the Super Sistah Blog

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Blogging while Black February 6, 2011

Like driving while black, blogging while black comes with occupational risks. Just like fights break out on the playground, the blogosphere can be a hostile place filled with bullying kids.  Recently I clashed with a site that made me feel like I was Rodney King and they were the cops. It’s a big bad blog with enough site visits per day to make this blog weep. The site: is as popular as my site can only hope to be. They inspired me. Or so I thought. This is what I did to piss the site off.  By now you know the Super is sassy and sarcastic. I have my own opinions and those aren’t for everybody. For instance, I could care less about the Steve Harvey scandal and the fight brewing between the comedian and his ex-wife.  But when I stumbled upon the blog post and read the commentary dissing and dismissing Steve’s female fans as mindless fools without class. I took offense.  The Super is all about the sisters so I took the bashing personally.  I began my post reply on this black blog with…..judgmental much? Instantly the site’s author, the blogmother started breathing fire. This is a part of what she said to me: “The Super Sistah is no sister at all, she’s a MALE-IDENTIFIED woman who thinks women are disposable and men are Gods. Steve Harvey’s agent needs to get off this blog!”

Now dem be fighting words. So I fought.

With shaking hands I whipped off a snarky reply and sat back waiting for the dog fight. My blog is a little Chihuahua but it’s scrappy and knows how to bite. After a day or two of waiting I realized the site had no intention of posting my reply. It was all for the best. I hate when black blogs fight.  It just would have gotten ugly, ultimately ending with protective Vaseline covering my keyboard and my monitor pulling out her monitor’s weave. What would have been the point? If I scrap I try to do it over something more important than a celebrity’s personal life. Maybe my post reply was too cryptic or I caught the blog on a bad day which made it treat me like a white journalist reporting from the Middle East. Being blasted online was like getting a cyber bitch slap.  So that’s what a backhand feels like. My cheek is still stinging. I better get used to it. I’m a little blog with a big mouth. If the blogosphere is anything like High School then I think I just got punched in the eye and shoved in the locker by the school jock. No one said blogging while black would be without its occupational risks. My keyboard’s eye is swelling but I’m still typing. You can’t silence me.

Have you ever been bullied because of your beliefs?

Blogging while Black


Only Packin’ Fashion? November 4, 2010

I’ve been talking to my girlfriends lately about men, the state of their relationships and the status of their love lives.  This is what I found out.  It seems that in the age of the metro-sexual, equal rights for women and female breadwinners, some men have lost something essential: their balls. This writer has to wonder if the severing came with the unfortunate rise of the denim destroyer otherwise known as the male skinny jean.  Should we boycott the trousers — light a bonfire and seek out Versace for doing the unthinkable: mutilating our men’s private parts?

If the thing that swings is what separates men from women why are some men so effeminate? I have pretty friends, not seven or eights, but hard tens with legs like super models.  Their as fine as any playmate and have enough skills in the bedroom to make their own sex tape minus Pam and Tommy.  These ladies are all sitting at home with their toy of choice: the vibrator. What the hell! When asked the reason for their foray into pleasure power tools, I was told that they don’t get asked out.  Has the world gone gay? Is there estrogen floating around in the drinking water? Someone please explain.

I confronted my male friend at work with the issue the next day.  Congregating around the water cooler I pointed out pretty co-worker after pretty co-worker who sashayed by us throwing him come hither looks.   The message was plain.  “Ask her out.” I suggested, elbowing him in the back.” He shook me off clearly irritated.  “Nah, I can’t.” he said. “She probably has a man and I’m done with rejection.” It was all I could do not to rear up and give him a backhand.  Aren’t men supposed to be brave, courageous and well…masculine?  Aren’t they taught to lead, to conquer and to eat challenges for breakfast like Corn Flakes?  When did this change?  Are we now in a world where men don’t hunt?  Is the species destined to go extinct because we are breeding men with no backbone?

I blame the jeans.

I’m all for style but I thought tight pants were for rock stars.  Where are the real men that still climb mountains, women and wear their clothes one size too big? Where are the ones that bring home the bacon but still cook in the bedroom?  As women are we destined to be the males in the relationships?  Are modern men only packin’ fashion?

The BallBra - When your only packin' fashion


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 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