Aviation Scholarships

A unique program introduces inner-city teens to aviation

Mark Hardy had dreamed of being a pilot ever since he saw the movie Top Gun as a small boy. He even set up a "pretend" cockpit on his bed and carried his wooden "control stick" with him as he wandered around the house.

Edgar De La Piedra's dreams began on a hilltop in Mexico where he and his grandmother used to watch the stars at night. It was among those stars, she told him, that his late grandfather now lived, and De La Piedra vowed to become an astronaut so that he could go and visit him.

The dreams of these two boys are no different from those that have inspired thousands of future pilots over the years. The difference is how little chance these two particular kids had of ever having their dreams come true. Hardy and De La Piedra are growing up in the tough, low-income neighborhoods of south Chicago — a place where many families find even the necessities of life difficult to maintain and gang problems are often a more pressing concern than dreams or career planning. For kids here, learning to fly is simply an unaffordable luxury — even more of a pipe dream than making it big in the National Basketball Association.

"I dreamed of flying, but it wasn't real," Hardy says. "It always seemed like that was something that would happen for some other kid somewhere else, not me." Yet Hardy now has his sailplane pilot's certificate and De La Piedra has already soloed, thanks to some dedicated pilots and an ambitious effort called the Aviation Scholarship Foundation.

The foundation was started by pilot Patrick Carron, inspired by the documentary film Hoop Dreams and his own experience as a Big Brother to inner-city Chicago kids. "The kids in the Big Brother program were truly delightful kids," he recalls with a smile, "but my heart would just break when I took them home and saw the environment that they came from. Hoop Dreams just confirmed for me that there was an enormous amount of talent in these communities, but that many of the kids don't go on to develop those talents. I wanted to do something for them."

It seemed to Carron that what was most lacking in the kids he had worked with was not merely money, but self-confidence and a belief that they could succeed. He knew how great an impact learning to fly had had on his own self-confidence, and he believed that it could have the same effect on inner-city kids. So in 1995, Carron started the Aviation Scholarship Foundation, with the goal of offering economically disadvantaged teenagers not just airplane rides, but full scholarships to become pilots themselves.

"Giving kids rides is great," Carron explains, "but getting a certificate has a much more lasting impact. Once someone is a private pilot, they're in aviation for life."

Using flying to help inner-city kids was a natural choice for Carron, who owns a Cessna 140 and loves to fly. But he soon found out that it was a natural choice for Chicago, as well. The Windy City is the birthplace of black aviation in America. In 1930, 12 African-American men, denied the right to fly at the white airfields in the area, started their own airport in the south Chicago city of Robbins, Illinois. With two airplanes and land granted to them by the mayor, they taught themselves to fly. Flying, the pioneers said, gave a sense of validity that society had denied them.

It was the same gift that Carron hoped the scholarship foundation could give modern-day teenagers from those same neighborhoods. At first, Carron concentrated on recruiting inner-city high school kids with at least B averages for a powered airplane program at the Lansing, Illinois, airport. If they stuck with the program and passed the FAA written exam, the foundation would fund the cost of their private pilot flight training. Over the last four years, Carron has restructured the program slightly and now focuses on recruiting kids while they are still in junior high. "By the time teenagers get into high school, their outlook and culture are almost set," he explains. "But if I get them before then, aviation has more opportunity to impact them."

Candidates for the scholarship program must still maintain a B average in school, but Carron now requires that they start with a sailplane rating before progressing to a powered certificate. "For one thing, I noticed that our glider students were much better pilots," he says. "And by the time a student gets a glider rating, we also have a pretty good idea whether they'll stick out a powered plane course."

Sticking out the course takes dedication and commitment from not only the students, but from everyone involved. The closest glider port to south Chicago is almost an hour away from where the students live. Some parents or guardians simply drive out to the airport and stay all day rather than driving the extra two hours to go back and forth. Jeannetta McClellan, whose son Julius is in the program, even started helping with ground operations to help pass the time and is now as enthusiastic about glider flying as is her son. But because some of the students in the program come from families without cars, Carron finds himself constantly looking for carpool help and often transports some of the students to the airfield himself.

Ground and flight instruction is provided by members of the Park Forest South Aviation Group glider club, who donate their services and a lot of time to the program. They work with the students every Saturday, and some Sundays, May through October, from 9 a.m. until the lift dies in the afternoon — cajoling, scolding, encouraging, pushing, pulling, patiently correcting, and correcting again. In the process, they not only teach kids to fly, they also build a rapport that bridges the gap between their world and the one that their students inhabit.

"The instructors here, they give me the feeling that I can do this," De La Piedra says with an almost embarrassed smile. Hardy agrees. "If someone can take the time to put money behind you, and you see that he really cares," he says, "you don't want to let him down."

"We're probably the only pot-bellied white guys who have ever worked with them like this," jokes head glider instructor Wally Gleason. "A lot of them come in with this super self-confident bravado, but as they get to know us, they really start to open up."

The instructors aren't the only ones who notice changes in the students as they progress through the program. Hardy's grandmother, who has raised him since he was three months old, says that learning to fly has matured him greatly. It has also had a positive impact on his grades, not only because he has to keep a B average to keep the scholarship, but because the program has brought within his reach a world that requires better achievement.

"Mark is the type of kid who would have been OK in any event," says Martha Zaorski, Hardy's school guidance counselor. "But he probably would have been a tradesman. Now he's shooting for the Air Force Academy." And unlike the NBA, the Air Force Academy requires top grades.

"For all the money we put into sports, they don't help change kids academically," Carron says, pointing out that Hardy played three sports in school but that it wasn't until he started learning to fly that his grades improved. Hardy, who now boasts an almost straight-A average, notes that math also became easier once he realized that solving geometry equations wasn't very different from figuring out wind correction angles or VOR triangulation.

But if Hardy's grades have improved, it's not just because his goals require it. "Pat and the instructors make you think," Hardy says, "and that carries over into school. Flying involves a lot of decision making. It's something you need to work at."

Flying has also taught Hardy that there's more than one way to accomplish a goal. "For instance, when you want to land, there's lots of ways to get down," he explains. "You can slip the plane or use spoilers. And there's even more than one way to slip the plane." Applying that lesson to his life, he says that if he doesn't get into the Air Force Academy, he'll try to get a scholarship to college and apply to become an Air Force pilot after graduation.

"Teachers tell you you can do anything you want to, but it kind of goes in one ear and out the other," Hardy says. "But I look at what I've accomplished the last two years, and now I really do think I can do anything."

Not every student the foundation has sponsored is such a success story. There are numerous dropouts, as kids decide flying just isn't for them; the work is too hard; or the doubts, fears, or other baggage that they carry proves too much to overcome. "Flying doesn't work for everyone," Carron admits. "Sometimes, the obstacles for these kids are so great, it's like a swamp and they can't get out. How much can aviation overcome? Can it overcome the worst family situation? I don't know. But I know it works for some. And the one that makes it keeps me going when the others drop out."

With lessons only one day a week, six months a year; problems in getting students to the airport; and other conflicts with weather and time, it generally takes a student two seasons to get a glider rating. Carron acknowledges that keeping students motivated over that length of time is one of the toughest parts of the program.

To help give the students extra support and encouragement, Carron tries to recruit adult mentors to work with and keep in touch with the students throughout the year.

"We're always looking for funding, but our biggest need is actually for more pilot mentors," he says, "especially Hispanic or African-American ones."

Several of the foundation's mentors come from the Chicago chapter of the Tuskegee Airmen — the organization founded by the African American pilots who were trained as a segregated unit in Tuskegee, Alabama, during World War II. Rufus Hunt, who is what he calls a "second generation" member of the organization, is an active supporter of the foundation's students. He gave many of the students their first airplane rides and has mentored several of them.

"Where I live the 'gang-bangers' abound," Hunt says to explain his involvement. "I'm trying to steer some of these kids around that. They need strong adult role models, and I'm in a position to do something for them that I wish someone had done for me at their age." He pauses for a moment, reflecting. "If someone had done this for me when I was their age, I'd probably be retiring from American Airlines right now."

In the end, this may be the real gift that the Aviation Scholarship Foundation offers. Carron picks teenagers who are already somewhat good risks, since he requires them to be good students in school. "We're not rescuing kids from gangs," Carron says. "That's beyond us."

What the program can do is open up the middle-class American dream — a professional career — to kids whose horizons would otherwise have stopped far short of that. De La Piedra, whose immigrant father works for a valet parking service, knows that he has a unique opportunity. "If I make it, I'll only be the second person in my whole family to really have a career," he says. "I want to prove Hispanic people can really reach a goal, not go halfway and stop."

The foundation's students face fewer discrimination obstacles to a professional career than the Robbins airport pilots did in 1930. But breaking out of the inner city takes more than just opportunity. It takes role models willing to donate money as well as the time, patience, care, and effort to instill in kids not only the value of school and achievement, but the belief that they can succeed.

"All my experience has shown me that just throwing money at the problems of the inner city won't fix it. It takes that human, one-on-one contact to make a difference," Carron says. "I truly believe that if every middle-class adult in America took one youth from the lower class under their wing, we could, within a generation, eliminate inner-city blight."

How much long-term impact will the program have? It's too early to say. Some of the foundation's students will undoubtedly go on to be commercial pilots. But even those who don't will have a gift that will stay with them for the rest of their lives — not just the ability to fly, but a proven belief in themselves and membership in a unique and close-knit community. "The friendliest community in the world is that of pilots," Hardy says with a proud smile. "And I'm a pilot. That means I can go to an airport anywhere and be accepted."

"The goal isn't just to get kids through the program," Gleason says. "What we're really doing here is turning caterpillars into butterflies. We take these grungy-looking caterpillars in hard shells and we add sunshine, time, braided poly rope, a 180-horsepower engine, some prayer, and some hope." Gleason pauses, his voice catching for a moment. "And we see them open up, expand their horizons, spread their wings, and start to fly."

The world is a tough place to change. The way to change the world is to start where you are and do something to make a difference, no matter how small. The mentors, instructors, parents, and supporters of the Aviation Scholarship Foundation may not be solving global issues of urban poverty or crime. But they are making a difference. And they are working to change the world in perhaps the only way it ever can be changed — one life at a time.

To make a donation, inquire about mentoring, or find out more about the Aviation Scholarship Foundation, contact Patrick Carron at 708/448-1914 or by e-mail ( [email protected]). The foundation also has a Web site ( http://www.teenpilot.org).

Lane E. Wallace, AOPA 896621, is an aviation writer and private pilot based in California.