sudden. You stub your toe in the dark, and for a few seconds, you’d rather it just fall off than throb. You’re jogging down a road you’ve traversed hundreds of times, stepping the wrong way and twisting your ankle. There’s no preparation for it; in one second, your body and mind are on autopilot – synapses firing and blood pumping. The next second, everything shifts to take care of the sudden change in the system. Sabrina’s pain that day wasn’t physical but was sudden and life-changing.
After Sabrina woke up from her nap, she went on a walk – a ritual she had done hundreds of times. Same route, same result. She was almost home when a police officer called her on her cell phone—a glitch in the routine.
Tyler’s car had been a little undependable around that time, so he’d been taking Sabrina’s sometimes when he needed to go somewhere. On the afternoon of May 20, he took Sabrina’s car to her office to study. He had finally (with Sabrina’s help) figured out a plan and direction for what he wanted to do, and he was studying for his placement test at TCAT; eventually, he planned to open his own trucking company. He went to her office that afternoon to prepare for his entrance exam.
When Sabrina was asked by the officer if the description of the car he gave matched her car, she immediately said it did but that her car was at home. Her mind was still on auto-pilot. Once the officer confirmed that the car in question was her’s, she assumed Tyler had been pulled over for speeding or reckless driving. The idea of death and finality is often the furthest thing from our minds.
Eventually, the reality and finality of the situation were communicated and accepted. Tyler had been shot and killed while driving on North Highland. Sabrina went to the hospital and identified the body as her son, and fought the urge to hug him as he lay on the examiner’s table. The entire record of the story can be found here. It’s what has (or hasn’t) happened since that needs to be addressed.
For months after that day in late May, Sabrina was in a fog of defense, the numbness of grief protecting against the complex reality of loss. Days and weeks congealed together in a haze of sadness – a balm to soothe and shield Sabrina from the unfathomable.
When sudden physical pain strikes us unannounced – a stubbed toe or a sprained ankle – our body produces adrenaline to soothe and survive. Moments after intense pain come a euphoric rush cascading to the origin point. It’s a momentary relief before healing begins. Pain like Sabrina experienced, however, doesn’t follow the same rules.
Long after May 20, Sabrina found herself emotionally sleepwalking through her day-to-day activities until her daughter gently reminded her that she was still a mother; Sabrina’s daughter needed her.
As Sabrina made her way out of the fog of grief, she also realized she wanted answers. She wanted closure. She wanted to know the “why.”
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Before I ever met Sabrina Parker, I knew her son. He was one of my students at Northeast Middle School six years ago. I’ve had very few students like Tyler over my two decades of teaching. He was that rare adolescent boy who was simultaneously extremely quiet and very visible.
In your run-of-the-mill middle school classroom, the students with gregarious personalities – for better or worse – take up much of the social space in the room. Then, some students are somewhat talkative because they like to answer questions out loud. A third group, however, is almost invisible – rarely speaking and preferring to exist in anonymity. Tyler was closest to the latter version, but what made him special was that his calm personality and unique sense of humor never allowed him to be unseen. He was truly a perfect combination of quiet and engaged.
I’ve kept in touch with a handful of students I’ve taught. Most of the interaction is simply watching their lives unfold on social media and hitting the “like” button on seminal moments in their lives – graduation from college, engagements, new jobs. Some former students, though, I’ve seen in the paper for all the reasons you never want to see people you know in the news.
I’ve seen many of my former students in mugshots and the obituaries of former students who were victims of gun violence. In nearly every arrest or death, a part of me could look back and logically trace the path to where that student’s story ended. It’s not that it was unsurprising; it was simply that I could logically see the end result as something believable.
On the evening of May 20, 2022, someone texted me that Tyler had been shot and killed. In the text, Tyler was referred to as “Sabrina’s son,” but I knew him as Tyler. And, now, I had to add his name to a growing list of students I had taught but were no longer living. However, what was different about this situation was that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t make this make sense. Nothing in my experience with Tyler would allow me to logically trace the path I outlined with other former students I would see in the news.
This is where the tragic events of May 20, 2022, finally merge with the present day: no one has any answers or motive. The only sure thing is that Tyler was murdered in broad daylight on one of the busiest streets in Jackson during rush hour.
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Two weeks ago, Sabrina Parker sat across a desk from me at Newstalk West Tennessee, spoke into a microphone for nearly two hours, and recounted every detail from the day her son was murdered.
On the afternoon of May 20, Tyler left his mom’s office on North Highland near the Campbell Street/N. Highland intersection in Midtown Jackson. He turned right and headed north, driving toward the corner of Skyline Drive. It was around 4:30 PM on a Friday.
At some point between Skyline Drive and the light at North Parkway on N. Highland, a vehicle began firing bullets at the car Tyler was driving. Eight shell casings were found at the scene; one of those bullets hit Tyler and killed him. He lost control of the vehicle and hit a tree near The Highlands subdivision on the street’s eastern side. Sabrina believes Tyler had passed by the time he hit the tree.
The vehicle being driven by the person or people who shot Tyler has never been identified. Two suspects were arrested, but insufficient evidence was found to bring charges against them. Nearly a year and a half later, there are no suspects or leads. Tyler’s phone and belongings were searched for nefarious connections or information that might explain why he had been shot. Nothing was found. The only facts remaining are the family of the victim looking for answers and an innocent young man who was seemingly shot and killed for no reason on the busiest street in Jackson in broad daylight.
Sabrina moved to Jackson with two of her children in 2016 to start a non-profit that helped people navigate the complex system of Medicaid. Without an advocate guiding you through the tangled networks of Oral Healthcare, the maze of providers and insurance can be impossible. Sabrina was that advocate for so many people trying to get life-changing healthcare. Now, she finds herself needing someone to guide her.
In the year and a half since Tyler’s murder, finding answers or simple information has been frustratingly difficult for Sabrina. It’s been challenging even to get callbacks from investigators sometimes. Sabrina willfully acknowledges how busy the law enforcement officers are and doesn’t fault them; she just wants answers and a little help to navigate the system.
Toward the middle of our conversation on the podcast, I asked Sabrina about closure. I told her I wasn’t sure I believed in it, but I asked her if finding answers could help her move forward. She didn’t hesitate to answer YES. She said she wanted to know the “why” of what happened…even if that “why” was a random shooting or a simple identity mix-up.
I’ve always said Jackson feels much smaller than it is – people talk, and gossip can spread like wildfire here. For whatever reason, no one has any information about what happened to Tyler. It feels eerie; it feels surprising; it feels frustrating.
There are a lot of pieces I’ve written about the gun problem in America and Tennessee. There are times to offer opinions and suggestions, but this isn’t one of those times. This is a time to ask for help, to ask a community to come together to try and find a sliver of information about a shooting that took the life of someone’s child.
I would want that help if I were a parent who had lost a child to senseless violence.
