In sports, a “franchise tag” is supposed to lock in a player, keep them on the team, and keep them in the game. But being Black in America comes with something different, something we never asked for and can’t negotiate our way out of. I call it the “disenfranchise tag.” It’s that invisible label society sticks on us before we even open our mouths. It doesn’t protect us. It doesn’t reward us. It limits us, boxes us in and follows us everywhere we go.
I grew up being taught to work hard, stay respectful and carry myself with pride. And I still believe in all of that. But the older I got, the more I realized that the world doesn’t always play fair with people who look like me. There’s this quiet, unspoken system running in the background, one that pretends to be neutral but somehow always seems to land on the backs of groups labeled as “minorities.”
It shows up in the little things people swear “aren’t about race.”
Like being followed around a store even when you’re the one with the best credit score in the room.
Like being told you’re “so articulate” as if it’s a surprise.
Like watching someone clutch their bag when you walk by, even though you’re the one who held the door open for them.
Like being the only Black person in a meeting and suddenly becoming the spokesperson for 40 million people.
Like knowing you have to be twice as good just to be seen as equal — and even then, the goalposts move.
And then there are the bigger things.
The résumé that gets ignored until you remove the “ethnic-sounding” name. The loan that mysteriously falls through.
The job interview where the energy shifts the moment they see your face. The healthcare system that treats your pain like an exaggeration.
The justice system that treats your existence like a threat.
These aren’t things you can fully explain to someone who’s never lived it. It’s a feeling. A pressure. A constant awareness. It’s waking up every day knowing the world has already made assumptions about you before you even step outside.
That’s the “disenfranchise tag.”
Not given by a coach.
Not written in a contract.
Just placed on us by a society that still hasn’t dealt with its own reflection. But here’s the part they never expect: we rise anyway.
We build, we create, we lead, we love, we laugh and we keep showing up. We carry our history with us, not as a burden, but as proof that we come from people who survived everything designed to break them. And we honor that by pushing forward.
That’s why I do the work I do now. I want to stand beside people who feel that same weight, who’ve been overlooked, underestimated, or written off. Everyone deserves a fair shot, access to healthcare, support, representation, and a chance to be seen for who they really are, not who the world assumes they are.
And I’m grateful for the folks who see me clearly, who give me space to grow, rebuild, and contribute. Shoutout to The Contributor for giving a space for people to show that they are more than any label society tries to stick on them. We are here, we are present and we are adding something real to the world.
The road isn’t easy. It never has been for us. But we keep walking it with purpose, with pride, and with the kind of resilience that can’t be taught, it’s inherited.
And that’s what Black History Month is really about. Not just looking back, but recognizing the strength we carry right now, every day, in a world that still doesn’t fully understand what it feels like to walk in our shoes.
Andrew J. Terry IV is the Program Operations Team Lead at The Contributor. In this role, he takes people to medical appointments, works with community partners, and obtains other key information all to help vendors gain entry into the SOAR program.