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The gang tag graffiti on our apartment building was the writing on the wall,

needed for my parents to uproot us from New York City back in the early 90s.

The onslaught of gang violence in the schools was matched by the rise in teen pregnancies.

Drugs were dealt openly on the streets.

It was a certainty. We'd end up on the wrong side of the law as lines were drawn in territories

reclaimed due violence and intimidation. My parents didn't have a ton of money.

My dad was a handyman for an office building. My mom walked for a supermarket.

They managed to save the funds needed to buy a miserable excuse for a house in the suburbs of

New Jersey. It was leaps in bounds better than living in a one bedroom apartment in a war zone.

Their timing on the house was excellent as the closing lined up with the end of the school year.

We had ended up moving into the house over the summer and started school in a new district in

the fall. Everything was going right in life as we coached it through until the last day of school.

The day my sister died. After the bell rang, I walked into the school yard to meet my sister.

She had waited for me to walk home together. Usually my mother came to get us, but she was working.

As I exited the building, I heard a bunch of yelling, then gunshots.

...