Beat-Boxing the Baby
In no way am I supporting child abuse but having rode the NYC subway I know for a fact that there are some bad ass kids in need of a beating…ah…I mean spanking. I don’t mean anything excessive just a few love taps to communicate the importance of not putting your ass in grandma’s face, not blasting your music when God and Sony made headphones for a reason and not telling your friends and the entire world how well you can f*ck when you just got your period and your first pubic hair last week. The Super is old enough (won’t say how old) that I come from a generation where Time Out wasn’t invented, and if you disrespected or in any way disobeyed your parents, there was a strong possibility that your parents might put you in a headlock followed by a suplex. On more than one occasion when I was young my mother snatched me up so hard that I found my feet dangling five inches off the floor. What’s up mama! Was it something I said?
Let me apologize right now to my mother for revealing her, “it’s my way or the highway” or “I put you on this earth and I will take you out” parenting style to the entire web. I only bring this up now because all over the news is the scandal that mega church Pastor Creflo Dollar might end up in Sing Sing because he hit (choked) his child. I don’t know the story behind it and I don’t need the press release, but the incident inspired a question in me. Apparently the teenager defied her parents and as a result her father went ape shit…I mean… got angry and gave the child a beatdown she won’t soon forget. Some folks applauded his actions while the other half condemned him for being a bully. To my readers, riddle me this, in a time when kids have gone wild and parents have lost control of their kids, is it right or wrong for parents to make their parental point by balling their fingers into fists?
As a parent, is it acceptable to climb into the ring to beat-box your toddler or teenage baby until they tap the mat in surrender and give?
Tags: child abuse, children, creflo dollar, discipline, parenting
Battle of the Sexes – Mister versus Missus
Despite 5 inch heels that can crack backs and shatter a short man’s ego, in spite of six-figure incomes ballin enough to make the blue collar brother cry, and contrary to the societal shift that has put some sisters in the driver’s seat, still, after years of evolution, women still haven’t changed. No matter how powerful and professional a woman may seem on the outside, she still wants a man with strength and with cojones of steel (figuratively that is, literally might be a tad unsightly).
Enough already with the question, ‘can I kiss you?’ If you have to ask then the answer is probably NO! Take the kiss already and be done with it! Rejection, the occasional slap for presumptuousness, is a part of life. All the heehawing, feet shuffling and hand ringing is enough to drive a strong woman crazy. Men must remember their caveman roots and take charge. I’m not saying to headlock and drag a woman off to some dark place by her hair, but if she has to instruct, teach and perform tutorials on how to woe and win her then her interest has probably already waned. You’ve lost, so long sucker. Hit the Road Jack cause she won’t be coming back no more, no more, no more, no more. Hit the road jack… sorry the tune got stuck in my head and I got sidetracked. The point I’m trying to make is that the feeble, the weak-willed and the fearful have no chance in the battle of the sexes. If the article I read recently is correct and 40% of households are now headed by female breadwinners, then things are bout’ to change. Who Runs the World? Girls apparently. How does the old school dude compete with women who are bringing the heat?
A bit of advice for my male readers, although some women won’t agree with me, I say bring it back to the biblical days. Get your Adam on before the unfortunate snake. Be almighty like my man Moses on the mountaintop. Direct and lead like bad boy Noah showing the beasts of the earth who’s boss. Attracting women is all about swagger, strength and steel. If you have to ask, plead and persuade then you have no chance. Power and personality are attractive to women no matter the amount of loot she might be packing in her purse. If a man fears failure and is easily intimidated then the next woman he meets he should ask her if she has a pair of panties she can spare. God gifted men with testosterone for a reason. Come to the love battle prepared to win.
If both the man and the woman wears the pants in the relationship then who’s boss?
Tags: Black Love, black women, Careers, God, Love, Marriage, Men, Money, Relationships, Super-Heroes, winning
the Super Sistah remembers Whitney Houston (Vlog)
Can marrying the wrong person ruin your life? The Masked Crusader, the Super Sistah discusses her new blog post, Death by Ex. While reflecting on the death of Whitney Houston she asks her readers whether loving the wrong man can be a woman’s downfall? Post a response here. R.I.P Whitney, we’ll miss you.
the Super Sistah on Whitney Houston
Watch this video on YouTube.
Tags: Black Love, black women, Bobby Brown, Break-ups, Dating, Death by Ex, Family, God, Marriage, Men, Spiritual, Super-Heroes, Whitney Houston death, Whitney Houston funeral
Death by Ex
Can the wrong man ruin your life? Yeah, he can! Recently Pop Diva Whitney Houston went home to meet her Lord. The lyrics, “I get so emotional, baby, every time I think of you” was set on replay when I heard. I don’t pretend to know what goes on in the personal lives of celebrities, but as far as downward spirals go, I think Whitney’s began shortly after her husband put his diamond on her left.
Tags: Black Love, black women, Bobby Brown, Break-ups, God, Marriage, Men, Music, Relationships, Spiritual, Super-Heroes, Whitney Houston death, Whitney Houston funeral
Killing Me Softly
Recently someone close to my heart went home to meet his Beloved. He was here today and then gone like a raging flame suffocated by a lack of oxygen. When precious things are taken from us we wonder about the purpose of life and whether God has a plan. We ask ourselves, is there a point to all of this and what does it all mean? We ask knowing that we’ll never know for sure. If we believe in a higher power we question whether the almighty is a naughty child with a doll with our likeness in one hand and a long piercing needle in his other fist. Are our lives a prank? Why are we here? Even as we wrestle with our doubts, most of us cling to the belief that our lives have significance. Instead of a mean spirited child we conjure images of God as a chess master devising plans and strategies too complex for mere mortals to understand? We use this image to give us comfort as we do our best to put our doubts and fears to rest.
No matter our religious philosophies, the core belief in all of us is that we are here for a reason. Some of us forget our purpose as weeks and years pass by. We slip into a coma while still standing on our two feet. We forget what we were born to do. Like the movie Inception, we must remind ourselves who we are so that we can awaken from a self-imposed sleep. Death will come to us all but while we still breathe we must live life with purpose and passion. Tomorrow may never get here. The body may return to the earth but those who die fastest are those who live life with regret and dreams unfulfilled. Look into your heart and examine your life, your pursuits and your passions. Question whether you’re on the right path. If you were to die tomorrow what impact would you have had? Would you be remembered like a star that burns bright and then disappears? Would your soul live on in the souls of others? Would only the ones closest to you remember your name minutes after the words of prayer and forgetfulness have been read over your shut eyelids?
We must all figure out why we are put on the earth. What is our purpose? We all die but few of us live. Not one of us is promised tomorrow but while we exist we must change our lives and by default our destinies.
Are you alive or are you killing yourself softly by waiting for someone to give you permission to live?
Tags: Death, Faith, Family, Fighting Fear, God, Identity, Inception, Mourning, Reinvention, Spiritual
Masking the Truth
While most of my friends love my writing style, a few hate my Super Sistah alter ego. Evoking Sacha Fierce is not acceptable for me but fine for a celebrity like Beyoncé who’s entitled to her creativity. My friends go on to admit that they despise my Super mask and they think she, me, is a superhero wannabe. Why would a woman with education and multiple degrees aspire to be a cartoon character? They don’t get it or me. Be authentic! Is the advice I’m most given. The consensus is that I should be what I seem which is scholarly and serious with a hint of prep school superiority. There is no need to be a masked anything I’m told with condescension. ‘Your everyday face is fine… not even ugly. Why hide?’ They go on to tell me that my makeup mask is ridiculous and the concept behind my persona just plain wack. They criticize my vision, my plans and my marketing strategies. They’re my friends so I value their opinions and acknowledge without bitterness that they make some valid points. They just want the best for me, right? In the end though whether I try and fail, rise or fall, win or lose the life I lead is mine. I refuse to give a good goddamn about what anyone thinks but me.
Comedians are sad, beautiful people feel ugly inside and in the body of every big girl beats the heart of a super model. The world is filled with contradictions. We all have our personas and Super Sistah is mine. The face we present to the world is the one we want them to see. Each one of us is pretending or hiding behind a mask forged through a lifetime of conformity. We are either pretending to be more than we are or less. To get a job, stay married or keep friends we hide, we dim our light and we refuse to shine so people won’t be blinded and threatened by all that we can be. If I’m pretending then the world is pretending with me.
Those that urge me to ditch my Superman for my Clark Kent don’t really understand. I’m not in disguise. The powerful, beautiful, fierce and fabulous woman living and breathing behind the mask is my true self and the shy and slightly introverted woman is my real disguise. It takes courage and fearlessness to show the world the face that only our heart sees. It’s easier and safer to be who our friends want us to be. But as the innovator Steve Jobs once said, your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary. Steve advises us to Stay Hunger. Stay Foolish. With this in mind, the fool that I am who is dressed for Halloween daily will adhere to who my heart knows me to be: Super without compromise.
Are you ready to show the world the face of truth or are you hiding behind a mask of fake reality?
Tags: black women, Confidence, Identity, Masked Crusader, Masks, Steve Jobs, Strength, Super-Heroes
Forgive or Forget You!
We are taught from the cradle to forgive and forget. If you’ve every been trapped between the pews on a Sunday wearing a too tight dress and uncomfortable shoes, then you know that the good book says to turn the other cheek. The ability to forgive is a virtue and a gift. For many it doesn’t come naturally. It certainly doesn’t for me. If someone hurts me I sit on the offense for weeks. I stew and create elaborate plans for retribution and revenge. Usually after I’ve completed plotting that person’s punishment my Christian self belatedly kicks in. I let the offender off with a warning but make it clear that the strike against them counts. Watch it! I’ve got my eyes on you. I forgive but the forgetting part is challenging for me. The scripture, ‘forgive as God forgave you’ would be easier to apply if it wasn’t for my upbringing.
My mother is an A+ woman but some die-hard Christians would question her parenting. If anyone considered hurting my sister and I they understood that they did so at their own risk. We were taught that forgiveness wasn’t a guarantee. It was conditional and was based on a brief list:
- How bad was the offense?
- Were they sorry for their crime?
- How many times had they made the same bullshit mistake?
- Was the offense intentional and premeditated to cause harm or pain?
- Should they have known better but didn’t do so because they didn’t give a Sh%t?
- Were they considered thoughtless knuckleheads therefore generally stupid as a norm?
This list was reviewed and gauged before a decision was reached. Some people got off with a warning while others were permanently cut off, dissed and dismissed. No one messed with us as individuals without having to pay the cost. Those who complained that we were too harsh, unforgiving and mean got my mother’s famous forgiveness quote which was this: ‘Forgiveness is easy for the offender. When you hurt someone it’s in the perpetrators best interest to forget. It isn’t the person that shits on the street that remembers, it’s the person who steps in it.’
Mom’s lesson was never to do anything that required forgiveness unless we intentionally meant to offend. But I know as human beings we all make mistakes, have errors in judgment and lose our way. As I get older, I realize that if I want forgiveness when I mess up then I have to extend moments of grace. Holding a grudge charges too much emotional rent. Forgiveness can uplift and lighten the load on our soul. But my mother was right about one thing, some things can be forgiven and some people’s transgressions against you just can’t be overlooked. In the cases when forgiveness isn’t possible my advice is to wipe away shitty people from your life and from your shoes.
Have you had to use wipes to clear away a shitty person from your life?
Tags: Family, forgiveness, Friendship, God, Relationships, Trust
Black Girls Don’t Cry
When I was young I used to fight, brawl and roll around wrestling in the grass. My life was like an episode of Basketball Wives. Now that I’m grown, I’ve learned some things and realized that a karate chop to the windpipe is no way to communicate. As I’ve matured I’ve learned to get my Ohm on and practice the religion of peace. When I’m mad my fingers still instinctively tingle with the need to give out backhands; most times I resist. My boy Gandhi would be so proud. While it might seem that I’m perpetually walking around with a peace pipe and a Yoga mat, recently I was mad enough to beat up Mandela and tell the Dali Lama to kiss my ass. I wasn’t mad at them. I was mad at me. I let someone take me out of my lane, divert me off track and hurt my feeling to the point where I was reduced to boo hoo tears. That’s right, the Super cried. It was embarrassing. Don’t tell anybody.
I pride myself on being tough, invincible—indestructible if you will. I hold onto the image for my own edification even though I know it’s a lie. Being human and not truly made of steel, sometimes people do and say things that pierce my armor. After each incident of personal attack I increase my defenses until I have protection in the form of a battalion of Trojan warriors; their strength is not unlike the ones found in a condom six pack. Despite these precautions, as with all protection, sometimes it fails. The breach instead of leaving me pregnant left me pissed.
It’s my observation that it is never your enemies that slip beneath your guard and eat away at your defenses, it’s people you love. They have the unique advantage of knowing how to get to you from the inside. Let me share my techniques for dealing with the enemy inside the gates. First, no matter what is said don’t give anyone permission to cause you pain. Without exception, they must speak to you with respect. Just because you share bloodlines or childhood Barbies that doesn’t give them free reign. No one gets to tell you who you are. We are all in the process of perfecting ourselves and the refining process will undoubtedly last a lifetime. In the meantime, as we strive to improve and be better, it is our responsibility to define ourselves and reject any picture presented by the outside world that doesn’t fit with our personal beliefs. Our first loyalty and priority is to the (wo)man in the mirror. If people exist in our lives that don’t lift us up or bring us joy then they get cut off. Love isn’t meant to hurt. Those you love are there to improve you and inspire you to be the best person that you can be. If they make you harsh, hypocritical, angry or mean then the fact that you share bloodlines doesn’t save them from the chopping block. It’s never okay for someone you love to reduce you to tears. Now chin up!
Despite being defined as strong and tough, is it a lie that black girls don’t cry?
Tags: big girls don't cry, black women, Family, Friendship, Self-Confidence
Barren or Baby?
The Super has no babies, no bambinos, no chile and no children. My mama is a granny without a single grandchild to her name. When I was getting educated she rejoiced in my childlessness and would tell anyone who would listen that I was pursuing perfection and had no time for a passel load of kids. Fast forward a decade or so and now my mother would borrow, steal and beg if I would give her something— anything, brown and fat and just under 8 pounds.
The Super is not barren; kids are possible. For me the timing just hasn’t been right. Sometimes I have the penis in my life to make a baby happen and sometimes I don’t. My dilemma is that time is running out. I’m not a hundred years old, but forty, which was in the distant future, is now a few blocks down the road. It’s do or die time. I hear my biological clock ticking, banging and slamming hard against my ear. I envy men with their ancient sperm that they can take out and use at any time. Fifteen or eighty, it doesn’t matter, they are good to go. I’m jealous that they can wait forever and change their mind at the last hour. Women just don’t have that luxury. Left up to me, I would wait a few more years, travel around the world a few times, accomplish a few more things, save some more ends and then welcome a child into the world. I would make a great mother. My own mother is aces so I’ve learned from the best. I want children and not having any isn’t an option, but damn if being female isn’t somewhat inconvenient. I’m a bachelor at heart except I have lady parts. I love relationships, the kids and all that family has to offer; I just need more time.
Mother Nature is being a bitch. She’s breathing down my neck, threatening to fry my eggs into an omelet and shut down my baby maker if I don’t get to it. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, husband or no husband she could give a good god damn about my plans and my priorities. I have to close the deal sometime in the new millennium before the Mission becomes Impossible. Somewhere my baby’s daddy is walking around and a child is screaming, “Mommy” at the top of her lungs. I hear you calling little one but I’m busy rewiring my biological clock.
Are the only options Barren or Baby if you can’t stop the clock from ticking?
Tags: black superheroes, black women, Careers, children, Family, fertility, motherhood, pregnancy, Relationships