01:00 AM EST on Sunday, February 20, 2005

If fate had not drop-kicked me onto the Providence School Board, I would not have been mentored into public service by the recently late, absolutely great Roosevelt Benton.

The man devoted his life to children first and foremost -- his special gift was boys -- but his community and family also meant the world to him. Speakers at his funeral made it perfectly clear that he had been surrogate father to legions of children on the South Side of Providence and mentor to many of the rest of us.

Of the uniformly limp and resentful handshakes I received at my first School Board meeting in 1990, Roosevelt's might have been the most disdainful. A large man who'd been a basketball star, Vietnam vet and civil rights worker, he looked tired just at the sight of me. He knew -- and I did not -- that I was merely a way for a lame-duck mayor to stick it to his successor. But I kept my mouth shut -- in the beginning -- and read education stuff like a maniac, and in time, Roosevelt started wondering out loud if I happened to know anything about such-and-such. Like some star-struck puppy, I'd run out to hunt down answers to satisfy his curiosity, and with luck, win his favor. When our goals turned out to be pretty similar, he softened towards me. It didn't take that long.

Public service can be absolutely maddening because you die on the vine if you don't take seriously the concerns and feelings of . . . well, of the public. People of all ages, neighborhoods, backgrounds, skin tones, political affiliations, levels of education, personal passions and petty gripes. A big rumbling chuckle would well up in Roosevelt when confronted with the nuttier issues and justifications that came before the board. Then he'd pull himself together, slowly shake his head, open his palms to heaven as if resigned to needing guidance, and finally ask us if anyone had any "bright ideas" for solutions.

He'd already been on the board for years -- and became its chairman in 1991 -- so he was very jaded about the dysfunction of the School Department and even worse, City Hall. His rare shows of temper were scary.

And by day he was the deputy director of Rhode Island's Training School -- draining, emotionally exhausting work.

Everyone has a story about Roosevelt. Here's mine:

Roosevelt liked roses, and one summer he asked if he could come and see my walls of climbing roses. On a charming, sunny June day, he arrived at my house with big cartons of Del's lemonade and a stack of paper cups. Roosevelt grew up in my neighborhood and knew that since I had three smallish boys, in my 'hood they'd probably be running in a little herd that could use some Del's. Indeed, the group of boys I used to call the doggy pack swarmed at the sight of the treat, so the first order of business was doling out every drop of that lemonade.

That's when I got to see Roosevelt in action, in his most famous role: dad to the world. I'd always heard stories about the greetings he got at the Boys and Girls Club where he'd been director for 16 years, endearing himself to countless children by teaching them skill, poise, wisdom and trick shots. My little gang of 7- 10-year-olds was a United Nations mix, all of whom were enchanted by the large, soft-voiced man who teased them gently by getting that Del's all ready to hand off when suddenly he needed to ask their names or a question about school -- that full cup still poised in his hand, just begging to get drunk.

Time after time, Roosevelt would slow the pouring process to a crawl by pretending slack-jawed shock at some of the answers he was getting. The children were bursting with impatience. Mind you, I was passing out exactly the same stuff, but they hardly knew I was there. He got to know a lot about them with that technique, and afterwards asked after them often.

I was relieved when the children remembered to say thank you. That got a big, approving grin out of the man sitting on my front porch steps, as they all scattered.

Roosevelt chuckled at the sudden peace, and then sighed. He mused that even though it was his day off, that morning he'd gone to the Training School to be with a boy who was getting on a bus to South Carolina to face murder charges. The kid wasn't someone he knew from the community, but he'd been at the Training School long enough for Roosevelt to know no one else would stand by him as he got shipped out of his own state to the place where, as Roosevelt put it, he'd done something stupid. What had been crimes to the judges and victims was "stupid" to Roosevelt. Not that he condoned the action, whatever it was, not that he didn't regret the damage, not that he didn't hold a hard line on the keeping the rules. He'd just seen a lot boys and young men make very bad choices -- often because they hadn't much been taught otherwise -- and it just wasn't in him to pour more negativity on a kid already drowning in it.

I had nothing helpful to say. Every cell in my being wanted to nestle up against him and hold his hand or pat his knee or something, but that wasn't the kind of relationship we had, and I would never have risked doing anything he might have construed as weird. So we sat in the sunny, sad silence and let that kid dominate our thoughts for a moment.

Then he took a deep breath and said: "You know, I want to thank you for all you've done. You really are all about the kids." My jaw dropped.

I later learned he was incredibly gracious to anyone who put in time working for community causes and for kids not their own. He was a one-man appreciation initiative for anyone willing to brave stormy political seas for the right reasons. As he talked all I could think was that other people got the Tony Award, the Pulitzer Prize, the Nobel, but I got credibility with Roosevelt Benton. I did what any hardened political appointee would do: I burst into tears.

That bought me a big laugh and a bearhug. From then on those bearhugs were part of our regular greetings. I did grow to love the man. But sitting on my porch on that sunny day all I could think was that this same hug had comforted kids in their dark, prison nights, had held onto distraught mothers even as they raged against heaven and the system, had comforted fathers, brothers, sisters, friends and cousins. Those hugs bucked up those willing to tolerate the frustration of working on behalf of children in Providence politics. He made me proud to be one of those.

Nah, it was Roosevelt Benton who was truly all about the kids. He was a great guy and a model public servant.

Let light perpetual shine upon him.

Julia Steiny is a former member of the Providence School Board; she now consults and writes for a number of education, government and private enterprises. She welcomes your questions and comments on education. She can be reached by e-mail at juliasteiny [at] cox.net or c/o The Providence Journal, 75 Fountain St., Providence, R.I. 02902.