From Sticky Fingers to God-Gifted Hands
Looking back, as a young boy at five, I remember my brother borrowing my bike to go to the store. He came back without it and told me someone had stolen it. That was the first time I learned about stealing and what it meant. My mother raised six of us—three boys and three girls. We were okay but far from rich. I remember watching Superman on TV. One villain, Lex Luthor, gave Superman so much trouble and would proudly declare, “I’m the greatest criminal mind of all time.” Those words stuck with me. One day, I stole some candy, and it felt good. By the age of seven, I climbed through my neighbor’s window and stole his toys.
By 17, I ended up in the Youth Guidance Center. At 18, I was in San Francisco County Jail for a house burglary I didn’t commit and served six months. At 19, I was arrested for another house burglary in San Francisco. The judge gave me six years, and I was assigned my first prison number. During that time, I started doing artwork. I felt like I was good at it—self-taught, with no one willing to teach me. When I got out, a friend introduced me to “easy money” taking things from houses and loading them into trucks. Soon enough, I was back in the system, receiving another four years and a new number.. After that, I picked up a third number and returned to prison again. Each time I was incarcerated, I focused on my art.
After my release, I wanted a fresh start. San Francisco didn’t feel right anymore, so I reached out to my sister in Texas. She told me to take the Greyhound bus and come stay with her. Within weeks of arriving, I found myself in trouble again, breaking into someone’s house due to my “sticky finger” addiction. This time, I received a ten-year sentence. When I got out after serving the full ten years, I tried to stay clean, but my addiction followed me. As time passed, I came to understand that trouble exists everywhere—no matter where you go. After two stents in Texas, I decided to return to California. Back in San Francisco, the only place I could afford to live was the Tenderloin.
By then, my artwork was top-notch, and I was making good money. But no matter how much I earned, I hadn’t dealt with my addiction. One night, I was outside smoking a cigarette, leaning against the wall of a bar. The window next to me was open, and before I knew it, I was inside the bar. That window, left open after closing, led me right back to jail. I spent eight years in county jail, where I finally began to understand myself. I joined every program available and started reflecting on why I did the things I did. I worked to understand my addiction and promised myself I’d never take something that didn’t belong to me again.
I was released in 2010 but ended up back in jail in 2021 with a sentence of nine years and eight months. Looking back, I see the turning points in my life. I remember one incident vividly: I had filled a truck with stolen items, and as I was unloading, I started thinking about fingerprints. Fearing I’d left prints behind, I went back to wipe them down—and got caught. That moment taught me a lesson about my actions and their consequences.
Today, I have 90 days left until I go home. After all these years, I live for God. My hands, once used for taking, are now used to create. God has blessed me in ways I never imagined, and I finally understand the value of an honest life. I no longer take what isn’t mine, and I’m grateful every day for the gifts God has given me.
