WHERE LEGACY MEETS VISION: RODRICKY'S TYWON WILLIAMS.
Photo Source : Studio Tywon
The music hits different on a Saturday night in Dothan, Alabama. Purple and blue lights sweep across the crowd, strobing with the bass reverberating through bone and chest. Bodies dissolve into shadows under the shifting glow, moving as one to the thump-thump-thump that makes the walls pulse. Laughter pierces the Alabama air, competing with beats that refuse to relent. July heat clings to everything—the kinda heat that makes fabric adhere to skin. I'm sharp in my clothes, feeling invincible. My boys're cracking jokes, and I'm grinnin' 'n noddin' to the rhythm.
The night air outside is thick with mist, and I can feel the music through the walls…
But someone's voice cuts through, followed by another.
Then another.
But louder—tension bleeding into a space where, moments ago, there was none.
Then:
A deafening pop.
An immediate scrum.
And I'm on the Dothan concrete.
Bleeding.
Waiting for the ambulance, my blood seeping into the ground. Rushed to the hospital, taking my last breath.
I am Rodricky's Tywon Williams.
I am gone, leaving behind one son and another unborn…
I never lived that night. I've only imagined it, trying to piece together what happened to my father on July 30th, 2006. My mother couldn't breathe when she got the news. She cried, violently, wondering how she was supposed to raise a child without a father? She rested her hands on her stomach, her tears speaking her despair. I was the unborn child, representing loss and possibility.
February 21st, 2007. I was born into fatherlessness.
As a child, I spent countless nights staring out the window, not knowing my daddy's fate. I imagined he might return with candy or a basketball. I pictured a tall frame, deep voice, and sharp fashion sense. But the longer I waited, the lonelier I felt…
…until one evening, my mother sat me on my SpongeBob bed and told me the truth. My mind couldn't process it. I collapsed into bed, crying myself to sleep. When I woke up, I realized he was never coming back. In response, I acted out, searching for attention.
But my mother became my backbone. As she commuted to grueling shifts, endured workplace discrimination, and juggled motherhood alone, she carried the weight of bills, student loans, and keeping food on the table. Despite it all, she became my greatest inspiration.
One Christmas morning, she surprised me with my first treasure: a $500 camera. That gift ignited my love for photography and gave me the strength to persevere. Photography became my way of piecing together what was broken…of turning silence into vision. From picking me up after studio hours to supporting shoots and helping me prepare for my exhibition, her support shaped my passion and perseverance.
I refused to go back to the child waiting by the empty window. Instead, I sought the window of opportunity. Fashion and photography became my familial memory of him. I established Studio Tywon., a fashion platform focused on human experience. I joined photography clubs and initiatives, even founding one to impact my community. In high school, I hosted Breaking Into My Skin, my exhibition celebrating my father, with pieces representing perseverance, resilience, and prosperity.
I may never know my father, but his absence shaped me into someone who values presence—someone who values himself and others.
Alas, I still imagine:
The blood-spattered concrete.
The hot ambulance.
The dark burgundy casket.
My mother's tears.
A fractured family.
These images are burned in my mind like overexposed film. But photography taught me: it's not just what's in the frame but how you develop it. I could remain fixated on that July night, letting it define every shot. Or I could adjust my aperture, shift focus, and capture what else exists: the resilience, the beauty, and the light breaking through.
My life is proof that even from the darkest negatives, you can produce something worth seeing.
So,
Picture me.
Written by Studio Tywon
Edited By Mr Beverly
Reflective Note: This essay represents a pivotal moment in my journey—one that helped me gain admission to NYU, one of the most selective schools in the country. Through it, the admissions committee saw my story, understood my perseverance, and recognized that the challenges I faced shaped me, rather than defined me. At NYU, I look forward to honoring my father’s legacy and sharing my passion for art and fashion with the world. I am deeply grateful to myself, the NYU committee, and especially Mr. Beverly, whose guidance helped me refine and strengthen this piece and big thanks to Mr. Ensler who gave me hope, perspective and guidance. Though this essay carries a melancholy truth, it is ultimately a story of resilience, purpose, and hope.
