In the end
They beat me.
Wounded too many times,
Though never badly.
I was tired of fighting.
A professional Black man
Relentlessly fighting for Professional
Equal access and equal opportunity
For all.
With no help from those who looked like me.
On whom I had wasted so much time and energy
Trying to help.
Ungrateful Bastards! They Were.
But I should have know better.
They were weak.
And scared.
So, to their black relief,
I handed over my sword.
Admittedly
On my own terms.
Cause the professional white men
Who were my antagonists
Were glad to see me go.
Cause they were tired of fighting, too.
So the words of another professional white man,
My soon-to-be-ex-supervisor.
Arrived empty, stale, and putrid in my head.
"You are an enigma."
He opined.
"I don't understand why
We didn't appreciate you more."
But he knew why.
I knew, too.
Of course
I had said as much
To the professional white man who had preceded him.
"If I were white", I had said,
"You would love me".
A statement he neither confirmed nor denied.
But being a Black man,
I was an enigma.
One they could tolerate
Even show respect,
But never embrace.
Or be comfortable with. (sic)
