Battinto Batts Jr., Executive Editor
Everyone, I want you to meet Sohn Tyler Watson. I have several terms of endearment for this skinny 16 year old, like “Ty” and “Mo.” But the one I love calling him the most is “son.” Tyler is my stepson. And the only reason I use the qualifier “step” is out of respect for his biological father, Sohn, who resides in Atlanta and is very much a part of Tyler’s life. Sohn and I share the right to call this young man “son.” It’s a privilege I’ve earned over the last 11 years of dating, and later marrying, his mom, Denise. During that time, Denise and I had a daughter, Olivia, who recently turned 10. I’d say we’ve put together a nice little family and there is lots of love in our household.
Ty is a big reason why. For the most part, Ty has been a piece of cake to raise. Obedient. Easy to please. Polite. Helpful. A good competitor on Madden and NBA Live. A decent, if not great, car detailer. He does an acceptable job at lawn care. His grades are mid range, mostly Bs and Cs, with the occasional A or D. Good kid. He even earns his own money, working at Andy’s Barber Shop on Saturdays, learning to cut hair.
Ty knows right from wrong and has never given us an ounce of trouble, except for the time several years ago when he hid from us in the play area at McDonald’s, making us think he’d wandered off or been kidnapped. It caused some brief moments of horror for his mom and me. Finally, he came out laughing.
I find myself worrying about Ty a lot these days, with what is happening to young black men in Hampton Roads. You’ve seen the news. Last week, Charles Humphrey, a student at Maury High School, was gunned down while coming from a party in Norfolk’s Park Place neighborhood. Police say Humphrey, 18, died from a shotgun blast to the head. A violent, tragic and terrible end for a young life. And on Friday, police arrested a 17-year-old boy in connection with the Humphrey’s killing and other arrests are expected.
I worry about my son because he often talks about house parties and events at community centers, like the one Humphrey was coming home from. We used to take Ty to some of these get togethers. There was one almost every weekend, it seemed. But we cracked down last fall after Rashawn Finney, a student at I.C. Norcom in Portsmouth, was shot at a party and later died. Ty was supposed to be at that party and was dressing to go when one of his friends called to say there had been a shooting.
We want Ty to do the things that teenagers do. For the most part, he does. Like going to the mall. Dating. Listening to music. Learning to drive. But I’d be lying if I told you that we haven’t tightened our grip a bit. His mom and I endured an hour at the mall with him last Sunday after church, sitting on the bench while Ty looked for ways to spend his Christmas money.
Ty says he knows when trouble is about to start and how to avoid situations. That may be so, but we are not giving much to chance right now. It’s a difficult balance because Ty graduates from high school next year and has every intention of going to college. It’s our job to get him there and not let him get cut down like so many of these other promising young men.
Sohn Tyler Watson, my son
