The principal who knows their names

Rodrigues pauses long and hard, letting the silence settle. When she leans forward, her eyes dim. "This is poverty," she says. "Poverty and abuse."

When the first group of 7th graders came in with reading scores at or below 4th grade, Rodrigues had to challenge them to learn - and fast - yet balance that discipline with a nurturing and supportive environment.

"I knew that behavior had to change, that I was not going to be called every name under the book," she says. "I knew that this was going to be a college-bound program, so kids would have to get rid of the street talk. And I knew that the staff would have to be exceptional, because these kids [from Main South] were going to come in much lower."

Rodrigues weaves in and out of the classrooms with total authority, patting students on the head and asking about class as the teachers, beaming, step back and watch her work her magic.

"She's in the classrooms all the time," says June Eressy, who teaches language arts to 7th and 8th graders. "That's part of what helps establish the personal relationships in the school."

Rodrigues knows every student by name. She even knows many of their phone numbers, and isn't afraid to play the mother figure in their lives. In many cases, she's all they've got.

Rodrigues bases many of her methods on trust. The school is quiet - no need for bells - and many students have unlocked cubbyholes, instead of lockers, to stash their belongings.

"It's always been about trust," Rodrigues says. "I have to trust them. I don't want to say that they're afraid of me, but they don't want to disappoint me. It's a different kind of support."

Ms. Eressy says that support makes all the difference. "She's very tough with the kids, but she's very fair. They have so much respect for her, because they know she loves them."

Rodrigues describes herself as a pit bull. But a group of juniors, gathered around a table near the cafeteria in the basement, are contemplating her role in their lives, and say she's anything but.

"The whole pit bull persona she puts out is not really what she is," one girl says. "She puts it out there to make people think it's what she is, but on a one-to-one level, she's like a mother."

It helps, they say, that their principal grew up in Main South. "She's protecting us, but it's not like she's putting us in this little hole or some alter reality," an 11th grade boy says. "She has been through this, and she escaped from the hardness. She is a great example for us."

It isn't easy. Despite the incredible gains Rodrigues sees in each of her students, there are a handful she still struggles to reach. But she refuses to give up.

"There's this one student," she says. "He's had a terrible life. And he holds back. He's failing a class that he has to pass, so I said, 'Come down and talk to me.' "

She asked the senior about his future, about the role models in his own life, and said: "Wouldn't you like to look up and be able to talk to a positive black man in this school? To talk about some things you went through in your life? Don't you think you could be that person to somebody?"

He looked up, she recalls, searching her face for answers. "You could be somebody," she implored, her voice breaking. "You've been here six years, and you've never missed a day of school. There's something in there. Look what you'd add to the lives of these kids. They don't have anybody like you around."

Rodrigues isn't sure if she made a difference - she's made countless attempts before - but the possibility is what she lives for. "You can never, ever stop talking to these kids," she says. "It's all about setting high standards and believing that they can do it. It's such a commitment, but it's something I have to do."

Down the hall, a small, shy 11th-grade girl speaks up: "Imagine walking down the hall and your principal comes up to you and says, 'I love you,' and gives you a big hug," she says. "She would really risk her life for us. She would actually do it. You can't put any more into your job."

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