Lesra Martin lived in Bushwick, NW, a Brooklyn neighbourhood rife with gangs and drug dealing. At 15, he met some Canadians who saw promise in the youth and invited him to Toronto to further his education. But soon they discovered that Lesra, near the top of class back home, could barely read or write. So they undertook to reverse the damage done by the ghetto and in the process discovered a remarkable young man.

Life in Hell
STICKY, humid heat clung to Lesra Martin as he sat next to his father, Earl, on the subway. Neither spoke as they grimy train clattered and swayed, rushing towards Green Point, a white section of Brooklyn north of their home in Bushwick. This July 1979 morning would be Lesra's first day at his summer job in an environmental lab, part of a government sponsored project for inner-city kids whose families were on welfare.

Lesra, 15, stared at the unfamiliar cityscape rolling past. He was anxious, but not about his new job.

The skinny, malnourished tenth grader knew only the world of his neighbourhood, a few city blocks that more resembled a war zone than a community. Bushwick, one of Brooklyn's poorest areas, was a tough district of boarded-up store-fronts, mounds of garbage, rusting car shells and burned-out tenement buildings. Bursts of gunfire were common.

Even walking to school was perilous. At the first sound of shots, Lesra had learned to duck behind the tires of the nearest parked car or flatten himself in a doorway. He had some protection: His older brother Fru, a gang member already in trouble with the law, told others that Lesra was off-limits. But rival gangs staked out entire city blocks; it was a place where blacks like Lesra lived on one side, and poor whites and Hispanics on the other.

Now, crossing into Greenpoint, unfamiliar territory, Lesra was nervous. "You mind your p's and q's," Earl cautioned in his low, raspy voice.

Lesra stared at his father's shaking hands. Their lives hadn't always been like this. He had dim memories of a different life, of a house in Queens with a green lawn. His parents had been different, too.

In the 1960's Earl had worked as a factory foreman. The family shared lots of special times. Alma, Lesra's mother, used to crank their living room stereo to full volume, grabbing her babies by the hand and dancing with them. Sometimes they went up to the Apollo Theatre to see performers like James brown scorch the stage.

But overnight, it seemed, their lives abruptly shifted due to a series of humiliating setbacks. A severe back injury left Earl disabled. They lost their house in a fire; at times, they were homeless, stranded in shelters or with relatives. The Martins slid into poverty, ending up in Bushwick. By then, both Earl and Alma had severe drinking problems, and their lives disintegrated into endless late-night arguments that disturbed their hungry children's sleep.

LESRA pushed his fears aside and tried to listen as his father pointed out the stops he'd have to remember to return home. The 15 year old willing shouldered a heavy responsibility. Five of his seven siblings had left home, but the rest of his family, housed in a decaying tenement, depended on every cent he earned. The family's welfare cheque was exhausted long before month's end, and it wasn't unusual for the household of five to go a week with very little food.

Lesra had been nearly 11 when their lives hit rock bottom. Hungry, wanting to help out, he walked into a local store one day and, uninvited, began bagging groceries. The manager shooed him out, but the feisty kid kept returning until they let him stay. Customers took to the good natured, pint-size boy who lugged their groceries home. On good days he pocketed $2 or $3 in tips, enough to buy rice and beans for his family.