My man left me. Quit me.  He slapped a so long sucker on my forehead and kept it moving. He was out so fast that the flame of his departure burned a Roadrunner trail on my behind.  Even if I was Usain doing the 100 meter dash I still couldn’t catch him. He was goooooooooone. I heard the echo of my voice as it bounced off the walls of my abandonment.  I felt like sh*t on a pair of expensive shoes.  He stepped on me and kept on steppin.  Why me? Why Now? Why Lord? The questions in my mind were endless.  Where was a goddamn cliff in New York City when you needed one? There are bridges a plenty (Manhattan, Brooklyn, Triborough) but who the hell has time to climb that high? Not me.  I’m black dammit. I can’t do a swan dive into dirty water.  My hair would get wet.  My black girl’s compromise was to take to my bed with the decision to never ever get up. What was the point? My man cut me and I was bleeding to death.

Then one day I pictured my ex Sitting on Top of the World like Brandy and Mase.  He would be riding high and living large. The idea made me mad. Real mad. I didn’t grab a glock or roll up on him at night and spray his ass with lead–Compton style. Instead I grabbed my best weapon: my pen.   I put all my hurt and disappointment on paper and wrote myself back to life.  I started doing all the things I wanted to do and systematically starting overcoming all my fears. I had already lost everything so I had nothing left to dread. In the transition from the old me to the new I learned that when your life gets turned upside down it’s God’s way of answering prayers.

Nothing happens by accident. My man left me. Thank you Lord.  If he hadn’t I wouldn’t have met myself. I wouldn’t have realized that I’m powerful and that no matter what happens I will endure. I wouldn’t have known that no matter how many pieces of my soul shatter that I ultimately won’t break.  Terry McMillan says that writing is like praying on paper. If true, my blog, my upcoming book (see writing projects) and all my works in progress are the result of little stories floating up to heaven.  Donnie McClurkin sings We Fall Down, But We Get Up. So get up girl and get back in the game!

Are you singing your own swan song by letting the past get you down?

Black Swan Song

Some individuals are afraid of love. Like all things that require risk, love is stamped with a handle with care or danger sign. For many, instead of a warm inviting fire, love is like a stove turned up too high. The flame is a liability that left unchecked can burn the house down and leave destruction behind. For some folks, relationships require caution. Every date and mate is approached with an orange and yellow neon caution sign that blinks uncontrollably. Instead of a sexy red dress, the outfit of choice is a red warning siren overhead that flashes DON’T TOUCH.  When in relationships these individuals only give the love they think they can spare and hoard the rest.  They keep the excess emotion locked within themselves so they have an emergency supply in times of famine and duress.  People have hurt them in the past so they protect their love like the military and surround it with a battalion of war ready soldiers.  The plan is to protect the heart from risk. But as with all things, love is like a fist. Holding the hand clenched tight doesn’t let anything precious out but it also doesn’t let anything valuable in. No one can win.

So for the lost in love, the hurt and humiliated, and most importantly, for the weary, let me tell you this on Valentine’s Day.  Love won’t kill you. It can’t.  Love is a gift meant to uplift, strengthen and build. The heart is a strong organ meant to beat despite the greatest tests. It’s meant to endure and not shatter or break like glass at the slightest trial. If I get biblical the Good Book says, to everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die; a time to plant and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill and a time to heal.  A time to weep and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance…

If there is a time for everything then there is a time for love. So this year and years following, let your hair down. Love hard and without restraint. Dance into love and let the emotion overwhelm you. Laugh because it’s allowed and remember that no matter what went wrong in the past. Today is a new beginning.

I wish all my readers all the love their hearts and hands can hold. Let it overflow and consume. May you jump from the top of the mountain into the abyss feet first with your eyes wide open. Wade into the murky waters of love with all your clothes on and let the refreshing waters of fearlessness cleanse all your doubts. If you loved unwisely in the past it’s not the love that you gave that was wrong, it was the recipient. Dust yourself off, leave the past behind you and present the next person a brand new revitalized heart. Love is currency, spend wisely.

Have you ever been afraid of love?

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: whataboutourdaughters.com 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

“There are two types of people who will tell you that you cannot make a difference in this world: Those who are afraid to try themselves, and those who are afraid that you will succeed” (Ray Goforth).  Don’t let the fears of others tell you how far you can go. If the tree branch looks slightly out of reach then that’s the branch you should reach for.  How big you dream, and what you can achieve, is totally dependent on you. A popular saying claims that there is strength in numbers. I don’t always agree. Sometimes your drive is diminished by a lack of support from those you love. You crave their approval but they don’t give it. You seek their help but they don’t offer it. You ask for their wisdom but it’s withheld. You feel alone. But there’s a silver lining. Evoke the power of one which is the belief that you can triumph over any obstacle life presents.  There will be times when the people around you will tell you that you’re less. Those people lack vision. They don’t see what you see. They have given up; letting life bury them under an avalanche of doubt, fear, and anxiety. Carry a shovel so you can dig yourself out. Sometimes being alone is better than being in a pack as supportive as a bunch of Desperate Housewives. Seek out people who will be there when you need them. These are the folks that believe in you and see the world as full of possibilities. Drop the dead weight of the past. You can’t maintain relationships based on nostalgia and blood ties alone.

Are you being supported in your goals?

The Power of One

I can see it now, Rocky running up the stairs with his hands thrown in the air.  The music is blaring in his ears making him take the steps two at a time. No one can stop him.  He’s invincible.  I can see it now, Lenox Lewis entering the stadium with his white silk hood covering the dreads of his hair.  In the background the DJ blasts, “I’m going to chase those crazy baldheads out of town.” The crowd goes wild. That’s his jam. The Rastafarian boxer uses the Bob Marley classic to strike fear into his close-cropped challengers.  He’s Sampson and his hair is his strength. His music makes him powerful.

Every woman needs a theme song. It’s the song that is going to motivate and energize us when life gets us down.  It’s the song that you put into your CD player and turn it up full blast.  It’s the song that speaks to who you are and inspires you to settle into your fighting stance when people come to do battle. It uplifts and it warns your enemies not to mess or they’ll have a fight on their hands.

The rapper Kool Moe Dee wrote a song just for me.  It’s the song that makes me sing out loud and launch into the running man no matter whose watching.  If I’m down it gives me life.  My choice is very fluorescent socks and acid wash jeans but I don’t care.  I didn’t choose my song.  It chose me. From the moment I heard the chorus, “how ya like me now?” I knew that it was my war cry. The song settled into my soul and took root.  It was the song that I was going to sing when all my dreams were realized. I would ask the haters, “how ya like me now?” If someone doubted my talent, told me I couldn’t do something and proclaimed that I would fail, the minute I proved them wrong, I would ask the question, “how ya like me now?” It’s the theme song for the underdog and it fits me perfectly. I don’t play it all the time. I don’t play it everyday. I play it when life gets tough; when I’m on the verge of failing or giving up. I play it when I think I can’t go on. I play it in my head so much that the real song isn’t necessary.  I can succeed. I can win. My song says I can.  Cultivate a theme song and if you don’t have one borrow mine temporarily.  Win at everything.  When you have defeated all your detractors ask them with only the barest hint of sarcasm, “how ya like me now?”

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?

I had a pair of bitchin’ moon boots back when I was young. I don’t want to date myself but for the infants they are like slouchy boots minus twenty plus years. Back then I already had a healthy self-esteem but in those boots I thought I was the shit. Coming to school that day I was all swagger with my beaded braids swinging, shoulders thrown back and an attitude that already screamed F*%# You, even though I was too young to swear. I was fierce and gangster. I was unaware, but already I had a kiss my ass mentality forming inside. I started down the school playground and treated it like a runway. I began with a sedate walk but as I neared my friends I could have sworn I heard the beat of Billy Jean playing in my ear. With every step I took the concrete path lit up just for me.  Michael’s glimmer socks and loafers couldn’t touch me. I had on my moon boots and I was on fire.  I expected my friends to love the look, congratulate me on my style and ask me to be their pre-pubescent stylist. Instead I got dirty looks, hate and whispers. Huh. What the hell!  Come again? I didn’t understand what everyone was so mad about. It didn’t matter. I never wore my moon boots again. Today, I wish I could pull that little girl aside and warn her not kill her fabulousness on the playground. It would take decades to rebuild.  I missed my chance. I’ll do it now.

Remember this: “If you’re remarkable, it’s likely that someone won’t like you. That’s part of being remarkable. Nobody gets unanimous praise. The best the timid can hope for is to be unnoticed. Criticism comes to those who stand out(Seth Godin).”

Folks are going to hate you anyway so you might as well give them their money’s worth. I’m digging in my closet for my boots as I speak. I have to push past Prince’s silk ruffled shirt and high heels, Gaga’s meat dress and Michael’s glitter glove. Ah, there they are – my moon boots. Long time no see, love. It’s time for a wear.

What have you hidden away that you plan to dust off and rock this year?

Willow rocks her Moon Boots

I’m reading a book called the Purple Cow. It’s a marketing book for developing businesses, brands and standout products. The premise behind the book is that if you want to be remembered you have to do remarkable things, be extraordinary and do what it takes to separate yourself from the herd and the crowd. To attract attention you have to stand out. Being ordinary, mediocre and a basic brown cow won’t do.  Halfway through the book and I’m already contemplating suicide. It asks me to do all the things I hate: namely speaking to strangers, abandoning fear and letting go of my insecurities and inhibitions.  I think the author might be on the pipe or some mood altering substance.  Already my hands shake, my mouth gets dry and I feel real shivers down my spine when I have to approach the unknown woman and tell her about my blog. Now I have to come out of my shell even more? I feel the beginnings of a heart attack? I feel light-headed with the mere idea of being the mouth piece behind my brand. Couldn’t I just pay the dude that sings on the train a sandwich and some Skittles to spread the word for me?  My greatest desire is to write quietly and be anonymous.  That’s why my Super Sistah mask suits me. I can see you but you can’t see me. The problem with my plan is that if I’m quiet, shy and laid back both my name and I will become extinct. A year, an hour or a minute from now no one will remember me. I will live a life of quiet disappointment and soundless misery. It’s not gonna work. If I want to blow the roof off the house that traps my dreams I have to be brash. So let’s get loud everyone. Split eardrums like the best Bose sound system. Rattle the walls like a Rock concert at full blast. Shout so that God can hear your dreams from the clouds.

In your life are you dying quietly or are you screaming?

“Every Sistah is Super.” That’s my one line opener. I say this to women I give my Super Sistah postcard to in a never-ending attempt to build my brand. In cutthroat, aggressive, neck rolling city like New York City I tend to drop the card in the new reader’s hands and take off in something resembling a dead run. I’m not scared I tell you! The Super is fearless……sort of. In the midst of doing a better Bolt than Usain, I tell myself that I’m not running exactly, instead I’m avoiding the “oh no she didn’t” blank stare and the, “you better get out of my face with that” look with a hint of crazy eyes. Timing is everything in these interactions.

With a pounding heart, I say my line– rushing the words, drop the card and haul ass.  But recently my split second timing was off and WHAM my head bounced off the closing train doors. I was trapped.  I was surrounded by a half a dozen women with my card in their hands. It was like Fear Factor x 10. I turned slowly ready for the rejection of seeing my cards littering the floor with the rest of the trash. What I got was a row of teeth.

“I’m Super? Really? What’s the blog about?” The responses should have delighted me. I felt sad. I could tell by the mirrored looks of expectancy and surprise that no one had told these women that they were wonderful. My little sales pitch was their only positive affirmation. The mere idea was troubling. No wonder I expected rejection, cynicism and negativity from the women I was trying to reach. Obviously, I didn’t believe my own message. Everyone needs to know that they’re special and important. It’s what gives us the fuel we need to keep moving forward. So to my readers, I believe that you’re all extraordinary women. We all need encouragement. I include myself. If I know what I’m doing is important maybe the next time I hand someone my card I might just reduce my speed to a quick walk instead of a run.

Are you facing your fears or are you running scared?