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The neighborhood in Mesa, where I grew up, was a mishmash of Mexican, Native American, and Anglo cultures. Brightly colored murals, old redbrick buildings, panaderias next to New York–style delis next to stores selling Navajo and Hopi artwork. The Usery Mountains rose up in the east, where my father would take my brother and me on hikes.
The place had a smell all its own, a mixture of chiles and sweat and hope. Mexican pop music and American classic rock echoed from passing pickup trucks in equal measure. Most everyone spoke at least some Spanish. Even my dad, a Cajun from Lake Charles, Louisiana.
Things had deteriorated since I was a kid. Street gangs had moved in, bringing with them graffiti, drugs, and violence. The sheriff’s department frequently rounded up innocent residents in
