Her son and father were both killed. Now she devotes her life to helping grieving families in Milwaukee.

In the distance, Karin Tyler could see yellow police tape. It seemed to glow in the December darkness, crisscrossing the street. 

She ran toward the tape, determined to find her son. Her daughter had called to say he might be hurt.

A police officer stopped Karin. He told her to get behind the tape or she would be arrested.

Her son had been shot and killed, a detective said.

"Please, can I just hold my son?" Karin asked. 

"It’s a murder scene," the detective replied. "You can’t go there."

That day in 2011 was Karin's personal introduction to Milwaukee's relentless violence and the deep grief that follows.

Her pain worsened in 2017 when she lost her father, a beloved crossing guard, to a hit-and-run. Her father was struck by a driver whose license was revoked as he walked to his post at Kluge Elementary School.

These experiences inform her work at the city’s Office of Violence Prevention, where Karin advocates on behalf of victims of homicide, sexual assault and domestic violence.

Despite her own grief, helping others is a calling that Karin, 48, couldn’t resist for long.

“It’s in my blood,” she said.

A mother’s loss

Karin’s son, Andrew Tyler, became the victim of a shooting Dec. 5, 2011, when he walked in on an armed burglary at his apartment on North 50th Street.

Then 24, Andrew was known for his positive presence. He was athletic and had many friends. He was known for supporting the ventures of others, hoping to become a business partner or manager for his friends when they secured their dream careers.

“He was just real fun and had great energy when he walked in,” Karin said. “It's like, you know that everybody's going to be laughing.”

Susan Hanson, Karin’s mother, said Andrew always knew the right thing to say when he got into trouble as a child.

“He turned around with this beautiful smile that he had, and it would be over,” Hanson said.

Karin became pregnant with Andrew when she was 16. The nuns at her all-girls Catholic high school urged adoption. Karin refused. She named her son after her father.

As a young mother, Karin got in fights at school. When she was out on her own, she endured a dangerous domestic violence situation, acting in self-destructive ways to cope.

She felt she was going to be killed. She feared for her kids.

“I made a lot of mistakes being that young, but I always thought that we had so much time to repair all that,” Karin said.

She went on to show Andrew the strength of a single mom. She brought him to watch her sign papers as she bought a house, then a car. She watched him graduate high school. She became a grandmother to her son's young daughter, who is now 10 years old.

The night Andrew died started with many calls from her daughter, which she first ignored as she prepared for bed. Finally, she picked up.

"Mom," her daughter said. "You haven't heard?" 

She sat down, shocked at the thought of her son hurt. She felt terror take over. She couldn't breathe or move.

A friend rushed Karin to the scene. As she endured the 10-minute drive, she told herself her son would be all right. He had to be all right. She would take care of him when this was all over. 

Blue and red lights flashed in the night. Officers surveyed the area. Karin longed to hug her son, to hold him. Once she was told he was dead, she paced back and forth as detectives asked her questions. She wondered who would kill him.

“You don't even want to leave that space because you want to stay close to your son in some kind of way,” Karin said. 

Karin is the mother of four other children — two sons and two daughters — ranging in age from 13 to 28.

When Karin found out her oldest son was killed, her two youngest children were at home asleep. She was faced with delivering the news the next morning.

Still in shock, she watched their reactions. She saw devastation and pain consume them.

“When everything first happens, you hear, ‘You got to be strong for the kids,’” Karin said. “I hate when people say that to mothers, because they can’t be strong for anybody but themselves.”

Staying afloat

After her son died a few weeks before Christmas, his tree was brought to Karin's home.

Andrew loved Christmas. He had decorated the tree with his daughter a day before he was killed.

Karin felt haunted as she looked at the tree, now sitting in her living room.

Holiday decorations brought Karin reminders of loss, not joy. She still feels that way every Christmas.

Depression soon manifested itself in all aspects of Karin's life.

She reconnected with her mother, who had moved away and was now back in Milwaukee. The two leaned on each other like never before.

“With her son having died, she was still able to live,” Karin's best friend, Daphne Prater, said. “She could still find a nugget of life that’s worth holding onto, and I love that about her.”

Karin continued to be a mother who provided her children with a safe space to discuss issues in their lives.

“A lot of things that I actually thought, or had to go through — especially as her first daughter — my mom actually went through and did the same exact thing,” said Symona Gregory, the second oldest of Karin’s children.

But it remained obvious that Karin was processing what happened to her son. She retreated into herself, appearing shocked at times, remaining silent to reflect. 

Family members had often seen Karin as the strongest of the six siblings. After her son's death, she struggled to comfort those around her.

She stared blankly out windows. She heard people talking but couldn’t hear them.

She had always wondered how people with mental illness seemed to block out the world. Now, it was her reality.

“The service provider person in me was assessing myself, like, ‘Wow, this is so interesting,’” Karin said. “But I couldn't get out of it and be like, ‘Hey, I'm here.’”

One week after her son’s burial, Karin walked across the graduation stage at Cardinal Stritch University, where she attended with Prater. After years away from school, Karin had returned to get her bachelor's degree in business administration.

Amid the moment of celebration, Karin felt hopeless.

She began ignoring bills. She didn't care when collectors called. Soon, she lost her house.

“I almost lost everything,” Karin said. “It's hard to manage life at that point because you are seriously suffering.”

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At the time, she was working for the city Health Department as a disease intervention specialist. She had been away for six months after her son’s death, contemplating whether she should apply for Social Security disability benefits. She couldn’t bring herself to do everyday activities.

Her employers at the city were understanding and she returned to her job.

Years later, she watched Reggie Moore, director of the city's Office of Violence Prevention, transform the city's approach to violence. She saw its goals expand to focus more on gun violence, an issue she was intimately familiar with.

She applied for a position at the office. The opportunity came at the same time her father was hospitalized for being struck in a hit-and-run.

Moore asked Karin if she was sure she wanted the job. Karin said she was.

In November 2017, she took on her current role as the city's violence prevention coordinator.

One day, she might be comforting a crime victim. The next, she might be appearing before a Common Council committee or meeting with the mayor.

"I'm in a position to make a change on this level," Karin said. "(There are) so many different layers to the streets and I feel like I can connect to each one."

Coping with her father's killing

Looking at her father in his hospital bed, Karin knew the seriousness of her responsibility. 

She was designated to make his health care decisions. As in times before, she found herself guiding her family through grueling anguish.

Her father, a local crossing guard, had been struck by a hit-and-run driver on the morning of Nov. 10, 2017.

He stayed in the hospital for about a month and eventually died from his injuries.

Karin felt the weight of the situation. She had to make the final call.

“It's crazy because I probably am the stronger one in the family, but sometimes, it's like, ‘Please, I can't be all of this,’” Karin said.

Hanson, Karin's mother, had met Andrew Tyler in 1967 at the open housing marches. Andrew served in the Commandos, a male security group that protected participants in the marches from violent counter-protesters.

With a black father and white mother, Karin was bullied at school for being a biracial child.

Andrew met Father James Groppi, a leader of the marches. He also worked with Brother Booker Ashe, who opened the community service center House of Peace and became Karin’s godfather.

Growing up, Karin’s home was filled with these voices of the local civil rights movement. Groppi, Ashe and others would often have informal get-togethers with her parents. Karin's family lived in one of the city's poorest neighborhoods. Her father worked at an automotive electronics company and her mother worked as a nurse.

As a young girl, Karin would play with friends nearby. She listened in on conversations between her parents and other civil rights leaders.

Social justice became home for Karin. 

She had always hoped to hear more stories from her dad, who grew up in the South and talked about dangerous encounters with racist white men. He marched with Martin Luther King Jr. and protested the Ku Klux Klan.

Now, her father and his namesake grandson were both gone, buried next to each other at Graceland Cemetery.

The experience after her son's death — planning his funeral and following the killer's court case — helped her navigate another tragedy.

“She’s always the person at the helm of the ship trying to guide everyone through that process,” Prater said.

Channeling pain into hope

A mother lay on the floor. She wailed in pain at the loss of her child.

Karin had been in this situation before. She sat down and stayed. She knew that's what the mother needed.

The quiet moments, sudden tears and unpredictable breakdowns were familiar to Karin, though others in the room didn't know it.

Then, Karin told the mother her own son was murdered, too. 

"They stop and they'll look at you," Karin said. "It’s like a moment where they’re present with you."

In her role at the Office of Violence Prevention, Karin encounters many grieving victim families and individuals. She is spearheading a project to provide packages to homicide victims' families on the scene. The packages will include items like resource guides and letters with words of encouragement from other grieving families.

She travels to homicide scenes as part of the community movement Sisters of Love, which is a group Karin created to provide support for victims' loved ones.

“Her ability to channel her pain to heal a city says a lot about who she is as a person,” said Moore, director of the Office of Violence Prevention. “She’s able to speak life and encouragement into the hearts and minds of people who are walking through the deepest pain that I think another human being could experience."

Karin's zeal for social justice helps her connect with victims in a way many others cannot.

Simply put, she knows the depths of their heartache.

“I already know where they're at and know what to expect, what not to take personal,” Karin said. “I can relate from one mother to another, and I think that's probably the most rewarding thing — that I can have a voice for victims.”

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Learn more

The Office of Violence Prevention, created in 2008 and expanded in 2016, develops partnerships in the community to prevent and reduce violence in Milwaukee. The office examines violence as a phenomenon that spreads among social networks, like a disease.

For trauma response support for children and families who were exposed to violence, residents can call the office at (414) 257-7621. Resources are available at www.milwaukee.gov/staysafe. The office's goals are outlined in the city's Blueprint for Peace, which can be found at www.414LIFE.com.