The Small Story

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.

Daisy knew what was coming for Keila, as soon as middle school hit. She heard the stories, about someone else’s daughter getting pregnant, about someone else’s son on drugs.  She watched her oldest girl closely. And sure enough, toward the end of elementary school, Keila started to slip.

Occasionally, Keila would tell her about the snickering and the name-calling and the feeling of stupid, every time she raised her hand. But what Daisy could see for herself was this: Keila, who has learning disabilities, was falling behind. She was pulling away.

Something had to be done.

Daisy started to research charter schools, which are publicly funded and supervised by the state. In theory, she had nothing against the neighborhood middle school. Maybe Keila would have found her way, and done fine.

But that neighborhood school had several hundred students. And “drama” was the way she heard it described. Daisy is always trying to keep her kids away from drama; it’s a 24-hour-a-day kind of thing.

And what she heard of charter schools, she liked: smaller communities, strict but supportive, structured in a way that could help Keila, who has problems with attention and focus.

So in the winter of 2007, she filled out short applications for three different charter schools. In the springtime, word came. Excel Academy, in its annual lottery, had picked Keila’s name.

When Daisy was growing up, there was plenty of love in the family, but not much talk about school. She had her own plan for college, but she got sidetracked sophomore year—fell in with a different group of friends, and dropped out of school.

A change of school brought her back, and right before she graduated, her English teacher told her she had talent; she suggested Daisy apply for a summer writing camp.

“But by then, it was too late,” said Daisy, the other day, from her kitchen table.

She was in the groove of working, and had been for years—mostly supermarket work, to make money of her own. The college dream didn't have enough pull in the end. At the age of 21, she gave birth to Keila, and a year and a half later, the twins, Amanda and David. 


Stability had become the goal. With some training, she found a job at a law firm. She moved into public housing. She worked her way up at another law firm, from the mailroom 10 years ago to front desk reception today.

Some years back, the city bulldozed the old barracks-style buildings, and built a multi-income complex; now Daisy lives in a three-bedroom apartment, with pink and purple curtains for the girls’ room and a television set for her son. No drug dealers around the complex yet.

“So far, so good,” she says.

A nice apartment. A full refrigerator. A close family. These are her blessings. But for her children, Daisy wants more. For her children, she wants college.
 

All of Daisy’s children are students now at Excel—all were sitting in their classrooms last autumn, when Gov. Deval Patrick visited the storefront on Sarasota Street, and declared the East Boston school, with its 210 students, a success.

That day was special. But it is not uncommon at Excel to see educators from across the state, and around the country, take seats at the back of classrooms, trying to get a sense of how this school works.

At Excel, 67 percent of students qualify for free and reduced lunch; 69 percent are Latino; more than 50 percent speak a language other than English at home. And yet, for the past two years, the class of 2009 has ranked first in the state on the standardized test for English. 

Three years in, Daisy is still surprised at the partnership she has with these teachers. They email her all the time, with comments and concerns and answers to her questions. They give her their cell phone numbers. They urge her to call.

As the parent of an Excel student, Daisy signed a contract with the school, a promise to provide, among other things, a quiet place for study, regular homework checks, and help with preparing for quizzes. But she was doing all that already, no piece of paper required.


There is confidence in Keila now. Daisy can see it growing. Some semesters, her grades are better than others; she still struggles with focus and attention, along with a learning disability that makes it difficult to process what she is hearing, without hearing it often.

But Keila came into Excel two grade levels behind, according to school officials. And after repeating the fifth grade, she managed, in sixth grade, to score “proficient” on both of the state's standardized tests, narrowly missing “advanced” in English.

After a rough start, Amanda, who also has a learning disability, boosted her grades this year. David, who has an easier time with academics, still struggles with motivation.

But the way her mother sees it, Keila has come alive at Excel. She’s made friends. She’s joined the basketball team. She’s wrapped herself around that school like it’s a second home.

“I feel like she has a better chance now,” says Daisy. 

These days, Keila has goals—to make the honor roll, to go to a private high school, to graduate from college. She gets giddy, actually, when she talks about it. Daisy loves to listen.


Coming on Tuesday: Keila's story.