I Want You to Be the You You're Always Telling Me About

Am I wrong for being the consummate cheerleader?  I used to think that men appreciated and desired women that rooted for them.  I'm not so sure anymore.  In the past 3 years alone I've met nearly a dozen African-American men with unimaginable "potential".  I've encouraged them, massaged their bruised egos, supported their endeavors into personal revelation, and shown that I would gladly take them for face value, but I'd rather have them with their complete appraised worth intact.  Nevertheless, they buck my "you can do it"'s at every turn.  Maybe it wouldn't be so frustrating if they were truly ignorant of who they could be.  But they have complete knowledge of that person.  They just run, in an unnerving show of terror, from that greatness.  It saddens me to see the men who have no inkling of how to be real men running the show, because it should be these men of ridiculous, history-making "potential" that should be the visage that school-aged boys look up to.  How do you look up to someone who can't seem to look at himself?  Sometimes, I wish I had a desire for thugs and men of no moral countenance.  Because they, unfortunately, don't seem to be ashamed of what they want.  Silly me, I have the audaciousness to want the tortured, self-effacing, love-deserving, but love-fearing, inculpable, beautiful but darkened souled, gogeous being that slips up and shows me a rare yet oh so pure glimpse of themselves. 
You can't save 'em all, Mika.