John F. Street: Activist turned policymaker.

His roots are close to the ground -- and the people.

He grew up on a farm, put himself through college and law school, and went on to become a boisterous champion of the poor. Gradually he traded activism on the outside of city government for policy-making on the inside, reinventing himself as a municipal budget expert and political power broker on City Council.

Now, John Franklin Street sees himself as the obvious choice to become the next mayor of Philadelphia, the heir apparent to the popular Ed Rendell.

For all his assets -- a sharp intellect, years of experience, a killer work ethic and a virtual co-mayoralty with Rendell for seven years -- Street, 56, has some negatives to overcome.

Detractors cite the belligerent beginnings of his public life, his past financial problems, his record of rewarding friends and punishing foes. And though it happened 18 years ago, many have never forgotten his embarrassing slugfest on the floor of City Council with Councilman Francis Rafferty.

But Street has never let other people's doubts get in his way.

They told him to forget about college, that he was not law school material, that he would never be Council president.

Street proved them wrong on all counts, and he intends to do it again: "I think, probably when I'm elected mayor, I will be the most qualified person to ever hold that position," he said with characteristic bravado.

Street and his older brothers, James Jr. and T. Milton, were reared outside Swedeland in Montgomery County on a 110-acre farm leased by their Seventh-Day Adventist parents, Elizabeth and James Street Sr.

Farm life was relentlessly predictable. The chickens and cows had to be fed, the tomatoes and potatoes had to be weeded. No matter what.

"There were no free rides," Street said.

At Conshohocken High School, he was told to consider vocational training because he was not "college material." The advice wounded his pride, but strengthened his determination. After graduation he entered Oakwood College, the Adventist school in Huntsville, Ala., majoring in English.

He graduated in 1964 and was briefly married to fellow student Carolyn Robinson before moving back to the Philadelphia area in 1966 -- just in time to attend his five-year high school reunion. There he sought out the teacher who had discouraged him from pursuing a degree.

"I told her that she should be careful about what she tells students, because her words can be very damaging," Street said.

Over the next few years, Street worked as a substitute teacher, drove a cab, and sold Mister Softee ice cream.

Finally he decided on the law.

But when he applied to Temple, he was told that Oakwood had not prepared him properly. Undaunted, Street applied again, and again.

By now remarried to Helen Street and starting a family, he taught job-training and community organizing full time, and made extra money selling hot dogs on North Broad Street with his brother, Milton.

That is where Carl F. Singley, in charge of minority recruiting for Temple, met him one day in 1972.

"This guy with a scraggly beard and a big old Afro wearing five sweatshirts hands me my hot dog and then says, 'Hey. Why can't I get in that law school?' " said Singley, now head of his own law firm.

When he learned that Street was a college graduate, Singley promised to do what he could. Soon after, Street was called in for an interview and wowed the admissions committee. He was in.

After graduation, he went into private practice. "I was good," Street said recently.

In at least one instance, maybe too good.

He was representing someone with a long record in front of a tough judge. Street somehow won an acquittal, but three months later his client was involved in a triple murder.

"I remember thinking that I worked so hard all of my life, I really struggled to get an education, and I applied all that I learned to this case, and now three people are dead because of it," said Street, who realized then that he did not want to practice law for a living.

Meanwhile, his brother, Milton -- angry over the city's new vending regulations -- was regularly landing in jail for launching flamboyant protests. John Street became the legal brains of the crusade.

The brothers protested in the streets, on the Temple campus, in front of City Hall. When City Council President George X. Schwartz refused to meet with them, they confronted him at Council meetings.

They took on housing, too, questioning the allocation of millions of federal dollars given to the city to benefit neighborhoods.

"They got that money because of the large number of poor people in communities like North Philadelphia, and then when they got it, they treated the community like some doctors treat many terminally ill patients," Street said recently. "Give them a lot of painkillers, put them in the corner, and just let them die."

The Streets became the darlings of the disenfranchised.

Both now had political ambitions.

In 1978, Milton Street was elected to the state legislature. In 1979, John Street moved his wife, Helen, and three children from Mount Airy to North Philadelphia to run against Cecil B. Moore, the ailing Fifth District councilman. Moore died before the primary, which Street won over nine other opponents.

He was now the people's councilman -- filibustering to ensure North Philadelphia received its share of federal grants; sponsoring legislation legalizing the use of kerosene heaters; and initiating programs to help poor people stake claims on abandoned houses.

Because of John Street, Philadelphia became the first city in the country to order divestiture of city pension holdings from companies doing business in South Africa.

As the years went by, supporters and critics alike were astounded by Street's grasp of legislation and the city budget, to say nothing of his 12-hour workdays.

"Anyone who's going to debate John Street on city government had better do his homework, because you'd better believe he's done his," said former U.S. Rep. Lucien Blackwell, a Street ally when both were councilmen.

But for many, legislation is not what pops to mind when the subject is Street's early years in Council. They remember a long-haired, goateed Street jabbing his finger at Abscam-tainted Council President Schwartz and yelling, "Why'd you take the money, George?"

In 1980, Schwartz and fellow Councilmen Harry Jannotti and Louis Johanson along with two Philadelphia congressmen were indicted in an FBI sting designed to capture officials accepting bribes.

The operation was dubbed Abscam because one of the agents posed as a wealthy Arab sheik seeking to buy influence in the United States.

Then there was the infamous Saturday in 1981.

The trouble began because then-Council President Joseph Coleman refused to hold hearings on two bills designed to stop a looming Philadelphia school strike. Coleman called for a vote only on his own bill, and when he refused to reconsider, Street jumped to his feet and began a tirade.

When he snatched the stenographer's tripod and swung it around, Councilman Jimmy Tayoun grabbed him from behind and Rafferty delivered a blow that snapped Street's head back, breaking Tayoun's glasses.

Then Street broke loose and wrestled Rafferty to the floor.

In retrospect, Street said, he learned two things that day: "One, that I could pick a 250-pound man up above my head, and two, that if I wanted to be an effective leader, I would have to learn how to approach people in a way that they could accept, and not take offense."

Street began a campaign to win over his opponents in Council.

In the early 1980s, Street was a liberal, calling for tax increases to pay for teacher contracts and programs to house the poor.

But by 1989, when he headed the appropriations committee, Street had joined with conservative Democrats and Republicans to pass a budget that squeezed social services. It was clear to his former liberal buddies that a new, fiscally conservative Street had replaced the old.

Street reached across gender, color and party lines to prove that he could work with anyone.

"I think I was a little surprised at first, but I got over it and was just very happy," said Republican Councilman Brian O'Neill.

Former Mayor W. Wilson Goode: "I tip my hat to him that he was able to forge those coalitions, because he was then able to flex his muscle by forcing through legislation or blocking legislation, some of which he did at my expense."

By the time Rendell took office in 1992, Street was a powerhouse. Hoping to avoid the rancor that had plagued previous administrations, Rendell made Street part of every important decision in City Hall, shared patronage jobs, and heaped praise on him. The two met every Tuesday morning -- in Street's office. In return, Street pushed all of Rendell's budgets and most of his legislation through Council.

"I think the relationship was forged out of necessity and built on respect and total sharing of information and somewhere along the line it metamorphosed into genuine friendship," the mayor said recently.

Under Rendell, the city came back from near-financial ruin, but it does not mean "we can throw up our hands and declare victory," Street said. "We've been successful in revitalizing our downtown area, but now we need to concentrate on the neighborhoods."

He has pledged to raise $250 million through the sale of bonds for a citywide blight-removal program. He wants every block in the city to be organized, with a block captain and a viable 5-year program.

The city will do its part, Street said, but so must the citizenry.

He also wants to increase the number of after-school programs and hire retired police officers for desk jobs, so active-duty officers would be free to fight crime.

Street's transformation -- from rabble-rousing outsider to City Hall insider -- has come at a price.

Some complain that in trying to appeal to a broader constituency, Street abandoned the poor of North Philadelphia.

That was a theme used in the 1991 Democratic primary by Realtor Julie Welker, who also attacked Street on his personal finances.

Street filed for personal bankruptcy during his first term, and was thrown off the Philadelphia Gas Commission when it was discovered he owed gas bills totaling more than $5,000.

Welker, an unknown when she announced for the seat, came within 1,500 votes of winning.

Though Street's finances now seem in order, conditions in his district likely will be an issue in the mayoral race.

A community activist, who did not want to be named, asks: "Why should we believe he can remove urban blight from the city when here he is, the second most powerful man in Philadelphia, and he couldn't wipe it out in his own district?"

Street points out that thousands of housing units have gone up in the area during his tenure.

Beyond that, he said, "when I first became City Council president, the city didn't even know if it could make its next payroll. We couldn't even borrow money."

Street also has been accused of generously rewarding his friends and harshly punishing his enemies.

No one disputes that since Street's rise to power, his friends have prospered -- tremendously.

Carl Singley, for one, the man who helped him get into law school, has earned more than $2 million in city bond work since Street became Council president.

"Patronage is the mother's milk of politics. It's how politics are done and everyone knows it," Singley said.

Others have not fared so well.

In 1991, Councilman Angel Ortiz angered Street when he blocked a redistricting plan that did not create a predominantly Latino district.

A year later, when Street became Council president, he named Ortiz head of a committee to draw up a Latino district. Then, without Ortiz's knowledge, he drew up his own plan, which eventually passed.

Ortiz also was stripped of a committee chairmanship.

Street called Ortiz an "obstructionist'' who tried to block important administration initiatives.

"But I've never tried to get back at [ him ] ," he said.

Street may not win a Mr. Congeniality Contest, but that is not the title he is after.

Friends say the public John Street is 180 degrees from the private John Street.

He happily spends time with his third wife, Naomi, a lawyer, and their 11-year-old son in the family's brick rowhouse in Yorktown. He also remains close to three grown children from his second marriage.

"I think you might actually call him shy," O'Neill said.