This school is stepping up for Cincinnati's poorest kids

This story is the culmination of more than seven months of work by Sharon Coolidge and Liz Dufour. Before you read this, feel free to read the preview from Editor Carolyn Washburn. This is the story of Millvale, told through the lives of our city's most vulnerable residents. Scroll to the bottom to find out how you can help.

Arthur Murray took the note his teacher had given him and handed it to the school nurse. The note was short, just two sentences.

"In 0 degree weather Arthur came to school with no socks on! Sorry, I didn't send a note, but this is who I was asking socks for this morning."

What Barb Demasi, the nurse at Ethel M. Taylor Academy in Millvale, saw that February morning was so much more than bare ankles.

Arthur's light blue, long-sleeved polo shirt was too big, covered in food, the sleeves black from several wears. His gray pants were too small for the 8-year-old, meant for a child half his age. His toes peeked out of worn tennis shoes, also meant for a much smaller child.

He smelled of urine.

Demasi riffled through a plastic bin of donated clothes she keeps for just such occasions. She then sent Arthur into the bathroom with a clean and better fitting uniform, new socks and new underwear.

"Sometimes I literally have to peel their socks off," Demasi said. "In all my jobs, I have never seen the level of neglect I see here."

Arthur peeked out the bathroom door, looking up at Demasi through thick lashes, beaming to have new, clean clothes. "You have to wear socks and your new gym shoes, alright, sweetheart?" Demasi said as she folded Arthur into a hug before sending him back to class.

These days, the city of Cincinnati is reveling in the fact that travel blog Jetsetter called the city one of the 15 best places to visit in 2015 and Fortune said the city has one of the top five up-and-coming downtowns. The New York Times said revitalized Over-the-Rhine had a grace reminiscent of Greenwich Village.

But there's another statistic hidden behind school desks and in neighborhoods like Millvale, North Fairmount and Sedamsville, one that is rarely mentioned when people talk about the city.

Cincinnati has a child poverty rate of 53.1 percent, second only to Detroit's 59 percent child poverty rate, according to the 2012 American Community Survey. That means that, without help, every other child in this city doesn't have enough to eat, clothes to wear or a place to live.

Many of these children live in public housing. Their parents get food stamp assistance.

The school in Millvale guarantees every child a free breakfast and a free lunch.

After school, most kids go to the city-run community recreation center, where the kids get free dinner, too. On weekends, they leave with snacks to help them get through the two days when the school and the city aren't there to give them food.

Every classroom has a business sponsor, which provides tutoring, supplies and even Christmas gifts.

And although we know how much a child like Arthur gets, not much is said about what he doesn't get. His parents don't get him ready for school. They don't bathe him. They don't read to him. They don't tuck him in.

Mayor John Cranley last year rolled out the Hand-Up Initiative, a data-driven program with a goal to reduce poverty citywide by 5 percent. The United Way last month announced an initiative to raise $100 million to combat poverty. That includes sending every child in the region to preschool, a known precursor to success later in life. But even United Way leaders acknowledge there's no certainty they can do it.

"We have tremendous momentum and activity right now in Downtown, Over-the-Rhine and Uptown," said City Manager Harry Black. "However, if we can't figure out a way to extend this success, and lift our neighborhoods most in need, we will have failed."

Millvale is home to 2,400 people, nearly all of them black. The median household income is $15,543. Much of the neighborhood is a public housing complex.

Unemployment in the neighborhood stands at 27 percent; poverty, at 57 percent. Only 8.3 percent of children under 18 live in a two-parent home. One-third of the neighborhood is public housing.

Kids in Millvale see and hear violence that kids in other neighborhoods don't.

They tell the principal that somebody got shot on their front stoop.

The school has twice been on lockdown this year for the students' safety because of manhunts in the neighborhood.

In 2014, the neighborhood's homicide rate was 6 1/2 times higher than the city's overall rate, an Enquirer analysis of city crime data showed. That comparison is especially dramatic because Millvale had three homicides in 2014 compared with a 15-year average of 1.8 homicides a year in the neighborhood.

About 360 kids go to Taylor Academy, most coming from the impoverished areas of Millvale, Camp Washington, North Fairmount and South Cumminsville.

A lot of the need in Millvale, then, rests on the shoulders of Ceair Baggett, the school principal.

At 27, Baggett is the youngest principal in Cincinnati Public Schools.

When he was looking for his first job as a principal last year, there were lots of choices. But Baggett didn't take the job that would be the easiest to do. He took the hardest.

On Taylor Academy's last state report card, it earned one A, one C, one D and three Fs.

In reading and math – typical indicators of success – Taylor students fared worse than their district and state counterparts in third, fourth, fifth and sixth grades.

In the category ranking sixth-grade math, Taylor Academy's score of 50 percent proficient is so far behind the district's score, 64.1 percent, and the state average, 76.4 percent, that it doesn't even show up on a state graph of statistics.

"I got into education to make a change, not just maintain the status quo," Baggett said. "I felt like I could make an impact. I could relate to the kids, to the families."

Before school even started, in July, Baggett rented a Segway and took to the streets of Millvale to meet his future students and their parents.

Some of them thought he was a police officer. He promised parents things would be different.

"Mr. Baggett, it is good to see another black male like ourselves at Taylor," a father told him. "I will get my kids to school. I will take care of them on the street; in school, that's your job."

That conversation weighed heavily on Baggett.

On the first day of school, Baggett said a prayer on the drive to work. It was simple, really, just asking that he might have a great day and a great year.

As the kids stepped off buses and walked up, Baggett greeted them in the parking lot.

He looked like a proud father.

He quickly learned that's how many of the children would see him.

On his first morning, a first-grader, in line for breakfast, was holding his ear, screaming.

Demasi called 911; Baggett comforted the child and called his parents.

It was discovered that a spider had crawled inside the child's ear and when the bug moved around, it caused intense pain.

Later that first week as Baggett waited with a kindergartner whose father was late picking him up, the child looked up at him and said, "Mr. Baggett, I'm hungry. Do you have anything to eat?"

Baggett realized then his kids were hungry, really hungry.

He knew many of their problems he could not fix. But he could fix this.

So Baggett, with $50 to $60 a month of his own money, turned his office closet into what is the school pantry. Inside are peanut butter crackers, juice boxes, graham crackers, goldfish – simple snacks that he, or any of Taylor's teachers, can grab to assuage hunger.

At the end of the first week, Baggett presided over the school year's first pep rally.

Ethicon, a Blue Ash-based medical supply company, had a gift for every student there: a book bag stuffed with pencils and paper and crayons and scissors. These are the basic supplies they would need in the coming months to do homework.

The book bags are neon yellow, cherry red, deep navy – all stiff in their newness. Volunteers handed them out, and one-by-one the kids slung them over the shoulders.

The kids offered shy thanks, exuberant gratitude or sometimes just a smile.

"Keep these at home," Baggett urged.

A few weeks into the school year, a little girl asked for a hug.

He paused. In today's world, hugs in school can be frowned upon.

But then he did it.

She started crying. "I don't get hugs at home," she said.

Jalisa Allen is 10 years old. She sleeps on the cold, hardwood floor of the second bedroom of her grandmother Paula Allen's house, in a room she shares with her 5-year-old cousin, Rayshawn Allen. Rayshawn's grandmother has had custody of him since he was 3 months old. His mother, who had been deemed unfit to care for him, died last November.

Jalisa's mother drops her off on Sunday night for the week ahead. Allen, 59, wants it that way because she knows now that Jalisa is attending school, something that wasn't guaranteed before.

Allen and Jalisa have an unspoken pact: Rayshawn – because he's younger – needs to sleep in the bed. Jalisa makes do with the green and pink blankets on the floor next to him. Sometimes, though, when Rayshawn cries in the night, Jalisa climbs into bed with him and cuddles him back to sleep.

Jalisa, tall and willowy, with long braids that sway when she walks, gets herself ready for school. One day in February, that means doing her nails in between folding up her bedding and brushing her teeth. Tidiness is important to her grandmother.

She helps Rayshawn into his coat and hat and boots and gloves and scarf. Allen kisses Rayshawn's head before the children brace for the minus 5 degree weather on the quarter mile walk to their school.

Jalisa takes her responsibility for Rayshawn seriously. She makes him walk on the inside of the sidewalk, not the street side. They often hold hands as they cross the street and enter the school.

In Millvale, Christmas doesn't mean visits to the mall Santa, decorated trees and piles of gifts.

Baggett and School Resource Officer Molly Luken knows that, so she and Baggett made sure every child got a gift.

The local office of Fidelity, a financial planning company, sponsored Arthur's class. They had the kids make a wish list of three toys. They would not get just any toy. They would get one they wanted.

The day before Christmas break, the boys and girls sat cross-legged on the floor of the common area outside their classroom. They all wore necklaces made from ribbon with a bell on the end. Names were called one-by-one.

Once everyone had a present, volunteers told the kids: "Open your gifts."

Red and green wrapping paper flew. Squeals filled the room.

"Look what I got?" said a little girl who received a Baby Alive.

Another girl hugged a Glam Girl doll close to her chest after opening it.

There were art kits, cars and action figures.

Arthur opened an Extreme Action Hot Wheels car with lights and sounds and crawling action. He loved it.

After all the gifts had been opened, the paper thrown away, the kids shouted "thank you" to the volunteers.

On the way out, a boy, with a Tonka truck still wrapped in plastic tucked under his arm, said in a very matter-of-fact way, "My brothers opened theirs, but I'm not going to open it until Christmas Day so I have something to open."

In February, students across the state started testing, the kind meant to measure their success.

Baggett worried. The test was difficult. Parents at other schools, in an effort to push back against the standards, withdrew their children from the exams. But not parents at Baggett's school.

Instead, Baggett made sure every student got a good luck note from a family member or a mentor or a friend or a teacher.

As Baggett walked room to room with a brown, cardboard box of snacks during the test, his footsteps echoed in the quiet halls.

In their classrooms, kids hunched over the tests, concentrating. But because there were so many kids with special needs, there were students testing one-on-one with retired teachers in the library, in private offices, in any available space.

These tests matter because it's how the state measures schools, a benchmark of how they should be performing.

Jalisa is in the third grade, but she should be in the fourth grade.

She was held back in the second grade because she couldn't read. It bothers her. She looks older than her classmates and she feels older than them, too.

She doesn't want to get held back again. She wants to be able to read.

The day Arthur came to school so dirty that she was called to help, Demasi alerted Baggett and Luken about what had happened.

Luken checked on Arthur's brother Cody, who is in the fifth grade, and found he was in better condition.

They could have called Job and Family Services, but it was easier and quicker to check out the situation on their own.

They packed a box of snacks and clothes and followed the kids home after school and knocked on the Murrays' door.

The children's mother Mona Murray, 35, and Robert Klein, 61, were sitting at a plastic patio table in the living room rolling cigarettes.

Cat feces was splattered on the wall and on the tile floor, trash littered the floor.

The kitchen was worse. Laundry was piled on a folding table, spilling onto the floor. The stove and counter were stained with sauce. Dirty dishes overflowed from the sink.

Spaghetti was boiling on the stove.

Kathy Murray, 13, bounced down the stairs.

"Who are you?" Baggett asked.

Kathy told him she was Arthur's older sister but said she doesn't go to school. She said she doesn't like it.

Two older children live away from the family. Murray's 17-year-old daughter lives with her aunt; her 15-year-old son is in foster care.

The townhouse is plenty big, with bedrooms for Arthur, Cody and Kathy. There is no furniture, no lamp, no posters on the wall. Clothes and underwear and stray socks are left where they were taken off.

In Arthur's room, there is a dirty mattress with no bedding.

"He threw (his sheets) out the window and it rained," Kathy explained.

The bedroom walls were bare, white plaster.

There's a bathroom, but no soap.

The JFS records for Murray say she suffers from mental illness.

Klein, who does medical transport, says he hasn't worked in months. Murray is on disability, which means she gets about $741 a month in disability help. Rent plus electric and gas eat up $540 of that.

Until recently they didn't have a car, which meant Klein had to walk more than 3 miles to the nearest Kroger to feed his family.

Inside, Baggett and Luken were polite, taking in what they saw without criticism, offering help. Arthur played with one of the family's two cats, chasing it around the living room.

Outside, Baggett was visibly angry. Luken, with three years on the job, knew Arthur and Cody weren't the only students living like this.

Then Baggett got on the phone to Dater High School looking for an answer about why Kathy wasn't in school.

A few days before spring break a student was in Baggett's office, in trouble for arguing with his teacher and then telling a lie that his teacher hit him.

Baggett told the boy, who was probably in second or third grade, that if his behavior didn't improve he would give him a three-day pass home and would see him after spring break.

"You don't want that, do you? To be home until after break?" Baggett asked.

"No," the boy said.

"There's nothing at home for you, is there?" Baggett asked.

"No," said the boy, who then apologized to the teacher for lying and misbehaving.

Baggett deals with behavior problems every day. He says it's prevalent because of the poverty the children live in and the neglect they suffer at home.

Baggett is not the same man he was 235 days ago. He starts the school day with the same positive attitude and energy he did on the first day of school.

But he is wiser.

He doesn't just know his kids are hungry; he's fed them.

He doesn't just know his kids don't have clothes; he's clothed them.

He doesn't just know his kids are desperate for love and attention; he's hugged them.

He's become a big brother, a father figure, a protector.

"I came in with the perspective: educate, educate, educate," Baggett said. "That has changed. These kids have issues, we find the resources, we address it and, then, we educate."

Baggett won't have a state report card for many months, a written benchmark of what the state determines he's accomplished this year.

He wants to see it, he wants to have improved. But he knows, too, that what he's done is about more than scores and he knows he's helped his children live better lives.

He still prays during the drive to work. He asks God to help everyone have a great day, and to move everyone forward.

As the year comes to an end, he doesn't want to let his sixth-graders go, fearing what will happen without him.

Jalisa talks about her mom getting a house; that would mean she might be able to have her first real bed. She likes being with her mom during the week, too.

But that could mean she won't go to Taylor Academy next year, and she won't see Rayshawn as often.

"It hurts to sleep on the floor," Jalisa said. "The floor is hard, sometimes it's cold. I want my own bed and my own house."

Rayshawn is too little to talk about what life is like in Millvale. But Baggett said that, of all of his students, he is most proud of Rayshawn.

Rayshawn came to Taylor Academy not knowing how to write his name, so shy he didn't talk. When he did, his speech was similar to a toddler's.

"Rayshawn has made unbelievable progress this year," said Ellie McGuire, his kindergarten teacher. "He's talking more. I can understand him now and his behavior is 100 percent better."

McGuire credits a lot of the improvement to grandmother Allen's involvement. She attends every school function. The first thing the kids do when they get home from school is go over homework and have a snack. If they get everything done, they often go to the community center, staying until 6 p.m., and then they come home for dinner.

There are 16 kids in Rayshawn's kindergarten class. On one February morning, only four are on time. Four more come late. They do worksheets at their desk, then show them to McGuire.

"Hey, pretty good," she tells Rayshawn.

Then they gather around the room's whiteboard for a math lesson.

Rayshawn has to be told more than once to sit still, but he's the first to know the answer to this: "If there are eight kids and three adults in the room, how many people are in the room?"

Over the last few months Job and Family Services has intervened with the Murray family, the second time since 2010. They found Cody and Arthur had hygiene issues at school and Kathy did not attend school, prompting the child welfare agency to seek temporary custody of the children. A hearing on the matter is set for May. Until then, the kids will remain in the home.

By April, the family had pawned the television they had only recently bought, in need of a quick infusion of cash.

The kitchen is cleaner but dirty pans still litter the counters. The family's cats are gone, given to an animal shelter because they couldn't afford to feed them.

During spring break, in the bright afternoon sunshine, Arthur sat on his front lawn.

He said God talks to him in the wind.

"(God) talks to me in my dream about how I am going to do OK in school," Arthur said.

And then the little boy, wearing ill-fitting pants, talked about his future.

"When I grow up, I am going to be the president," Arthur said. "I'm going to make a speech that says nobody can throw garbage on the ground."

Give new socks, new underwear, deodorant, blankets, new and gently used books, and new gym shoes up to size 10 adult. Drop off or mail to: Taylor Academy, 1930 Fricke Dr., Cincinnati, Ohio, 45225.

Or you can donate to The Soaring Hawks Foundation, a nonprofit agency that helps the school with what it needs. Send checks to 3236 Columbia Parkway, Cincinnati, Ohio, 45226. Call 513-363-3644.