A likable kid with a bright smile, Lesra had a knack for drawing people to him. Still, it wasn't enough to protect him from the random violence always at hand. His mother feared Lesra would not survive the streets if he didn't toughen up. "Men aren't allowed to cry," she constantly told him. Yet Lesra hated fighting; it was a last resort when nothing else worked. In the neighbourhood he earned the moniker The Diplomat for his ability to talk his way out of trouble.

That didn't stop two neighbourhood toughs, brothers, from zeroing in on Lesra. One time, the younger brother raced out of his house with a bow and arrow and shot Lesra in the chest. Furious, Lesra thrashed him. He had his wound dressed at school but knew this wouldn't be the end of it.

After school the older brother, now joined by a big, menacing cousin, stood outside Lesra's house. "Get out her, punk!" the brother screeched. "What's a matter-you scared?"

In the house, Lesra paced the floor, fearing not only the two boys outside but his older brother's fury inside. "You gotta fight or you'll be branded a sissy," Fru raged. "If you don't go out there, I'll beat you up." He reluctantly stepped outside, hoping he could talk his way out of trouble. "Your brother stabbed me in the chest!" He said, yanking up his shirt to show the wound.

But the two weren't buying it. The brother punched Lesra's wound while the cousin jumped him. As they tore into him, Lesra backed into a fence, hoping to gain an advantage. But they overpowered him, getting in a few more licks before they raced of.

Lesra stumbled to his feet, boiling over with fury. He chased after them and tackled the brother, whacking him over the head with garbage can lid. Then he clipped the cousin on the side of his ear. Howling in pain, the pair limped off.

The brawl left him shaken, but nothing frightened him as much as the power of his own anger. He knew he could easily have killed one of the kids. With Fru in and out of jail, it seemed only a matter of time before Lesra followed in his foot-steps.

By the time he was 13, Lesra was fast becoming hardened. Repeated harassment from gang members forced him to tuck an unloaded gun into his pants one day. He fanned it around at school, hoping it would make the others back off. By 15, he was feeling the pressure to join a gang.

Now, as the subway train screeched into the station, Lesra had no way of knowing how profoundly his life was about to change. The Canadians

IN THE middle of that July 1979, Candians Terry Swinton, 32, Sam Chaiton, 28, and several housemates had traveled to the Greenpoint Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) lab to research a gas-saving pollution device. They were part of a group of eight university friends who, in the 1960's joined resources and became successful entrepreneurs. All shared a strong social conscience, mixing business with activism and compassion for anyone less fortunate. They owned a house in Toronto and ran a profitable business importing batiks from Malaysia. Living and working together, they had become family.

The brawl left him shaken, but nothing frightened Lesra so much as the power of his own anger.

At the EPA lab, Lesra's infectious grin and raw energy soon caught the attention of Chaiton and swinton. Lesra and William fuller, another ghetto youth hired at the lab, spent their workdays playfully punching, chasing and spraying each other with water instead of the taxis they were supposed to wash. Whenever Lesra saw the Canadians, his face would light up. "Yo, Canada!" he would loudly chortle. They loved his quick wit, his curiosity and his good nature.

"I'm gonna be a lawyer," Lesra cheerfully told them one day, confiding his ambitions. "Lawyers make lots of money from people in trouble, and where I live, some one's always in trouble."

Listening, Swinton and Chaiton sensed Lesra didn't have the faintest idea what a lawyer actually did. Privately, they speculated that he was more likely to need a lawyer than to become one.

The Canadians returned to Toronto, but couldn't get Lesra and William out of their minds. They purchased plane tickets for the pair, inviting them to Toronto for a long weekend at the beginning of August.

In Toronto, the two Brooklyn youths were shocked by the ordinary: clean streets, clipped lawns, graffiti-free subway cars. In turn, the Canadians were stunned at how little the boys seemed to know outside of their own neighbourhoods.

"New York's country, right?" Lesra asked them one day. The Canadians exchanged bewildered looks. Lesra was set to enter Grade 11 that fall. How could he not know what country he lived in?

In mid-August, Terry and Sam returned to Brooklyn for more research at the lab. With them as Lisa Peters, 34, another of the group's members. They spent time with both boys and met their families. One night, as Lesra horsed around with Sam and Terry in their hotel room, he noticed Lisa tucked away in the corner, deeply absorbed in a book.

What could be more interesting than the fun we're having? He wondered.

Lisa began reading to him from Claude Brown's Manchild in the Promised Land. Lesra stopped goofing around and sank into a chair, mesmerized by the story of a New York ghetto youth who survived desperate poverty to become a lawyer and a writer. The book was a revelation, one that filled him with hope.

Lesra was euphoric when the Canadians invited him to spend ten days with them later in the month. This time, Lesra's return to Bushwick was even more difficult: In Toronto, for the first time in his life, he had felt safe.

For their part, the Canadians had formed a close emotional bond with the boy. They were deeply troubled by the gaps in his schooling and worried for his survival in a neighbourhood where drugs, jail or gangs were the only options.

A bold plan took hold: Why not bring Lesra to Canada? Maybe they could help him reach university. They had the financial means and plenty of room in their large Edwardian-style house on nearly a hectare of land.

Maybe they could help him reach university. They had the financial means and plenty of room in their large Edwardian-style house on nearly a hectare of land.

The eight members of the group wrestled with the idea. Was it fair to take Lesra from his family, who loved and depended on him? "Once he leaves, it';; be hard for him to go back," Peters pointed out. If he came, they agreed, the entire house hold would invest their energy and resources in helping him realize his potential.

One afternoon in September, African-American poet James McRae, a co-worker at the EPA lab and a friend of the group, sat in the Martins' tiny living room. Lesra nervously watched as McRae explained the Canadians proposal. McRae reassured the Martins that the Canadians weren't taking Lesra away; he would be back for summers and holidays. "It would be a shame to pass up an opportunity like this," he said. "nothing is more vital than access to a decent education." His parents were perplexed by this generous offer. Lesra saw the pain in his mother's eyes, yet he desperately wanted to go. Agitated, uncertain, Alma hopped up from the couch. "I can't make that decision; you can't ask me to give up my son," she said. Still, she wanted something better for her boy. She turned to her husband. "Earl, you decide."

A few days after McRae's visit, the Canadians flew Earl Martin to Toronto to checkout their home and to discuss Lesra's education. He returned a day later. Lesra met him at the subway station, anxious to hear his decision. "What do you think-can I go? He asked.

"Well, boy, you can if you want to," his father said, clearly satisfied that his son would be in good hands.