I Am An Orphan

It came across my Facebook newsfeed four times in one day. Four different friends shared posts that I could not for the life of me relate to. What were the posts about, you ask? Each of them were sharing heartfelt sentiments about their mother no longer being in their lives. True, two of them were simply sharing quotes that someone else had written.

However, one of them was really tugging at my heart strings. I tried very hard to remember a time; just one time that I had shared a wonderful, touching moment with my own mother. Try as I might, I could not think of one time. 

Wait! I just remembered of one! Well, it started off good. It was 1983 and my daughter who was almost three was in a hospital in San Antonio, Texas fighting Kawasaki’s Disease. I had been at the hospital for a month or so all alone. She came to visit one day. She had promised to come before and hadn’t, so I didn’t take her seriously this time. I was staying at Fort Sam Houston Army Base in Billeting. The room was scattered with clothes from the night before. She sat in a chair by the window, and I was busy quickly picking things up and putting them away. She called my name, catching me off guard. When I looked at her she was patting her lap. “Come! Leave that stuff. Come sit on my lap,” she said. Okay! I sat gingerly on her lap, and she put her arms around me, pulling me against her breast gently. I was comfortable resting in her arms. She began to hum a song. I listened, trying to see if I could make out the familiar tune. It felt good! 

The next day my aunt called from New York to tell me she’d heard that my daughter wasn’t going to make it from my mother. She’d heard that I was living in a crappy motel and my room was a pigsty! I was crushed! So much for warm, fuzzy moments! They’re overrated anyway, I told myself to keep from crying.

So, reading those posts I could have responded negatively, but that’s not my style. Not everyone was blessed with wonderful mothers that loved on them and held them tightly in their arms and encouraged them. Some of us had mothers that didn’t know how to love because something happened in their lives that changed their who entire being; and they were only able to just be. That had to be enough. I didn’t look for it in her, because it wasn’t there. She’s gone now and I will never know from her what it would have been like to have had the kind of mother that my friends had. I don’t wallow in the mire when I think about myself as an orphan. I’ve been blessed with so many fantastic ladies in my life that fulfilled the role of mother, I don’t even feel like an orphan.

Why Is It So Hard for People to Understand What Rape Is?

This is a story of rape as told to me by a friend. All names have been changed. Some background information will either be left out or changed to protect her.

Mary lived with her family; mother, father and three brothers in a housing project in Brooklyn. Her brothers; Mark, James, and Phillip were friends from infancy with Marcus. Marcus has been a big part of their family all of their lives. Mary got married and moved to the West Coast, but returned home after the divorce. With the support of her parents, she moved ahead quickly, not lingering on the situation. All of her brothers had successful careers, were married and raising their own families. When she spoke with her brother Phillip, he told her that Marcus had gotten divorced after just a few months of marriage and he was down in the dumps and suggested she give him a call to cheer him up. She called him a few days later at his job. He was glad to hear from her and told her that he was planning to come to Brooklyn to visit his mother the next evening, which was Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving. He wanted to know if she wanted to go to a movie or dinner. She agreed on the movie. He came in, hugged her and her mom, shook hands with her dad. Marcus had become very successful working on Wall Street. He drove a luxury car, and his six-foot seven-inch frame filled the car, and she remembers teasing him about it. He told her that maybe she could go with him on the weekend and pick out a large car, perhaps a Mercedes, he said.

The movie line was rather long, so they opted to go to dinner instead. As they sat across from each other, Mary asked him what had happened to end his marriage so quickly, but he didn’t want to talk about that. She told him about her relationship and the plans she had for her life now. He listened, watching her carefully. After dinner, they walked along the pier and then he drove her home. He kissed her on the cheek before saying goodnight.

The next morning, he called and asked if she wanted to ride with him to his home in Saddle River, NJ to get some things so he could stay the rest of the week at his mother’s house. She wasn’t doing anything, so she agreed to go with him. After living in California for several years with the warm weather, she didn’t have a heavy jacket to wear, and her mother’s clothes were too large for her. So, she remembers dressing in layers. She put on tights and jeans. She wore a tank top, a long sleeve shirt, and a sweater. When she checked the weather for the day, it was going to be in the 40s. She put on a long, heavy pullover sweater on top of the other sweater, and put on one of her dad’s wool hats. They rode to NJ, laughing and talking about the memories they had of growing up. They sang to songs on the radio and had a good ride to his home. Once there, he pulled into the circular driveway and told her that he was just going to be a few minutes, and she could wait in the car if she wanted to, he would leave the engine running with the heat on. She thought it odd that he didn't invite her in, but she agreed to stay in the car.  He got out and walked up to the house, stopped at the door, turned and came back to the car. He tapped on her window. “What was I thinking? Come on in,” he said. She turned off the engine and handed him the keys to the ignition. He stepped to the side allowing her to enter the foyer of his home.

His home was massive, and he was having renovations done on it. He led her to the living room, and told her to have a seat, and asked if she wanted anything to drink. She asked if she could have some hot tea. He returned with a cup of tea, a spoon, and the sugar bowl. He went upstairs, and she sipped her tea.

After about thirty minutes of waiting, he came to the top of the stairs and called for her. She got up and went to the foyer, “Yes?” she answered. “Come here, I want to show you the work I’m having done up here,” he said. She went up the stairs, and he led her down the hallway to a room which was going to end up being his office. There was a large, thick plastic fabric at the window, and he explained that the window used to be a painted window, but he was having it replaced. He then led her to another room which he said was going to eventually be a guest bedroom. And then he led her to another room down the hall. The ceiling fan was on, and so was the fireplace. A large floor lamp cast an eery yellow glow in the room. The walls were orange, she remembered. A king size round bed was in the middle of the room, and his suitcase was on a bench at the foot of the bed. “This is my bedroom. You like it?” he asked. “It's huge! Why are you living in this big old house by yourself?” she asked. “I actually got it for my wife and I. We were going to have lots of kids to fill it up, but things didn’t work out,” he said.

“Come let me show you the bathroom. The guys just finished the remodeled on it last week,” he said. She followed him across the expansive room to the bathroom. The shower had four shower heads. There was a large soaker tub, and the stained glass window was still intact. There were two separate vanities. She admired it and turned to walk out when she walked into him. He didn’t move, and so she nervously laughed and attempted to go around him. He caught her hand, and pulled her back to him and began to kiss her.

She said it was like kissing her brother and she pulled away. “What are you doing?” she asked, shocked. Without answering her, he picked her up and carried her to the bed and threw her on it. Her dad’s hat fell off, and her plaits blocked her vision for a few seconds. In that time, he was on the bed, tugging at her clothes. She had no warning! “What are you doing?” she asked again. She could not believe that this was happening.

The memories of their childhood as friends played out in her mind, as she fought to get away from him. But this was not a childhood game of tug of war. This was a grown man, 230 lbs, 6 feet 7 inches, throwing around a woman that was 5 feet three, weighing 140 pounds soaking wet. “Please don’t! Stop!” she told me she begged. “Why do you have on all of these clothes?” he asked, as he pulled off one sweater after another.

“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked him. “Shut up!” he yelled at her, and grabbed her face in his large hand and squeezed it tightly.

He raped her. And when he was done, he got up from the bed, went to the bathroom and filled a tub with hot water and bubbles and told her to take a bath so they could get back to Brooklyn. Her mouth was bleeding, and there was a ringing in her ears from where he had slapped her. On wobbling legs, sore and aching she managed to get to the bathroom. He reached out his hand like a gentleman to help her into the tub, but she refused to touch him.

When she was done bathing, she dressed quickly and went down the stairs. He was waiting in the living room, his head bowed, wiping his face with a tissue. “Are you ready?” he asked.

They rode back to Brooklyn in silence. He didn’t even get out to walk her upstairs. She knew something was wrong with her body as she made it up the stairs and inside of the elevator. She noticed that there was blood between her legs. She let herself into her parent's apartment. Her mother was sitting in the kitchen eating dinner alone. “Marcus raped me!” she stuttered. Her mother dropped her fork loudly in the plate. “What?” she asked. “Marcus raped me!” she repeated. Her mother got up, the chair scraping across the floor loudly. “What are you talking about? You are so dramatic. That man didn’t rape you!” her mother shouted at her. “He did rape me. Look at me!” she said, showing the blood stained pants. “Stop it, Mary! Go take a shower and stop lying. Marcus is a good man!”her mom continued shouting.

Mary went to her bedroom, and got clean clothes, she showered and dressed. She looked at herself in the mirror and saw that she was torn. She was going to need stitches. When she went back to the kitchen to tell her mother she was going to the hospital, she was on the phone with her brother telling him. “She came in here all dramatic, lying talking about Marcus raped her! She makes me so damn sick!” her mother was telling him. Mary let herself out, took a taxi and went to the hospital.

She was asked what happened to her, but she refused to say that she had been raped because if her own mother didn’t believe her, why would anyone else believe her? “Rough sex,” she murmured. She received five stitches and an antibiotic. She rode home, barely able to sit in the seat.

When she walked inside two of her brothers were there. “Girl, what is this I hear about you talking about Marcus raped you?” Mark asked. Before she could answer her mother began to cuss at her, and her brother, Phillip followed her down the hallway. “You just ain't used to a real man!” he said, laughing. She closed her bedroom door, removed her pants, and shirt and went to bed, crying and hugging her pillow. That was over thirty years ago. And she still has nightmares about it.   If her own mother didn’t believe her, why would anyone else? She wrestled with the guilt. What had she done to lead him on? What did she say to lead him on? Why did he do this to her? Was it her fault? Marcus still associates with her brothers, and when he is in Brooklyn, he is welcome to her parent’s home.

She soon moved out and rented a studio apartment in a different section of Brooklyn. She limited her association with her family after that because they always wanted to bring it up. They made it a point to tell her when Marcus would come around, or if he had asked about her. They left her no choice but to cut them off entirely. She has seen them twice since that horrible night. The last time was in 2011 when her father passed away. 

Rape isn't about sex. It doesn't matter what a woman is wearing. It doesn't matter if she smiles at you, or doesn't smile. Rape is about power. It is a horrible experience. It can happen to anyone; a baby to a woman in her nineties. It doesn't matter to a rapist who he attacks. The way the public views rape is horrendous! That is why less than 20% of the victims never even report they've been raped. We have to change our way of thinking. We just have to!

I NEED HELP

It has been a while since I have blogged. I can't believe I have let so much time past. It certainly wasn't that I had nothing to say! Trust me on that. So many things were going on, I just didn't know where to begin.

But here I am on this day, October 19th. I had a birthday on the 4th making me a year older, and hopefully wiser. I don't know about that last part, but for sure I am a year older.

I wanted to share this with you all who read my blog. I am a professional storyteller and have joined two storytelling groups that have stayed the test of time. I used to be a member of two others, but they didn't last long. The National Association of Black Storytellers, Inc. has a festival and conference in various different cities in this country and have been for 32 years. This year's festival will be held in Arlington, VA on November 12-15.

I am anticipating receiving disability for a chronic illness I suffer with, but I haven't gotten the money yet and the festival is right around the corner. I have a roommate, but don't want to leave her hanging at the last minute. So, I decided to set up a gofundme account and hope and pray that I get the money to attend my festival with donations.  I have been going to the NABS festivals since 1995. I missed two festivals since then, both because I couldn't get off work. I don't want to miss this festival in Arlington. So, if you can find it in your heart to help me, I hope that you do. Here is the link to my gofundme account.

https://funds.gofundme.com/dashboard/darbywest

IT IS NOT JUST ABOUT PAIN

Most people don’t know much about fibromyalgia. They think that it is just about pain, but there are so many different symptoms of this illness. When I tell someone that I have fibro, the reactions are different. These are some of the many comments that I have gotten: “You don’t look sick!” “You just need to up your vitamin intake.” “Stop eating meat!” “You need to get moving, and you’ll feel better!” “This woman I know used to have fibromyalgia, but her doctor cured her.” “Have you thought about acupuncture or meditation?” It can be very frustrating to say the least.

I just want to be able to go to bed one night and sleep for five hours straight. I want to be able to wake up and not have to drag myself out of the bed, tired, aching and stiff. I want to be able to walk into any room and not forget what I was going to get. I would like to be able to rest, uninterrupted by unwanted visitors who don’t take into consideration my illness, or who make light of it.

It is tough dealing with the issues I face each day. I am trying to live without an income while my disability is determined by a group of folks that have never met me, who don’t know my plight, or what I go through daily. So, when I get a call from someone complaining about having missed a sale, or some other nonsense I get so disgusted I want to scream. I don’t want to hear anyone’s problems. I am not trying to be inconsiderate, I just simply don’t want to hear about your issues. There is nothing I can do to make them better, so please just spare me.

I have never liked people just to drop by my house without calling. I have always thought that was rude and inconsiderate. It is especially rude and inconsiderate for someone that is sick. There are many nights I go to bed and don’t wash my dishes. There are days where I don’t feel like putting on clothes, or straightening up the house. There are days where I just don’t want to be bothered with anyone. So, don’t come to my house and expect me to answer the door if you didn’t call me first. I have enough on my plate handling me…I can’t handle me and you both. Sometimes I am just depressed, and I don’t have to give an explanation about why.

So, fibromyalgia is more than just pain. It’s sleepless nights. It’s restless mornings. It’s fibro fog or forgetfulness. It’s depression. It’s stressful. All I ask is for some  kindness, consideration, and understanding.

When I was 19 years old I left the religion of my family and began to study the Bible with Jehovah's Witnesses. I wanted to know what God expected of us. What was His plan for humans? Is this life all there is? Was He disappointed in us? What happens to us when we died? Why are people so divided by religion? Why does racism exist? Can the Bible teach us to love one another?

As I learned I wanted to serve this God. I attended the Breevoort Congregation in Brooklyn, NY. There were only two White people that attended the congregation and they lived at the Bethel Home - the building that for many years had the writing above it that said, READ THE BIBLE DAILY. One of them looked out for my cousins, coming over on Friday evenings to watch movies with them, talk to them and encourage them. His name was Ron. My cousins dodged him most Fridays and Ron would spend the time with me and my aunt. One evening time got away from us and it was dark when he left the apartment. I thought about riding back to Bethel with him, to protect him. He said he would be okay, but he was beaten at the train station. He was sent to another area in Brooklyn.

When I went to live in New Mexico I contacted the Witnesses there to continue my studies. A White sister came by to talk with me. She was not old enough to be my mother, but was not my age either. I was lonely out there and she was a great person to hang out with. We would go to the zoo, museum, up in the mountains and shopping in El Paso.

One day she took me to her favorite diner. As soon as I saw the building, I got a funny feeling. When we stepped inside I knew they didn't want me there. Everyone stopped eating and looked towards the door at us. She didn't notice, though. "Hi, Sonny!" she said, smiling as we took a seat at the counter. "Can we go someplace else?" I asked her quietly. "Why? I know the place don't look like much, but the food is good! Isn't it Sonny?" she said to him, laughing alone. He was now beet red in the face, his lips pressed together tightly. But she didn't notice. 'Let me get two pancakes and a smoked sausage. Give me a cup of coffee," she said. She turned to me, "What are you going to have?" I wanted to go! "I'll just have some tea," I said. Even though I was sitting at the counter where I could see him cooking, there was no way I was going to eat anything he prepared. He gave her a cup of coffee and prepared her pancakes. Noticing that I didn't have my tea she reminded him. He got a Styrofoam cup and poured hot water in it and set it down in front of me. As he set it down the cup either melted and the top part of it broke, or it broke from the force of him setting it down. The hot water spread across the counter. I quickly stood to prevent it from scalding me. I again turned to her, "I want to go!" I said softly, but with much feeling. "Get her a regular cup, Sonny" she said. He put a nasty towel down on the counter to catch the water and left it there for me to wipe up. "Can we please go? These people do not want me here!" I said. But she didn't notice. "Sonny, clean this mess up, please," she said. He came back and wiped it up and took the dirty towel away. I glanced at the people sitting at the tables. They had all stopped eating and were watching this show. "Can we please go?" I said again, this time loud enough for Sonny to hear. He set another cup of hot water down, this time in a real cup, but with a plastic spoon. When I lifted the spoon from the water, it had melted. "I will wait for you in the car. Give me the keys!" I said to her. "Sonny?" she said to him. "You know better than that!" Sonny replied. She came with me, throwing  $5 on the counter.

She tried to explain what had happened. She was trying to find the logic in that situation. She had been going to this diner since she was a little girl. She had to admit that she had never seen any Black people in there before, but she didn't know it was because we were not welcome. As I sat there in the car with her, watching her cry and try to find a way to understand what just happened, she found it easier to believe that there had to be some other reason for his behavior. She could not grasp that it was because my skin is not White. I stopped studying the Bible with her after that event. It wasn't because I was mad with God because He was not responsible for this. It was because I had lived for a time in NC. I had marched in demonstrations fighting for my civil rights as a child. I had been tear gassed. I had been arrested. I had been called Nigger. I had been humiliated by White people. I stopped because I wanted to worship a God whose members didn't care what color a person was. And this woman, who no doubt loved God, had her head in the sand when it came to racism. To me, it was easier for her to rationalize what happened as Sonny having a bad day, as opposed to the truth, which was he was a racist. 

A couple of years later, after the fired for knowledge continued to burn in me, I contacted the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses.  I said to the brother that answered the phone, "I want to study the Bible with a White person. I want this person to be old, in their fifties or older (I was only 23 or 24 - so 50s was old). I want her to have raised sons that went to Bethel (a major sacrifice for God - comparable to Timothy going to serve God). I want her to love all people regardless of their skin color. I wanted someone that truly loved her brothers and sisters. The day she was due to arrive we had a Texas hail storm the size of eggs fell from the sky. I knew she wasn't going to come out in this weather. Dottie knocked on my door, her umbrella was destroyed by the hail, and her face was bruised. She stepped in, smiling warmly and kissed and hugged me tenderly. We became the best of friends, but it was hard for me at first. I kept looking for a sign that she was not what she appeared to be. My thinking was this; if a person really allowed what the Bible teaches to reach their heart there is no way they would ever think they were superior to anyone.

She had been in the Truth for over 30 years. She had raised two grown men that had both gone to Bethel and served. One had been there for four years and the other twelve.  Her husband was so opposed to it and how she was raising their sons, that he had beaten her when she was younger. He had broken her ankle so many times it had been replaced and her heel sunk down when she stepped, making it look like an accordion. I told her my story of growing up in the south. She showed me from the Bible how God feels about injustices. Since Sunday school I knew the Lord’s Prayer, but never knew what I was really praying for. Now I knew. I dedicated my life to God on February 24, 1984 by getting baptised. When I returned from the Convention in Dallas, Dottie and I got together. “I have never been able to have any of the Witnesses to my home for a meal because of my husband. You have nothing to stop you. Show hospitality to your brothers and sisters. For your baby, have someone to your home every week. It can be for a meal, or dessert. I will bake bread to give you on Sundays until you tell me to stop. Do it for me, please,” she said. I know that the power of the Bible.

Hebrews 4:12 says, “For the word of God is alive and exerts power and is sharper than any two-edged sword and pierces even to the dividing of soul and spirit, and of joints from the marrow, and is able to discern thoughts and intentions of the heart.”

Karma

For six months I have been waiting, hoping and praying that my attorney has filed the lawsuit against the landlord that locked me out of my place of business, then sold everything I owned; $21,000 worth of equipment for the $2,000 I owned her. She had told me that it was her place of business and she could do whatever she wanted. Her father owned the business before her and he never had any problems with people complaining about that little clause in the lease that says "if you are 30 days late with your rent payment, the owner has the right to lock you out and claim all of your belongings, (i.e. computers, telephones, file cabinets, etc.). My attorney never filed the lawsuit. He never answered any of my calls, (27 calls), emails, (19), or letters (3). Now she has lost the business to foreclosure. I owe $6,178 for my equipment, which I have to pay back and I may never get my money. Some other stylists are enjoying my equipment and I am stuck having to pay this bill.

Now she knows what it feels like to lose something you hold dear. Karma! Everything that has ever been said about it is true!

In the meantime I have to find another attorney and hope I can at least get this part of my bill paid.

Just Stop it Already! Stop Complaining!

I have never liked confrontations, so I try to nip things in the bud before they reach the point where  I have to confront someone in anger. Unfortunately, sometimes; some rare occasion will develop where no matter how many times you let a person know that their behavior makes you feel some type of way, they don't get it. Let me explain what I mean by that so I don't totally confuse you. I have known a woman for many, many years. When I first met her I quickly realized that she is addicted to drama. She seems to thrive from it. Things that you and I may take as nothing big, to her is something very, very big AND she has to share it with everyone that will listen. If she burnt the toast that morning before coming to work, and someone asks how was her morning, she will spend twenty minutes talking about this mishap with the toast. Everything, and I do mean everything is a big production and it really doesn't have to be. Not only does she discuss the little things, but when something is going on in the life of anyone in her family, their issue is now her issue. You guessed it! She also has to discuss that as well.

When I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia, my doctor told me several things that can cause flare ups, or extend a flare up - stress. I can manage my stress by not answering the phone when a bill collector calls, telling my child No about something they want from me, and picking those who I want to allow in my tiny little circle. What I couldn't manage at first was calling this friend and having her spend the next hour or so telling me in great detail about every single thing going on in the lives of all the people she deals with. Unable to interject any worthwhile comments, I would be forced to just listen as she hopped from one person to another, going on and on. I could literally feel my pain escalating and I would do nothing about it. Last year I decided that was it, I had to put a stop to it. I called to talk to her about it. Unfortunately, before I could get the words out, she launched into her normal complaining. I kept trying to get a word in edge-wise, because after all I was the one who called her! Finally, in frustration I told her that I had another call and would call her back. I just had to get her off the phone! The next day I attempted it again. Normally, I ask "How are you doing?" which leaves the door open for her to tell me all the stuff she normally tells me, but this particular call was going to be different. I didn't ask how she was doing, instead I began to tell her why I called. I think I may have gotten out three or four words before she started to tell me the same thing she had told me the day before and many days prior...I stopped her though. I wanted her to hear me for a change. "Did you pray about this?" I asked. "Yes, I did. Anyway, I was telling..." she said. "Then leave it alone. When you pray about something, just leave it alone. You don't have to discuss it with anyone, just God," I said. "I told Him. What I was saying yesterday was that..." she said. "You already told me about it. So, just leave it alone. I called you because..." I said. "Let me just finish. So, I was telling..." she said. "I can't keep doing this. Why are you telling me this? There is nothing I can do about it, if you prayed about it, just leave it alone!" I said. "Okay! So, anyway..." she said, determined to get it out again. I laid the phone down on the bed. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth. I picked up the phone and she was still talking. I washed my face and moisturized. I picked up the phone and she was still talking. I took a shower, dried off and she was still talking. I got dressed and she was still talking, never once realizing I wasn't there listening. That was very sad to me. It confirmed to me that she didn't care about me as a friend. If I tell you I don't want to hear it, then stop talking about it.  I attempted to tell her again and again and again, yet she never heard me. So, I stopped calling her.

My health and well-being is more important to me than the relationship we have. Most of us have enough going on in our own lives to deal with, we don't want to carry the third and fourth hand burdens of others. If listening to someones perceived problems is detrimental to my health I will make the decision not to listen to the drama. There is power in the human tongue - power to uplift and power to tear down. Prior to opening our mouths to talk, we make a decision about the words we are going to say - whether to uplift or tear down. Here we are living in a world where every single day something traumatic and dramatic is going on in the world. People are losing their jobs and going mad killing folk and beheading former co-workers. Children are being snatched off the street and go missing; some for years. Little babies are being abused and abandoned. Senior citizens can't even walk down the street in their own neighborhoods without someone walking up and punching them in the face just for sport. People are going to bed hungry, homeless, cold and alone. These are major issues that effects all of us in one way or another. So, what kind of person would think they are the only one with problems? What kind of person can be told I don't want to hear it and continues to talk about it? That is a selfish and insensitive person.

No one wants to hear complaining all of the time. It saps our joy! It robs the listener of their own happiness because it brings them down. It ruins our day. It makes us sick, literally. It shows a lack of faith. It is debilitating. It causes unnecessary anger. It ruins, and ends friendships. Stop complaining! If you are dealing with something, just know that you are not the only one in the whole world dealing with something. The only people on the earth not dealing with something are under the earth - they are dead! So, if everyone is dealing with something, wouldn't it mean more to a person to encourage them, to pray for and with them? Wouldn't it mean more to send a card, write an encouraging note or letter? If you know your sister or brother is going through something, wouldn't it be more loving to say something to make them feel better?

I am not going to let anyone else drag me down with complaining! Each of us have the power to make that decision. If you have told this person you are not going to listen anymore and they don't love you enough to stop, leave them alone. It will be uncomfortable at first, but you've given them the opportunity to stop and they didn't. When they approach you with the guilty feelings, "You don't call me no more," tell them why. Then move on!