At 72 years old, Curtis Rodgers continues to fight—not with his fists as he did in his younger days, but with purpose and a commitment to serving others. A veteran, husband, community leader, and advocate, Curtis has spent the last five years making up for the 32 he spent behind bars.
“I originally got 20 to life. I got there because of my addiction, being a hot-head, and pain that I never dealt with. But that’s not what defines me anymore. What defines me is what I’ve built in spite of all that.”
While incarcerated, Curtis helped launch the Black Prisoners Caucus and eventually helped turn it into a nonprofit. What started as a small, grassroots group inside the walls of Walla Walla Penitentiary has grown in a movement for advocacy, equity, and change—one that worked directly with leaders like former Mayor Henry Beauchamp and helped give a voice to those still behind bars. Curtis’ efforts brought people together from all racial and cultural groups to work collectively to fight for policy change including increasing gate money provided at release from prison from $40 to $300.
This mission didn’t stop once he was released. But coming home wasn’t easy.
After three decades locked away, the world had changed. Things that are simple for most people—like using a phone or public transportation—felt foreign. While trying to catch up after losing years of his life, Curtis also had to deal with the stress of wearing an ankle monitor and reporting his travel activity a week in advance.
Despite the challenges that came with reintegration, Curtis helped his wife buy a home. He committed himself to reentry work and has shown up every Monday to Civil Survival’s Game Changer meetings, supporting others in their own reentry journey. Currently, he is also working with our Senior Attorney Maddisson with the hopes to vacate his record and seek a pardon for a murder conviction—something that continues to limit his opportunities.
“I used to work at Home Depot but I got fired even though I was upfront about my record. A manager said they didn’t want to work with a murderer. At another job, people with less experience got promoted over me just because they didn’t want an ex-convict in charge. It was frustrating but I kept my head up. I didn’t let it stop me from doing what I’m here to do.”
Curtis’ wife has worked with youth all of her life, and with their children fully grown, she dreams of opening her home and providing housing to struggling youth so they don’t end up in the foster system. But because of Curtis’s felony, that dream is currently on hold. It’s one of the many ways his past continues to cast a shadow—even as his present proves his growth.
However, in the face of the barriers and stigma he still faces, he has become a force to be reckoned with. He’s worked with the NAACP, the Seattle Clemency Project, and now, The Foundation in Southwest Washington, helping returning community members find housing, employment, and a second chance. Whether it’s through the First-Time Homeowner Program, clothing drives, or one-on-one mentorship, Curtis is deeply embedded in the work of healing his community.
Curtis reminds us that redemption isn’t one size fits all. Sometimes it looks like working graveyard shifts to support your family and going to therapy to heal a lifetime of pain. Other times, it’s leading community meetings, making advocacy calls, or offering words of encouragement to someone coming home.
But most of all, redemption looks like building hope–brick by brick.