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


Bitter Best Friend January 18, 2011

My sister says that when I walk down the street people see me coming. She claims I have a bounce to my step and an attitude that says here I come or for my Jamaican readers, “see mi ya.” I never gave her observation much thought.  But recently I realized that not only was I not bouncing, I was dragging and moving slow. There was no pep to my step and no fire in my blood.  I started to disappear. When I entered a room no one did a double take and when I walked down the street no one’s gaze held mine. These were things that happened to me regularly which I had taken for granted as my right. People always stared at me. I never knew why. Didn’t care.  It certainly wasn’t because I was beautiful or had any striking features that made me stand out.  I generally attributed the curious stares to the fact that when I was ready I knew how to vibrate. I knew how to unconsciously convey the message, “look at me, I’m important.” Someone must have blown up my bull horn because I’d gone silent. I attribute this silencing to the old saying that ‘you are what you say you are.’

Recently I fought with my evil twin. Amidst all the hoorays, good jobs and high fives I gave myself, I was also sneaking in some put downs. As I told myself I was pretty behind my back I whispered for a big girl.  While I told myself I was smart, snidely I said, so why aren’t you more successful, dumb ass? While I was telling myself I was well-liked, to my secret self I admitted, yeah for someone who has no friends. I was my own bitter best friend like the sister that always has positive things to say to you while hiding the voodoo doll with your likeness in her backpack.

I have to kill the secret side conversations going on in my  head. When negative thoughts intrude shake the venom free. Learn to push pause on the auto play button when its starts to sing songs of acrimony. I’m not the positive affirmation chick with the Hare Krishna Hammer pants and tambourine so this is going to take some work.  Does anyone have any techniques that might help that doesn’t include shaving my head bald except for two wispy ponytails on the side?


A Little Bit Lesbian December 20, 2010

I love the ladies.  There, I’ve admitted it. I’ve said it out loud and I’m not ashamed. Stop!  I know what you’re thinking.  Take your mind out of the gutter! Erase mental images of me dominating some delicate chick half my size. The Super likes men with muscles. I’m curious about the bulge behind Adam’s fig leaf but still convinced that Eve is the best example of God’s creativity.  Many don’t agree.  Some women don’t like women.  If their best friend is drowning they will throw the single life raft to the dude they met yesterday at the DMV.  No matter the length or strength of the relationship as long as there is a man in the picture the friendship cannot survive.  Loving the ladies has nothing to do with sex.

I’m not, nor have I ever been a Spice Girl, but I believe in Girl Power. I don’t relate to women who are convinced that they’re nothing without a boo, a beau or a main squeeze—those that seek validation from men and have no sense of their own worth.  The Super is exceptional and I accept that there will always be women who will hate me because I’m me.  I don’t apologize. To me it’s better to think that I’m the Shit than to feel only slightly better than the dark smears on the ground.  Feeling less is easy; feeling extraordinary takes an effort. Sometimes we need our female friends to lift us up, pick us up and help us rise. Are the women of the rainbow the only ones that agree? Are Oprah and Gayle the only proof that being a little bit lesbian never hurt anybody?  Tell me, where my girls at?

Oprah & Gayle - A little bit Lesbian?


Fat Ass December 8, 2010

Recently someone called me fat – to my face – out loud.  They basically called me a pig, an oink away from being bacon.  I wish I could tell you it was some deranged kid with Tourette’s; it wasn’t.  Supposedly I gave offense and as punishment I was on the receiving end of words like a whip’s lash on wet skin.  I used all my super powers to shield my self-esteem but my mind set the moment to record and has been pressing rewind.  That’s the power of words, they reverberate.

The Super has never been tiny.  Like most women I have weight issues.  Was that why someone with no noticeable body fat chose that particular insult against me? Did they mean to inflict pain or were they just meaningless words said in a single moment of cruelty. I can’t decide. So instead I turn my attention to the words themselves and analyze them for truth.  Am I fat ass?  If you asked me I’d admit to being P.H.A.T (pretty, hot and tempting), but now I have to reassess. Truth be told, I’m meaty, strong and thick. If I was a biscuit I would be buttery with barely a hint of lard. I’m smaller than the average American woman and a few inches taller. I’m a bit of an amazon just a few muscles short of being Serena. But I digress.  The question I guess is not really if being twelve pounds over my BMI makes me obese, but whether I dismiss words hurled in heat.  Tell me people, despite provocation, real or imagined, is any insult acceptable when thrown with force? Tell me what you think?

Fat Ass


Girl Fight December 3, 2010

When men think of the words Girl Fight they instantly conjure visions of muddy girls in bikinis pulling hair and slapping each other hard enough to make panties fly.  When women fight in reality it’s less sexy.  Michelle Rodriquez is not bobbing and weaving Mohammed Ali style looking tough and sultry.  When they exchange words it usually involves hurt feelings, bruised egos and words hot enough to burn.  Women strike with verbal and not physical blows.  Despite having years of love to bind them and having formed ties as strong as Zena and her vaguely hetro sidekick, many women at the slightest provocation will lash out with acid glued to their tongues and give out disses as painful as fingers balled into fists.  What happened? 

I’ve never longed to be a man or pee without squatting, but I wish that women would learn to fight like men.  I’m digging their combat style.  A man will punch his BFF in the face; bloody his nose and put him in half nelson head lock.  Fast forward an hour.  They’ll have a talk containing less than five words and fight finished. Over.  No hard feelings.  Women? Not so much.  An angry woman will make a pact with the devil before she relents. What’s up with that? Why can’t women fight like men?   

"You fight like a girl"


Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell November 12, 2010

Like the U.S. Military I have a strict Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy between me and my friends.  This has nothing to do with whom they bump uglies with and everything to do with the question of honesty. I’ve always had a problem with the truth.  They say that the truth will set you free. Bullshit!  Instead, throughout my life, the truth has gotten me yelled at, cussed out and disrespected.  For protection, I’ve tried lying, dissembling and making non-committal sounds of agreement in an attempt to keep my thoughts and my opinions to myself.  For the most part I’ve failed miserably.  To save myself from yelling matches with people who only wanted me to listen, I enacted the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. I sent out summonses to all my friends with the notice that if they didn’t want an honest answer not to come to me.  If what they needed was a hand holding session and a good cry while their girlfriend agreed with all their Special Ed behavior, I was not the one.  I knew my weaknesses.

I’m the friend if you really wanted to know if you were fat, I’d tell you straight, ‘yup, sort of’.  If you really wanted to know if your boyfriend was cheating, I’d reply, “Yeah girl, I think he might be.”  If you really wanted to know if you sucked at your job, to your face I’d admit, “There’s definite room for improvement.” If you wanted the politically correct answer wrapped in bows and niceties I was the friend you skipped.  I thought everyone knew this.  I thought I made myself clear.  Nope. After a particularly brutal exchange with a friend I was kindly advised to, “Learn to lie a little bit.” Really?  Can’t do it.

If I see a friend headed for the train tracks I won’t tell them that I don’t see the Amtrak. I won’t ignore the danger signs, the blaring whistle and the steam engine blowing air up their ass. I won’t close my eyes and watch as they get run over.  If I have breath in my body I will yell, WATCH OUT!  I would want them to do the same for me. Apparently my desire to protect makes me a bitch.  The Super didn’t get the memo that lasting friendships are sustained by lying and backstabbing.  I get it now. Check!  Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie here I come! When asked a question I must learn to nod and agree.  It’s going to be hard. I need a support group like M.A.D .D – Mothers Against Drunk Driving.  Should I create F.A.D – Friends Against Deceiving? I’m considering it. Are you with me?


Old Me New You – Letter to a Friend September 2, 2010

Filed under: Love-Relationships,Women's Issues — thesupersistah @ 11:09 am
Tags: , , , ,

I thought I saw you yesterday, in the distance, far away, and barely visible on the horizon.  Not the You I speak to daily about everything and anything as long as it’s inconsequential and surface. The You I saw was the Old You that used to cry real tears but used to smile real smiles, with teeth, tonsils and mouth open to the world. I wanted to say hello but you seemed so foreign, different and untouchable so I let you pass by. You probably wouldn’t have recognized me anyway. I’ve changed and grown and life has altered me since we last met. Life has stolen things that can’t be returned, built things that can’t be broken and planted things in my heart that grow like trees with far-reaching branches. Everything is different. But maybe you would have known me by the look in my eyes, the eyes that make audible communication between us unnecessary.  We abandoned words years ago when our conversations became telepathic. Where’s my friend? She still dreamed, still wanted things and still made life rush in and claim her even when it brought her to her knees. That girl banished words like, I can’t, it’s impossible or words used to convey fear in the form of thinly veiled excuses meant to confound.  You didn’t like that girl. She was unruly, unstable and unpredictable. She hurt too much, felt too deeply and got you into trouble. The minute you could escape her you dove a dagger into her heart and fled never looking back to see if she was still breathing. You surrendered to the placid and the peaceful and gave up the turbulence of activity for the calm quiet of doing nothing.

You were too hasty; you didn’t see what I saw. The girl you tried to assassinate was courageous, brave and had heart so big that love couldn’t be contained so it flowed over and swept things out of its path. It was the destruction of excess wrapped in silken threads of fearlessness that made her indomitable. She was a force. That girl’s gone now.  She’s slipping away and moving further and further away from my reach.  I miss her. I hope you do too. I want to resuscitate her and lure her back to your side and coax her to stay with the promise that you won’t harm her. If I succeed will she be a stranger to me as much as she is to you? Will she recognize me? I fear that she won’t. I confess that I’m no longer what I once was either. I’ve changed but I want to reconcile.

I have a plan. When I bring the girl in the distance to meet you, I want her to do something important for me. Tell her to say hello to the Old Me that has gone missing. The Me that would have held the hands of both sides of you and forced the two to meet. The Me that would have risked your recriminations, anger and upsets for the sake of doing what was right. She would have told you not to be afraid and promised to save you even against your will. I’ve grown cowardly. The Old Me wouldn’t have watched silently as the New You disappeared and separated from yourself completely.