The three men in Ann Froby's office study the videotape like bettors poring over a parlay. The guy in all black, school district police officer Kevin Beck, is agitated; the other men, construction workers from their looks, wear disappointed smirks. Someone in their crew left keys in a backhoe at Desert Rose Adult High School last weekend. Some burgling juveniles discovered it and went on a destructive joy ride, pulverizing a fence and bulldozing into a portable classroom; doughnut-style skid marks paint the pavement. Beck is upset that the footage doesn't reveal identities of the backhoe bandits. "Every night someone is prowling this campus," he growls.
Froby, the school's assistant principal and one of the main mouths behind Desert Rose's first-ever marketing push, is worried about the negative publicity. "You're not going to write about that, are you?"
Her sensitivity is understandable. For the past 18 months, she's seen miracles occur at a campus that's in "gang central"— on 1251 Robin St., between Washington and Owens; it formerly housed Faith Lutheran Jr. Sr. High School—and "inherits students other schools don't want," yet succeeds despite the deficits. Open for four and a half years, Desert Rose has not only become an educational demilitarized zone, where rival gang members learn, study and work together, but a refuge for thousands of people who, by choice, chance or circumstance, never graduated from high school. Last year, 3,886 students matriculated through Desert Rose, including 464 graduates, making it the largest adult education program in Nevada and one of the largest in the western United States. The age range of students—17 to 83—is as expansive as their life experiences. Immigrants sit next to thugs, service workers next to casino supervisors, illiterate parents next to English language-learners, high-school dropouts next to the elderly. They're drawn as much by the school's cheap tuition ($15 a year) and flexible class schedules (12-hour days), as by bird-dogging teachers and the ability to proceed at their own pace. "When you start is when you start," Froby says, "and when you finish is when you finish."
In this numbers-tell-the-story era of education (thanks, Nevada Education Reform Act and No Child Left Behind), statistics are the key arbiters of success. Desert Rose has some numbers for you: Half of all graduates go on to attend two-and four-year colleges and universities, 25 percent go into the military and 25 percent go into vocational training; last year's graduating class earned 44 academic scholarships. Says Froby: "That's the story we want to tell."
"(SAT scores) are important, but they don't tell the whole story. They can't tell us which school has an amazing principal, or a great drama program, or a way of encouraging minority, immigrant or low-income kids in need of extra help. They can't tell us which high schools extend a warm welcome to learning-disabled kids, or academic underachievers, or teenagers who have made bad choices and are in desperate need of a second chance."
Eric Barton, 20, is the kind of student Desert Rose was made for. As a teenager in Whittier, California, he was kicked out of the house so often that graduating was a pipe dream. "I was more worried about a place to stay than a diploma," he says.
Barton, who's tallish, angular and wears the shaved-head style prevalent among segments of Hispanic youth in Las Vegas, bounced from one drug-dealing friend's home to another's before moving to Vegas two years ago to avoid dead-ending in his gang- and crime-plagued neighborhood. Relocating forced him to confront reality—either he'd live hand-to-mouth and go down the tubes, or enroll in school. He learned about Desert Rose while staying at the Salvation Army. It was the only school in town for people who, like him, had aged out of the high-school system. Since April, he's been working with teacher Mark Faber on earning his General Equivalency Diploma (GED). Right now, he's taking social studies. Faber says he's making academic strides.
"I want to make something of myself," Barton says.
Part of the reason on-the-margin folks like Barton succeed, says Sandra Ransel, the school's first and only principal, is Desert Rose's insistence on accountability (disciplinary issues are dealt with swiftly; it's not uncommon for students who've been removed for infractions to beg to come back). Take hallway etiquette. Next to airplane runways, high-school hallways might be the noisiest places on Earth. At Desert Rose, they're monastery-quiet. Students move in ninja-like silence. On this day, those in the hallways acknowledge me with nods (a young man in a red shirt and his hair in cornrows, another in an Oakland Raiders jersey) and a smile (a girl in denim shorts and blue shirt).
You certainly couldn't tell that there are as many as 38 gangs represented here. But fights are rare—only a handful of fights in Ransel's time at the helm; none in Froby's 18 months. Officer Beck's presence is a great help, Ransel says, but the students are the real crime-stoppers, reporting off-campus incidents that might have a spillover effect, alerting staff to potential powder kegs, telling them who's beefing with whom.
"This is a high-profile gang neighborhood, but the school is a neutral zone ... Everyone knows that their diplomas are at risk and this is the last chance they have, so they help keep the peace. That's why there's no graffiti or people wearing gang colors," Ransel says. "We're truly a neighborhood high school. We get students from Mojave, Desert Pines, Western, Cheyenne, even Palo Verde (for years, West Las Vegas students were bused to the Summerlin school). So it's really a return home for some of the kids."
Desert Rose has 13 full-time teachers, 25 part-time instructors and six counselors (three full-time, three part-time). Like most schools in the Valley, it's overcrowded; excess students are put in portables. It's more like a traditional high school in other ways, too. A top-notch video production lab gives students professional-caliber training; they often shoot programs that are broadcast throughout the school. During the run-up to the presidential election, students hosted a political forum featuring, among others, Mayor Oscar Goodman. Desert Rose is also collaborating with other schools—an inaugural partnership with the Area Technical Trade Center provided vocational opportunities in carpentry, culinary arts, horticulture, office practices and welding—as well as community entities such as Nevada Business Services. Ransel's particularly fond of the academic cross-pollination: "It's rare for two principals to share the same sandbox. We're so defensive. It's like giving a toy to a child; it's your toy and you don't want to share," she says. "But these types of collaborations help our students and help the community."
Much like in the Clark County School District, there's intense focus on English language classes. Some nights, as many as seven English classes run simultaneously at Desert Rose. In one portable, a particularly effusive and expressive teacher instructs a roomful of older adults, often punctuating instruction with a salsa-like shimmy. Her energy melts some of their shyness. Next door, another teacher helps prepare limited-English speakers—many with furrowed brows—to take the proficiency test. Through a new partnership with the school district, many of these students will have a chance at jobs as service workers and bus drivers, positions the exploding district is struggling to fill. Best of all, the long school day lets them schedule education around their busy lives.
"If there was a 10-absence rule, people would fail," Ransel says. "You can't schedule a child getting sick or a car breaking down. Our students call if they can't make it to class, just like they would at a job. This is life training."
Full of motherly pride, Ransel and Froby tell success story after success story. Keeping up with them is like trying to bottle lightning. There's the once-illiterate middle-aged parent with a job, house and family who can now help his kids with homework. And the teenager who was so far behind schedule but managed to graduate on time. And the young dropout who works full-time and discovered that employment experience can be converted to high-school credits. And the Coast Casinos employee whose only obstacle toward being promoted to supervisor is getting a diploma. And the Cuban boy who couldn't get his diploma released by the Cuban government, so he studied like a maniac, got his diploma in a year and is now an engineering student at UNLV. (Desert Rose can convert foreign diplomas. "We just converted one from Ecuador," Ransel says.)
Then there's Leon Branch. Ransel's and Froby's eyes widen at mention of his name. At age 46, he's just now learning how to read.
"Come on in," says special education teacher Sandra Glenn.
Branch is at a desk, sounding out words that are illustrated by pictures. Also in front of him are cards with 4-inch-high black letter—reading aids. He's learned more in five months than he ever has.
"I worked for my father for 20 years," says Ransel, an African-American man with strong eyes and construction worker forearms; for the past 12 years, he's run his own landscape business. "My dad never let us (his children) go to school. We were making $140,000 a year, so he didn't see a need. Every time we wanted to go to school, we would be at work. We were listening to our dad. We didn't know any better."
After working for his father, Branch supervised 35 people at a nursing home, tiptoeing around any reading duties and relying on street smarts, common sense and visual aids. He moved to Vegas in 1993, worked for a landscaping company, then bought it from the owner for $17,000, "all of which I repaid." He boasts of maintaining 130 homes, including mansions in Summerlin's ultra-posh Queensridge neighborhood.
Twice-divorced—most recently in February—Branch managed to hide his illiteracy from one of his two children (his daughter knew) and his three stepchildren. It was his stepson who told him about Desert Rose and who'd overheard him discuss his illiteracy over the phone with a school official. "That's how they found out," Branch says.
He had learned to read street signs, avoided compromising situations, hired an accountant to keep tabs on the business. First time taking the written portion of the drivers' license test, he missed it by six questions. Second time was a charm. Still, the fact that he couldn't read weighed on him like a barbell. Though he could hold his head high—he wasn't an accidental entrepreneur but a bona fide businessman, his success a story fit for a TV movie—he couldn't lift his spirits.
"I was scared walking in there (Desert Rose). I wanted to turn around," he says. "But I'm a workaholic. [Glenn nods her head]. I won't stop until I get this. I'm going to be a millionaire."
Hector Corona and Lori Banuelos are in the library (seems everyone at Desert Rose is proud of the library; it was converted from a chapel). Corona has Banuelos' eyes—innocent but wary. They also have a shared goal: getting their diplomas. Banuelos was pregnant with Corona when she dropped out of Huntington Park High School one semester away from getting her diploma. By his own admission, Corona lacked focus at Western High School. "School didn't really click with me," the 18-year-old says.
Having aged out of the system, Desert Rose was the only recourse, an option Banuelos fervently pushed for. "Hector is the oldest of five kids," she says. "Me and my husband really stress education for our kids. We never told them they had to get straight A's, but we said that doors close when you don't have a diploma. But my kids would say, 'You don't have a diploma and you're doing fine.' I tell them that I'm fine (she's works in receiving for a company associated with T.J. Maxx and Marshall's), but I could be doing some much better."
On their first day at Desert Rose, mother and son were both in the same class, English. "I told him if he had a problem with it, I'd change my schedule," Banuelos says. No need to worry. Corona: "I didn't have an issue with it. I'm only a half-credit away from graduating and she's two and a half credits away. Next June, we'll graduate together."
One last story.
The day after seeing Havana Nights with her husband, Ransel was on the phone with the human resources director of the Stardust, which hosts the Cuban song, dance and performance troupe. While her husband enjoyed the artistry, all Ransel could think about were the performers. There are 32 dancers, 13 musicians and eight singers in the show; each has filed for political asylum.
"For every person in Nevada with a high-school diploma, she says, there's someone without one. The ratio is as high as 95-to-5 in states like Maine," she says. "All I could think about was, hey, these are potential students."