Hosoi

by Christian Hosoi

  Jen may be going to church, but I’m certainly not getting any divine benefits. I get busted for the third time, this time in a raid. People are jumping from windows, hiding in closets and in bushes, but the cops nab most of them, including me. I don’t have ID on me, and when they ask my name, I say Christian Hosoi. They miss a letter and record my last name as Hosi. Who am I to correct them?

  They say it will take $2,000 for me to get out, which is 10 percent of a $20,000 bail. I know from experience, though, that it’ll take a lot more than that if the cops learn my history. Because of the name mix-up, they don’t yet know about my prior arrests. I’ve gotta move fast. If I can come up with $2,000 before I’m fingerprinted, I’ll be free. Problem is I don’t have that much on me or anywhere near me.

  I call Jen and say, “You’ve gotta get me two grand. The cops picked me up, and if you can’t come up with the money, they’ll fingerprint me and figure out who I am, and I’ll be going away for a while.” Thinking she won’t be able to come up with that much, I also call another girl I used to go out with.

  Fairly quickly I’m told that bail has been paid and I can go. Jen and the other girl I called are standing outside the jail, both having chipped in on the bail. As my girlfriend, Jen is understandably angry about the other girl showing up. I tell the second girl, “Look, I’m going home with Jen.” She’s like, “I did all that for you and now you’re going home with her?” I say, “She’s my girlfriend now, and you know it.” Unwilling to concede, she barks, “You’d better come over later,” but I never do.

  Apparently there’s no record of that arrest—at least none connected with me—since the charging officer spelled my name wrong. I never hear about that charge again and never have to pay any additional fine for it.

  Jen occasionally attends Calvary Chapel in Placentia. That’s her grandmother’s church, so she wants to attend there. On one particular day I’m supposed to pick her up and take her there. When I swing by late to get her, her grandfather is there alone, and he tells me that Jen has gone ahead to church with her grandmother. He tells me where the church is located and I head for it. I do what I always do: smoke meth all the way to my destination, and even in the parking lot.

  I arrive just as the service is about to end, and I stand at the back. They’re doing worship songs, and it all feels kind of nice and peaceful, but nothing I’m feeling emotional over. I walk up behind Jen when it’s over and tap her on the shoulder. She turns around, gives me a big hug, and starts crying. Her grandmother knows the pastor, and she walks me forward to meet him. She says, “This is Christian Hosoi, my granddaughter’s boyfriend; he’s a professional skateboarder.” The pastor says, “Hey, my son’s a skateboarder! It’s really nice to meet you, Christian.”

  So now I’ve experienced church for the first time in my life. Church is cool, skating’s cool, dope’s cool, life’s cool. And, if Jen’s cool, I’m cool. Jen is my only friend who’s not doing dope, but I figure we can still have a relationship since I’ve developed such deep feelings for her. The positive choices she’s making to help herself live a better life further steal my heart.

  Jen is saving her money now, and she’s not about to waste any more of it on drugs. That’s fine with me; I’ve always believed that if you want something bad enough, you’ll find a way to get it. I’ll score my own dope. Each day’s the same—score drugs (doing whatever is necessary to “earn” them), do drugs morning till night, skateboard a little, and throw darts to break the monotony. The one thing that’s changed in my routine is that I no longer look to hook up with anyone. I’m happy being with Jen. I’m out all day and meet her late at night, cuz that’s when we get together in my van. You know that dumb bumper sticker, “If this van’s rockin’, don’t bother knockin’”? That could have been written for us. Some days I’m almost surprised my van doesn’t tip over or catch fire. We were like two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.

  Over the months, we continue hanging out, and as always happens, bad company corrupts good morals. She eventually gives in, saying, “Okay, maybe I’ll do just a little meth.” I’m like, “Okay, here, do a little.” I’m a horrible influence on her! Though she’s doing just a little at first, in no time she’s nearly back to where she left off. She remembers that process of getting clean and then falling back:

  CHRISTIAN HAD GIVEN ME THESE TWO CANDLES WITH PICTURES OF JESUS ON THEM. I WAS PRAYING, LOOKING AT THEM, AND SAID, “JESUS, IF YOU’RE FOR REAL LIKE UNCLE CHRIS SAYS, PLEASE HELP ME; I CAN’T LIVE LIKE THIS.”

  LOTS OF THINGS HAPPENED AFTER THAT TO PROVE THE REALITY OF GOD TO ME—LIFE-AFFIRMING THINGS—AND THAT’S WHAT GOT ME SOBER. I WAS CLEAN FOR A MONTH, AND IT FELT GOOD.

  CHRISTIAN KEPT SMOKING METH IN FRONT OF ME, THOUGH. ONE DAY I WAS WEAK AND JUST DID IT AGAIN. AFTER THAT I WAS INTO IT JUST LIKE I’D ALWAYS BEEN. I WAS AFRAID TO GO HOME AND COULDN’T FACE MY GRANDMOTHER. I JUST STAYED WITH CHRISTIAN PRETTY MUCH THE ENTIRE TIME AFTER THAT, UNTIL WE ENDED UP GOING TO HAWAII.

  Despite Jen’s backsliding, she’s many steps ahead of me. At least she understands the concept of trying to quit and get her life together. One of her main motivations for trying to get clean is that she doesn’t want her grandparents to see her high. She loves them and knows how much her using hurts them. According to Jen,

  MY GRANDMOTHER LILLIAN AND GRANDFATHER TOM RAISED ME. WHEN THEY MET, GRANDMA LILLIAN HAD FIVE CHILDREN. SHE WAS THIRTY-THREE AND HE WAS TWENTY-ONE, SO MAYBE SHE WAS A “COUGAR” BEFORE COUGARS WERE POPULAR. EVEN THOUGH SHE WAS DONE RAISING HER OWN CHILDREN, SHE TOOK ME IN AS IF I WERE HER OWN CHILD. SHE TAUGHT ME WHAT LOVE IS. SHE TAUGHT ME ABOUT LIFE AND ABOUT RELATIONSHIPS.

  With me it’s different. I don’t hide anything from anyone; I just come right out and tell people that I’m on meth.

  Since Jen doesn’t want to return home high, we stay in the van or, on occasion, get a hotel room or stay with a friend or one of her fellow dancers. That’s getting old and I want to take better care of her, maybe get a place of our own. I say, “I’m gonna go to Hawaii to make some money; you wanna go?” She agrees to go with me. Babe and I are off to Hawaii.

  We set off together and find a place near my dad. Once I get her situated in Hawaii, I leave her there temporarily and return to L.A. to score some meth. I’ve been offered a good deal to bring some over to the Islands.

  Given that I’ve been on the run for five years and have been hanging out with dealers since I was a kid, you’d think I’d know (and appreciate the severity of) the penalties of interstate trafficking of narcotics. I certainly should know better than to jump at the possibility of $2,500 plus all the dope I’ll never be able to smoke, in exchange for a large chunk of my life. It makes sense when I’m high, though.

  And that brings me back to where my story started: busted.

  JOYFUL TRIALS

  You know that saying, “It’s all good”? There’s a book in the Bible called James, which made that same point nearly two thousand years ago. It says it like this: “My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials” (1:2). I’ve been running so hard for so long that when someone approaches Eddie and asks, “Did you hear what happened to Christian?” he nearly collapses, thinking he’s gonna hear that I’ve died. The body count for people involved in my lifestyle is mounting, not just among my friends but generally, and his reaction is kind of natural.

  While my death might not have surprised many people, nobody could ever guess that I would become a Christian. Well, I have always been unpredictable.

  Most people now, looking back, would list January 23, 2000—the day I was arrested at the Honolulu airport—as the lowest point in my life. I see it, with the benefit of hindsight, as the time when my real life began. Let’s go back a decade, though, to see what happened after that event.

  Those first few days after my arrest in Hawaii are the worst. I’ve got nothing and no one to lean on, especially since at first I can’t reach Jen by phone. I’m looking at ten years and have been locked up for
only three days; already I’m like a rat in a cage, looking for a way to escape. There isn’t any.

  As I said in the first chapter, when I finally get through to Jen on the phone I express my despair, my fears that I won’t be able to make it through ten years. She’s crying, but she’s strong. “I love you,” she says, “and we’ll get through this. We’ve just got to trust in God.” She points out that it could have been a lot worse: I could have died, or it could have been both of us in jail that day, since she was originally going to carry dope with me on that plane.

  I can’t help wishing that I’d flown the dope somewhere within the state of California instead of all the way to Hawaii. If I’d been caught doing that, I probably would have received only a slap on the wrist and probation. Here, though, there’s nobody I can pay off and nobody to help me. Several lawyers look into my case for me over the months, and they all conclude that there’s nothing illegal in how I’ve been arrested. With no loopholes to squeeze through, I’m stuck wondering how to make the best of the next 120 months.

  Even though I hate being stuck, stuck is right where I need to be. I’m finally still enough to hear what God has to say to me. I’m off all drugs, though by no choice of my own; and with no weed or speed in my system, I can think straight and start catching up on the years of sleep I’ve lost. Now, for the first time, the events of my life come into focus, and I begin to see the pattern of living that’s brought me here.

  It’s not as if God’s been silent over the years. Jen’s uncle Chris, the pastor, has been reaching out to her forever, since long before we left California. Even after she started going to church with her grandmother she remained unconvinced, and I’m not even listening. Here we are, a stripper doing drugs and a strung-out pro skateboarder. In the world’s eyes, and in hers and mine, that’s about as far from God as it gets. In God’s eyes, however, she and I are no different from some nice tea-drinking husband and wife who do good and productive work and coach their kid’s soccer team on the weekends.

  Just before I get busted that final time, we’re cruising around Oahu when a woman at a gas station asks, “Have you guys ever gone to church? There’s a good one not far from here.” It’s an apparently random comment, one I haven’t heard from a stranger before, ever. God is tapping on our shoulders, but we simply tell the woman, “Yeah, we’ve been to church.” We have no time for that now; we’re doing life our way, and our way is to score drugs.

  Jen recalls the days prior to my arrest:

  I WOKE UP AFTER SLEEPING FOR THE FIRST TIME IN DAYS WHEN CHRISTIAN FINALLY CALLED ME. I HAD BEEN CALLING, CALLING, CALLING. NOTHING. HE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE BACK IN HUNTINGTON BEACH FOR ONE DAY BEFORE FLYING BACK OVER TO HAWAII, BUT I HADN’T HEARD A WORD. WHEN HE FINALLY GETS THROUGH TO SAY HE’S BEEN ARRESTED, I ACTUALLY THINK HE’S JOKING. WHEN I REALIZE HE’S SERIOUS, I GET SCARED, THEN I’M RELIEVED THAT AT LEAST HE’S ALIVE. IT COULD HAVE BEEN A LOT WORSE. HE COULD HAVE BEEN DEAD OR IT COULD HAVE BEEN BOTH OF US IN JAIL THAT DAY. I WAS SUPPOSED TO CARRY DOPE WITH HIM ON THAT PLANE.

  No matter what I do or who I talk to, it looks like I’m serving all ten years; that’s actually the minimum mandatory sentence for my crime. Okay, now I’ve got to do what Jen says: “Trust God.” That’s the reality of life for all people every day, but it takes seeing it through prison bars for me to get a clear picture.

  Jen tells me on that first phone call to get a Bible, so I begin asking around for one. A guy in another cell says I can use his. He hands it to me through the bars. Here’s this great big book, all underlined and with notes in the margins, and I have no idea why it should be of any interest to me.

  I open to the first book in the Bible, Genesis. To me that’s an old Star Trek movie. I flip to the back of the Bible, Revelation. I’ve never had any sort of revelation before, not even drug-induced, so I can’t relate. I go to the middle of the Bible and puzzle over how to pronounce the name of the book I’ve turned to. P-salms. What is P-salms? A nearby book, Proverbs, sounds like an old-school lecture, and John sounds really boring. I finally stop at the book called 1 Kings. Kings, now that sounds good.

  The second chapter of 1 Kings begins with King David on his deathbed, charging his son Solomon to heed the voice of the Lord and follow that voice all the days of his life. God tells him that if he does that, everything will go right for him. But I then read the story of Solomon, and it doesn’t end that well. Here’s the wisest man in the world and even he’s seduced by the temptations of lust, greed, and fame. The guy has a million times more of everything than I’ll ever have, and he still blows it. I relate to him totally, and by seeing what he should have done, I begin to understand what I need to do.

  JENNIFER AND ME HOLDING ON FOR DEAR LIFE. HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.

  Jen could have said anything during my first phone call to her from jail. Instead of saying that she’s going to leave me, that she wants to party with her friends and not worry about me, or that she wants to go straight and not be brought down by my mistakes, she tells me that we need to trust in God. Nobody has ever talked to me that way before, and it’s got me thinking.

  And I keep thinking, even as I’m flown from Hawaii to the mainland courtesy of the U.S. government. After landing in L.A.—this is about three weeks after my arrest—I’m transferred by van to a San Bernardino County jail. Driving through San Bernardino brings back a rush of memories. The last time I cruised these streets I was high on weed and laughing with a bunch of friends on my way to skate a contest. I’m sure our conversation was centered on what kind of weed we were smoking, the contest we were going to, and all of the girls we were about to hook up with. The world was ours. Now I’m clean and sober, cuffed and solemn, rolling down the road with a bunch of criminals I don’t know. I look out to see the same world through different eyes, recalling all those memories: the skateparks, the epic battles, and the friends I made along the way. As we drive, it sinks in that I’ll be over forty years old by the time I skate again.

  I grew up thinking that I was an individualist and invincible and that I had life all figured out. Now I realize I don’t even have my own identity, and I don’t have a clue what life is about. I spend a lot of time reading the Bible—a copy of the Revised Standard Version—and Jesus’s words in John 3:3 jump out at me: “Unless one is born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.” Or like that old hymn “Amazing Grace” says: “I once was blind and now I see.” People sing these words all the time, but now I actually live them: I was blind and I now have twenty-twenty vision. It’s awesome to realize there’s a plan for my life, that I’m significant despite my failures, and that God loves me.

  Soon I have a chance to take that realization to the next level. San Bernardino Jail gets so crowded that I’m transferred to the overflow jail, a place called Glen Helen Rehabilitation Center. Glen Helen is on bunk status much of the time, meaning that I can’t walk around freely very often. This gives me even more time to think. While I’m in Glen Helen, Jen hooks up a three-way phone conversation between us and her uncle, Pastor Chris. He says, “Christian, do you know that God loves you?” I’ve experienced enough and read enough of the Bible by this time to know that that’s true, so I simply answer, “Yeah.”

  Pastor Chris asks whether we want to give our lives to Jesus Christ. When we say yes, Pastor Chris shares the gospel with us—the good news of God’s son, Jesus. He finishes by saying, “You have to invite Jesus in. If you do that—if you believe that Christ died for you and was raised from the dead, and you allow him to work in you—you too will be saved.” At that moment we give our lives to the Lord, and our lives are changed forever. I feel a weight roll off my shoulders—a weight that I didn’t even know I’d been carrying all those years. Jen and I are both crying tears of joy, even in the midst of the circumstances. For the first time in my life I feel a sense of belonging to something bigger than myself.

  In my own tiny way, my life is like that of King Solomon in reverse. I go from having the best of the world but not knowing G
od, to losing everything and finding God. Solomon went from knowing God and walking with him, to letting the things of this world corrupt him, until he was left with everything but the peace of God. My commitment to God runs far deeper than my passion ever was for skateboarding, drugs, girls, or the rock-star life. It’s as Jesus said in John 14:15: “If you love me, keep My commandments.” I knew that before I ever read that passage in the New Testament. I understood it from my first reading of Kings, back in Hawaii. It’s like the Bible says: I was adopted into God’s kingdom and became his child. Now I have an assignment to carry out.

  As my life continues to unfold, I realize I can make a real difference in the world—far more than I ever did as a skateboarder. I had never opened up a Bible in those days, and none of my friends had ever read one either. No wonder we all ended up with heartache and pain.

  The apostle Paul says, “I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ” (Philippians 3:8, KJV). I so relate to that. Everything I’ve accomplished—the victories, the social status, the money, the sex, all of that—suddenly means nothing to me. It really is all dung, and I’m going to flush it. I would trade everything I’ve ever done for what I now have. I’m sitting here in prison on my triple-decker bunk bed, fulfilled in life for the first time ever.

  HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.

  “It’s difficult to say where one journey begins and another ends. I now see that God has been calling me all of my life. I’m named Christian and have worn crosses ever since I can remember. My nickname is Christ, and I invented a maneuver called the Christ Air, all without having a clue what the name Jesus Christ really means.”

  In one day I’ve gone from hooking up with nearly any girl I want to living in a cell block full of men. There are no women here, but I curtail my fantasy life and decide that I’m not even gonna masturbate anymore. I know that might make some of you uncomfortable, but if a guy is honest, he’ll admit that sexual immorality is always knocking on our door. (It’s now been over a decade since that commitment, and I still haven’t masturbated—and don’t intend to. Sexual purity with my wife is a wonderful blessing, but I realize that I’ve got to make a strong commitment to it. Now that I’m out of prison and living with my wife, sex has gone from an act of self-pleasure to something so much deeper. It’s not just some performance to make me feel like I’m a wild stallion. It’s now what it was meant to be, and it’s awesome, even sacred.)