Some say the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. I say the darker the flesh, then the deeper the roots.

— Tupac Shakur

I vividly remember how empowered this classic line from Tupac’s 1993 song, “Keep Ya Head Up,” made me feel as a teenager in the mid 2000s. As an avid fan of poetic lyricism, I knew how the line could be seen as an ode to the beauty of black women, but I also realized how it was a reassuring statement to our black community as a whole.

It was the method in which hip-hop’s greatest martyr chose to call us to action—by telling us to love our blackness and to live in it.

Many years have passed since I originally heard that song and as time has flown, my perspective of black life has become more humbled.

In 2017, the state of our society tries to paint a perceived ideal that being black is an offense in itself and for that, we are forever incriminated.

In addition, we live our days in a manner where being black in America is to be on the defensive. From the moment we are born, black people are subjected to a survival of the fittest type of world where we have to stay two steps ahead in order to “make it” in a society not made for us.

Specifically, like most black men, I grew up with the notion that I am required to be tough for that exact reason. From my upbringing, the movies and shows I watched, the family members who raised me and the friends I interacted with, all promoted the need to be strong and sound as a black man. As I have grown, I’ve realized the problem with this stigma in our culture can be found in our definition of “tough.”

It seems like the meaning of this word can vary according to the people you ask. In our childhood, the perceived notion of being tough is to avoid moments of weakness, such as crying or showing fear. As we get older, to be tough is to display a versatile sense of unfazed emotional fiber that cannot be easily broken.

Too often, we as black men easily succumb to embracing and promoting the unrealistic standards of toughness that is commonplace in our homes and communities. We tend to wear a mask around the public eye and even amongst our closest confidants as we toughen up and push through the hurdles life throws our way.

But the reality is that we as black men are not always OK.

In all aspects of health, we as black men have become conditioned to trust few and be suspicious of many. Whether it is our emotional security, spiritual safety or physical protection, we have subdued the effects of the trauma against us for centuries.

Every day, my black brothers wake up wondering if today is the day that we join the list of black lives that have met their fate at an unjust cause.

Every morning, we open our eyes wishing for our world to find a cure to the plague of police brutality sweeping across our nation at an alarming rate.

Every sunrise, we wake up hoping that the size of the targets casted upon our bodies by society due to the color of our skin has become even an inch smaller than it was the day before.

One definition of the word paranoia depicts it as a mental condition characterized by delusions and mental exaggerations. Simultaneously, paranoia is also described as the suspicion and mistrust of people, or their actions, without evidence or justification.

It can be argued that black people as a whole, especially black men, consistently suffer from the latter variation of paranoia. Personally, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been driving and feared that hearing a cop’s siren go off meant that he was coming for me—even if I knew that I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Sometimes, even the sheer sight of a cop car next to me or behind me makes me question my every move, due to the justified belief that the likelihood for me to be stopped is far greater than the next man or woman.

Time and time again, I’ve witnessed the story of black man after black man getting gunned down or beat down across the screen of my TV or iPhone. Such sights continue to play in our heads on the daily, but we’re not equipped with the ability to stop it.

Instead, we have to deal with the painful reminders of remembering those we lose by honoring them through #hashtags, memorials, marches and eulogies. Even though we cannot claim to be family members of Tamir Rice, we as black men endure trembling hearts when we are reminded of how he would have turned 15 this year.

As we continue to live in this barbaric climate, we also recognize how much history has never been in favor of the black man, which is why we have had to produce our own sources of inspiration in order to trudge on.

Dating back to slavery, the church has forever been a staple in the black community, standing as a sanctuary for the oppressed to find comfort in the house of the Lord. Despite long days of intensive field labor, our black families congregated with a spirit that could be unbound, for we knew our God was with us. Notwithstanding the calamities that took place during that time, the black church warranted some element of respect from outsiders. Of course, it can be noted that attacks on members of the church, and the church itself, took place, but the reverence that our establishment required of others was something to be proud of.

Fast forward to September 1963. One of the greatest attacks against our spiritual strength took place in Birmingham, Alabama via the 16^th Street Baptist Church bombing. After the historic March on Washington the month prior, this marked a notable rise in tense racial relations for decades. Furthermore, our spirits were scarred due to the loss of four young girls and the nerve for such criminal bigots to attack us at the place where our most powerful civil rights leaders and supporters were known to meet.

The emotional toll it took on our community lasted a lifetime, and it's unfortunate that such heartless attacks continue today. The 2015 Charleston church mass shooting at the renowned Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, and the subsequent church fires that “coincidentally” took place in the days and weeks following, dealt us a blow to our spirit as we wondered why people with such heinous thoughts would continue to attack us.

During that time, I remember how the hearts of so many black males in black churches nationwide, especially pastors, were wounded.

Like always, we chose to shrug past it, pray through it and overcome. However, the reality is that the pain is still there.

Physically, we have endured some trials that were downright unjust. The Tuskegee Syphilis Experiment, known officially as the Tuskegee Study of Untreated Syphilis in the Negro Male, was a 40-year-long test administered against 600+ black men in rural Alabama from 1932–1972. Regardless of how these men acquired the disease, they were closely monitored so officials could track the effects of the disease over the years, even if it meant denying the men proper treatment.

Recruited into the health program with the false promise of food, free medical check-ups, transportation and other incentives, they were initially split into two groups, with around 400 being labeled as infected with syphilis, and another 200 who were not.

Those with the disease were often lied to and given medical solutions designed to make them think they were being treated. Alternatively, the men free of the disease were used as a control group as health officials told the men persuasive lies and hid the study’s purpose from them—but continued to make them endure hurtful tests against the body.

After the study was dissolved in the 1970s, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention reported that monetary settlements and health benefits were given to participants of the study and their families as many were unfairly exposed to contracting the disease, along with other health problems.

In the decades since the truth was to be found, the study continues to be an underlying and often subconscious reason for why black men place little faith in the medical community.

Being born in the early 1990s myself, I can’t say that I grew up with full-fledged knowledge of these instances and more apparent reasoning for why I trust a black doctor over a white doctor. However, it’s remarkable how in both my adolescence and adulthood, I have preferred to have a black physician and dentist, because having these individuals monitor my health gives me a level of comfort and security that I can’t help but to question when presented from a white man.

As black men, we continue to face an internal struggle when it comes to all facets of our physical health, because we don’t know who to trust half the time.

We already know that we are more susceptible to suffer from heart disease, diabetes and prostate cancer than any other gender or race. The rates of prostate cancer and related deaths in African American men are among the highest in the world, and many people attribute it to the lack of quality health care we have access to. However, it would be wrong if I didn’t acknowledge that my fellow black men (myself included) often shy away from receiving preventive care for the simple fear of “what if,” and our unrealistic belief that we can be tough and push through anything.

Additionally, we continue to be suspicious of medical institutions that we perceive to have ulterior motives when treating us, such as finding ways to make more money off of us through deceptive tactics.

Black men are supposed to be the heroes of our households and the “Supermen” of our families. Due to this, it is hard for us to accept that we may not always be okay simply because the responsibilities we feel ourselves accountable for lead us to think we have to be okay because we’re all that we can trust.

Currently, the potential elimination of Obama’s Affordable Care Act is one of the most threatening attacks against poor people in general, as well as minorities. However, I see it from the viewpoint of how detrimental it will be towards the black man, as it will only increase the challenges we have to face when acquiring the health care we need to combat the disadvantage we have when it comes to our physical health.

As I continue to mature during this defining decade of my 20’s, I pose the question to myself and to my fellow black men surrounding what we can do to maintain our best health in all aspects of our lives.

Personally, I used to think that I was very fortunate to live in the 21^st century. I went to high school and college during the tenure of our nation’s first black president. I’ve seen black excellence in countless areas of life, whether it is healthcare, entertainment, politics and so forth. I’ve been successful in countless endeavors and received support from peers far and near. However, the harsh reality is that I can’t run from the weight associated with living life as a black man.

To be a black man is to have a gift that I wouldn’t trade for the world, but I firmly belief I’d be hard-pressed to find someone of a different gender and/or race who would ask to switch places with me.

As black men, we need to be honest with ourselves in order to become our best selves. We are strong, we are ambitious, and we are tenacious. However, we are also fragile, delicate and subtle. We cannot be given one label. For we are called to fulfill many purposes and titles, but the world we live in finds that hard to understand.

We must accept that we aren’t okay all the time. It’s a gradual process that we come to learn over time, but as the patriarchs of our communities, we must be truthful about the support we need in our times of crisis, as well as the pain we’ve experienced throughout our lives.

In the end, I find myself going back to the same line from Tupac that empowered me when I was younger, and still motivates to this day: For, our roots make us sweet in knowledge, but our faith will make us rich in health.