Phoning my mom is the next step, and it’s a harder one. She hurts on my behalf, and she has tremendous guilt over her parenting, saying things like, “What did we do wrong? I don’t know why we didn’t raise you in the church. I don’t know why we didn’t read the Bible or pray.” I say, “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do; it only matters what you do from here out, Mom.” I explain the idea of salvation to her and tell her basically the same things I told Pops—that I forgive her, that God forgives her, and that she now needs to forgive herself. I say, “Yeah, maybe my upbringing wasn’t exactly right, but somewhere down the line in the family there was a disconnect. Your parents or your grandparents just hadn’t made the decision to follow God.”
It’s the same with every family that falls away—you begin by missing church a little, and pretty soon you don’t go at all. Finally there’s no God in your life, or he’s up there and you’re way down here. By the time I was born, nothing was ever said about God in the Hosoi home.
I tell my mom that Jesus is real, and I talk about how I sense his presence in my life. As if wanting to give me something, she tells me that she can still recite Psalm 23. I say, “That’s cool, Mom, but it won’t save you.” I say, “Do you want to spend eternity in heaven?” I tell her that there’s only one way. As Jesus said, “I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me” (John 14:6). She’s still struggling with her own guilt. “I can’t believe it’s happening this way,” she says. “It should have been the other way around: I should have taught you about God.”
I try to reassure her. “You’ve been a great mom,” I say, “and you always did the best you knew how. Yeah, it should have been different, but as long as there’s a way, that’s all that matters. You still have time.” She’s crying now, saying yet again that she’s a bad parent. I reply, “Whatever’s done is done. That doesn’t mean we can’t start doing things right from this moment on.” I tell her she needs to ask Jesus into her heart. We pray right then, and that’s the start of a new life for her. That call happens about six months into my incarceration. Before we hang up, we’re both crying on the phone together—this time tears of joy. She begins reading the Bible faithfully and sharing scriptures with me in letters and in phone calls. From then on we pray together during every call.
A couple years ago my mom had a bad stroke. I was blessed to spend time with her before she passed away. As difficult as it was seeing her after the stroke, the conversations we had then and during my days of imprisonment were the best times of our lives together. This has been an amazing journey, and I know I will see her again.
I’ve been locked up for a year and a half when Jen and I decide to get married after I’m transferred back to Hawaii. Hawaii’s a lovely place for a wedding, even if it’s held in district court. I tell her, “Look, you’re beautiful and I love you. If you want to get married, I’ll stay loyal and committed always, because of my love for you and our God.” She knows how unfaithful I was in the past, so she’s naturally skeptical that once I get out I won’t get sucked into my old womanizing ways again—not to mention the drugs. I tell her that I’m never returning to my old ways; that I’m done with that life for good. I say, “I’m ready to make a commitment for life, to be your husband, to love you, and to have children with you.” I’ve rarely been so sure of any decision in my life, and this is certainly one of the most important ones ever.
LOVE AND FREEDOM, BEHIND BARS. HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.
It’s obviously tougher for Jen than for me. She needs some spiritual guidance. She tells it this way:
CHRISTIAN’S DAD SENDS ME A BEAUTIFUL VINTAGE ENGAGEMENT-TYPE RING THAT I’VE KEPT FOREVER. WE LOVE EACH OTHER, BUT I’M STILL NOT SURE ABOUT THIS DECISION. CHRISTIAN IS ABOUT TO BE SENTENCED, AND HE COULD BE GONE FOR NEARLY TEN YEARS. I TELL MY UNCLE, PASTOR CHRIS SWAIM, ABOUT MY INDECISION, AND HE SAYS, “WHY NOT READ A PROVERB AND SEE WHAT THE LORD SAYS?” “YEAH, BUT THERE ARE THIRTY-ONE PROVERBS; WHICH ONE?” I ASK HIM. I PICK THE DATE, WHICH IS THE EIGHTEENTH, AND I PICK MY AGE, WHICH IS TWENTY-TWO. PROVERBS 18:22 SAYS, “HE WHO FINDS A WIFE FINDS A GOOD THING, AND OBTAINS FAVOR FROM THE LORD.” THAT’S GOOD ENOUGH FOR ME, AND RIGHT THEN I REALIZE THIS IS WHAT I’M SUPPOSED TO DO.
WHEN WE GET MARRIED, I’M WEARING A WHITE DRESS WITH FLOWERS, AND CHRISTIAN IS IN AN ORANGE JUMPSUIT AND HANDCUFFS. I ALWAYS (JOKINGLY) TELL PEOPLE IT WAS THE MOST ROMANTIC WEDDING EVER. ON OUR WEDDING DAY WE FIND OURSELVES IN THE COURTROOM WITH THE SAME JUDGE WHO OFFICIATED CHRISTIAN’S CASE INITIALLY.
I’M A COUPLE INCHES TALLER THAN CHRISTIAN, AND WHEN I PUT ON MY WEDDING SHOES, I TOWER OVER HIM. I REMOVE MY SHOES AT FIRST, SO IT WILL LOOK LIKE WE’RE ON THE SAME LEVEL. BUT CHRISTIAN’S SO CONFIDENT IN EVERYTHING THAT HE DOESN’T CARE, AND I END UP PUTTING THEM ON AGAIN. HE DOESN’T HAVE THAT SHORT MAN’S COMPLEX WHERE HE HAS TO HAVE A SUPER LIFTED TRUCK OR ANYTHING.
AT FIRST MY FAMILY DIDN’T LIKE CHRISTIAN, BECAUSE HE WAS SUCH A BAD INFLUENCE ON ME—AND HE REALLY WAS. BUT WHEN THEY BEGIN SEEING ALL THE CHANGES IN OUR LIVES, BOTH BEFORE THE WEDDING AND AFTER, THEY START TO BELIEVE.
We’re married in court on June 19, 2001, just before my sentencing. The Lord has confirmed our marriage to us both, in spite of the fact that I’m facing eight more years. Pops is there, sketching the whole thing, so we’ve got a good record. At the wedding, the judge goes to the podium and says, “All right, we’re doing a Christian wedding.” He reads from 1 Corinthians 13 and gives a speech to us. After he performs the actual ceremony, he smiles and says, “You may kiss your bride.” Later my attorney tells Jen that it was the first time he’d seen that judge smile in his courtroom in seventeen years. I believe he was joyful in that union because he knew he was involved in something that God was a part of, and something that was good. That was a kiss I will never forget!
FEDERAL COURTHOUSE. WEDDING AND COURTROOM SKETCHES BY POPS. © IVAN HOSOI.
I don’t have a job during my first year inside, so there’s nothing to do other than study the Word, play cards, play chess, and watch a little TV. I’m glad I don’t have a lot of distractions, because all the Bible reading I do that first year, lying in my bunk, helps me build a solid foundation.
Jen proves her love to me by hanging in there with me the entire time. I mean, here she is, a beautiful young woman of twenty-two when we marry, giving her life to a thirty-something man who will be in his forties the next time we’re together. Realizing her sacrifice, I’m doing all that I can to make it out while I’m still in my thirties.
For starters, I’m building a file of character reference letters to present to the judge. My behavior has changed so radically since I’ve been inside that people are speaking up for me. I have tons of letters, most from people I don’t even know! They all say pretty much the same thing: that I can do more good on the outside, helping keep kids out of trouble and out of jail and off drugs, than I can do in here. Even my old rival Tony Hawk writes a letter that he sends to me along with a donation.
After an interview with me runs in Thrasher magazine, the editors post my address and I receive over 250 letters. There are letters from all sorts of people, even from six sheriffs in the prison system. They’re saying how I’m a model inmate and an awesome worker. Imagine that! (Not bad for a guy who’s never had a real job.) But that isn’t the reason I behave so well, or work so hard; I’m on a mission, and for the first time in my life, I’m representing more than myself. I read my Bible, write to kids, and speak in the Scared Straight program whenever they come in. One of the sheriffs brings his whole church in for me to speak to them.
I eventually do every job there is in prison, but my favorites are to hand out toilet paper and distribute library books to the inmates. If I were in my old shoes, I’d think that doing this sort of work was lame. I was once on top of the world, and now I’m handing out toilet paper to prisoners? Instead, though, I think how great it is. I can cover the entire prison on this job, visiting everyone in every cell. It’s my opportuni
ty to be a light and offer a little encouragement. I look through the bars and say, “God bless you; have a good day.” The inmates know I’m in the same situation they are, but they can see that I’m content. I try to get the guys the best books available. It keeps them occupied so time moves faster and easier for them.
INMATE ETIQUETTE
There’s always a chance that a race riot will kick off. There will be ten Southsiders, ten blacks, twenty whites, and twenty Border Brothers, all just doin’ their own thing. If the Southsiders and the Border Brothers get together, the odds are in their favor. But things don’t work like that in prison. It’s all done politically. There’s always talk of riots, but that will get quashed unless there’s something legitimate to riot about. If an inmate causes a riot or fight and thereby causes the group or gang he’s affiliated with to have a problem, he has become a problem himself. In jail or prison, problems get dealt with one way or another.
Other prisoners don’t stop anything like a riot in prison; there are certain rules we all have to abide by. I never actually experience a riot, but I see beat-downs all the time. These are commanded by the shot-callers. The shot-callers are the highest ranking gang member in that particular cell. Every cell has one. They take orders from the lifers in the hole. They hear about an issue and decide what to do about it when it comes to serious matters. Beat-downs are always ordered by them. When there’s a beat-down, everyone just sits back and watches like it’s a reality TV show. When it ends, you wait for the next episode to see who’s rolling it up.
In addition to these beat-downs, there are often fights between inmates. And sometimes one fight causes another. After all, if someone gets beaten by someone else, you can’t just say it’s cool and walk away, cuz then it will happen all the time. The fights can get heavy. People get stabbed and the guards come in with pepper spray.
Usually, though, if somebody’s gonna fight, they wait for the guards to walk past first. Everybody’s like, “Nobody jump in.” When the coast is clear, there might be a full-on brawl in the middle of the tank, lasting until one dude gets knocked out or they both get too tired and quit. Most times guys have no idea of how to fight, though. They’re in there wrestling around without knowing how to throw punches. I grew up watching kung fu movies and ultimate fighting on TV. This isn’t like that; it’s more like something you’d see in junior high, only with grown men.
Everybody bets on the outcome of a fight. I don’t bet on the fights, but I do play pinochle and spades where the loser does pushups. Though the guys take some pretty hard shots, we all hope nobody will get hit in the eye or the mouth. If the guards see a guy with a black eye, or blood on his mouth, an investigation goes down. They look at everybody’s knuckles, have guys lift their shirt for bruises and scratches, and try to figure out who else got into the fight. If the fighters are caught, those two dudes get rolled out to the hole.
But the shot-callers usually get things in order before it gets too crazy. They’re the ones who decide if the green light is on or not. Once the green light’s on, you know there’s gonna be bloodshed, but both sides have to decide if it’s really worth it. Usually it’s talked out and there’s a truce.
The “etiquette” of life inside is so much more elaborate than it is on the outside, and in some ways that system works better than the one we use out here. When I was a kid, Venice was basically like that. It was a ghetto, but it was a family, and people looked out for their own. County jail was like that. You’ve gotta be thankful, polite, and respectful. You step out of that and you’re done.
POPS IN A “FREE HOSOI” T-SHIRT. WHOM THE SON SETS FREE WILL BE FREE INDEED. SEE JOHN 8:36. © CESARIO “BLOCK” MONTANO.
“I’m bounced around from jail to jail, prison to prison, until eventually I’m sent to Nellis Federal Prison Camp. Nellis, which is located on the outskirts of Las Vegas, Nevada, will be my home for two years. At least once a month Jen leaves Huntington Beach long before dawn and drives through the desert for hours to visit me. Talk about dedication! Visitations are first come, first served, and she’s always first in line. Those visits are among the best memories in my life to that point. We hang out from eight in the morning until three in the afternoon, talking and praying. Watching her arrive is as joyful as watching her leave is difficult.”
I know that some people think I’m faking Christianity and hiding behind the Bible to get better time. It happens all the time, but I’m not a poser and never have been. Besides, that sort of pretense doesn’t work very well in here. In here, your only chance of survival is to pick a side and make your stand.
My stand is firm and I don’t look back. I mean, we’re housed right near the ultimate party town, Las Vegas. In the past I did my share of celebrating there, but I’ve completely lost my taste for all that. I’m not thinking about the bright lights or endless parties; I’m concentrating on knowing God better and staying close with my family.
I work busing tables and washing pots and pans. A lot of inmates know who I am, but for the most part I’m just another guy in a khaki uniform—and I’m certainly a long way from $500 belts and $800 boots. This is exactly what I need, the best place in the world to get broken down so that God can build me back up. It takes that sort of breaking to realize that I’m no more important than anyone else and that there’s no partiality with God. Still, a day doesn’t pass that people don’t remind me about my past as a skater. That’s cool, but it doesn’t mean nearly what it used to.
Although the trophies and the groupies have become insignificant, I still long to skate. Any skater will tell you that when they look at structures, all they see is places to skate. You see a banked wall, you think of skating it. You see a ditch, you think of skating it. You see a pool, you just hope it’s empty so you can ride it. A skater will look right past Notre Dame Cathedral to those flying buttresses, which seem perfect for skating! You’re constantly scoping out every curb, ramp, or swimming pool, even tracing water pouring down a streetside gutter to see if it leads to a pool being drained.
In prison I see so many things I want to skate. I look at the bars on the triple-decker bunk beds and think about how hard I could grind on them. The picnic tables are made of metal and would be killer to skate. The ditch by the rec yard would be a perfect jump ramp; I see myself doing ollies over it. I mentally skate everything, all the time.
It’s just dreaming, though. The only time I actually touch a skateboard is when I’m in the San Bernardino County jail. A woman who works there tells me she has two of my boards she wants signed. She says that if I do that, she’ll get me whatever food I want. I think about sushi but end up getting an In-N-Out burger for myself and one for this Southsider friend of mine, because that’s what he wants. I sign her two Black Label Hosoi boards, then stand on one of them and ollie on the carpet—and that’s the extent of my skate time for the duration.
Like everything else, prison is what you make it. I take advantage of the time and finally graduate from high school. Jen comes to visit on graduation day, and I still remember the beautiful dress she’s wearing. The only other woman in my life, my mom, is really stoked that I finally graduate.
FINALLY, THE RIGHT LAWYER
All the legal work I need done gets expensive, and we’re having a tough time financially. Suddenly God busts open the doors with Pony shoes. The opportunity comes through Block:
CHRISTIAN AND I HADN’T SPOKEN FOR A WHILE WHEN I WORKED OUT THIS DEAL WITH PONY. I WAS SHOOTING AN AD CAMPAIGN FOR THEM ABOUT FAMOUS ATHLETES THAT HAD DIFFICULTIES IN THEIR LIVES. ONE OF THEIR MAIN GUYS WAS BASEBALL STAR PETE ROSE. THE ADS WERE LIKE, WHATEVER HAPPENED TO PETE ROSE? GAMBLING TOOK HIM OUT. THEY HAD SOME OTHER GUYS TOO. WHEN I TOLD THEM THEY NEEDED HOSOI, THEY WENT FOR IT.
© TED TERREBONNE.
I fit right in with Pony’s program, and they sign me to a two-year deal for 50 grand. Every six months we’ll get paid like 12 grand. Before the two-year contract is up, Pony informs us that they’re dropping the program. I’m like, “Okay, thank
s for the money.” Money for nothin’! If that’s not God, I don’t know what is.
Dave Duncan raises a lot of money too, and he gets a lot of pro skaters to put up funds. It says a lot about him and my other friends that they’ll go to bat for me like that. It also says a lot for my wife and the rest of my family, the way they keep fighting to get me released, even when things look impossible.
Chicken has been busy too; he’s been printing FREE HOSOI stickers and T-shirts, and he’s told me where those have been sent. A bunch of us inmates are hanging out one day, watching an awards show on TV. The Chili Peppers are about to play, and I tell some of the guys that I’ve heard that the Chili Peppers have been wearing FREE HOSOI shirts. One of the guys in the TV room is like, “Yeah, right—whatever, dude.” They naturally think I’m trippin’. When the band comes on, though, there’s the front man, Anthony Kiedis, and sure enough, it says FREE HOSOI on his shirt. All the other band members are also wearing FREE HOSOI shirts, except for Flea. Flea never wears a shirt for shows, so he’s got FREE HOSOI painted on his chest! The other inmates can’t believe it; they’re like, “What; you really do know those dudes?”
HOSOI FAMILY COLLECTION.
I’ve had four lawyers before we hire the right one, Myles Breiner. All our earlier lawyers either lie to us or say, “There’s nothing we can do for you.” So tell me why we’re paying you again?
At my sentencing it’s immediately apparent that the judge is on our side and wants me released. Problem is there’s only a small window of time when he can reduce my sentence. It’s all because of a legal case, Butler v. the United States, in which mandatory minimum sentences were stricken down as illegal. But the law is about to be changed, and then the judge’s hands will be tied. He can see that I’ve been rehabilitated and he wants to give me so-called downward departures—that is, incremental steps toward a lesser sentence than would ordinarily be granted.
Hosoi Page 20