the Super Sistah Blog

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Music Maimed Me July 30, 2010

Filed under: Pop Culture — thesupersistah @ 1:08 am
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When asked I tell people that I’m a music connoisseur. It sounds good in mixed company and elevates my status socially, sort of like saying that I like Jazz, the Ballet and Sushi.  I was only half bullshitting when I confessed to having an affinity to vinyl, later the cassette and then the CD. I really do like music. I do, or I did, but then something catastrophic happened. Something that sent me over the edge forever tainting me with the dirty knowledge that I was a pretender and wasn’t really a music lover at all.  How could I be when I could abandon the medium with just the slightest provocation?

I love to dance, twitch, rock my hips and tap my feet to anything that has a semblance of a beat.  Some people like the lyrics but I’m a slave to the rhythm.  It makes me want to shake something.  In another life I would have been a dancer.  More Crazy Legs— Rock Steady Crew and less Alvin Ailey.  It would have been all the same to me.  Music made me happy.  But then some obscure teenager ruined everything for me.  With the creation of one song, Hip Hop, and thereafter all music, was dead to me. I swore not to listen to anything created past 2003.  I hold the rapper Hurricane Chris responsible for the assassination of my love of music with the creation of one song.  The air play of the song entitled, She’s Fine (Halle Berry) forever convinced me that new music was pointless and ridiculous.  I enter into evidence the song lyrics: 

♪She fine den a bitch, ass and her tits
Thick in tha hips, every nig want her
Call her Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry
She walkin like a model
Hands on your knees
Scrub the ground
She aint nothing but a tease
Halle Berry, Halle berry
Halle Berry, Halle berry ♪

I don’t mean to be all old-school and get all Prince, nineteen-ninety nine on y’all but I think Super Sistah is getting old. When I start complaining like my mother that they just don’t make good music anymore, then I know my ass is getting decrepit. I like hip-hop, really I do, I like dancehall, I love me some R& B, but to keep it real and tell you the full one hundred, I must admit that I stopped listening to the new stuff long ago; Chris was just the last straw. I couldn’t take it, the nonsense people were spitting and calling it rhymes started polluting my ears.  Yes, yes, I know, I must be ancient right?  Not really. Super Sistah was born to generation X.  Translation? I remember Michael Jackson both black and white. It means that back in the day I felt I knew LL Cool J personally.  It means that I was there when Hip-Hop breathed its first breath. I know my jams. After the Hurricane Chris tragedy, I tried taking some Viagra for the ears, just enough to give me the stamina to rejoin the new millennium musically. This time the rapper Trina and her song “White Girl” is to blame for ruining the reconciliation.

I know that the white girl is on many a black woman’s mind as they dance off with football player after football player, NBA stud after NBA stud and with our High School boyfriends, but do they really need their own theme song? Is Trina’s rendition of White Girl supposed to be like Lil Wayne’s Party like a Rock star? Implying again, partying like white people is way more cool? Are they wilder than us in the Y2K+10? Only the diehard party goers, music aficionados and those addicted to Sirius radio truly know.  As for me, I miss the good old days, in that I mean the nineties, when they played music that I could comprehend lyrically.

Is Hip-Hop Dead? Is there any music worth the price of the CD?  Give me some examples of something that Super Sistah can jam to without the temptation to rip off her cape and jump off the nearest bridge.

Halle Berry Video                              

White Girl Video

 

The Art of Letting Go July 27, 2010

Filed under: Love-Relationships — thesupersistah @ 2:31 am
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Super Sistah has been accused of being a Vulcan, a robot and a person with her feelings under tight control.  My closest friends often marvel at my inability to feel pain and treat me with a mixture of admiration and scorn.  Supposedly nothing can touch me.  They’re all morons.  If I’m like Spock, then like him, underneath my seemingly calm exterior is a teeming caldron of bubbling and explosive emotions. I’m not dead inside. I feel plenty. What I’ve mastered; however, is the art of the blank stare— the poker face.  My mastery over the muscles in my face has been both the bright light and bane of my existence.  I get hurt often. People have said and done things to mortally wound me. Most of them are unaware of the damage they’ve inflicted.   Only when I’m alone do I drop the bloody bandage around my heart to reveal the hemorrhaging going on inside. My room runs red but I clean it privately.  I don’t recommend this as a coping strategy. It’s not always healthy. But a friend of mine who’s the exact opposite recently broke up with a boyfriend who she begged on bended knee to give her a second chance.  

She’s the crying type; the expressive one.   She’s probably the more emotionally healthy one between us.  Recently she asked me for some of my coping strategies for when I cut off, let go or dead the men in my past who have hurt me.  She wanted me to write it down step-by-step.  Here you go, Symone. 

The Art of Letting Go – Aka – Deading Douche Bags 

Step 1 – Acknowledge that you got played, hurt and humiliated  

Pretending that your feelings weren’t hurt is a pathetic practice of self-denial. You can’t lie to yourself. Just like the movie Inception, your sub-conscious truth is always trying to break through. Acknowledge your pain. You can’t run away. 

Step 2 – Forgive yourself for being stupid, optimistic, giddy or blind  

We all want love and acceptance and will go to extraordinary lengths to secure our heart’s desire.  If we have gone overboard and thrown ourselves over the deep end, continually calling ourselves a stupid son of a bitch, a dumb hoe and a friggin idiot, won’t make the pain go away. The shit you pile on your head will only intensify the heartbreak.  Forgive yourself for loving more than you should have.   

Step 3 – Erase, eradicate, destroy, burn and blow up any lingering evidence of the moron who used to be your boyfriend  

Constantly reading old emails, dialing his number, staring at his Valentine’s Day card will only remind you of the one day that he wasn’t a dip shit.  It will lull you in to forgetting the other 364 days that he was a bastard and a brain-dead fool. 

Step 4 – When you mess up, don’t close all the windows and turn on the gas  

Like all twelve step programs sometimes we fall off the wagon. If you call or give him some ass and you remember the instant your panties hit the floor why you hate him, give yourself a do-over.  You’re human but make sure you don’t make the same mistake twice.  Go back to step 1 and repeat. 

Step 5 – Remember who you are.  Remember that you deserve better.  Remember that you only get what you think you deserve.   

If he hurt and humiliated you and you let him, remind yourself that the shitty experience you just lived through will be the norm for the rest of your life.  No one will respect and treat you right if you can’t treat yourself right first.  Tell yourself that you’re steel.  Infuse that truth into your spine. Stand upright. 

Step 6 – If you grow weak and start to think that he wasn’t so bad.  Kick your own ass and punch yourself in the face.  A beat down will be the least of what you deserve. 

Hope this helps.   

Letting Go

 

The End of Cliff and Clair? July 25, 2010

Filed under: Love-Relationships,Race/Ethic Issues — thesupersistah @ 11:14 pm
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Super Sistah likes to travel and she likes to visit all sorts of places all over the globe.  Recently she visited the neighbors to the North —Canada.  In this cold air country, the home of the maple leaf, the moose and the booted Mountie, I discovered something disturbing about the black male inhabitants who call the place home.   Now black people are black people everywhere and dependent on our geographical location there are things that mark us culturally.  As I wandered through the malls, the restaurants and streets in this country renowned for its beautiful landscape, low crime rates and its civility, I kept on wondering why I found some of the men there lacking. If we know a little bit of our history we know that many slaves escaped to the North and sought out freedom and assimilation there.  Was that why the men seemed a little watered down to me? I couldn’t figure out what I had against these brothers to the North and then it hit me.   

Despite its stereotype as a very white country, there are places in Canada teeming with women of color from every country and continent on the globe.  In Canada the black women are multi-cultural, spicy and flavorful.  Yet as I walked through the place it struck me forcefully that it seemed black women had no power and no prestige. Super Sistah saw black men pass sisters by without a glance or a look. What was the cause?  How did we get to a place in time where black men had so many options that it wasn’t even a consideration to date within their race?  It seemed wrong somehow that beautiful black women didn’t even warrant a steamy look or an overly long, potentially raunchy stare.  It was sad and it was soul-destroying.  As I looked around, I saw black men with ever race of other on the planet.  I rarely saw a Michelle Obama, a Halle Berry or a Gabrielle Union attached to a black man’s side.  It occurred, but it was rarer than it should be. Instead brothers strolled on with hands clasped with all versions of Pretty Pale, Sorta Exotic, Almost Ethnic, Barely Black and everything in between.  I can’t tell people who to love but when did the Cosby Show’s Clair and Cliff become obsolete?  

Is dating and mating exclusively other considered a preference? Is this place in the North a sign of things to come? Is this the beginning of the systematic demise of black love?  

Cliff & Clair Huxtable

 

Undercover Love July 22, 2010

Filed under: Love-Relationships — thesupersistah @ 2:44 am
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There’s a saying that chivalry is dead.  Romance is gone. Love is a thing of the past. If you count yourself among the folks that feel this way then I have a site just for you.  I was turned on to this dating medium through a friend of my sister’s.  This young lady raved to anyone who would listen about the popular dating alternative that allowed her to find the men of her dreams. The kind of men that were perfect and uncomplicated.  They were sweet, attentive, sexually aggressive and all male all the time.  They were the perfect ten. What made them ideal?  They’re all married.  The cheating website for players, pimps, whores, hoes, lonely, lost and sad souls is called Ashley Madison.  The sole purpose of this site is to fix up cheating spouses with willing sexual partners for the purpose of bumping, grinding and doing the nasty. The motto for this STD magnet is Life is short. Have an affair.  I went to the site to investigate. The criterion for membership was simple: you must be sexual, silent and discreet. It’s the perfect place for women like my sister’s friend who have given up on love. For those who have suffered self-esteem blows that has rendered them damaged and virtually undateable. It’s perfect for women who have sunk to new love lows.  The site is for those who have given in, given up and surrendered.  It’s for those who have told themselves that they can’t find a man for themselves so the alternative is to borrow someone else’s. Now I know that women outnumber men.  I acknowledge that good men are in short supply.  I understand that for a woman to find a man that is even reasonably worth her while, she has to scrounge, dig and scrape the barrel, but damn has it finally come to this?  One word describes the situation. Desperate.  

Women have finally jumped off the deep end.  They have finally decided to do a nose dive face down on concrete if Ashley Madison is all they have to look forward to. Now I don’t want to judge, hell, who am I fooling, I’m judging plenty, but the site seems so tawdry and sad. Don’t get it twisted. Super Sistah is no prude.  She gets it that everyone has their own morality gauge, but hell, things have really gotten bad if a site like Ashley Madison can flourish?  A high number of single women have taken upon themselves to indulge in this internet pastime in the faint and misguided hope that they will find a man they can freak and then steal. Ladies, listen up.  You’re grown, therefore able to make your own choices, but if it’s love you’re after consider the fact that the dude you’re bumping uglies with is clearly a scum bag. He’s cheating on his wife, defiling his marriage vows and risking obliterating his family for the sake of some illicit booty.  Shit, we all want love but does it really have to be this way? It’s not for me.  It shouldn’t be for you.  Consider this before you decide to show another woman’s husband your coochie.  No man will consider you wife or girlfriend material if you don’t have any self-esteem, no conscience and no self-respect. It may be exciting but the karma will be killer. You’re worth more than a fifty dollar motel room.  

Am I the only one who has a problem with cyber cheating?  

When Monogamy becomes Monotony

 

The Racial Divide July 18, 2010

Filed under: Pop Culture,Race/Ethic Issues — thesupersistah @ 1:14 am
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Super Sistah would like to lay claim to being an intellectual giant. I’d like to impress the world with my brilliance and discerning taste. I would like to say that I’m a scholar and that I feed my mind and keep abreast of current events by being a student of CNN, Anderson 360 and the talk show Huckabee.  Instead to my shame, I get most of my current event data from my secret obsession—a steady dose of ET and Extra.  It’s this silent killer, addiction to celebrity gossip, which brings me to the topic of my latest blog.  I try to keep current, so last weekend through my undeniable  source Access Hollywood, I learned that LaLa Vasquez and the basketball player Carmelo Anthony got married at Cipriani in New York.  The masses instead of wishing this young couple well and hoping that they’re not a casualty of marriage Hollywood style, was instead preoccupied with something so insignificant that it hardly bears mentioning.  A viral comment under the couple’s picture resulted in an online war so ferocious that I wished for a moment that Mr. Martin Luther King himself would have risen from the grave to mediate.  One unsuspecting African-American male made an unspeakable faux pas when he posted the comment, that it was nice to see two black people get married and doing the right thing towards unifying their family.  Did anyone agree with such a nice sentiment?  Did anyone care? No, instead the negativity exploded because the poster had the nerve to call the bride black (she’s a dark-skinned Puerto Rican) along with the groom,who is a self-identified African-American who supposedly has some Spanish ancestry.  What the Hell!
 

To my Latina readers please help me out here. I’m not from New York originally so I get confused by the negativity that radiates when someone has the audacity to identify you with the black race. Super Sistah has been to the Dominican Republic and South America.  Studying the history of the people there, the facts state that the racial compositions of most Spanish people are a mix of European (Spain), Native American (indigenous to the land) and African (yes, the mother land). Even if I’d never read that history, my eyes would have told me. Help me out Spanish people. I love y’all but you’re confusing me. Rosario Dawson and Zoe Saldana look like they could be a part of my family.  Why does it seem that you claim your European side with so much pride but scorn your African ancestry?  Is being black a crime? Since I’m told by the US census and the forms on all government applications that Spanish is an ethnicity and not a race, why do you react so violently when you’re linked to us?  If this was a family reunion, it’s obvious we’d be if not brother and sister, at least very close family. Why is being black and Spanish thought to be mutually exclusive? Why does one cancel out the other? Why do you hate being called black when our stories, our struggles and our cultures are intertwined so closely?  Yes, yes, I get it. You’re brown.  As you know, Super Sistah is all for claiming your identity. But denying your roots and your heritage won’t change the blood flowing through your veins or your DNA.   

Tell me everyone. What are your thoughts?  Does being brown cancel out being black?   

The Bride and Groom

 

Flight Lessons for the Unemployed July 16, 2010

Filed under: Business-Work Related — thesupersistah @ 11:41 am
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Even Super Sistah needs a 9-5.  But like a million other Americans I was a victim of the tough U.S job market. Where I live in New York it was brutal with nary a job, a hustle or a gig in sight. I had all the credentials and looked good on paper, but after job interview after job interview I still found myself unemployed. How does a success coach teach success when she herself feels like a failure?  It was a contradiction in terms.  So I had to make a choice.  Give up or give in. I gave in and at some point during my layoff I stopped asking God why me and started asking him why now.  This is the answer he gave me.

First, I’m not my job and my job is not me. I tied my identity to my job title so that when it was taken away from me I felt like a loser and a failure. I was good for nothing. I didn’t want to go out and meet people because I didn’t want to be asked the inevitable question, what do you do exactly?  I was reluctant to give the answer that I was a blogger, writer and coach but that money and me were now enemies.  I didn’t want to explain that all my savings had gone into maintaining my lifestyle in one of the most expensive cities in the world.  Simply put, I didn’t want to explain that I was broke.  Being without any paper wasn’t sexy. So instead I stayed inside and ate, wrote and let depression take over me.   My friends didn’t call, didn’t visit and were not as supportive as I’d hoped they would be. Some disappeared off the grid. None of them lent me a dime, an ear or a shoulder to cry on.  These were the same people who I lifted up, encouraged  and coached for free when my life was good. The lesson I learned from the reversal was that no one wanted to see me down and destitute or crying in my soup bawling out to the heavens, why me.  So I picked myself up. I stopped eating and went back to the gym. I starting writing and put my words into a book and started a blog. I started telling myself encouraging words and most importantly I surrendered the process to God. Worrying was killing me.  I asked myself some important questions like who am I and who do I want to be? The answer in my case was that I wanted to be a writer and have my words change people internally. I finished writing a book and I couldn’t have done that had I been working from 9-5.  I wanted to be happy and go back to the place where I felt confident, full of myself and on top of the world. To do this I had to abandon fear, worry and shame and forget about what other people thought about me. It was a difficult task but I persevered and by doing so rediscovered the Super in me.

Super Sistah is happy to announce that just yesterday after months of pounding the payment she didn’t just get one job offer, she got three. When you surrender, trust and try things turn around. Remember when God gives, he gives abundantly.

 

Every Sistah is Super July 14, 2010

Filed under: General — thesupersistah @ 5:13 pm
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Maybe wearing a dominatrix mask or crime fighting disguise was not the best way to sell success to my audience or get my point across. My friends openly mocked me and told me my persona was absurd.  Why would a grown professional woman of color run around in a Halloween costume? The consensus was that I must be attention seeking, crazy or everything in between.  I was none of the above but it was my persona. It was me. It was how I felt about myself inside.  So despite what anyone else said, I went ahead and became who I was born to be –Super.  I attached the Sistah to the name because that was another important part of my identity. The Super  Sistah was born and my voice was heard.

Part of getting ahead is knowing who you are. No one can achieve any type of success without having a strong sense of identity. Lots of people let the world, their friends and their family define their identities. They’re only mommy, wife, sister, friend, co-worker, bum, felon, fat or failures.  Not me. I was Super Sistah and I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me who I should be. I gave myself a name and identified my super powers. I was a writer, educator and success coach. These powers were my gift to the world.  I used them to propel people to new heights by motivating them to reclaim their lives regardless of failures and adversity.  When you break bad habits or behaviors sometimes the process hurts.  I do it without flinching, coddling or telling people what they want to hear.  A flurry of soothing platitudes never helped anybody get to where they need to be.  The truth hurts.

If you have a dream, a desire, a destiny or a handicap, a hurdle or a problem, you must first surrender fear, destroy any defeatist mentality and claim your name and your identity.  This is the first step before anything can be achieved. 

I’m the Super Sistah and I believe that every sistah is super.  So what are your powers? Tell me your superhero name and identity?