| Canada grew up poor in the South Bronx in the '50s. Violence, then, as now, was a way of life. All boys fought - life was worse for those who refused. Violence and the rituals surrounding it established the social pecking order. In the preface to his memoir Canada says, "The difference is that we never had so many guns in our inner cities." Canada's first memory of street violence came at age 4, when his two older brothers had a jacket stolen at the playground. The boys' mother sent them right back to fetch it, promising them a beating "ten times as bad as what that little thief could do to you," if they failed. They left the house in tears and returned triumphant, with the jacket. Their mother sat them down and told them it was a lesson in not becoming a victim. The author, her youngest, was unconvinced. Then a neighborhood boy who habitually refused to fight was "stretched" over a car and savagely beaten by a group of boys. "The lesson was brutal and unmistakable. No matter who you fought, he could never beat you that bad." Canada's memoir is a thoughtful, moving portrayal of social behavior in a culture of violence. A quick study, Canada learned to use posturing, attitude and negotiation as well as his fists to minimize the number and severity of violent encounters. But he is absolutely convinced that violence is a learned response, not innate. He and the other small boys, says Canada, were aghast at the prospect of fighting. Only fear of worse violence and a life of cowering in corners spurred them to fight. Today, says Canada, the same imperatives operate. But guns have shattered the rituaized formality of the pecking order. Toughness is no longer determined by fighting skills or "heart" but by willingness to pull the trigger.
This is the book's most chilling precept. The streets are now ruled by those whose most important attribute is a lack of compunction about killing. Canada's own experience as a gun carrier is a perfect illustration. Home from college he found a nearby street ruled by a gang of toughs so intimidating he would take a circuitous route to avoid them. So he bought a gun. Carrying it, he found his whole personality changed. Instead of avoiding the block or even crossing the street he would swagger through the gang, his whole attitude provoking a challenge. But back at school in bucolic Maine he saw his behavior in a different light. Appalled at how close he'd come to shooting someone, he threw away the gun. Those who don't leave the ghetto don't have the luxury of contemplation.
Canada has devoted his life to helping poor children and reducing street violence. Today he runs a program which offers classes and recreational activities which involve the whole community. The Rheedlen Center uses public school buildings, open 17 hours a day, in an effort to provide children and families with safety. At the end of the book, Canada offers a program for solving the problems of violence in the inner cities. Chief among them is getting handguns off the streets by using buyback programs, registration at the place of manufacture (so any gun can be traced) and registration of ammunition. Whether the reader agrees with his solutions or not, Canada's memoir is powerful testimony of a future of little hope without major change. It is also a riveting and convincing personal history. | 
