The Metamorphosis of Lesra Martin (page 2 of 3)

A Different World

LESRA arrived in Toronto in October 1979. Apprehensive, excited, he had no idea what to expect but was overjoyed to be with the people he affectionately dubbed The Canadians.

       Their first goal was to tackle his health problems. They watched in astonishment as Lesra heaped sugar on his meat and vegetables. Haunted by years of hunger, he squirrelled away bread and fruit in his room. "There will always be plenty of food in the fridge," Lisa gently told him.

       Back home, doctors were only for desperate emergencies. As a consequence, Lesra had lived in pain for years. He suffered from a sinus infection, constant headaches, stunted growth and poor vision. The Canadians spent months shuttling him to doctors, specialists and a dentist to improve his health.

       Carefully they drew him into a larger world by reading books and newspapers out loud, by watching TV news, by asking his opinion during business discussions. Everything provided fodder for learning.

       One day they sat on the grass at the Ontario legislature, Queen's Park, across the street from the University of Toronto. Sam pointed out the university's law school. "That's where you'll be going to school one day," he told Lesra. Lesra hadn't the vaguest idea of the enormous obstacles he faced in reaching such a goal.

       At first the Canadians guessed that Lesra was no more than a few grades behind. They talked about enrolling him in Grade 9, perhaps with some extra tutoring.

       "Read this," Sam said one day, sliding a book into Lesra's hands.

       Lesra fumbled to pronounce the words. Sam watched as his eyes skittered over the page, desperately searching for words he recognized, like "cat."

       "What's this word, and this?" Sam repeatedly asked, pointing to the text.

       Stumped and unwilling to admit it, Lesra searched his memory for words he knew or made up the words as he went along, growing more frustrated and angry.

       Suddenly it dawned on Sam that Lesra could neither read nor write; they had greatly overestimated his level of education. A subsequent reading test placed him at a Grade 2 level. Lesra was shattered. He had attended school faithfully, easily passing from grade to grade. If he couldn't read or write, what had been the point of his going?

       Chaiton had tutored Lisa Peters' son Marty, who was severely dyslexic. It seemed natural that he could teach Lesra as well. Lesra was bright, but his lack of Standard English -- the key to learning everything else -- was a huge obstacle. Lesra's speech was a complicated mix of street slang, broken English, even triple negatives. He pronounced words like "beauty" as "bruty."

       The first year, Sam stripped everything down to the basics, tackling phonetic skills first. None of it made sense to Lesra. "That's not the way I was taught in school," he argued. Once proud of his class standing, he soon became convinced that he was incapable of learning.

       "I'm stupid. There must be something wrong with me," he frequently told Sam, tears streaming down his face. Such moments were heartbreaking for Sam. "No, Lesra, it's not your fault," he said. Often their lessons veered off into discussions of personal issues as Lesra battled deeply ingrained feelings of inferiority.

       For Lesra, school had been a safe haven where he could sleep, get warm, have something to eat. Tests that challenged a student's knowledge were almost nonexistent. Kids played cards at the back of the class while teachers read newspapers. Lesra had never been assigned homework or asked to write an essay or to read a book. "That's why you didn't learn," Sam explained.

       Many days ended with both of them physically and emotionally exhausted. "I can't do this!" Lesra would shout, storming up to his room and throwing his clothes into a bag. He wanted to quit, go home. Sam and the others would leave him alone to cool down. Then a couple of them would go up to his room to talk and to ask him how he'd explain to his family that he'd given up. So Lesra would calm down and begin the struggle to learn all over again.

       In truth, Lesra enjoyed learning and didn't want to leave. The household was a stimulating bustle of activity, a place where learning never stopped.

       Trips home, however, were a painful reminder of the staggering extremes between his two worlds. On one visit to Bushwick, he was strolling down the block with his younger brother Elston when police cars screeched to a halt near them. Trunks popped open, guns were yanked out, and the police stormed a nearby building. Lesra, 16, and Elston, 14, hit the ground as bullets whizzed over their heads. Lesra reached for his brother's hand, certain they wouldn't survive. The siege ended as abruptly as it started, but Lesra was furious that anyone had to live like this.

       Even more painful was the toll his absence seemed to take on his family. It was expected the eldest brother at home would always look out for his younger siblings. With Fru in and out of jail, that responsibility had fallen on Lesra's shoulders.

       "Why did you leave?" Elston would ask during his visits. "All the pressure to take care of the family is on me now."

       Elston's frustration posed a terrible dilemma for Lesra. The rest of his family was supportive, never pressuring him to come home. He knew his younger brother looked up to him and followed his ways. The close-knit pair were a lot alike -- taking responsibility and trying to be fair and decent to others.

       "I wouldn't have left if I didn't think you could do it," Lesra told his brother, proud that Elston tried hard to fill his shoes.

       On every flight back to Toronto, Lesra cried. For weeks after his return, he'd be distracted and miserable, unable to study. He lashed out at the Canadians, trying to pick fights. Everyone knew that he was hurting. Eventually Lesra began taking the train, a 12-hour ride, allowing him time to adjust as he travelled between his two very different worlds.

       Yet he couldn't forget his family. Lesra cut lawns, raked leaves, shovelled snow -- all to earn money to send home. His family's hardships were harsh reminders of his need to become educated, to stay out of the ghetto.

Revelation

WHEN HE'D first moved to Toronto, Lesra had been struck by its peacefulness compared to the chaos of Bushwick. "Do white people ever fight and argue?" he asked the Canadians. Exposed to little else, he quickly drew the conclusion that the violence he understood so well was limited to African-Americans.

       To dispel Lesra's misconceptions, the Canadians encouraged Lesra to study the past, emphasizing black heroes and black American history. One summer day in 1980, Sam handed Lesra a thick book by Frederick Douglass, a brilliant black American human-rights leader. "You can read this out loud to us," Sam said.

       "It's like a foam [phone] book!" Lesra retorted. The dense volume, written in 1857, was laced with difficult words and Victorian phrases but told of Douglass's own struggle with literacy. Terrified, Lesra flipped it open, his eyes raking over the text. Haltingly, he stumbled over the words. Tears welled up in his eyes. He slammed the book shut and glared at Sam and Terry.

       "You can do it," Sam insisted. "You've got the skills to handle this. This is where the payoff is for all the work you've been doing."

       Lesra remembered his mentors telling him not to stop at troublesome words, but to read the whole sentence and paragraph so that the meaning would become clear. He sounded out the words, working his way through the text. A flicker of recognition crossed his face. The words, the paragraphs, everything suddenly made sense to him.

       Not long afterwards, at a used book sale, Lesra's eyes fell on The Sixteenth Round: From Number 1 Contender to #45472. The fierce looking man on its cover was the author, Rubin "Hurricane" Carter. The famous middleweight boxer had been tried and imprisoned for the 1966 murders of three white people in Paterson, N.J. Intrigued, Lesra bought the book.

       Hungrily he read Carter's story, published in 1974. The passion behind Carter's words and the force of his language bore into Lesra's mind and heart. The book was filled with profanity, language he had heard every day on the streets of Bushwick. That in itself was a revelation: He didn't know anyone could write as they spoke or felt in real, everyday life. As Carter's story unfolded, Lesra experienced the anger, frustration and helplessness the boxer felt over his wrongful conviction.

       Until then, Lesra had looked at life as one insurmountable hurdle after another. Yet here was Carter, after years of insufferable conditions, never wavering in his resolve to prove his innocence.

       Lesra thought about Carter all the time, resolving to work harder at his studies. If Carter could not be broken, then surely he could overcome his own fear of reading and writing.

       One day he carefully smoothed out some paper on his desk, then picked up a pen to write Carter a letter. He struggled to find the words to express his thoughts and feelings. Soon, balls of crumpled-up paper surrounded the wastebasket as he scratched out his thoughts. Finally he folded a letter and slipped it into an envelope.*

A Single Letter

AT NEW JERSEY'S Trenton State Prison in September 1980, Rubin Carter barely glanced up when a guard propped a single letter between his cell's bars. Every day, mail arrived from people begging for autographs or asking to write his story. Appalled, he never opened them.

       After his second trial and imprisonment in 1976, continuing to steadfastly maintain his innocence, Carter kept himself apart from the routine of prison life. I'm not a criminal, and I'm not participating in this system, he thought bitterly, refusing to wear prison garb and eating only food shipped in by a friend. Disillusioned, forgotten by the politicians and celebrities who had once rallied to his cause, he shunned visitors for nearly five years, refusing to let anyone but his lawyers see him in the "lowest pits of hell."

       Now, the solitary letter nagged at him for hours until he finally ripped it open.

       "Dear Mr. Carter," it began. It was the first letter Lesra Martin had ever written, and in it he told Carter about his home in Bushwick, his new life with the Canadians and his belief in Carter's innocence.

WEEKS after he'd mailed his letter, Lesra haunted the front-door mail slot, waiting for a reply. Finally, a white envelope with U.S. postage arrived. He stared in disbelief, then whooped and hollered for the others to come see.

       The innocence and energy in Lesra's letter had touched a profound chord in Carter. Through Lesra, he felt a pure joy that he hadn't known in years. Soon letters flowed back and forth between Carter and Lesra and the Canadians.

       On the last Sunday in December 1980, while home visiting his family, Lesra set out for Trenton State Prison. At the forbidding stone walls, lined with gun towers and barbed wire, Lesra's heart pounded with excitement over seeing Carter and with sheer terror over entering the ominous structure. Fru's been in jail, he thought, and I'd probably be here too if not for the Canadians.

       It took more than an hour for him to pass through a series of screenings, sign-ins and security checks. Finally he stood in the prison's former death house, now used as a visiting area and still showing the braces where the prison's electric chair once stood.

       The other visitors and prisoners paired off until Carter and Lesra, who was shaking with fear, were the only two people left standing.

       "You must be Lesra!" Carter boomed in a deep, rich voice. He'd known of Lesra's intention to visit, but had not encouraged it. The death house was a degrading place for prisoners and those who came to see them.

       Lesra had expected to find the Carter of his photos: the formidable, shaven-head boxer with the ferocious stare. Instead, Carter, not much taller than Lesra, greeted him with a broad grin. Sensing Lesra's fear, Carter crushed the teenager to him in a protective, fatherly hug. Lesra immediately felt safe.

       As they sat laughing and talking, Lesra turned over the contradictions in his mind. From Carter's own book, Lesra knew he was no choir boy; Carter had been in and out of trouble before his murder conviction.

       Still, that was no reason for him to be in jail for something he didn't do. He's survived this place and yet he's so gentle, Lesra thought in amazement. His every instinct told him that Carter was innocent.

       Their visit drew to an end, and both sat in silence, Carter's warm hand resting on top of Lesra's. It was the first outside human contact Carter had had in years.

       They both looked up as another prisoner approached.

       "Mr. Carter, would you like a picture of you and your son?" the man asked, noticing the affection between the two. Pleased, and not bothering to correct him, Carter nodded. The pair stood, arms clasped around each other, and Lesra beamed.

*A DETAILED account of the lives of Lesra Martin and Rubin Carter can be found in Lazarus and the Hurricane: The Freeing of Rubin "Hurricane" Carter, by Sam Chaiton and Terry Swinton.