They symbolized hope, and still wait for change

They met inside the White House, three Americans who would be transformed into icons of President Obama's vision. There was a South Carolina teenager who had virtually nothing, a Kansas mayor whose town had lost everything and a Miami banker who gave away $60 million. They had little in common except their status as the president's honored guests on Feb. 24, 2009, the night Obama outlined the goals of his administration in his first speech to Congress.

After a private tour of the White House, the three were ushered into seats next to the first lady. They sat in the House balcony, surrounded by a dozen others selected to personify Obama's values: an injured soldier, a clean-energy innovator, a 78-year-old janitor, a studious young Muslim.

But Obama introduced only three guests:

• Leonard Abess — a bank president who had split his $60 million bonus among 471 employees — now flashing a thumbs-up while he received a standing ovation;

• Bob Dixson — a mayor rebuilding Greensburg, Kan., from a prairie of tornado devastation into a clean-energy hub — now beaming on national television;

• Ty'Sheoma Bethea — an eighth-grader who wrote to Congress about the decay of her 112-year-old school — now being hugged by the first lady.

"Their resolve must be our inspiration," the president said. "Their concerns must be our cause."

One year later, as Obama prepares to address Congress again in a State of the Union speech Wednesday night, their stories remain instructive, even if their lessons have changed. Obama's favored themes of togetherness, resiliency and hope have been challenged. The economy remains unstable. Partisan contempt has intensified. Polls indicate increasing pessimism. Obama has experienced a trial in patience, frustration and fatigue — and so have his three guests.

The student

Ty'Sheoma Bethea, now 15, received her invitation two days before Obama's speech, and most of Dillon, S.C., helped prepare her for the trip. She owned only jeans, so school administrators bought her two dresses. She splurged on a fancy haircut. A friend gave her new tennis shoes to wear on the airplane.

J.V. Martin Junior High School held an assembly to celebrate her return, and 300 students cheered Bethea. She stood in the gym, a converted boxing arena with a leaky ceiling and a wooden floor that buckles and slopes, and regaled classmates with stories of visiting the White House bowling alley and posing for pictures with the president. Obama had visited J.V. Martin twice while campaigning, once spending two hours touring the decrepit building in 2007, and Bethea believed her visit had confirmed the inevitable: "He's getting us a new school," she told classmates.

Dillon, population 6,500, enjoyed a buoyancy it hadn't experienced in decades, residents said. A Chicago company donated $250,000 worth of school furniture, installing new desks in the middle of the night. Bethea gave speeches and accepted scholarships. Architects and CEOs flew in to propose plans for a new school. Gone would be the condemned auditorium with busted-out windows, the cold classrooms in mobile trailers and the dirt playing fields surrounded by barbed-wire fencing. School officials contemplated a $55 million proposal called the 21st Century Promise: a 100-acre "community campus" funded in part by government money, where the doors would remain open 24 hours to allow access to a swim center, a community center and a laundromat.

"They said people would be coming from China to look at this school," Dillon Mayor Todd Davis said.

"We were seeing these plans, and our eyes were about to burst out of our heads," said Ray Rogers, superintendent of Dillon schools. "We just wanted a working ceiling, and now we were talking about having the finest of this, the best of that."

But South Carolina Gov. Mark Sanford hesitated to use federal stimulus money to build new schools, and Dillon struggled to procure a substantial loan in an unstable economy. CEOs stopped touring J.V. Martin, and architects moved on to other projects. Dillon even lost Bethea, its most public activist, in August after her mother, Dina, was laid off from her job at an ambulance manufacturer. Dina found work in Atlanta, where Bethea now attends high school.

They left behind a town where hope now feels like a distant memory. The unemployment rate is 18 percent. The largest employer, a chicken-processing plant, pays $9 an hour. The only stimulus money has gone to road resurfacing. All six schools remain in various stages of disrepair. "All of them are about as eye-appealing as sausage," the mayor said.

Instead of daydreaming about $55 million building designs, Rogers now puzzles over a different set of numbers. He was told last month that his budget would be cut by about 15 percent next year, meaning he must slash administration jobs, furlough teachers and do away with substitutes.

The mayor

Ever since a two-mile-wide tornado whipped through Greensburg on May 4, 2007, killing 11 people and destroying 95 percent of the buildings, Mayor Bob Dixson's town has rebuilt at a manic pace, spending $20 million in federal money and almost as much in state and nonprofit donations.

He rebuilt his house on the same foundation and moved back on Dec. 23, 2007, determined not to miss a Christmas at his home. Then came a new City Hall, an arts center, a hospital, a John Deere dealership, a development of town houses, 300 streetlights, a school, resurfaced roads, 10 high-tech windmills — all new and environmentally sustainable. A statement. Wind and energy could destroy a town, but a town could use wind and energy to become something superior.

"We want to be the model of sustainable living for the rest of the world," said Steve Hewitt, the city administrator.

So how come, on some days, what Dixson notices most is everything the government can never re-create? He loved how a town of 1,300 could feel like an extended family. People were friendly. Neighbors liked to idle together on porches. The prairie of southwest Kansas was serene and quiet.

His life now plays out to a soundtrack of construction trucks. There's no local drugstore or variety store where he can shop and gossip, so he drives 30 miles to Pratt or 45 miles to Dodge City. Greenburg looks sparse with fewer than 800 residents.

"You try not to think about how it used to be, because that's something we're always going to miss," Dixson said. "We're just trying to fill in the town."

The only way to lure people back is by bringing in employers, he said. The town once thrived on agriculture, but the tornado decimated its land. Manufacturers have cut jobs in a downturn. Small businesses initially interested in Greensburg have been unable to procure loans.

Hewitt believes he can make an unrivaled pitch: Here is a chance for good publicity, a chance to take part in an effort supported by the president, a chance to join a green community and stamp that label on your product.

"It's a hard time right now for anybody to say yes," he said. "We think we're about ready to land a company and bring in some jobs, but then reality hits. They don't have the cash. They can't get a loan. It makes for a long road."

Dixson counsels Hewitt and everyone else to remain patient. Greensburg lost all its trees to the storm, and Dixson recently planted a few new ones in his backyard. He feels about the economy the way he feels about the trees. Growth is slow and uncertain. It requires faith.

"If we're lucky," he said, "we'll stick around long enough to see this through and be sitting in the shade."

The banker

Leonard Abess always planned to give his staff a lump sum of money before he retired. He refers to his 400 employees as "extended family" and curses himself when he forgets any of their names. After selling a majority stake in Miami's City National Bancshares in late 2008, one year into the recession and days after Obama was elected, Abess distributed his $60 million payout among current and former employees, allocating amounts based on years of service. Some janitors received more than vice presidents.

He shunned television interviews. White House officials invited him to Obama's speech, and he encouraged them to find somebody else. They called again two days later, and he accepted after one final plea: "Guys," he said, "this was nothing."

Only while basking in a standing ovation after Obama had ridiculed greedy Wall Street bankers did the significance of the gesture set in: For Obama's audience, Abess' $60 million gift was a reminder of benevolence, a place to see hope.

For Abess, it became a place to see despair.

He received hundreds of letters each day in his mailbox, a sudden repository for suffering. First they came from inspired strangers, laid-off workers or retirees with no pensions, who rarely asked for money but who always shared their stories of desperation. Hundreds more came from Abess' employees, who thanked him and explained how they had spent his gifts: to pay off credit-card bills, help unemployed relatives or make overdue home repairs.

"These were my own employees, and they couldn't pay bills, couldn't keep a house, couldn't afford a car," Abess said. "... I started realizing: I really don't know what people are going through. I don't know. I thought I was helping people with an extra boost toward their retirement, giving them a sort of pension plan. But for a lot of them, it was a chance to get caught up, or close to caught up."

The government bailout helped the country avoid a catastrophe, Abess believes, but little else in the economy has stabilized. The banking industry remains fragile. Commercial real estate looks like an impending disaster. Wall Street has announced billions more in bonuses.

The banker who once inspired so much hope has now started to avoid economic headlines. He fears more bad news Wednesday night when he sits down at home to hear Obama speak again.

"If you said to me, 'What would you hope would happen from what you did?' the answer would be: 'I hope we wake up!' And that's not happening," Abess said.

"The risk here is that people are going to lose hope. I worry about what it does to our society, having people out of work for so long and struggling so hard to find work and getting into despair and things like that. People want to work and need to work. It goes beyond making a living. A lot of people are very scared, and they're starting to lose their spirit."