Jojo Godinez - Reformed: How a Life Sentence Became My Saving Grace

Praise forREFORMED

Careful with this book. It dares to hold the heat of the streets, of a gun barrel, of a young mans pounding heart, and even hotter as that hearts chambers load with the fire of divine love. This is what change looks like, up close. I hope this gripping book can ignite new fires in cells and minds alike.

Chris Hoke, gang pastor, cofounder of Underground Ministries, and author of WANTED: A Spiritual Journey Through Jail, Among Outlaws, and Across Borders

Jojo walks with courage and strength not only on a prison yard but in the community. He is unmovable and without compromise in his love for Christ and family. He shows that your past doesnt have to be your future.

Wayne Garcia, vice president of programs, HealthRIGHT 360

Jojos story is a modern-day miracle. It proves that no matter how deep you are broken, God can put you back together.

Brian V. Warth, pastor of Chapel of Change, Paramount, California

This book honestly reignited my passion for God. It reminded me of how great God is and what it looks like when one is introduced to a God who is limitless to move in supernatural ways. This book was so moving, it has the potential to resurrect others who are committing suicide by joining the gangs.

Elizabeth Diaz, social worker

Disclaimer

This is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are true and have been faithfully rendered as remembered by the authors, to the best of their abilities, or as told to the authors by eyewitnesses. Some names and identities have been changed to protect the privacy, anonymity, and/or integrity of individuals involved; and some dialogue has been recreated and some circumstances have been changed, combined, or reordered for the sake of the story.

Chapter 1

JOJO

1988

Were not going to hit you too hard.

Diablos laughter was the last thing I heard before the gang descended on me, showering my stomach and head with hit after hit. I grabbed hold of someones shirt, trying to fight back. I spun around, looking to hit someone else. I swung my body, my arms, my fists.

I couldnt see anythingI didnt know who I was hitting or who was hitting me. It was a lose-lose situation, but I had to keep trying. I was knocked down a couple times, but I knew I couldnt stay down. That was a sign of weakness.

The neighborhood didnt want weak.

In the dozens of initiations Id witnessed, Id seen guys who didnt fight back, only shielded their body from the violence. When their two minutes were up, the gang didnt want them anymore. I was just as disgusted. When my time came, I knew I would never cower.

So blindly, I kept swinging until two minutes passed and Diablo called stop. I could never win; it wasnt designed for that.

See homie, youre from the neighborhood now. Youre from Cadbrook.

Someone pulled me up, another had nabbed a rag to clean up my bloody lip, while another handed me a beer. I usually wasnt a drinker, but my adrenaline was pumping and I needed something to calm me down. I took it and chugged.

From now on, fool, you should be called Boxer, Diablo told me. Youre not just going to be Jojo from Puente no more, youre going to be Boxer from Cadbrook.

I earned the name because of my reputation as a fighter. My dad had fought in Vietnam as a Marine; hed seen warfare, exploding bombs, and torn limbs. He reared me to be a fighter, too, always hitting me, scolding me, pushing me to be better. At 15, I was too young for the military, but Id become a soldier. Just not the one my dad had envisioned.

Since childhood, I was known to jump into gang fights, swiping out the knife from my back pocket to swing at enemies from across town. That knife became a handgun and then an AK-47 before I hit my teens. I was loyal to my city, La Puente, and now to the neighborhood clique, Cadbrook Street.

No one living inside the apartment complex behind us bothered to interrupt the beating. My life had been sold in the space of two minutes. I gave it willingly.

The others returned to their abandoned beer bottles and cigarettes, giving me some space as the sky turned black. The night was a graduation of sorts. The gang trusted me to represent Cadbrook, and I swore to never dishonor them. I knew doing so would come at a cost. Death awaited any of us who chose to leave.

It wasnt until the next day when the adrenaline wore off that I felt the pain of the beating. My head ached, my ear was purple, my eyes were red, and black bruises emerged, covering my back.

They were scars I was proud of, scars I thanked my homies for letting me have.

Chapter 2

JOJO

1989

The violence was endless, and my enemies haunted me. They lived around the corner, drove past me on the street, ate at the same restaurants. It was a strange thing that guys I had never seen before now wanted me dead. Any day could be my last, but Cadbrook Street was my sanctuary.

One afternoon, the house on Cadbrook faded out of view as my homeboy Peewee drove toward enemy territory, winding through residential streets.

I rode shotgun. Peewee turned the volume up on the stereo so that the music and poetry of N.W.A. spilled out of the car windows. The words I knew all too well because I lived and breathed them. And because Peewee always inserted that same cassette tape into every car he stole. This red truck was taken days ago, and I had an ominous feeling cops had been looking for it a little too long.

Peewee only stopped the truck onceto pick up two girls in tight jeans who were waiting in the high school parking lot. They piled into the backseat with Danger, a new recruit to the gang who had lived in La Puente for only a few years. I always wondered how much I could depend on someone I hadnt known my entire life.

In the backseat, Danger flirted with the girls, but Peewees focus was on the streets. His head nodded to the beat of the music, as if in silent compliance to the lyrics. I mouthed them, too, as Ice Cube rapped about guns and homicide.

I was 4 years old the first time I heard gunshots hitting the side of my house. Theyd been shot at my bedroom window with more fervor ever since I turned 12. I was used to people trying to kill me.

When I was 10, my neighbors older brothers handed me and my friends our first handgun. We hid it in the bushes and pulled it out when guys from other streets walked into our neighborhood looking for a fight. Someone would yell, Get the gun! Wed wave it around and shoot a warning shot in the air to scare them away.

It made us feel strong, bold, invincible.

It still had that same effect.

Talking over the music, Peewee said that a couple days ago he and some other guys chased a group of enemy gang members walking home from school.

Is that right? I asked. Where at?

They were running down this street right here, Peewee said, pointing as he turned the trucks steering wheel. They ran into a house with the garage door open.

Peewee looked as if hed been plotting a counterattack for a while. All the bullets that had flown by us were coming to mind. They were spurring us on, feeding our anger.

Peewee pointed at the house. It was a typical single-story home with a well-manicured lawn, a home like the ones in my middle-class neighborhood. The garage door was again open. Tools and cinder blocks cluttered the driveway. The men out front looked like me, my age, my clothes, my skin color. But they were different. Just because they were enemies.