I spent a lot of time alone this year, walking. On neighborhood sidewalks, hugging Lake Michigan, along rivers. After a difficult stretch last year that included a series of consequential deaths, walking among the city’s landscapes felt like a sanctuary.
Walking gave me time to process my thoughts. Given how many times I’ve asked myself to sprint, even when I hurt, no walk felt long enough.
Maybe my subconscious was telling my eyes to stay away from screens.
Being in nature and neighborhoods felt good. Grieving in a time where reality itself is debated, I was drawn to places where I could plant my feet on what’s real. Among homes. On shared land.
Death came again this year in Milwaukee, with each loss causing substantial ripples. It’s impossible to quantify, but I’ve felt their heaviness throughout the city. It fills my heart to see loved ones honor the memory of a cherished person by writing a tribute. I also wish I could see and write fewer.
This year, I had the honor of attending memorial services for three Milwaukeeans: Amy Brinkman-Sustache, Keyon Jackson-Malone and Jonathan Brostoff. Each had a remarkable impact on Milwaukee and touched me personally. While the losses were painful, meditating on the legacies of their lives brought me hope against the background of this disorienting and dark time.
During my time as producer at Radio Milwaukee in the station’s early years, I learned how powerful stories could be, especially when they’re shared among neighbors. So I wanted to share with you, my neighbors, tributes to three cherished Milwaukeeans and beautiful human beings.
Amy Brinkman-Sustache
Ella, my 3-year-old, is getting into Sesame Street. When I was a little older than her, after seeing Savion Glover tap dance on that sacred show, I said out loud: “I need to tap dance.” I’m the youngest of five. To my knowledge, no one in my family had tap danced before.
Not too long after, my mother, sister and I climbed the stairs of the original Danceworks on Milwaukee Street. Amy Brinkman-Sustache was its co-founder and, in the early days, cooked up a family tap dance class. We signed up and came to class on time, tap shoes on our feet, ready to dance. My profound thanks for figuring all of that out, mom.
I can still see (and hear) those classes — matte black floors, walls of mirrors and a whole lot of racket. Amy invited each of us to express ourselves through a kaleidoscope of bodies and legs, swinging in every direction. Talent? Possibly. Spirit? Definitely! Class was boisterous, fun and joyful.
Amy was an amazing teacher. She was powerful, warm, beautiful and generous, and I remember her class being the highlight of the day every time. While I did not feel comfortable with my own body, I felt comfortable following Amy as I learned to use it. Just the other day, after everyone else in the house was asleep, I was in the kitchen doing some old remembered tap moves from Amy’s classes.
Through her work as a teacher, Amy shared dance with thousands of students in our city — all ages, backgrounds and body types. She spread the ability to create joy with a staggering number of people, from professional dancers to those who came out of retirement for kitchen tap dance sessions and every one in between.
The amount of regenerative motion she contributed to this world is mind boggling, and it calms my heart to know it will continue growing. I am deeply honored to have been in the audience as her daughter Gabby grew up, from when she danced with her mother on stage as a precocious young bud to the blossom of a human that could be Amy if you don’t look hard enough.
One particular lesson from my teacher Amy that I’ll hold close: Teach a man to tap and he will dance, but share your joy and he will learn to seek his own.
Keyon Jackson-Malone
When we were still dating, I said to my partner Glenna: “Cool is caring about what you do in the world and following through.” Love can make some poetic stuff tumble out of your head, but I also noticed she genuinely liked that idea. We’re married now, building a life together around that idea of cool.
Keyon Jackson-Malone was cool by any definition, especially that one.
Atkinson Triangle Park was his childhood park, a place where he formed deep bonds with families and the community surrounding the modest green space. As an adult, Keyon founded a grassroots organization named The Village Group to reignite the feeling of community and generosity he felt growing up.
After learning about the weekly food pantry, basketball program, neighborhood family reunions, back to school events and more, I asked Keyon a taboo question in community work: “What’s your budget?”
When Milwaukee Parks Foundation awarded a grant to The Village Group, its budget comprised mostly partnerships and volunteer labor. This is more common in critical grassroots work than most people realize. Keyon reached into his own pocket and worked his network, pulling strings to weave together what his community deserves.
During our first meeting of 2024, Keyon shared that a neighborhood elder passed away before realizing their dream of an all-year food pantry in Atkinson, extending through the winter months. I arrived at Atkinson for our second meeting of the year on a frigid day, just as a beaming Keyon and friends pulled up with a minivan and U-Haul full of groceries.
Within moments, I joined a crew of volunteers setting up tables, unpacking boxes and cracking jokes to keep spirits light. People needed this food. People still need this food. Keyon worked in communications, and not once did I see him write a self-laudatory post about this, even though those kinds of posts are common. I know Keyon understood dignity in a deep way, because he did more than just talk about it.
This summer, sitting at a picnic table for a group meeting in Atkinson, a car on the edge of the park started blasting music. I try to be polite when I’m in someone else’s living room, so I clocked the volume of the subwoofer but didn’t say anything. Within moments, Keyon addressed the gentlemen in the car by name and asked them to turn it down. Then, they did.
Keyon had charisma to spare, but that wasn’t the only thing that made him cool.
This year, Keyon and I had a few “car meetings” — the open conversations that happen when people share a ride. When no one was listening, Keyon and I strategized about Atkinson before talking about anything else. But, of course, we also swapped stories.
We were both graduates of Golda Meir and Morse Middle School, facts that could fill many car rides. But the deeper connection we shared was a different name — legendary Milwaukee broadcaster Eric Von. Keyon was in Von’s inner circle and considered him a core mentor. Von was committed both to excellence in broadcasting and pouring back into his community. I thought of him as a gold standard, locally.
Von’s influence on Keyon’s work is clear. Keyon was a powerful broadcaster, as evidenced by the audience he built through “The Man Show,” but he was not satisfied with an audience alone. His listeners were also his people, and he cared for them.
When Milwaukee’s violence prevention movement gained momentum in 2018-2019, Keyon was a foundational contributor, joining an incredible team of organizers comprising 414Life to do some of our city’s hardest work. At his memorial service, I was touched to see the line of brothers Keyon earned in this work, standing with him in a unified front, in death as they did in life.
Keyon’s work in Atkinson Triangle Park was a perfect place to synthesize the community he’d built through radio and violence interruption. Having had a chance to tangle with Keyon’s genius will forever be a highlight of my career.
Keyon and I had a meeting scheduled the day after he passed. My heart is still broken that we don’t get another session to collude for abundance, riding around our city together, dreaming. And even though he’s transitioned, I know Keyon’s work is just beginning in Milwaukee. The Milwaukee Parks Foundation will continue collaborating with The Village Group in 2025 and beyond, working with his sister Tyra Merriweather and collaborating partner Brandon Triggs.
A lesson I will hold close from brother Keyon: When your voice moves people, move them toward good.
Jonathan Brostoff
Jonathan and I grew up on the East Side of Milwaukee. He was a year older and a grade ahead in MPS. As a kid, he fell in love with Magic: The Gathering, a strategy card game, which connected him to one of my older brothers.
That’s how I met Jonathan — my replacement as an older brother’s sidekick. Of course, I felt a tinge of rivalry, but by that time I was forming new alliances, too.
When we were nerdy kids and greeted each other with a nod, I like to imagine we were two young spell-casters trying to figure things out. And who knows? When we looked at each other as kids, we were probably still half in the fantasy worlds where we loved to escape — games that felt as real as life to us. That head nod? Maybe it was two wizards acknowledging that your code is not mine and my code is not yours. Code respects code.
I’ve searched Facebook since Jonathan passed to remind myself of times we were together. We weren’t the closest friends, but growing into adults and professionals, our paths intertwined intimately.
In the weeks since his passing, I’ve heard many stories about Jonathan, and I’ve been amazed at how many people he successfully invited to hang, whether it was on a basketball court, in a living room, at a gaming table or at a protest. He was constantly connecting people.
When he was considering a run for East Side alderman, Jonathan invited me for coffee. Even though I’d moved to the South Side, Jonathan wanted my read on his race. I was tempted to blow smoke, but ultimately I told him that I genuinely didn’t know how he’d do.
If I’d been paying closer attention and not just seen the young wizard I knew from when we were kids, I would have said: “Who could ever beat you, Jonathan?” Knowing Jonathan, I wouldn’t be surprised if he used my doubt as motivation while he was canvassing.
So were we rivals? This may sound corny, but if there’s anything we competed in, it was our love for Milwaukee. Our city meant everything to him, as it does to me. Jonathan loved this city’s people so much, I couldn’t help but love him, even when we didn’t see eye to eye.
He fought for what he cared about with everything he had. I admired this quality because I am most proud of myself when I do the same. As a passionate person, I’ve also seen my passion go too far, causing me to lose perspective. All of us let our code slip from time to time.
Jonathan seemed comfortable with the unspoken, and it takes courage to speak the unspoken. That man is no longer with us, a champion for a city where too much goes unsaid.
Part of my unsaid — in addition to turning 40 recently, I claimed 11 years free of alcohol the following day. Given how I was treating myself at one point, every day is a landmark. We have a daughter now, and she was the main reason I spent so much time walking around the city. I wasn’t looking for something or someone. I needed to have a real conversation with myself.
Amy’s gift was teaching me that dance is a kind of medicine. Keyon gave me advice that led to therapy. And from my brother Jonathan, I received this lesson: If the thief ever comes in the night, listen for Ella’s voice.
I will remember you, Amy, Keyon and Jonathan. While you may no longer be with us, you showed us paths to togetherness that begin in ourselves and end in each other.
Adam Carr is the director of strategic partnerships at the Milwaukee Parks Foundation and worked at Radio Milwaukee as a producer from 2008-2011.