Brotherhood in Black and Grey:
How a Memorial Tattoo Brought Back Buried Memories

Some tattoos stay with you long after the session is over. Make you forget about parts of yourself you’d forgotten existed.

Not because of the size or the detail or how long they took, but because of the story sitting across from you. Because of the weight someone is carrying when they walk into your studio.

That’s what this memorial piece was for me.

When Tino flew out from Oakland, I could tell right away this wasn’t just another portrait. He’d been saving for years to get this done by me, and once he started talking about who it was for, I understood why.custom tattoos

Two Cultures, One Brotherhood life lessons and legacy

Tino is Mexican, born and raised in the Bay. His “brother,” the man in the portrait, was Cambodian—like me. 

If you know Oakland, you know how big both communities are there—Mexican, Cambodian, Vietnamese, Black, Filipino—all living side by side with a long history, good and bad. Growing up in the San Gabriel Valley, this wasn’t just something I heard about; I lived it, too.

A lot of times, different races didn’t get along. There was gang activity. Politics on the streets. Tension you didn’t even have to speak out loud; you just felt it. 

But inside that environment, Tino and his brother created their own world. They grew up together. Lived together. Ate together. They did everything together.

His brother taught him everything—how to speak Cambodian, how to eat Cambodian dishes, how to talk to girls, how to read situations, how to move smart. He didn’t just teach him the culture. He took care of him.

That’s the kind of bond you don’t fake.
That’s real family. Every bit as thick as blood.

When you’re in that environment, the people who have memorial, your survival. I can speak to that firsthand.

And when you lose someone like that, it changes something inside you forever.
You lose a part of yourself.

A Hard Story to Tell

When we started talking about how he lost him, everything shifted. You could feel the heaviness in the room. How he had to pull the words out of him. Tino tried to explain it but kept stopping, getting emotional.

His brother passed in his sleep from an overdose.

You never forget moments like that, when someone tries to stay strong but their whole heart is breaking right there in front of you. I knew that feeling too well. I’ve lost friends the same way. People I considered family. People I thought would make it out with me.

People who knew me before I ever dreamed of even making it out.

That’s why he came to me. He told me he trusted me to do this because of where I came from: my Cambodian culture, my background, my time on the streets. He knew I’d understand what this piece truly meant. That I’d get the heart behind it.

And he was right. I did.

A Promise They Made Years Ago

At one point, Tino told me that when they were young, his brother said:

“If I ever pass, make sure you get a nice portrait of me.”

They said it jokingly back then, the way young guys do, not fully imagining it would become real.

And now here we were, years later, keeping that promise.

Tino already knew exactly which picture he wanted to use. It wasn’t the cleanest or the sharpest photo. But it had his brother’s swag. His mustache, his stance, his attitude. The look that made people know exactly who he was.

He didn’t want a polished version. He wanted him. An honest, raw version of him, something he could keep with him forever.

That’s what portrait tattoos are supposed to be. They’re truth, not perfection.

The Session: When Grief Sits Beside You

Tattooing him that day? It hit different.

We talked the whole session. We went into their childhood, their neighborhood, the culture they shared, the things his brother did for him. Every story pulled him closer and closer back to those moments.

And the more he shared, the more it pulled me back too.

I started thinking about the people I lost. The people I knew and loved who OD’ed. The ones who never made it out of the streets or out of prison. The ones who reached out for help too late. Friends who became family.

There were moments where I had to take breaks, not for my hands, but for my eyes. I had to wipe them, breathe, get myself together.

This tattoo took me somewhere I hadn’t been in a long time.
Bittersweet. Heavy. Real.

By the time we finished, I understood him; his story hit a part of me I don’t open often. 

The loss he carries is something I’ve felt in my own way, more times than I ever wanted to. Sitting with him, hearing about his brother, it reminded me of a world I came from and a version of myself I spent years trying to grow out of.

But you never outgrow loss. 

The People I Couldn’t Save

Doing this piece brought up something I don’t talk about much.

In a sense, it’s like I’ve lived two lives. There was the me before prison—chasing the streets, chasing the fast money, chasing a version of respect that only existed in that world. And then there’s the me I am now: a father, an entrepreneur, building an academy, publishing a book, trying to give back to the next generation.

For a long time, I was embarrassed of that first version of me. I buried him so deep that I tried to forget the names, the faces, the people who stood beside me back then. I didn’t want to remember that part of my story.

I didn’t want to remember the people who never got the chance to rewrite theirs.

But the older I get, the more I realize I can’t pretend he didn’t exist. I came out on top, and that’s not something to hide from; it’s something to honor. 

It’s okay to admit I made mistakes. It’s okay to say I used to be someone I’m not proud of. And it’s okay to remember the people who didn’t survive that version of our lives.

I’m not the man I was before. But he’s still a part of me.
He’s the reason I understand struggle better than I understand almost anything else. And he’s the reason I feel it so deeply when someone sits in my chair carrying that same kind of pain.

Years ago, one of my good friends was going through a rough time: divorce, legal issues, trying to find work. I was living in North Carolina then, decades ago. Barely starting the life I have now, still working at my first studio. 

He called me late at night. I was asleep. I didn’t pick up.

In the voicemail, he kept calling my name.
His voice didn’t sound like him. It sounded lost. Empty.

By the time I heard the message the next morning, he was gone. He had hung himself.

He wanted to work with me. He wanted a way out.
We had plans. I was going to move him up to North Carolina, get him a spot in my studio.

But all of that went away when I didn’t pick up the phone.
That guilt? I carried it for years. I still do. No matter how hard I try to suppress it, that loss still messes with me to this day.

So when people sit in my chair carrying their grief, it does something to me.

Anthony, who became like a brother to me, and others at our friend’s funeral. Feels like more than a lifetime ago; it feels like a different life.

It reminds me why I want to help, why I want to guide, why I want to be someone people can turn to before it’s too late. I couldn’t save everyone back then, but maybe I can show someone now that there’s another way through the pain.

What Loss Taught Me

That loss changed something in me. It made me realize how fragile the line is between holding on and letting go, between making it out and getting pulled back under. It forced me to see how easily life can slip away from someone who’s fighting battles nobody else can see.

For a long time, I didn’t talk about it. I didn’t know how.
Back then, I still didn’t feel worthy of anything good happening to me. I was trying to escape the person I used to be, trying to outrun my past instead of learning from it. I wasn’t ready to accept that the streets weren’t just a chapter; they were a part of me, and so were the people I lost along the way.

But grief has a way of catching up to you.
And when it did, it forced me to take a hard look at why I survived when so many people I loved didn’t.

I think about my friend a lot. Not just about how he died, but about who he was before life broke him down. He was smart. Loyal. Talented. The kind of guy who just needed one chance, one person to show him there was more out there for him.

I wish I could’ve been that person for him.
And even though I can’t change what happened, his memory pushes me to try to be that person now—for the artists I mentor, for those still coming up, and even for clients who sit in my chair carrying more than I’ll ever see on their skin.

That’s why sessions like this hit me the way they do. Their pain mirrors something I’ve lived through. Something I’m still learning how to carry.

No, loss like that never leaves you.
You just learn how to grow around it.

What This Tattoo Meant For Both of Us

For Tino, this tattoo was culture. Family. A promise. A way to keep his brother alive every time he looks in the mirror.

For me, it was perspective.
A reminder of where I came from.
A reminder of who didn’t make it out.
A reminder of how lucky I am that so many of the people I love are still here.

It could’ve been me.
In a lot of ways, it was me.

Tattooing Tino didn’t just honor his brother; it honored every friend I’ve lost. Every young version of myself who didn’t know if he’d see another year.

What I Carried Out of That Room

That session opened a door I’d kept shut for years.

It reminded me:

Memorial pieces carry a weight only some people understand. They’re not just portraits.
They’re acknowledgments of the lives that shaped us, the pain that changed us, and the love we refuse to let die.

It was a reminder of why I’m still here.

I can’t save everyone. I couldn’t back then, and I can’t now.
But I can honor them.
I can learn from those losses.

I can live a life they’d be proud of.
I can pour myself into my work, my community.

I can keep showing up.

Because if there’s one thing grief has taught me, it’s this:

We carry our people forward through what we build, what we create, and who we choose to become.
We can choose to live with purpose.
We can choose to give back.

And as much as this story touches on culture and where we come from, what it really showed me is that none of that matters when it comes to love.

In the end, it’s not about being Cambodian or Mexican, or where you grew up or what color you are.
Family isn’t about blood; it’s about who stood by you. Who shaped you. Who you’d give everything for.

That’s something every one of us can feel, no matter our background.

As we move into the holiday season, that reminder hits even harder. This time of year is supposed to feel warm, but for a lot of people, it doesn’t.

Addiction and suicide spike during the holidays. People carry their battles quietly, and sometimes the strongest-looking ones are hurting the most.

If you’re struggling, there’s help out there. There are people who care. It’s not something you have to battle alone; I’ve seen firsthand what happens when someone feels like they have no one to call.

Reach out. Speak up.
Your story isn’t done yet.

This season, I’m doing what I can to give back, through our toy drive at Skin Design Tattoos, supporting families and kids who need a little extra light right now. Supporting Benji and his friends at the Summerlin Hospital.

It’s a small gesture, but small gestures build community. They remind people they’re not alone.

And maybe that’s the real meaning behind pieces like this. Not the sadness, but the connection.
The reminder that even in loss, we still have each other.

In the end, love outlives everything. And if we can keep showing up for one another—across cultures, across struggles, across whatever life throws our way—then the people we’ve lost never really leave us.

They live on in how we care. How we give. How we choose to move forward.

That’s the heart of this piece.
That’s the heart of this season.