Telling me “pack a bag full of all your favorite things” was my parents’ last memory of Bushwick, in 1993, as they crammed my sister and me into my father’s silver Chevy Nova as FBI agents swarmed the surrounding area. 

Recently, nearly 30 years later, I returned to Bushwick, with my parents, to give them a guided tour of the ever-changing neighborhood. 

Huddled together, we exited the DeKalb Avenue L stop, squinting down several blocks like tourists, through the faded mist and the graffiti-filled walls. All my mother could remember was the vision of my sister and me in a maze of bright, yellow crime scene tape with our algebra textbook watching police officers interview witnesses linked to the murder that happened next door.