The morning bell rang 20 minutes ago at Henson elementary, but the stragglers are still drifting in. At a counter inside the front door, the head security guard, Kelvyn Cockrell, greets them all by name and fills out their tardy slips. A sixth-grade girl in braids and barrettes approaches along with her brother, a second grader in a baseball cap. Cockrell asks the girl, who was absent the day before, if she’s feeling better.
On a monitor, Cockrell can see who rings the front bell before he buzzes them in. A map of Africa on the wall behind him is lined with names of famous African-Americans. Many of the trophies in the case across from his desk were awarded to teams he coached.
“We’ll discuss this later,” Cockrell says as he hands the boy his tardy slip. “I’ll hear your side of the story. ‘Cause I think Mr. Cockrell’s looking out for you.”
Cockrell chuckles. Yesterday, one of them quizzed him on a word puzzle she was doing; he peeked mischievously at her paper for the answer. On their trip back to class the girls wave and giggle and call out to him again: “Bye cheater! Bye cheater!”
Bernadette Shields, a special ed teacher at Henson, says: “I had a teacher tell me a long time ago, ‘Kids don’t care what you know, until they know you care.’ Kelvyn touches their hearts first. He’s concerned about the whole person.”
Last year Hobson decided to have Cockrell move up to the third-floor hallway about a half hour into each day. That’s where the older children have their classes, and where more serious conflicts occur. Not infrequently, teachers would have to put students out of class. Cockrell “solved a lot of problems right there in the hallway,” Hobson says.
