To Be a Black Man in America

Sometimes, no matter how many degrees hang on your wall,

how many titles trail your name,

how many rooms you’ve earned your way into

it’s still hard being a Black man in this country.

Every morning, when our feet touch the ground,

we don’t just rise

we prepare for war.

Not with weapons, but with restraint.

With code-switching.

With the silent math of how to exist without offending.

Speak too boldly, and you’re a threat.

Speak too softly, and you’re invisible.

Raise your octave, and suddenly you’re unstable.

Too much.

Too loud.

Too Black.

You stand in line at the grocery store,

and the woman ahead still clutches her purse.

You walk into an interview,

and before you say a word,

you feel the tension

the unspoken question:

“Should you be here?”

Boardrooms talk over you.

Neighborhoods watch you.

Sirens shadow you.

And even with all your credentials,

you still have to prove

you belong at the table your ancestors prayed for.

But it gets tired.

We get tired.

Tired of shrinking ourselves to fit comfort zones we didn’t design.

Tired of doubting our brilliance

just to survive the day.

Sometimes, we just want to be.

To walk into a store without the glances.

To drive home without wondering

if this will be the last time we see our family.

We want to breathe.

Not cautiously.

Not performatively.

Just breathe

and exhale without complication.

Because being a Black man in America

is not just about resilience.

It’s about the right to exist

without apology.

Esyntrek