OPEN LETTERS

An Open Letter to an Imposter Who Thinks We’re Still Friends

Some doors should remain closed

Dear fake friend,

Call me old school, but I tend to like people who are thoughtful. When I haven’t heard from you in a year — a pandemic year to boot — a simple “how are you and the family” is enough to open my heart and ears to listen. I thought catching up could at the very least prove interesting, considering.

But YOU.

You’re so self-centered — always thinking about yourself and what someone else can do for you. You skip the pleasantries. Get right to the point.

You’re a walking conflict — a human dichotomy. Still talking about your good works at the church and uplifting women. Yet you squeeze people until they’re a dried-up prune — a plum on a slow drip with no more sweet juice to give. You do it so well, without even realizing you’re a charlatan hiding behind a false narrative.

You use people until they no longer serve your purpose. The big wide grin while doing it is priceless. Make no mistake — the accent doesn’t render you more endearing.

Whatever happened to the GoFundMe money you raised to publish your book that never materialized? Remember the day you were in my office — tried to get my credit card because you said the program was malfunctioning and you needed to test it? Seriously? Do I look like booboo the fool? Nice try. That was only one in a string of red flags.

Then a few years back you had the audacity to call me at dark-thirty in the morning to ask a favor. When I explained I couldn’t because an immediate family member had just passed and I was leaving town — you skimmed right over it as if it were yesterday’s news.

You then tried to maneuver around me to get what you wanted and seemed shocked when your plan B failed.

“She told you?”

“Of course, she told me — I’m her boss,” I said.

“You don’t understand.”

“No, I understand perfectly. You crossed the line.”

Where was all the compassion and empathy displayed when talking about building an organization to uplift women in small businesses — help fund their dreams? I fell for all your good deed rhetoric. My bad. Thanks for showing me who you are — it’s not like I lost a distant relative I’d never met.

Most telling.

When we met almost 15 years ago, I did everything I could to help you as an intern. I admired your tenacity as an older student fulfilling an educational goal that would propel you into the career you envisioned. I stood up for you when my colleagues gave me the side-eye after you misspoke at a city networking event. Embarrassing.

When you started calling them on your own for favors — they told me you were bad news. I dismissed their opinion, reasoned your assertiveness put them off because you’re a Black woman from a foreign country. I thought we would be friends for years to come. We had some good times — talked about going to France. You would be my personal translator.

Patterns emerged. I was a better friend to you than you could ever be to me. Perhaps I had more to give in the category you needed, or maybe you had me pegged to get whatever you could while the getting was good. You took full advantage of my kindness and generosity.

I always had this underlying feeling you weren’t the person you portrayed — the reason I’ve never invited you into my home. Although it was tempting. You play the victim very well. Everything that ever happened to you was someone else’s fault. Your naivete had me stumped.

You’re not a dumb woman by any stretch of the imagination, yet you’re blinded by what you think is an airtight game. Not all men are stupid. You paid for your transgressions. It was almost tragic. I felt sorry for you — I often wonder if you learned the lessons attached.

It took a while for the penny to drop — the dynamic of our friendship had changed with irreparable harm done. When I said all is forgiven, I meant it. I didn’t say I’d forget. I became cordial instead of friendly, short instead of lengthy, formal instead of casual.

Then you disappeared, as expected.

The door closed and the welcome mat you walked in on is in the trashcan of my memory.

My understanding deepened, too. I decided not to waste time nursing resentment. I gave more than I’d ever get back. But the warmth felt in my heart when helping who I thought was a friend in perpetual need was worth every minute. No regrets.

With all due disrespect — girl, lose my number.

All the best,

The one that got away