For four years, it had been that way. Every time I left, I said I wouldn’t be back. But I always returned because of the conversation I’d had with my mom after that first meeting...

"I can't do it, Mom,” I said, pacing in my bedroom as I adjusted my earphones to make sure my mother would hear me through the microphone. This was just another example of how I really needed my mom in D.C. with me. I said, “There is no reason for me to go back there and subject myself to that vitriol.”

I heard my mother’s chuckle and I imagined her sitting at her vanity, putting on her making as she prepared to play bridge with a group of women that she’d met in Dallas.

“Sweetheart,” my mother began, “you know you sound a little like Jasmine with the way you’re whining.”

“Ugh!” I bounced onto my bed and folded my arms.

My mother chuckled again before she said, “Sweetheart, I wouldn't exactly classify being served lunch last as vitriol. It’s just nonsense."

“Do you know why I was served last? Do you know where they sat me, Mom?”

“No, I don’t,” she said. The evenness of her voice was meant to keep me calm, but I was on fire. “Why don’t you tell me?”

“It was horrible. I wasn’t even at the table with them. It had been set for fourteen, yes, but clearly, they could have moved over and made room for me some kind of way. But no.” I deepened the fold of my arms. “I sat at this little side table. Like the kiddy table we used to have at Grandmama’s house for Thanksgiving.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”

“It was.” This time, I did whine. “This was a First Ladies luncheon and I'm a First Lady. First Lady Sonya invited me. She’s been after me to join for all these years. But yet, when I get there, they all took one look at me and then....”

I paused.

My mom picked up for me. “And then, they treated you like Cheryl Smith.”

It shouldn’t have amazed me, but it did. Even over the miles, my mother could detect my issues. I was thirty-two years old and still the mention of that name made my fingers curl into fists. I guess just about everyone had their bully and Cheryl Smith had been mine. She’d followed me through the hallowed halls of Charles Drew middle school, shouting out to anyone who would listen, “Ginger Allen thinks she’s cute.”

That was what she was saying when she wasn’t shoving me against the lockers or sticking out her foot when I passed by, hoping to trip me. For a year, I’d put up with her harassment that was accompanied by sneers and snickers from other kids. My first year in middle school had been miserable until....

“But remember what you did to Cheryl?”

My eyes widened when my mother interrupted my thoughts with her question. “You think I should take off my earrings and fight those women?”