D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
June
2009
Ticket to Ride
Jesse's Bikes for Tykes rewards Las Cruces youngsters for good behavior. But the best behavior belongs to the organization's generous founder.
By Jeff Berg
Memories flood back into my head as I walk up the sidewalk to Las Cruces' Hillrise Elementary School. The building looks quietly similar to the grade school I attended, oh, too long ago, Grove Avenue School in Barrington, Ill., both in shape and size (except for the portable classrooms that Hillrise uses). Grove Avenue was where I learned much of what I needed to get by in life — reading, writing, sharing and how long it took for a lunch to rot in a locker.
 |
Principal Andrea Fletcher and Bikes
for Tykes founder Jesse Rodriguez (back row) celebrate with students
at Las Cruces' Hillrise Elementary School. |
Oddly, there is only one small bike parked at the bicycle racks in front of the school. Odd, because this pleasant school is in a middle-class residential neighborhood, it is quiet and serene, and the heat of the day has gotten a few early season cicadas up and calling. One would think that the racks would hold numerous bicycles ridden to get here.
By the time you read this, however, that bike rack may look different. I'm here because Jesse Rodriguez of Jesse's Bikes for Tykes program is rewarding six Hillrise students with new bikes, purchased mostly with his own money.
Throughout the school year, students at many Dona Ana County schools participate in the program, which Rodriguez started nearly 20 years ago. Although his goal is to have the program at each school in the county, he is able to serve only 19 this year, due to a decrease in donations.
Jesse Rodriguez served with the US Marine Corps for some years, before retiring with a disability caused by toxic tap water at the USMC base at Camp Lejeune, NC. Chemicals from a dry-cleaner near the base leached into the water supply for 30 years, exposing 75,000 Marines and their families to carcinogens and toxins linked to birth defects.
But that has not deterred Rodriguez in the slightest. He's not one to sit around home and feel sorry for himself while filing lawsuits. Instead, he is living life to the fullest and in the way he wants to — as a full-time volunteer, helping untold others through positive motivation.
At Hillrise Elementary, Rodriguez and Debbie Seavey, a transplant from Maine who serves as the organization's secretary/treasurer, are busily setting up for the first of two school assemblies. The cafeteria has been cleared, and Seavey and Rodriguez quickly and efficiently lay out toys and bikes on and in front of the stage.
The prizes are a potpourri of fun things ranging from stuffed animals to coloring books with crayons. No electronics. Many prizes could be used as learning tools by the young winners. I look over Seavey's shoulder as she lays out the toys and decide that the pliable figure in the Seattle Mariners baseball uniform would be my choice, if so given.
There are six kid-size bikes on stage, three for the first assembly, which will host kindergarten through second grade. The other three will go to lucky third through fifth graders.
Prior to the announcement on the school loudspeaker, I have a few minutes to visit with Rodriguez, while Seavey heads back out to the truck for some more prizes and a fat scrapbook of photos from previous presentations.
"I had 159 bikes to give away last year," Rodriguez reports, "but it's down a bit this year, just like everything else. I wanted to raise $35,000 but wasn't able to reach that goal. All of the money that is donated goes for the kids, and the rest is out of pocket."
Rodriguez and his staff have made this non-profit organization truly non-profit. He says that even the operating expenses, such as gas for his truck, come from his personal checkbook, not that of Bikes for Tykes. No one with Bikes for Tykes receives a salary.
He whips out his pocket calendar to show me the busy schedule he has planned for the weeks ahead, the end of the school year. Flashing his warm smile, Rodriguez explains that a lot of principals are calling him now, trying to reschedule their school's reward ceremony, originally signed up for earlier in the year.
Another smile. "It's like they are all jockeying for position."
His little calendar is crammed full of appointments and ceremonies. Unless
some unlucky principal wants to do something on a Sunday, schools are going
to have to settle for what the dates they have now.
Youngsters start to stream into the cafeteria with their teachers, full of energy and chatter. They sit in rows in front of the stage, the first class almost sitting on the stage with nervous anticipation.
Rodriguez smiles again. "If you look close," he says, "you'll see that once in a while some have their fingers crossed."
Later I do observe two young girls near the front — gentle eyes as wide as saucers, fingers crossed with anxious hopes.
Rodriguez climbs on the stage, while Hillrise principal Andrea Fletcher, who is in charge of the 550 children who will pass through the school today, calls for quiet and good behavior.
Earlier, I had asked Rodriguez about the kids: Are they generally cooperative and such, especially since he doesn't have enough toys to reward all of the students who have met the standards of Character Counts, the program that these small fry partake in. He answered with another smile — Rodriguez has to be one of the happiest people I have ever met: "Yes, it is usually really nice. Sometimes there are some 'criers' (kids whose names aren't selected), but not often."
Fletcher and Rodriguez remind the kids of the requirements: getting all of their work done, being on time every day, staying out of trouble. Each week, those who qualify get a blue ticket; they turn in the tickets, which are now being used to select the winners.
Rodriguez takes over the mike. "I have a question for you. Raise your hand if your class has the best teacher in the school!"
All hands shoot in the air, and the cafeteria fills with little voices all yelling the same thing, "WE DO! WE DO!"
Several of the not-fooled teachers help to restore order with a little clapping routine. All of the scamps are quiet again as Rodriguez starts pulling blue tickets and calling names. It's purely random, and any child who has turned in a blue ticket has a shot at one of the bikes, which are given away first.
Hoots, hollers, screams of joy and clapping follow each boy or girl up to the stage as each name is selected from the box. Winners get to pick their preferred prizes.
Rodriguez told me earlier about one child who didn't win a prize the first
year he came to her school. She approached him the next year when she did win,
and said exasperatedly, "Finally, I've won one from you!"
Jesse Rodriguez has a degree in social work. When he was awarded custody of his two daughters some time ago, he found himself with a connection with kids and time on his hands. So he got involved.
"I'd be sitting outside sometimes, and kids would go by all the time," he recalls. "I lived near the projects, and there were a lot of kids on bikes, and sometimes they would go by and they would be pushing their bike because it had broken down or had a flat.
"So, I started fixing them, and then sometimes a kid would come by with a couple of dollars or some food stamps that they got from home and try and 'pay' for fixing their bike." Rodriguez politely refused their offer, and soon found that the bike-repair business was booming.