The world is a big bad place and it’s frightening. Everything we want to do as human beings requires a courageous spirit that many of us do not have. To get up in the morning and face the world requires a brave face. To get the things we want, we have to fight and do battle with the fear inside of us that tells us we’re not up to the task. There is an insidious voice that whispers in our ears that we can’t do it, won’t do it and if we fail to do it, people with ridicule our attempts and laugh. The fear of derision, disapproval and humiliation keeps us fixed in the same spot in our lives year after year. We cannot move forward because the fear of failure holds us in its terrible grasp. Fight free!

In our personal lives many of us have had some devastating setbacks. I for one know firsthand what a worthy adversary terror can be. Anxiety and I are lovers entwined in a forbidden dance. We are enemies at an impasse. Fear and I fight on a daily basis, and more times than not, fear has the last laugh. Everything I do, I do it scared but one quote speaks to me: Courage is not the absence of fear but the judgment that something else is more important than fear. The brave may not live forever but the cautious do not live at all.

As a self-proclaimed fear-fighter, to admit to any type of insecurity means that I’m a fake, a phony and a fraud.  Are any of us as fearless as we pretend to be? I say no. Instead, we all wear a mask of invulnerability. Life has taught us to live with the knot in our stomachs every time we try to conquer a new task. Experience has taught us to swallow past the lump in our throats. The lumps that form when we’re faced with the debilitating awareness that we may not succeed. Pride has made us hide our hands behind our backs every time they start to shake. Determination has taught us to project a calm that we do not feel. Sheer stubbornness has made us accept that we cannot make fear define us. We learn to accept that the most fearful people are the most critical. They will work the hardest to tear our ambitions down. Courageous people use fear as a driving force because they refuse to let anxiety hold them back.

Are you a frightened feline who can’t make progress because fear is holding you back? Are you a fear-fighter or a Scaredy Cat?

I want it. Got to have it. Need it bad. Can’t get enough. The Super, me, Stephanie to my friends, can now say that I’m a success. I’m an author, officially. Not only a blogger whose words were one hack job away from obscurity or whose written legacy was at the mercy of my web host’s control-freak grip. Now my words and thoughts have moved offline and are forever captured for posterity in print. Yeah. Hooray. Gold star for me you think? Nein (No in German), non (No in French) and Nee (No in Dutch) and kuzimu hakuna (Hell no in Swahili). I think by now you get my point in whatever language you happen to speak.

Like me, lots of women of my acquaintance are very accomplished. They have a great career, a bad ass crib and enough clothes and shoes to inspire envy. They should be happy and for the most part they are, but like some women are nymphomaniacs who can’t get enough sex, some women are success nymphos who can’t get enough of the next. Like reggae singer I Wayne sings, Can’t satisfy her. She needs more wood for the fire. The fire for more that burns in some women is like a disease. Not unlike the euphoria a good orgasm brings, for some the rush of being at their best doesn’t last past the dying embers of the post coital cigarette. Inhale in and exhale out, now what bridge can be built, what ladder can be climbed, what bear can she fight with her bare hands and win? Lord Jesus, can you please calm down and chill! For these women I’m sharing the sound of my internal secret-self crying out in distress. The sound is ignored as we turn our attention instead to our To-Do list:

• Conquered the world? No check.
• Found the ideal man? No check.
• As rich as Croesus? No check.
• As fit and diesel as the Jamaican track team chicks? No check, no check, no check.

Sigh, despair and all our previous accomplishments are blown to bits. For indulging in this self-destructive nonsense I’m handing out slaps with a closed hand fist. Ladies, take the time to pat yourself on the back. Take the time to appreciate yourself. You may not get another chance. A successful life is not measured in accolades but in the moments and seconds in life that can’t be replaced. Breathe. Enjoy all that you’ve accomplished and then relax and release. The best time of your life is right in front of you. Stop chasing what’s next.

Are you incapable of living in the moment? Are you too preoccupied to experience a good cry, a good laugh or good sex? Are you Ms. Can’t Get Enough–What’s Next?

One of the questions I’m often asked is if I feel women of color need rebuilding. Based on the premise of my book: Don’t Let the White Girl Win, another question I’m asked is if I feel that black women are losing the battle for the hearts of black men? My take is that many black women are in need of some sort of instruction. As for our men, I believe that if we are losing them that’s because many of us are losing ourselves. Inevitably someone will disagree with me about our apparent need of reconstruction. I believe that like the Bionic Woman, Jamie Sommers, circa 1976, black women need to be better, faster and stronger. Discounting the blessed sistahs who have it all figured out, who are emotionally stable and who have never felt marginalized or incapacitated by their mistakes, many sistahs are walking around wounded. Despite the fact that some of us exist in a fractured and splintered state, we’re still desperate for love. The love that we feel will complete us and make us whole. It’s a myth.

As women we cannot find and maintain love if we’re not at our best. Light attracts light and darkness dispels it. No woman can expect to find happiness while weighed down by the hurts and heartaches of her past. To believe it’s possible is to accept as truth a self-destructive fairytale. Women cannot expect to attract Mr. Right with only a portion of their hearts intact.  Even the best smoke screen will eventually reveal what hides beneath.

So to be a Better Black Woman, between the pages of my self-help guide I attempt to begin the healing process. Tempering harsh doses of reality with much needed laughter, I talk about the 5 B’s: Bias, Brainwashing, Beauty, Baggage and Better, and the lessons embedded in each that will lead us to a place of victory. What’s the prize besides triumphing over any and all rivals? It’s a successful life accompanied by healthy and happy relationships.

As a whole, are black women at their best or do we need rebuilding?

Read Don’t Let the White Girl Win available online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble and Chapters on October 29, 2012.

I’m feeling bare, stripped, curiously naked and exposed. I’m addicted to privacy and have been from my youth; but there is a time for the dark and there is a time to let the light in. Besides the Superhero aspect of my pseudonym and all its inherent fabulousness, the mask of the Super Sistah appealed to the Clark Kent inside of me. I could be the studious, academic, introvert that is me but I could also switch to my gregarious, irreverent and theatrical side when the inclination arose. Existing behind a mask gave me a certain kind of freedom; I could say what I wanted and do what I wanted without risking censure or criticism.  After all, anything that was said against me was not said to my true self, the one I saw every day, but to my counterfeit and copy whose ego was not as easily bruised. But what happens when looking out through the world from behind a mask doesn’t suit? What happens when you have something critical and life changing to say? Can you send your representative to preach the message on your behalf? The Super inside of me said no and the real me agreed.

For a woman who likes privacy letting the world see my true self, without my protective layer, was scary. I had anxiety about how I would be perceived. I came across Michelle Obama at her conservative best if random strangers are to be believed, but inside I was all Halle Berry as Cat Woman— feral and fabulously decked out in leather spandex. In the end I had to choose; the safety of my masked crusader secret identity or to realize a lifelong dream. The dream of reaching women of color on a larger platform. I chose the dream and that dream has grown beyond the need for anonymity and the confines of my blog. My blog readers have encouraged me and inspired me. Their issues and anxieties and their struggles with life and relationships have led to a book, a belief and a movement. The relationship, dating and self-help guide: Don’t Let the White Girl Win comes out in October 2012. Between the pages, the message is irreverent, funny and infuriating but offers real guidance and counsel for rebuilding black women and their relationships. Despite the title, it’s not about the other girl, it’s about us. It’s a boot camp, tough-love guide for how, as women of color, we can help and heal each other and succeed. So I’m going naked, nude and as bare as the day I was born to introduce my fans to the real me. The me without the mask. Hello everyone, Stephanie here.

Are you hiding behind a mask? Have you ever made the fear of exposing your true self get in the way of your destiny?

The Super is not a fan of bear cubs, puppies, baby rabbits or anything requiring training, constant attention and care, but whoa Nelly! Recently I saw a picture of J.LO and her boy toy Casper Smart and I had to do a double take. When Jenny from the Block was with Mark Anthony she looked miserable and morose.  Fast forward a scandalously short period of time and Jenny looks happy and hot. Wasn’t she supposed to follow the script? While her ex moved on to a much younger woman after their split, wasn’t she was supposed to clutch desperately to her youth while growing old, out of shape and alone? In the new millennium women are fighting back. They say that 40 is the new 20 and women of a certain age are refusing to languish man-less and dateless while they say goodbye to their youth.

Men like their women tender and now women like their men tasty. Madonna, J.Lo and Halle Berry to name a few are showing older women how it’s done. It’s time for the big payback. Now older woman are going for the fun factor by ditching men with erectile dysfunction and finding themselves little boy toys to love. Will these relationships last? I can’t say but I commend the cougars with their young men for not rolling up into a ball and calling it quits. If their fit and fabulous with abs and butts of steel, then why not show these young men what they’re working with? Looking good and feeling good is the best revenge.

While the Super likes her men somewhat seasoned I can acknowledge that there are benefits to dating young men. Such as:

• They say 40% of men over 40 have erectile dysfunction issues. Young men? Not so much. They are mini Stallions and they are ready to gallop at full speed.
• They have stamina for days. Can someone say first, second and third round?
• They are fun and remind the serious career woman how to let loose.
• They are open to new things and everything is a thrill.
• They are willing to be tutored, taught and educated and are not yet set in their ways.
• They are good for the ego. When they think their women look good they tell her so often.
• They are nice to look at. They are young, firm and fabulous from all angles.

The Super is no celebrity and is not in possession of a body that won’t quit. If I was, would I date a man young enough to be my nephew? Can’t say, but I do believe that being happy keeps women looking as fresh as little girls.

Is it better to ride an aging Stallion or break in a fresh new pony? Like men, should every Cougar catch and capture something wild and young?

Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?

Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young.  I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me.  To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:

• I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
• I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
• I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
• I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
• I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
• I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
• I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.

I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks.  The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.

Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?

The Super comes from a family that likes their offspring, light, bright and every shade south of being ebony. Our origins, if we traced them, come way of the mysterious Middle East. Now, although the present day generation is in every way chocolaty, there are still pockets of the family tree that long for our light-skinned past. Don’t get me wrong, the Super herself is no activist. Back in the 80′s, to my shame, my ideal man was described as, “light skinned with good hair.” Yes, I know, just slap me already. In the day, sadly my future spouse had no characteristics beyond being café au lait with abundance of non-kinky curls. As I thought about my mindset way back when, I realized that as backward as my thinking was in the time of acid wash jeans, even now people exist that haven’t evolved past the plantation. I present to the court of public opinion, exhibit A: the use and abuse of bleaching cream. Forget black don’t crack and the blacker the berry the sweeter the juice, for some, the only adage that resonates is white is right. Don’t misunderstand, I’m all for beauty enhancement products and fashion, but going from cocoa to cream, to me, is not like buying a new dress, getting a perm or going from a B cup to a D. If you’re born beige, brown or tan that’s one thing, but I’m against using bleach cream as a weapon. To my mind, there is no reason beyond self-hatred to kill, murder and annihilate all that is ebony. Pigment is not the enemy. For the millions who make hydroquinone related products the #1 seller in the beauty store, in the vast majority of the cases, the lightening of the skin detracted instead of enhanced their looks. Instead of an array of colors and complexions that make black people attractive, we have an assortment of men and women walking around looking like bottles of mustard. Unnatural hues and the telltale light face and brown hand isn’t sexy.

What’s wrong with us as black people that we deny our own flesh? We tell ourselves its fashion, style and a desire for change, but when we risk cancer and other ailments for a creamier complexion, our troubles are deeply psychological. I know the media and society has much to answer for in making us believe that black, brown and any shade of the night is unattractive. But beauty is in the eye of the beholder and we must love and accept what the mirror sees. Don’t fall prey to the colonialist ideology that there is no beauty in black. White-wash the mind; it is only the misconception of our true beauty that is unappealing and murky.

Black girl in white face? Is it right for women of color to bleach away their black?

“As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he?” For those who haven’t read their Bible since the dark ages, no it wasn’t Yoda who said that, it was the Lord. I  don’t personally possess a Masters in Divinity but if this quote is correct then I should already be rich, thin, vastly intelligent and immune to insult and insecurity? Let me do a quick mental rundown of my bank account, my profile and my mindset.  Nope, if this was a test I would get an F for fail. Now I personally believe that both the Force and the Lord is with me. I wonder why then my thoughts haven’t manifested into a house on the hills and a Bentley?  Could it be that like most human beings my positive thoughts are combined with ones filled with doubt and negativity?

Our lives are often a direct reflection of what we think about regularly. If we dominate our thoughts with feelings of fear and anxiety then how can thoughts of abundance abound?  They cannot.  Light is a powerful force but it can’t fight the darkness without our help. If we want all the things promised to us then we must ask ourselves these questions:

• What are our first thoughts of the day? (Reflections on the past?  A replay of failed relationships? A catalog and mental list of mistakes made?)
• What do we say to ourselves when we look in the mirror? (I’m getting old or fat. I’m unattractive and out of shape? I’m not as pretty or smart as I used to be.)
• What do we say to ourselves when someone criticizes us? (They’re probably right. Maybe they know something I don’t know. Is it me?)
• What are the thoughts that run through our minds most often? (I’m not good enough. I’m not lovable. I’ll never make it or get to where I need to be.)

Positive thoughts need nourishment.  Like hot house flowers our image of ourselves and our feelings of personal power cannot flourish without attention, concentrated effort and care.  Before we can convince others that we are exceptional we have to first convince ourselves.  We have to get drunk on Jedi Juice which is a concoction made up of mental strength, visualization and discipline.  If we are what we think we are then we must think big.  The downtrodden and the defeated drink disappointment and fail while the ambitious drink Jedi Juice and win!

What is your drink of choice? Are you getting drunk off of your accomplishments or are you inebriated with your inability to succeed?

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?

Oprah is off the air but I remember one of the quotes from her final show. She said: The show has taught me that there is a common thread that runs through all of our pain and all of our suffering and that is unworthiness. Not feeling worthy enough to own the life you were created for. What I got from this is that sometimes life deals us some difficult cards and we get disappointed. There are times that despite our greatest effort we don’t get what we want and we get discouraged. We internalize all our setbacks and start feeling like we aren’t worthy of the life we envisioned. We start believing the discouraging people around us that tell us that we want too much and that we can never achieve all that we planned. We try blocking out all of their negative energy but some of it seeps into our pours and strengthens our doubts. As a result, we start singing the black girl blues well enough that  Billy Holiday would have given us the side eye and the oh no she didn’t look.  Like  many of the gifted and blessed, we let depression nip at our heels and allow the spirit of defeat to settle into our souls. What we must remember is that delay is not denial and we can’t give up. If being the best at anything was easy then everyone would be living the life they dreamed. If you choose to be extraordinary then it’s going to take more than wishing on a star and a penny in the wishing well for our ambitions to be more than just fairy tales. If we can dream it then it can be achieved. Don’t give in. Don’t give up. The song of defeat isn’t sexy.

Are you committed to singing a song of success loud enough for God and his angels to hear?

Are you singing the Blues?

A reader once accused me of being vain and beauty obsessed. I argued that she was an idiot and should spend more time reading my blog before hurling knucklehead remarks. Now in retrospect I think she might have had a point. Skimming through some of my more inspirational and uplifting posts, I noticed that there was also another trend.  With shame and chagrin I realized that I had written more than one post about my posterior. Did I have a fixation? Was I body dysmorphic with an unhealthy focus on the state of my behind? Forgive me readers for I have sinned. Besides being black, which in itself comes with its own beauty baggage, there are reasons for my unhealthy obsession.  Follow me if you will while I endeavor to explain where my booty psychosis began.

I have what you call adequate ass. It’s an ass that has potential that’s never fully realized. I have the sway in my back that promises a fatty of Janet Jackson proportions, but instead of exploding outward in an abundance of bounce, my ass runs straight into my leg and disappears.  As much as I bemoan my dimensions, I realize that it could have been a lot worse. My family tree on my father’s side boasts some unfortunate shapes. The multicultural bloodlines has blessed my female kin with overly large breasts, thick waists and bums that lay flat without a hint of curve. I escaped the horror of this silhouette through my maternal grandmother’s straight out of Africa roots. Her DNA softened the trauma that could have been my body type by downgrading the possible triple F bra size to an acceptable porn star D. It cinched in my waist moderately and gave me a bum, while not excessive, was more than adequate on anyone not black. All said, my bum had its perks. Naked, it is a mini Picasso wrapped in J brand jeans. It doesn’t dent, hang low or flop around (that will come with age). Born any place North of the mother land and I would have had a mini masterpiece on my hands.

Having said that, I would like to admit that the men in my past haven’t helped me with my pathology. Many of them expressed concern the first time they saw me from behind. Most accepted my booty on a consignment basis.  They still longed for the bouncy but they made do with my lack, because as they put it, ‘I was a nice girl.’ Yeah, I had booty baggage, but just like India Arie released her insecurities when she declared I am not my hair, I am NOT my ass. Today I will declare that I have come to accept, if not adore, my booty and my body. We are cordial acquaintances working on being more. We are respectful of one another’s limitations and provide one another polite, if not excessive, praise. I no longer envy the chicks with booties big enough to write its own name in the sand.  My curves and I have made peace. Readers, I can’t promise that this will be the last of my posts on the topic of my posterior but I will try to keep the madness under control. The Super still uplifts, preaches and prods women to accept themselves and be more. I’ll endeavor to spread the word and not my cheeks.

Has a hated body part made you into an obsessive freak?

My ex-boyfriend is a pain in the ass, a pain in the neck, just a pain.  No matter what I do I can’t get rid of him. If I was a dragon, the mere mention of his name would be enough for me to breathe fire and burn his aggravating ass to a crisp.  I don’t hate him. If I see him I wouldn’t hit him with my car, just a light tap on the shins with the front bumper; nothing that would do any permanent harm.  All I want is to be left alone and in peace. We’ve both moved on but he’s determined to keep our lives intertwined which makes me want to scream and show him my fist minus the four fingers; yeah, I want him to f*%# off.  The fact that he can still make me angry makes me wonder if the relationship didn’t leave me with irreparable scars. Am I damaged? Does my life read like an old Danity Kane song?

Unlike the song lyrics I’m well aware that no man can fix me. I’m a product of my past. The lessons I’ve learned about myself from old relationships live on. If I want to be happy and whole I must forgive myself for yesterday’s mistakes. I think I have….sometimes.  The problem is that if my ex still has the power to make me angry doesn’t that mean that I’m damaged? If I was an electronic devise I would be refurbished. Meaning I look good as new but previously I’ve had some difficulty. It would mean that to all but the discerning eye, I would seem fresh with all my original packaging. I look sellable but my warranty is a lie.

The reason people are reluctant to buy used cars or electronics is that although the exterior looks good, the inside, the heart of the machine has a past. The product has suffered from previous wear and tear. People are no different. When we have experienced something traumatic we are tempted to pretty ourselves up, slap on a new paint job and put ourselves back on the shelf.  But the tag of refurbished or previously owned was made for a reason.  Manufacturers must include this disclaimer because it warns the new owner to buy at their own risk. All is not what it seems. It warns that the product may suffer from some inconsistencies and problems because of the previous owner’s neglect.  I’m fixing myself, dusting off the past and going in for regular soul servicing.  I’m not new but I’m worthy of a test drive. If you don’t believe me I have my carFAX.

Did a previous owner leave you damaged but you’re passing yourself off as brand new?

Are you damaged?