4 JUNE 15,2008
Smoke Signals
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Simmons' story of loss and redemption is an acclaimed documentary movie
By Ron Karten
Smoke Signals staff writer
During his youth, it was not
uncommon for Tribal Elder James
"Jimi" Simmons, 56, to be running
away.
At MacLaren School for Boys,
there was a river out back where
runaways headed when they want
ed to escape.
"I used to ask him, 'Where did you
think you were going?' " said Jimi's
wife, Karen Rudolph, one of the
community activists who helped set
him free from a life in state institu
tions in 1983. "He had no idea. He
just felt he didn't belong in those
places."
"Everybody always felt if you
made the river," Jimi said, "you had
a good chance of making it (all the
way). Essentially, making the river
is about being free."
Jimi grew up a ward of the state
of Oregon. He spent time in foster
homes, St. Mary's School for Boys in
Beaverton and MacLaren School for
Boys in Woodburn.
As an adult, the names of the
places he called home changed to
Oregon State Penitentiary, Oregon
State Correctional Institution and,
finally, seven years in the notorious
Washington State Penitentiary at
Walla Walla, where he was accused
of murdering a guard.
He was acquitted in 1981 and
paroled in 1983.
Many of those who started out as
wards of the state of Oregon with
Jimi also followed him through the
state's many facilities for housing
criminals.
"All the guys from the orphan
age were in the institutions," Jimi
said.
And a growing number of Natives
caught up in these criminal justice
systems have, like Jimi, turned
their lives around. In the twenty
plus years since Jimi was released
from Walla Walla, he and Rudolph
have adopted two special needs
Native children Arthur, 13, and
Jacob, 11 and they continue to
support the dreams of others.
"We put one woman through law
school and we're currently putting
two young Indian students and one
middle-aged woman through col
lege," Rudolph said.
"We believe that people should
tithe. I think it's the Creator's
money. We just get to use some, and
then we should give some back."
Jimi also serves on the board of
the grass-roots Diabetes Advisory
Council in San Jose, Calif., near
where the family lives in Los Al
tos. "We've seen a lot of Indians dying
of diabetes within the Indian com
munity," he said.
The family also is a sponsor and
juror of the American Indian Film
Festival. With the completion of
"Making the River," their first
documentary, in 2006, which they
continue to market through film
festivals, they have embarked on
a career in the movies, Rudolph
said.
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"Making the River" has won a
slew of honors, including being
nominated for Best Documentary
by the American Indian Film Fes
tival in 2007 and winning the Eagle
Spirit Award in 2007. It was named
an official participant in the Seattle
International Film Festival's My
Festival of 2008.
The documentary tells Jimi's life
story.
One of 13 children, Jimi said, "A
lot either succumbed to alcohol, car
accidents, suicide. (Brother) Mike
drank himself to death."
Jimi was pulled from his family
and placed in state custody in 1954.
He was 17 months old. It was the
same year the government termi
nated the Grand Ronde Tribe and
other federally recognized Tribes.
Jimi never knew for sure what
happened to his mother.
I le heard she had a nervous break
down and was institutionalized, and
then later he heard that she maybe
went to the hospitals again and
again to get away from her husband,
Simmons' father, who "wasn't very
nice to her."
For Jimi, Oregon State Peniten
tiary was a place of mixed blessings.
It was there, through the Lakota
Club, that he first learned that he
was a member of the Grand Ronde
Tribe and also learned about his
Native culture.
I le did not meet his brother George
Photos courtesy of prxine.com
Tribal Elder Jimi Simmons and his
wife, Karen Rudolph, on the steps
outside of the Walla Walla County
Superior Courthouse in 2005.
4 Tribal Elder Jimi Simmons on the
day a verdict was returned "not
guilty" for the murder of a guard in
the Washington State Penitentiary
in Walla Walla.
until they were in their 20s. When
he did, the two went on a few binges
together and ultimately ended up
together in the Washington State
Penitentiary at Walla Walla.
"I didn't care," Jimi said. "I didn't
have much of a conscience. It's just
the way I lived then.
"I tried to find out about (the
Tribe), but it was terminated then."
In fact, Jimi's troubled years from
1954 through 1983, when he was
paroled mirror the troubled years
for the Grand Ronde Tribe and
many other terminated Tribes.
It was also in Walla Walla that the
Simmons brothers were involved in
the killing of a prison guard. The
incident led to the longest lockdown
in the state's history.
George pleaded guilty and ulti
mately committed suicide in prison.
Jimi saw the end of his life ap
proaching, too, because he was
charged with first-degree murder.
Enter Rudolph, a women's studies
teacher at the University of Wash
ington in Seattle.
"I got involved with Indian people
through women's studies," she said.
"We lobbied against sterilization
abuse of Native American women. It
was a huge problem in the 1970s."
In the process, Lakota Elder Phil
Lane, a member of the Army Corps
of Engineers who helped design
salmon ladders for the Columbia
River dams, sponsored the Indian
inmates, then known as The Broth
erhood of American Indians.
He helped them get a sweat lodge
built, the fourth one after prison
personnel tore down the first three.
He chopped wood on his own prop
erty to heat the place.
"It was like being free," Simmons
said of the sweat lodge.
In 1981, after spending two-and-a-half
years in solitary confinement
awaiting trial, Jimi was acquitted of
the murder.
"I think it was because they seen
that guard was lying," said Jimi.
"The prosecutor got out and said
that the only way he would pros
ecute a case in the prison is if a
guard witnessed it, and I think this
guy didn't want to lie, but they made
him lie (saying) that he seen me do
it. But he told a different story than
everybody else told."
He was paroled from his remain
ing convictions in 1983, and then,
Rudolph said, the harder work
began.
"What happened after was in
some ways harder. After all the help
he had received, he felt a responsi
bility to stay out," she said.
"I had a struggle with a number
of different alcohol programs," Jimi
said. "I understood that I had to quit
drinking. I didn't want to continue
my life the way I had been.
When I won (the parole hearing), I
didn't want to just go out and come
right back. I really didn't want to
do that because so many people had
supported me. I knew my problem
was alcohol and drugs.
'The case changed my whole life.
I guess it let me believe in myself.
Most of my young life, I made the
bad choices. I thought it was part
of me.
"I really haven't finished up. I
haven't drank in almost 20 years.
I understand that it's a progressive
disease, but you know my life is
a lot better now, and I'm making
good choices now instead of bad
choices.
"The biggest thing that helped
me, I found myself being worth ask
ing for help. Before, I would never
ask for help. I think that had to do
with self-esteem. I didn't feel I was
worth it."
He also credited "listening to my
Elders and stuff, and praying and
building a good strong spiritual
foundation" for his recovery.
Today, he returns to visit Indian
prisoners "to let them know that
people care about them."
All this struggle, the failures as
well as the successes, have trans
formed many lives.
Since being released, Jimi worked
construction for more than a de
cade. "I told them that I was going to re
tire by the time I reached 40," Jimi
said. "They said, 'You're crazy. I
actually retired when I was 43. We'd
adopted those kids and I decided to
take care of them."
The money now comes from the
sale of a family construction com
pany, a financial deal that left the
Simmonses well off.
"I'm just glad we have the money
to help the kids out," Jimi said.
See RIVER
continued on next page