It's just a tiny building in Buckley Park, but in the past five years, it's housed a world of change.

Within its yellow walls, below-average students have boosted grades and know-it-all teenagers found they could still learn a thing or two about life. Along the way, feelings of fear, hurt, worthlessness and a sense of failure have been washed away by pride felt in overcoming obstacles.
 

Leased from the city for $1 a year and restored by volunteers with sweat and $60,000 worth of donations, this meeting hall is home to the city's Police Explorers. It's the place that has graduated 189 recruits, and some 50 youngsters no older than 18 spend every Saturday in the junior law enforcement program. It is there that mindsets are adjusted.

At first, many participants grudgingly walk in the door of the Chamberlain Avenue center, forced by parents. Some want to be cops, but more often than not, the others wind up enjoying boot camp atmosphere where off-duty city police Officers Mike Figueroa and Jimmy Torres are drill instructors. They bark at cadets to march with their feet at least 2 inches off the ground, reminding them that they "ain't stomping grapes" and inspect crisp uniforms, demanding nothing short of perfection.

"For me, it was an attitude problem. Every time my mom tells me something I don't like, I talk back to her. She told me this would help me out," said Luis Santiago, a 15-year-old Eastside High School sophomore. "At first I didn't want to be here. Now I like it."

In a military fashion, 9-year-old Marvin Morcelo, the youngest ever to be enrolled in the free program, stands statue-like at attention. Cadets pivot sharply on heels and walk in flawless formation, addressing their superiors as sir and ma'am.
 

Program directors Augie Feola and police Detective Steve Olimpio said they received more than 300 applications from students wanting to take classes that teach policing tactics. Some who attend dream of law enforcement
careers while others glean intangibles such as respect and self-control.

"My friend doesn't have a lot of discipline in her life. She does what she wants - smokes marijuana. Now her parents don't care anymore. I want to do what I want, but in a good way," said Trenace Wilson, 15, who studies criminal justice at Passaic County Technical School and hopes to pursue a career in forensic science.

The 22-week program, run solely by volunteers, is no day camp. A junior board of directors comprised of Explorer graduates track cadets' grades by sending forms to their teachers. They also acquire copies of report cards. Feola acknowledges scholastic improvements and shortfalls in front of everyone and also fields phone calls too numerous to quantify from parents complaining of their children forgetting to take out the garbage and refusing to brush their teeth, he said. He also instituted a curfew where houses are called nightly to enhance the program's regiment of discipline. Many nights he and Olimpio cruised around the city searching for a wayward Explorer.

Not all achieve success. Each academy loses about five recruits to jobs, health problems or incorrigibility, Olimpio said. But the lengthy waiting list quickly fills those slots. The program allows for $350 per uniform paid for by benefactors, he said. Participants are urged to use the Police Athletic League gym at no cost during the week to prepare for rigorous physical training.

As far as Olimpio knows, one graduate was arrested for driving with a suspended license but none have gotten into more serious trouble. Former Explorers Frank Semmel and John Bracey went on to work for the city police department.
 

The most poignant tale belongs to Angela Santiago, now something of a legend in Explorer history. Feola and Olimpio recall her fondly and deem her the program's greatest achievement.

It was 1998, and Santiago's mother approached program directors saying she could no longer handle the then 17-year-old's attitude, they said. Less than five months later, she had dubbed Feola "The Bulldog" and had undergone a personality transformation, graduating at the top of that academy class before becoming a social worker.

"In the beginning, they hate you, but every graduation, you always have one who will leave an impact on you," Feola said. "The greatest feeling is when they come up and say 'Mr. Feola, I made it.'"