Lessons from Leadership: What Young Black Men Teach Us About Growth

In the heart of downtown Portland, where sleek high-rises meet historic streets, sits Lincoln High School. A newly renovated campus with modern glass windows and open spaces, it stands just blocks away from Providence Park, where crowds flood the streets on game nights. Across the way, the prestigious Multnomah Athletic Club looms, a quiet symbol of generational wealth and privilege. This is one of the busier, more polished parts of Portland, far removed from the realities many of our young Black men know.

And yet, this is where they gather.

Every week, our Ambassadors, young Black men from every corner of the city, make their way here. Some come from Parkrose, where the shifting landscape of gentrification is felt in every boarded-up storefront. Others travel from De La Salle North Catholic, a school built on faith and grit. From Sunset, where they may be one of only a handful of Black students. From Roosevelt, where the weight of history and systemic neglect is a daily reality. Some even cross state lines from Vancouver. They come from different streets, different homes, different struggles, but they walk into this room with a shared understanding, a quiet but unshakable determination.

At times, these moments feel almost unreal. A room full of young Black men, gathered together, sharing space and conversation, pushing each other forward. They are on different paths, but they all want the same thing: to be seen for more than their circumstances, to be recognized not as statistics but as stories still being written.

What Do You Do When the World Tells You Who You Are?

Society has long dictated who young Black men are allowed to be. The world writes their story before they even have a chance to hold the pen.

"It seems the rain'll never let up,
I try to keep my head up, and still keep from gettin' wet up.
You know, it's funny when it rains it pours,
They got money for wars, but can't feed the poor."

Tupac’s words still ring true today. The world spends billions to police young Black men but won’t invest in their futures. It tells them to “pull themselves up” while denying them the boots to do it. It offers them statistics instead of solutions, condemnation instead of opportunity.

And yet, they keep moving. They keep striving.

The Problem With “Saving”

When working with young Black men, it’s easy to fall into the trap of seeing yourself as a savior. You think back to your own youth and ask, What did I need? Then, you try to give them exactly that. It’s a noble instinct, but a flawed one. Because in trying to heal your own inner child, you risk missing the reality of the young men in front of you.

They don’t need to be saved.

They need to be understood.

Too often, Black boys are treated as a problem to be solved rather than as individuals to be known. They are categorized, labeled, boxed in by assumptions. People enter their lives with pre-packaged solutions, believing they already know what’s best for them. But leadership—real leadership—isn’t about giving people answers. It’s about listening.

And when you listen, you learn.

You learn that these young men are not monolithic. They are poets, athletes, intellectuals, entrepreneurs, and dreamers. They are not all hardened by struggle, nor are they all untouched by it. Each one carries a story as complex as any novel, as layered as any history book.

You learn that they don’t need pity, they need possibility.

You learn that they are not waiting for permission to be great. They already are. They just need a space to prove it.

What Young Black Men Teach Us About Leadership

So often, leadership is framed as a one-way street, where those with experience pass wisdom down to those who are younger and less experienced. But what if leadership isn’t about guiding from the front? What if it’s about walking alongside?

Because in these weekly meetings, in these conversations, something powerful happens.

We come thinking we are here to teach them. But in the end, they teach us.

They teach us resilience—not the kind that simply endures hardship, but the kind that transforms it.

They teach us about accountability—how they hold each other to higher standards, even when the world expects little from them.

They teach us about community, how brotherhood is not just about blood but about shared struggle and shared triumphs.

They remind us that leadership isn’t about control, but about connection. That being seen and heard can sometimes be the most powerful thing you can offer someone.

Most importantly, they teach us that their story is still being written. That no statistic, no stereotype, no preconceived notion can define them.

They are already leading.

The only question is: Are we listening?