Therapy From Discrimination

Living with Parkinson’s

Onset of My Dad’s illness

I was very young when I had my first experiences with the dreaded #Parkinson’s disease because my dad took sick at an early age with the condition. However at the time I never had any knowledge about Parkinson’s as his illnesses were given other names that were to become synonymous with the condition. Everyone said he was sick with his nerves and it would be years later before my family acquired the knowledge about this condition that was to blight our lives and mine in particular forever. The experts and the village lawyers claimed he was sick with his nerves because of some of the signs and symptoms that were manifested in his early onset sickness.

That’s why I am supporting charities Parkinson’s UK, to help make a difference. Knowledge is power and ignorance is bliss.
I have always known dad to be a very strong person who worked very hard to take care of his family and he was hardly ever sick. Except for a few occasions when he was admitted to hospital and had surgery. After that he was as right as rain and carried on working for the benefit of his family who were the centre of his world. That’s why I told #DilysEpton of LEYF Nurseries, about my ordeals and how work keeps me going when they tried to deny me my basic entitlements under the Equality Act, 2010. Dad had operations for appendicitis and stoppage of water (linked to prostate cancer). Those are the only times I knew of him being laid low where he had to rely on anyone. He had his operations to remove his appendix at the local hospital. He was admitted for stoppage of water on a few occasions where he had tubes fitted to help him overcome his urinary problems.

He did spend some times also in one of the pioneering hospitals Cornwall Regional in Montego Bay for some ailments as well, which may also have been linked to his stoppage of water. However he did overcame that illness and returned to full health, to resume his hard work to cater for the wellbeing of his large family. But there is #cancer in my family DNA, in both sides of the family. That’s why I am fundraising at for Cancer Research UK Race for Life After dad recovered from his health scares worse was to come for us as a family unit when dad developed the signs and symptoms of Parkinson’s disease, but which was described as his nerves because of the shakes and tremors.

Everyone said he was sick with his #nerves and from then on the visits to the doctors and hospital became regular occurrences in his life. On these visits dad was given ton loads of tablets to take. I am sure dad was under 50 years old when the onset of his ongoing sickness that was to last over a decade started to surface. I was going to Primary school at the time, but can clearly recall everything about dad’s struggles over the years. I am positive after getting counselling at that my childhood traumas were in part the results of dad’s illness with Parkinson’s I helped mum with his care over the years, and was the last to see him alive and first to discover him dead.

My recollections of our last moments together was poignant, because I believe he was trying to say goodbye. But was unable to, because his faculties, including his speech were shutting down. The family waited years before his death which came as a relief for his family, took him out of his suffering. Later I was to ponder, reflect and have many worries about dad’s illness because of the devastating impact on my life. I am thankful that the Dr who #LEYF sent me to when they were trying to deny me my basic human rights to have a job to provide for myself, recommended Cognitive Behavioural Therapy. I have since been part of Dr Maria Hudson 2012 Research Paper Ref: 01/12, recommended to I have since taken part in more research to do with my disabilities. However I am embroiled with the Employment Tribunal about my credibility and whether I have disabilities.

The illness started with dad having little tremors of his body, in particular the shaking of his hands where he had difficulties doing minute things like writing. I recalled how much I used to admire dad’s hand writing. Especially the way he formed the initial N for his surname (Copy of signature of this is on my birth certificate). But gradually he started having problems with his writing and anything else to do with finer motor skills. I have a diagnosis for chronic anxiety from 18/6/2006 because I could not get anyone to accept that I have Parkinson’s. I needed proof of my disability to do my Health & Social Care examination for the The Open My studies was sponsored by UNISON When I worked for the King’s College Hospital NHS Foundation Trust.

This was the workplace, where my childhood traumas was triggered into Mental Health Conditions. And how I became part of Dr Hudson research recommended to ACAS. The Employment tribunals presided over the first miscarriages of justice that left me open to #blacklisting and #networkingwhich ruined my promising career. My father was robbed of his entitlements when he took sick. This would go on to have devastating consequences for my family and me in particular. Discrimination of any kind is against the law. That’s why I am pursuing Winsome Duncan: Author, Artist & Book Confidence and for what they have done to me as soon as I am finish with the Employment Appeals Tribunal. Dad was only a common labourer working at one of the West Indies Sugar Company Limited sites so could still carry on working.

He was doing his job, cutting sugar canes, using his cutlass/machete during crop season and working out in the fields at other times. He still managed to do his farming to supplement his income as well as other jobs like cutting people’s yard before the advent of lawn mowers. That’s why I am making sure the Metropolitan Police Service do their jobs. Dad still rides his bicycle to work, and to church all the way in Savanna-La-Mar and for any other outings like baptisms within the parish. Dad was #ambidextrous in that he used his right hand for writing and could use the machete in either hand for working. It was said that dad like many of his peers and people of his generation was not one for visiting the doctors. But with the onset of his illness and his condition worsening he had no other alternatives than to visit regularly.

On each visit the medication kept piling up as there was no way dad could have taken all those tablets which were prescribed. I am of the opinion now that dad was used as a guinea pig by the medical and scientific professionals’ trialling new drugs for treating his condition. With knowledge comes power and I have been sharing stories of my experiences on social media platforms to support others. My Personal Experiences of Parkinson’s disease – updated 17/8/2017 can be accessed at Google…/posts/YoJDpGvhGMG. I know more about Parkinson’s disease than most… was posted on the 3/4/2015. This is just one of the many reasons LEYF, Facebook, the Employment Tribunal, the Department for Work and Pensions – DWPHMRC, Metropolitan Police, et al are trying to lock and wrestle my Facebook account from me.

Dad was my hero for many reasons, but I can vividly recalled how gentle he was as well as his strong sense of family commitments. He was always looking out for people in general especially those who needed help in one form or the other. When we were younger dad used to make his annual visit to the ancestral home where he was born and spent his formidable years. That’s why I am investing in discovering my heritage at We travelled on the trains for part of the journey and use buses along the way where there was no train lines. He used to have many tricks up his sleeves and could balance the broom stick on the tip of his finger. He used both hands on the greater to rub coconut and cassava down the greater like no one else I had known. I guess this was due to the fact that he was ambidextrous and was gifted.

Most of all he lived up to his Christian principles and was a role model for everyone in the community, as people always draw references to his lifestyles.

Dad’s Story

The best way to tell dad’s story is to start at the beginning so I can give a factual account of his life from my memories of the loving man. He never complained and bore all that life had to throw at him with dignity which never faltered to the end of his days. My memories of dad began with stories he had told us about his life growing up in a big family in the parish of St Elizabeth. Then throughout I would like to sprinkle the story with exerts and anecdotes that I learnt from relatives and friends over the years, even long after his death. My dad was the second child of sixteen born to Irene Mills-Nembhard and Charles in the district of Aberdeen St Elizabeth Jamaica. He was christened and named Ivan Sandyman Nembhard and later as was the norms helped to name his younger siblings as well as take care of them as his parents continued to produce more children.

He also had other siblings from his dad’s side of the family too but we only heard about them and I never actually met any. My family is very diverse and as I loved to say ‘mix up mix up’ as some of dad’s ancestors were said to come from Germany and that could have been witnessed in the makeup of my parent’s children due to the DNA we inherited. So dad grew up in the small enclave of Aberdeen, St Elizabeth. I am positive he must have been and was lucky to be educated as he was well read. He had a Bible with depictions of some of the more memorable stories like Sampson and Delilah, Esau and Jacob and Jesus turning water into wine… He knew his Bible from back to front and was able to quote chapters and verses of any story that he preached about in his many sermons at home or wherever the spirits visited him.

He was trained as a tailor by trade and left the ceremonial home to travel to Manchester where he was earning a living sewing. As the story goes things did not worked out as he had expected so he made his way back to St Elizabeth leaving all his worldly possessions behind. It was left to one of his sisters Evelyn aka Marty to go and collect his grip and take it back home after he had to flee like a thief in the night. The story coming from many sources including my dad’s version of events was granddad and his children including my dad never got on well (they never plant pigeon peas a line). As the children reached adulthood they and their dad could not see eye to eye because at some stage or another they all wondered away from home to make a life for themselves away from the old man.

Apparently there were arguments between the old man and his children and like in Biblical times, I guess they decided that when one become an adult it is best to go make a life for one’s self. There is a saying “mother have, father have, and blessed be the child who have their own…” Whilst some of the children stayed in the parish, others migrated in pairs to other parishes across Jamaica. My dad was the only one to settle in the neighbouring parish of Westmoreland where he made the use of every opportunity to prove his father wrong. Dad said he set out on his journey walking from his district of Aberdeen in the directions he had chosen. As he approached a milestone he would count and try to calculate the amount of miles he had left to go in his travels before he would finally reach his destination.

I knew from then that we are part of the traveller’s community as we inherited lots of traits from our parents and fore parents of by gone eras. After his sojourn he finally ended up at the Fontebelle estate and was lucky to gain employment at the West Indies Sugar Company Limited (WISCO) Frome Division. He was employed as a common labourer doing variety of jobs depending on whether crop was in progress or not. His employment came with housing accommodations as there were farm houses situated on sections of the farm lands spread over the localities. Mum was always proud telling us the stories of dad’s greatest achievements. But in particular how dad won accolades year after year for his house keeping skills throughout the times he lived on the premises. I recalled one of dad’s mantra was that one’s kitchen and toilet should always be kept perfectly immaculate as they are the most important parts of your house. (Photo of dad – work…)

Dad meets Mum

It was reported that my parents met at a wake yard singing (usually when someone dies they keep up various celebrations from the time of death until forty nights had elapsed). From then on their destiny was linked and sealed for eternity. Whilst dad worked at the plantations as a common labourer, mum worked as a domestic servant in one of the big houses for one of the big bosses who worked at the factory or managed one of the smaller estates. Mum used to tell us how the Backra Massa’s used to test her honesty by leaving money at strategic locations to see how she would react. But mum said she was wise to those types of ruses and tricks and left Backra money where they left it. That’s why I am challenging…/ms-m-myers-v-london-early-years-founda… about what they have done to make me a victim.

Although dad came from a large family because my grandparents had sixteen children and raised thirteen to adulthood, and granddad also had other children. Mum on the other hand had one brother because grandma only raised two children from the five she had as the others died in infancy. However mum also had a half-sister by her dad. At the time when mum and dad came in contact she was still living with her parents at the same district where she was born (see birth certificate). I guess as the relationship between her and dad became more serious, it was natural to assume it was acceptable for dad who came from out of the parish to move closer to, or moved in with mum and her parents. Another of dad’s famous motto was ‘a man should always look a place to rest his head before he finds a place to push his wood… (Penis)’?

From the time my parents met they became an item as two became one and after a period of courtships their union was blessed with a child born 15th March 1946 whom they named Balis Alexander Sylfrasier, father of Ann Chambers. Two years later another child was born November 1948 and named Yvonne – (dad used to pronounce it Uvonnie). Until I found the birth certificate along with others when I was clearing out my grandmother’s house when she took sick. After the birth of my sister the boys just kept on coming Dostan Nembhard Dostan Melric 2nd June 1950, Walford Byron Alburney 3rd January 1952, Texchus Nembhard Texchus Veralton 20th September 1953, Ashter Serener Urella 15th August 1956 before the arrival of another girl. That girl is Ermine Mervelee Ionie,@Mervelee Ratty Nembhard. Then 19th July 1963 Amly D Nembhard Decosie Alframy and last but not least Ervin Nembhard Julius Emster 11th November 1966. And mum have out her lot, after experiencing a miscarriage between me and my brother.

Mum was always highly proud of her ability to get involved with only one man who turned out to be her husband and with whom she had all her children. She used to say she was glad she never had any of the ‘patch work children…’ The story about the cruel mother or father-in-law never happened in my family either because we belonged to the same mother and father. Mum got married to dad at the same church where she was christened on the 9th April 1950 when she was expecting my brother Dostan (photos marriage & baptism certificates…). She got baptised on the 8th April 1951 and I guess dad got baptised the same time at the local Townhead Baptist Church Baptist church. But he was later excommunicated for his non-conformist views.

Non-conformist views.

My parents and grandparents continued living at the same locality where mum was born and grew up from childhood to adulthood. On the documents it is Caney aka Hewling Town, Townhead was later given to the district I supposed. They were surrounded by a host of family, friends and support network from the local communities. My granddad and sister are laid to rest over by Hewling Town. I can recall stories from years gone by about the bats that used to come visit us at home when we moved into GaGa Street as our granddad’s duppy or ghost. We were regaled with stories about the exploits of family, friends and acquaintances. The most memorable was the one about my granddad and his cousin Mr Bernard aka Missa Banny who went in pursuit of the Spanish Jar aka Panyah Jar after it was promised to them in a dream.

Strangely enough even thou I had heard the story several times when I was a child, it only became really poignant and meaningful when mum told it on one of my visits to Jamaica. By this time mum had started suffering from the onset of dementia, but none of my family could comprehend the messages I was telling them about her condition. Mum sat down and told the story with such clarity and meaning and that was the only time I got the true meaning of the story and how much the outcome had impacted on mum’s life and outcome. Mum is an amazing and extra ordinary person. When she told that story I could see so many comparisons between her outcomes in life and mine that it was really uncanny.

The story went that granddad was visited in a dream by a dead relative who told him about the presence of the Spanish Jar and he and his cousin were instructed to go and retrieve it. The reasons they were selected was because they were the only two poor ones in the family and they deserved the money more than any of the others. But sad to say although the cousins did get to the river bank and witnessed the appearance of the Spanish Jar. They were unlucky not to collect the money, because they both mentioned the name of the receptacle at the same time. After listening to mum telling the story, I realised that all these years she did believed her life would have turned out differently. If only the Spanish Jar had not mysteriously disappeared the way it had come.

If only the dream had become a reality and my granddad and his cousin had collected the money from the Spanish Jar then mum’s parents would have had the money to make life different for her. Instead she was left to struggle all her life to make do with less than her other more influential relatives who had money and had one hell of a tough life bringing up her family. So since the task of clearing out the house had fallen on my shoulders once again after first doing it for my gran, I set to the task with much glee and was duly rewarded for my efforts like the time many years ago when I had cleared my grandma’s house. After finding so much documented evidence that mum had kept securely locked away, I decided that it is time for me to fulfil my promise. I am documenting my family history for the future generations before my memory decided to leave.

My brother Ashter had started the ball rolling and it had been left in my court to complete the work he had started tracking down the family? When my grandma took sick and I was responsible for clearing her house that was when I came across documented evidence for family members whom I never even knew existed. My sister’s birth certificate was also in the stash of records that I got hold of. I was able to pass on documents to my grand uncle’s children as well as learnt that my grandma had five children but only raised mum and my uncle as the others died in infancy. Since deciding to take on the mantle of archivist, researching, documenting and recording my family’s history. I have come across so much information that are of relevance to aiding me to come to terms and accept me for who I am. Regardless of the circumstances and how my life panned out.

There is a standing joke in my family that the men on both sides of the family died early and the women lived so much longer. Both my granddads died at an early age, (photo of Claudie & mama…) but there was no need to know the story of their lives nor deaths until later. I only began to speculate that granddad Nembhard must have been the one with Parkinson’s in his DNA because Grandma Irene lived ten years after dad. She buried some of her children and did not show any signs or symptoms of the disease. I have since learned via researching my DNA that granddad live to his early 70’s. So the mystery about the Parkinson’s in my DNA continue. I only learnt the cause of granddad Chambers death when one of my brother developed colon cancer and there were enquiries about the family history.

That was when mum disclosed that her dad had stomach cancer and she helped to nurse him during his illness. I supposed this was the beginning of mum’s venture into being an informal carer that was to go on for the majority of her life. My big brother Balis told me he can remembered when our sister drew her final breathe in the arms of granddad when she was about 5-6 years old. So that would mean granddad was sick at that time when mum lost her child and she was caring for her dad, and that became the pattern of mum’s life for a very long time. This also resonate with me as my dad was very sick when I had my first child and he used to love singing and rocking my child in his arms.

So just imagine the scenario of dad rocking the child and his hands shaking all over the place. Dad died less than 2 months after my second child was born and even thou my first was only young he still has some memory of dad (photo of Kevin at dad’s funeral..) My sister suffered from fits and it was during one of such attacks from which it was said she never recovered. During those days the verdict of such a death was attributed to being struck down by a duppy or ghost. I can recalled my youngest brother used to go into spasm when he was younger and whenever he had a fever he would scream out loudly and flap about seemingly life less. My parents would say the fever fly up in his head and they would have to work on him to get him better.

Then on one occasion when my first child was a baby he had an attack when he turned black and blue and could not breathe and we had to rush him to the doctors. Luckily for me that was a one off and there were no reoccurrence. However when my brother’s youngest son was a baby he had several episodes when he had to be rushed to the hospital nearly life less. I doubt very much if there was a diagnosis for his condition and he grew out of it by the time he went to live in the USA. My brother too grew out of his fever, my son never had another attack and my nephew grew out of the condition too once he left the environment and got older. At the time it never entered my head to link these conditions which generations of my family have been afflicted with, but now it does make sense that they are connected.

It is without a doubt that ignorance breads contempt and knowledge is power as it was only via studies that I was empowered to learn about my family history and how I am marked by my DNA. So without a shadow of a doubt I can say that on reflections I am the person I am because of my family dynamics and the genes I inherited and can trace back to the family on both sides.

Family connections

My family history have been told and retold as it was passed down from generations to generations and I am happy to say wherever or whoever told the stories you can always make the connections as the threads are very similar and close to each other regardless of when the story was told and retold. However dad was a great story teller and took pride in keeping his family informed about our heritage, roots and culture. It was strange and a revelation to hear some of the stories dad told us being retold by another family member nearly thirty years after he had passed on. So that is only one of the many reasons why I decided to take it upon my narrow shoulders ensuring the family history is documented for posterity.

My most vivid memory of my family began when my parents lived within a stone’s throw down from the Townhead Cross Roads. They rented house spots from my Godmother Ms Ida McFarlane, I said house spots because grandma mum’s mother had her own little house and always lived with us from when my parents moved in with my grandparents. At Townhead we lived on a little rise above the main road and could see everything that was happening for miles around. Some of our neighbours were the Colquhoun, McIntosh, Green, et al, and Ms Nicey’s mother used to live across the road from us with a tall, big red skinned man called Mass Witney. The house was later renovated and became the local clinic which I attended for both of my pregnancies.

The clinic eventually have to move again when the owners returned from the United Kingdom to live in Jamaica. Whilst living near the Cross Roads I have faint memories of collecting water from a stand pipe at the road sides and going to play with our neighbour’s children. My most vivid memory of my childhood began to take shape years later when I moved to live elsewhere as I was only four years old by then. I knew my cousin Jenny who was my uncle Terah’s child when we were little as she used to come and visit. It was only recently after one of my visits home and I decided to make links with family that I heard the story of our connections. We were born the same year and her mum used to live with my uncle and our family before the relationship broke down. It was my eldest brother who told the story of how my cousin’s mum and my uncle met.

In true fashion I can visualised the type of person my uncle was from the only photograph (photo of uncle Terah) I have of him and the many stories I heard. Although I had heard stories about my uncle I never actually met him until years later as he had moved away to live in another parish after his marriage had broken down. I knew his wife, her children and some of her family and heard some of the stories, but never met uncle. My parents moved to their own little plot of land around Christmas time in 1963 after the birth of my second to last brother and with grandma in tow. Because anywhere mum went her mother went too and I guess this started after granddad passed away in 1953 before my brother Texchus was born.

By this time dad had worked very hard, given mum a few bobs per week which she knotted away and saved for Mr Rainy Day so they could buy their own piece of land to raise their family on. It was the accepted norms in those days for anyone with any amount of ambitions to strive to have a property or piece of land of their own. I can only summarised that my parents must have made many sacrifices, tighten their belts and sucked salt grains to make ends meet to make their dreams of owning their own property become a reality. At our place of abode many families lived close together on the house spot they rented from large property owners and we were a close knit community with neighbours who looked out for one another.

To this day I remembered the neighbours and exactly where our house was located, with a big June plum tree in the front of the yard. I am sure there must have been lots of preparation beforehand as the family were to embark on yet another transition in our lives. It was sheer joy, excitement and anticipation on the day of the move for me at any rate. The bigger house was split into sections that could hold on the formal cart that was to transport them to the next destination. The driver had to make a few trips until all the buildings had been transported to our own land that was located in GaGa Street further down the road going to Burnt Savannah. The land was owned by Walter Gooden aka GaGa, who was a small cane farmer.

With the decline in small cane farmers holdings he made the decisions to cut up the land in plots and sold it out to persons like my parents who dreamt of owning their own plots of land to raise their family. When we moved to the Street there were families already living there, but there were a few vacant lots waiting to be occupied. My grand uncle also paid down on a lot, but changed his mind as his woman did not fancy live amongst his family. So dad gave him back his deposit and paid for the land and we ended up owning two lots instead of the one which came in handy in the long run. On the day we moved to the Street I ran from where our house was all the way to the mouth/entrance of the Street.

As luck would have it I buck my foot, fell over and opened my forehead on a stone protruding out of the ground. I guess I must have picked myself up off the ground, put foot in hand and hurried back home to seek comfort in the arms of my mum? Although I can’t recall much more about the incident, however I have a scar on my forehead that has lived with me since. I know without a shadow of a doubt that the scar will be staying with me until I depart this world and entered the grave. Because as anyone who knows me well can tell, even if I had the money I have no intentions of doing cosmetic surgery.

I am a mean and stupendous skin flint who could never bring myself to spend money foolishly. So the scar that I got unwittingly the first day I moved from below the Square to live in GaGa Street will take me to my grave. The brother who followed me was only a few months old when we moved and we are the farthest apart in ages. Since mum said she had a miscarriage, then I came to the conclusion that is why there is such a big age gap between us. The buildings were put back together and everything was in place for our new life in the Street. However dad set the family house sideways on the land, but all the other buildings were turned correctly.

GaGa Street

My most abiding memory of the transition to the street was the way I fell down and hurt my forehead on the stone because that was the first day of my life in the place I was destined to spend the remainder of my days whilst in Jamaica. Even thou I recalled events in my life before I was four years old and living up near to the Townhead Square, they are vague and most of the memories are centred from when I moved to GaGa Street. Family consisted of dad, mum, gran, seven brothers and numerous family friends and acquaintances. Since I was only four years when I first moved to the Street and had vivid memories of my life, now that I am getting old and grey and experiencing many life changing moments.

I am mindful that I will have to start fulfilling my dreams and ambitions and make the vow a reality in documenting my history and that of the family for posterity. Recollections of family life existed when we lived near the Townhead Cross Roads leading to Ground Road and further on Bull Head another small sugar plantation owned by one of the local Member of Parliament – Mathew Henry aka Mass Matt. There is a short cut leading to the parish of Hanover where the market people used to travel by donkeys to sell ground provisions to householders on the way going to and from Frome Market. Once such person was Ms Estelle – the lady who used to ride her donkey loaded with ground provisions.

The UK

I came to the UK in 1990 for a visit when I had my first encounter with the NHS as I went to the doctor and got treatment for my condition. Then when I came back in 1992 and got married I was signed on to the same doctor who treated me on my visit. I can remember the kindness of the lady who worked in the practice as she was so patient with me when I got the shakes filling out the forms. From that time I felt less intimidated and did feel the great urge to try and cover up what I considered my hidden disability. All my life I suffered from an inferiority complex over which I had no control. I grew up in a loving close knit family and community where everyone was each other’s keeper.

I will end here for now after losing out on 4+ years of my life because of the experiences I encountered trying to get justice by taking my claims to I have been in contact with Parliamentary and Health Services Ombudsman I would like for people to see some of the measures I have been using to get justice at Melt Down Video My Wedding Anniversary at British Sign Language
I am a Dementia Friend Without finding a job, I have taken up charity fundraising to keep myself going. Otherwise I will succumb to the depression that have affected me since my childhood traumas were triggered into PTSD by LEYF. And the Employment Tribunal compounded the matter by making me a victim with the reserved judgement posted on line, making me a victim.

Events Are you ready to take on a challenge to raise vital funds for Parkinson’s UK? From walking to running, swimming to skydiving, find your event and sign up today! Search our events Whether you want to run, walk, cycle, swim or skydive to support Parkinson’s UK, we have the event – and support -…
Fight4justice Now let Facebook London tell me about community standards?

GaGa Street

Mum sat down and told the story with such clarity and meaning and that was the only time I got the true meaning of the….

Copyright 13/8/2018 of


One thought on “Therapy From Discrimination

  1. I have had enough of, and Facebook discrimination. This is been done by Facebook taking bongs to wrestle my account from me to help the terrorist deny me access to my data and intellectual propertie. Yes LEYF is responsible for pushing me over the edge, and me having the second nervous breakdown. The Employment Tribunal is using loopholes in the Employment Law with caveat to stop me revealing the truth about Modern Slavery Practices in the UK. As for Facebook, well if they say I am mad, they are partially responsible.

    Liked by 1 person

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