Paraprofessional Henry Matthews. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

Henry Matthews unfolds a crumpled dollar bill, counts coins in his sweat-soaked palms -- 5 . . . 10 . . . 15 -- then rummages through his pockets for more as the J bus squeals to a halt.

"Got it! It's a good thing we didn't miss this one," he says with a chuckle. "Imagine roasting for another half-hour."

On a recent Thursday afternoon, a scorcher in early fall, he forks over the extra 50 cents for a bus transfer instead of hoofing it the rest of the way home.

"I can't do this every day -- the quarters add up," he says. "Usually, I just catch one bus and walk the 20 blocks or so."

As a full-time paraprofessional at Wynwood's Jose de Diego Middle School, Matthews earns about $12,500 a year -- leading to the daily grind of counting coins and taking long walks. At 42, with five sons to support, he lives well below the federal poverty level, $20,000 for a family of four, and Miami's median yearly income, $43,316.

Matthews is paid about the same as a cashier in Kmart, not enough to own a car or home. So for now, he lives with his sister in Allapattah.

Nonetheless, Matthews says his job is priceless: "We have the opportunity to help save a child. It doesn't get any better than that, bro."

Paraprofessionals, better known as teacher's aides, fill many roles in South Florida schools. Some, like Matthews, work side by side with disabled children to ease their transition into regular classrooms. Others serve as job coaches, parent educators and vocational advisors.

The Miami-Dade school system has 2,992 paras on staff, including 395 who work with disabled students. They have remained near the bottom of the pay scale, with a starting salary between $11,468 for a 10-month contract and $13,762 for 12 months. Veterans in the system may top out at $26,236 and $31,484, respectively.

Henry Matthews in the classroom with student, Jose Nunez, 12. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

HARD TO RECRUIT

"Recruiting paras is not an easy thing to do," said Arlene Diaz, the school district's manager of noninstructional staff.

"Imagine telling a person they need [about two years of college] to become a paraprofessional and earn $13,000 a year," she added, referring to the federal No Child Left Behind Act's requirement that paras who provide instruction to students have a minimum of 60 college credits.

In Broward County, the 2,550 paras fare much better. Many start at about $30,000 a year, said Marsy Smith, a Broward schools spokeswoman.

Nationwide, paraprofessionals are among the fastest-growing jobs in education, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics. The average salary is just less than $20,000.

Diaz said Dade's paraprofessionals have been low-paid because the original job was primarily volunteer work requiring only a high school diploma. Responsibilities have increased over time, but compensation hasn't risen at the same pace, Diaz said.

The paraprofessionals are part of the United Teachers of Dade union. Under a tentative contract agreement reached Wednesday, paras' annual salaries will rise slightly, although starting pay still hovers at about $15,000 or less.

"This contract is a beginning step to address their unacceptable pay, but we still have a long way to go," said UTD President Karen Aronowitz.

In the meantime, Matthews scrapes by in a reality where movie theaters, dinner out and bus transfers are luxuries.

For the past year, his workday has centered around Jabril Ivory, a sixth-grader at Jose de Diego. Jabril, whose odyssey through the school system was chronicled in June, has Asperger's syndrome, a neurobiological disorder closely related to autism.

Earlier this fall, Matthews stood waiting one morning at the entrance of Jose de Diego for Jabril to arrive. His thoughts drifted to his youngest son, 3-year-old Andrue:

"If I pay this cellphone bill, my shorty won't get that new gear he needs. . . . He really needs the new gear. . . . I guess folks won't be able to reach me till next payday. . . "

Riiiinnnng! Keith Ivory, Jabril's father, was on the line, sitting in the school parking lot.

"Yep, we're on the ball today. . . . He's really liking that art class," said Matthews, speaking into his phone. They discussed Jabril's strengths and weaknesses, his likes and dislikes.

Minutes later, Jabril bolted past Matthews, lugging a book bag to class. Last year, when they were at Phillis Wheatley Elementary, Matthews would have followed close behind. This time, he let him go by.

Paraprofessional Henry Matthews, left, is pictured here with Keith Ivory, father of Jabril Ivory, whom Matthews works with at Jose de Diego Middle School. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

AVAILABLE TO HELP

In what he calls the last stages of Jabril's transition, he just shadows the teenager, offering assistance only when needed. Besides, as a middle-schooler, Jabril craves acceptance, so he doesn't like the extra attention.

The aim is for Jabril to be completely on his own, Matthews said. 'Our ultimate goal is for him to say, `I can do this.'"

"Our paraprofessionals are critical in transitioning those students" into the regular classroom, said Brucie Ball, an assistant superintendent for special education. "But you want to make sure you're making these kids as independent as possible."

Inside the classroom, Matthews sat in the back while Jabril sat up front. Teacher William Patterson went over an English lesson, explaining tone and mood of a story. The kids looked confused.

So, Matthews chimed in: "Teacher, you mind if I take a crack at it?"

"Go right ahead," Patterson said. "By all means, if you can help us out. . . ."

It's not always such an easy exchange between a para and teacher, Ball said.

"[Paras] have to be careful not to create a classroom within a classroom," she said.

Added Matthews: "Sometimes, you don't get the respect from the teachers because they really don't understand what we do."

Henry Matthews, left, with autistic student Jabril Ivory at Jose de Diego Middle School. CHUCK FADELY/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

KEEPING TRACK

Matthews usually monitors Jabril's every move. And when Jabril doesn't need any help, Matthews voluntarily turns his attention to other students.

At the end of class, he walked over to Jabril, who seemed anxious about getting to his next class. Seeing that, Matthews calmed him down and gave him a pep talk.

"He's that lifeline," Jabril's father said about Matthews. "Without him, Jabril wouldn't have made it this far."

Said Principal Connie Martinez: "It's amazing to see how dedicated [Matthews] is, considering what he's paid."

Every day after school, Matthews rides the bus to pick up little Andrue from a niece's home.

Henry Matthews waits in the hot sun to catch a bus to his cousin's house to pick up his son Andrue, 3. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

A BUS RIDE

Aboard the bus today, Matthews sits staring out the window as passengers shuffle past. An elderly woman toting two grocery bags meanders through the crowded aisle. Matthews stands, extending his hand.

"Ma'am, please take my seat. . . . Let me help you with that," he says, taking her bags.

Later, he calls it "bus etiquette," but the gesture shows the idealistic side of Matthews. Always smiling, he believes that adversity only makes the heart stronger.

He and his second wife split up about eight months ago because of the financial strain. Yet he isn't bitter.

"When you love someone, you can't hate them," Matthews said. "Love and hate can't coexist."

During the summer, Matthews does odd jobs, earning between $50 and $75 a week mowing lawns to help with bills. He also rakes in a couple of dollars working as a day laborer.

Money is always tight. About $600 a month is pulled from his school paycheck for his other sons, who live with their mothers.

"I really don't know how I survive," he said. "I clear about $400 a month if I'm lucky."

Andrue Matthew, 3, walking home from the grocery store with his father Henry Mathews. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

He could qualify for government assistance, but he won't take any. Day care is too costly, so he gives his niece $50 a week to look after Andrue, who lives with Matthews.

When Matthews picks him up this afternoon, the 3-year-old runs to greet him, screaming "Daddy! Daddy!"

Leaving his niece's home, the pair head to Joe's Market, 2190 NW 46th Ave. Inside, Matthews grabs a big bottle of blue raspberry soda. Andrue grasps two bags of potato chips -- 99 cents each. Matthews tells him to pick one. The boy frowns and chooses salt and vinegar over all natural.

"The trick is to get him a snack; then he'll forget how long the walk is," Matthews says with a chuckle.

They head to his sister's Allapattah house nine blocks away, where he and Andrue share one of the two small bedrooms. Matthews chips in to help her when he can.

Shuffling up the sidewalk, Andrue hops the cracks while Matthews muses about life.

Henry Matthews, a minister himself, attends New Birth Baptist Church twice a week with his son Andrue, 3. DONNA E. NATALE PLANAS/MIAMI HERALD STAFF Chapter 1 gallery

'PRESSURE COOKER'

"A lot of people got put in the pressure cooker of life and their spirit got broken. They just gave up."

He continues: "We live in a society that programs who's gonna succeed and who's gonna fail. Then they wonder why kids throw their hands up and say forget it."

Matthews isn't giving up. His faith in God won't let him.

He dreams of being a school counselor one day, and has applied for a scholarship to attend Barry University.

As they reach the gate in front of his sister's house, Matthews looks at Andrue and sighs:

"They can take a lot from you, but not your joy. I ain't gonna let you steal my joy."