Getting The Dream Done: Final Part
When Keila Hernandez started to slip in sixth grade, there were plenty of people there to push her forward. But the words of one man in particular made an impression. Part Three: Keila's teacher Brett helps a student in his 6th grade class EAST BOSTON—You might think he’s crazy, handing out his cell phone number and urging his students to use it. Answering their calls after school is over, and dinner is done, and he’s already started grading papers—sometimes as many as 20 calls in a night. Brett Pangburn, 37, just says this: “Well, then don’t be a teacher.” Because this is what it takes to help the students at Excel Academy, the charter school where Brett has taught sixth grade English the past four years. Some kids show up the first day unclear about where to put a period. They use capital letters in the wrong places. Their question marks are upside down. It’s only knowledge, and with time and work and discipline, they can learn it. But often, they’ve failed elsewhere, and the feeling has stuck. Brett is constantly trying to put something better in its place.
Getting The Dream Done
At the end of fifth grade, Keila Hernandez was struggling, and starting not to care. But the support she found in a small storefront middle school changed the way she saw school and herself. Part Two in a series: Keila, The Student  Keila in a study group with friends EAST BOSTON — The kids at the sixth grade assembly were saying her name, like, Oh, Of Course It’s Going to Be Keila. But Keila Hernandez didn’t believe them. This was a big award—the award for perseverance. It had to go to someone else.
Only, it didn't. Mr. Pangburn, her English teacher, made the announcement, and the next minute, Keila was walking down the line of smiling teachers at Excel Academy, shaking everyone’s hand. Her face was all red, and she was trying hard not to cry, but it was only a matter of time.
“When I got to the principal, that’s when it happened,” said Keila,14, several months later. “My glasses fell off and everything.”
There were a lot of things she felt in that moment—excited, nervous, a little embarrassed, to be at the center of so much attention. But the main thing was proud.
This was not an easy school. So many times, she could have stopped trying. But Keila wanted to go to college.
Getting The Dream Done
A few years ago, Keila Hernandez was falling behind in class, afraid to raise her hand, and hopeless at the thought of middle school. This is the story of what it took to put Keila on the path to college. Part One: Her Mother Daisy cooks the family dinner after work EAST BOSTON— Drifting is what she calls it. The way one small decision leads to another, then suddenly, the kids are out of school, standing around with friends on the street. Maybe they’re there for a day; maybe they’re there for a decade.
Daisy Polanco passes them on the street, and she worries: what if it happens to hers? “I pray every day that they don’t drift to that,” says Daisy, 35, a single mother of three. “That’s my always fear.” Drifting can happen in any neighborhood, to any child. But because they live in a low-income neighborhood, and because they are Latino, and because two of them have special needs, the statistics suggest this: Daisy’s children are at higher risk for dropping out of school. Daisy is not interested in the specifics—that in Boston, 30 percent of Latino students dropped out of the class of 2008; that about half graduated on time, the lowest rate of any group of students in the city, according to the most recent state data. This is the kind of thing that interests local principals and national policy makers; it’s their job to close the gap between kids of different cultures and classes and natural capabilities. It’s their job to figure out how to boost achievement for all children—to get them into college, and to help them graduate. It’s Daisy’s job, nearly every hour of every day, to figure out how to save her own.
Strength in the Spotlight The Help-Portrait shoot for at-risk girls ARLINGTON — She was small at first, standing against a white backdrop, surrounded by soft lights, and upside-down umbrellas, and photographers smiling behind their cameras, encouraging her to pose. Then Shanaya, 17, had an idea:
“What’s that thing they do on the red carpet?”
And everything was easy from there. She turned her back to the cameras, placed her right hand on her hip, cast a pouty look over her shoulder, and suddenly, there was the fun. Whole, long minutes of it, designed especially for her.
“It felt good to take my guard down,” said Shanaya, who lives at Germaine Lawrence, a residential treatment program for at-risk adolescent girls. “I went all out.”
All around the world last weekend, photographers gathered to take portraits of people who are often overlooked—people without homes, or good health, or a steady income, people who might see portraits as something only others can afford.
They had their hair styled. They got their makeup done. And then, smiling like celebrities, they stepped into the spotlight at shelters and schools, churches and community centers. By the end of the weekend, according to the organizers of Help-Portrait, 36,000 people had professional portraits to give as gifts this holiday season.
Lenny and His Ladies Lenny at the Ms. Senior Sweetheart Pageant FALL RIVER — For a while there, it looked a little dicey. The ladies were safely tucked away in the makeup room, getting their hair curled and coiffed. But outside, in the hallway, crisis had come to the annual Ms Senior Sweetheart Pageant. Word was spreading fast.
And Lenny Kaplan was spreading it. An hour before the show was to begin, his tuxedo still on its hanger, a sandwich in one hand, a cell phone in the other, the 79-year-old unofficial mayor of Fall River was holding court in the hallway, informing all members of his crew who did not know.
“Somewheres,” he said with a solemn face, “a gown is missing.”
Not to worry. These things happen. In 31 years of running this show, Lenny has seen plenty of nice plans fall to pieces. Didn’t one of his right-hand men call in early this morning with some kind of sickness? He did indeed. But Lenny made do.
There are so many moving pieces to this pageant for women aged 58 to 84. Every year, they arrive in Fall River and stay for 11 days—touring the city, performing at nursing homes, answering the judges’ questions.
Then comes the big day, this day, when they show off their talents to several hundred in the local high school auditorium under a blitzkrieg of lights.
“They’re absolutely gorgeous in their evening gowns,” Lenny says. “They shine, they bubble, they walk across the stage.”
So of course Lenny is calling around, and looking for that gown, and telling the hotel receptionist he loves her, when the gown is finally found.
Lenny has a life outside the pageant—a patient wife, two understanding children, a couple of thriving businesses, more friends than he can possibly count. But anyone in Fall River will tell you, this is the kind of thing he lives for: The sight of a 74-year-old woman from St. Louis gliding across the stage in her red sequined gown, smiling pretty, smiling proud.
Playing to the Crowd
 Mel and some of his Friday night faithful BOSTON — Early in the evening, he can understand it. People are tired from the day. They amble in, they settle down, they sip a pint, they talk amongst themselves. Fair enough.
But by 10 p.m., Mel Stiller has been sitting behind the piano, pounding away, for two hours. So sue him if he’d like to hear a little singing.
Is it really that hard to thumb through the pages of his songbook; call out the numbers of songs you want to hear; tilt your head back, open your mouth, and give him something that resembles music?
“Pathetic!” Mel yelled at a table full of talkers the other night.
This is not the Mel his family sees at home — the thoughtful husband, the doting dad, the beaming grandfather of four. It’s not even the Mel his staff sees every day, on the seventh floor of some downtown building, where he is president of the nonprofit Consumer Credit Counseling Service.
But this is the Mel who has showed up, nearly every Friday night, at Jacob Wirth restaurant, for the past 20 years — the loud, cranky entertainer, working the crowd in one of Boston’s oldest restaurants.
If you ask Chris Dempsey, a 26-year-old regular, the man bears a striking resemblance to someone else he knows. Works all day in a sterile office. Breaks out occasionally for the greater good.
“He’s a little bit like Superman,” says Chris.
Finding His Way Back to Art David listens as Robin describes what she sees BOSTON—All around him, the museum is in motion, with people walking up to sculptures, and stepping back from them, and absorbing them from different angles. David Kingsbury, 53, holds his ground. He is standing in a hallway at the Museum of Fine Arts, facing a piece of stone he cannot see, waiting for the woman beside him to send some words his way.
This is the rhythm of their relationship: She starts the story of what she sees, and he chimes in with any questions. And so she begins, shaping the piece of stone into a portrait, and placing a young boy inside. She chisels the child’s fine features, then moves over to his long flow of curls.
“And there’s this little tuft of hair,” says Robin Ty, 30, a volunteer guide with the MFA. “Almost like a rooster’s, right at the top of his forehead.”
David considers this.
“Reminds me of my first son,” he says.
This Saturday marks something of a milestone for David. He’s back where he began, with the work of Italian Renaissance sculptors, the first art he experienced in the MFA’s program for people who are blind or visually impaired. He was beginning a new life then. Nothing felt right.
It took time and practice to get here, as things do for David these days. But more than two years later, he is standing in a space he once thought was lost—one visitor among many, facing the work of an artist, feeling something stir in him again.
Shooting for Citywide Fame Winner of the 2010 Cambridge parking sticker CAMBRIDGE—It was such a lovely photograph, with the trees down by the Charles River, and the pink blossoms filling the frame. Well composed. Brilliant colors.
But not the winner of the city’s annual resident parking permit photo contest. Not that.
“It’s an absolutely stunning picture,” said Lenore Lawrence, the city’s parking coordinator. “But it wouldn’t make a sticker.”
Every spring, in a frenzy of civic pride, dozens of residents submit the best images they’ve taken of Cambridge, hoping for the coveted spot on the city’s resident parking sticker. They try it all: The first snowfall on Cambridge Common, a dragon boat on the Charles River, turtles making tracks through the grass.
Who knows what will appeal to the judges in the Traffic, Parking and Transportation department? It’s so subjective. The only thing the entrants know for sure is that it has to be an iconic image, and it has to maintain its luster in the cramped space of a 3 ½ by 2 ½ inch frame.
Unfortunately, the trees-in-bloom scene did not maintain its luster.
So this year, the sticker goes to Jim Landfried, 67, for his shot of the Longfellow House: Perfectly centered, framed by leaves, a classic yellow colonial lit up in the sunshine.
Frankly, Jim felt there were stronger photographs in his contest folder. This one was a little traditional for his taste. But reached last week on vacation, he was very pleased. His wife had already told everyone they know.
He won't get any prize money for winning. Just sudden, citywide fame: Come January, Jim's image of the Longfellow House, along with his name, will be affixed to the front windows of roughly 43,000 cars.
A Guide Through Tough Times Alice in the backyard of her new home CAMBRIDGE—Alice Galvin knew: maybe, probably, definitely, this day would come. Someone would finally say no, you can’t sleep on my couch tonight.
Still, when she showed up at that first shelter, at the age of 44, worn down from stress and grief; when she stood before a woman from the old neighborhood whose children she once babysat; when she had to ask that woman for the charity of a shelter bed—it did not feel real.
“I was numb,” Alice says, from the living room of her new apartment in Everett.
Those were disorienting, demoralizing days. But other homeless women helped Alice through, pointing her toward clean shelters and friendly staff, warning her where to steer clear. Now, three years later, she’s contributed her own insights to a guidebook for homeless women, published with support mostly from the Cambridge Health Alliance, and distributed this spring in shelters and clinics around the area.
The idea for the project came from Pat Maher, a nurse with Health Care for the Homeless. She's always been inspired by her patients, women like Alice, who so easily give support. For years, she's listened to them dispense advice outside her door.
“It would choke me up sometimes, the kindness and the generosity, from one woman to another,” said Maher, 56. “These were women in a hard place.”
The 45-page pamphlet offers an exhaustive list of resources, from shelters to job training to rape counseling. But the goal was also to capture the words of the women themselves. On nearly every page, there is advice and reflection from homeless and formerly homeless women, who participated in discussion groups for the project. The bright colors of their artwork line the pages.
Most of the women chose to remain anonymous. But their voices come across strong and clear, guiding the reader through three distinct stages of homelessness: the shock of the early days, the difficulty of navigating services, and the challenge of moving into a home.
At some point in the sessions, the question came up: how on earth do you get through?
One woman’s simple answer became the title of the guide:
“You Find Your Strength,” she said.
Here is how it happened for Alice.
Moving Men Forward:
Clinic Takes On Health Disparities
 Dalton Skerritt speaks with a student ROXBURY—Other men are fidgeting, staring out the window, waiting for their time at Whittier Street Health Center to end.
Not Charles.
Charles takes a seat in the second row, a 29-year-old man in a crisp white T-shirt. He leans forward. He asks questions.
He’s required to take this class on men’s health, as part of a prison release program. But this is helpful information right here, about disease and how to prevent it. One thing, he already knows:
“Black guys die early.”
For years, Whittier has been trying to change that, working in one of the neediest neighborhoods in the city, and using these Wednesday night “rap” sessions to introduce low-income, men of color to healthy living. One of the main goals: connect them to the health care at Whittier, and keep them coming back.
Dalton Skerritt, director of Whittier’s Men’s Health Clinic, can tick off the facts: higher rates of diabetes hospitalizations, higher rates of death from AIDS. In Boston, black men are about three times more likely to die of prostate cancer than white men, according to the city’s 2009 Health of Boston report. What he wants to know from these students is why.
Bad eating habits, lack of exercise, genetics—all are factors, he confirms, when the men call those answers out. But there’s something else, something bigger.
“Oh!” comes a call from the back of the room. “Check-ups!”
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