When popular products fail companies yank their best brands off the shelves and bring them back to the lab for reformulation. Sometimes our relationships need the same treatment.  It’s necessary at times to break things down in order to build them back up. This is the case with long-term friendships.  I have a friend I’ve known practically from the cradle. We are what I call fighting friends, the kind of friends you feel free to be yourself with. These friends have the unique and often unsatisfying experience of knowing you in the raw. Not naked, nasty, but knowing you without the varnish and polish that society says is necessary. We’ve been fighting since we were children, back in the day when it was acceptable to put your friend in a headlock, push her down onto the grass and pull her hair out. We still have these tendencies but we are adults so we use our words instead of our fists. We’ve had long bouts of silence this friend and I brought on by misunderstandings, resentments and pure unadulterated rage. In these instances each of us has wondered whether a friendship that requires so much work, attention and effort was worth the trouble. Most times after weeks of fraught silence the answer was yes. But as with most things, what worked in the past doesn’t always work in the present. The mini battles, the yelling and the finger pointing back and forth were getting on both of our nerves. Things had to change. We took our friendship back to the lab and attempted to reformulate. We laid down rules, mixed in some guidelines, cleared up old resentments and tried again. It didn’t work.  We were creatures of habit and it was easier to draw on old knowledge than to see each other for the women we’d become. Life experiences change people and we weren’t the same.  With this realization she the consumer and I the buyer rejected the new packaging of our friendship because it contained the same old ingredients. We went back to the drawing board. We spoke, we argued and we had heated debates about what would make our relationship work. We were clear that the breakdown of a lifelong friendship would be the result if we didn’t get the formulation just right. Preliminary results about our strategy are not yet in but we’ve reformulated the friendship and put it back on the shelf.  We’ll see if the new product works and if the brand is built to last.

What relationship do you have that needs reformulating?

Who runs the world? Girls! Black women are exceptional. I know a lot of women who I admire, look up to and try to emulate. They have shown me how to be the best woman I can be. What their encouragement has done is that it has powered my ambition and fueled my self-esteem. I know without being told that I’m worthy of love and all of life’s rewards. Every woman has a gift and something special about them that separates them from everyone else. On my end, from the moment I knew myself I knew I was gifted. I knew that I was extraordinary, different and unique. I couldn’t leap tall buildings in a single bound, I couldn’t dodge a bullet and I couldn’t see the future — no x-ray vision. I had a cape but it was hidden. It didn’t matter. As far as action heroes went I was in the Justice League. I was a super hero and I had a name. My special power was to educate, motivate and to teach. Living inside me where all the action heroes of old. I was Wonder Woman and Super Woman wrapped up into one. I had super powers. I could recover from a broken heart and will the organ to regenerate and heal. Men could hurt me and leave me for dead but I could defy death and live again. I could give birth to Gods, balance the temperaments of the vicious and I could mold the minds and thoughts of others. I could heal hearts with a kiss and I could balance the world on my shoulders without losing my breath. Loved ones could turn against me and I could still find the power to rise as if I was impervious to harm or pain. I was the black Jamie Summers and like her I was bionic. In the twenty first century I conditioned myself to be better, stronger and smarter. I’m not unique. All  women possess super human strength. We’re women of steel and it takes an army of combatants to harm us. Our weakness is our human heart which leads us to succumb to heartache time and time again. To overcome, all women of color have to claim our gifts and powers and announce them to the world. We must release our inner avatar and give our super selves a new fear-fighting moniker. We must release the super heroine living inside of us and let the extraordinary woman out. She should no longer be contained. I’m Super Sistah. I said it therefore I am. No one had to tell me. Own yourself and own the world.  Beyoncé didn’t have to sing a song about it for me to know that girls run the world. As women we have to learn to live out loud.  Let’s start today.

Do you run the world? What makes you Super and extraordinary? Tell me.

Excerpt taken from the upcoming book entitled – Don’t Let the White Girl Win.

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

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?

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"

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?

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.

Maybe wearing a dominatrix mask or crime fighting disguise was not the best way to sell success to my audience or get my point across. My friends openly mocked me and told me my persona was absurd.  Why would a grown professional woman of color run around in a Halloween costume? The consensus was that I must be attention seeking, crazy or everything in between.  I was none of the above but it was my persona. It was me. It was how I felt about myself inside.  So despite what anyone else said, I went ahead and became who I was born to be –Super.  I attached the Sistah to the name because that was another important part of my identity. The Super  Sistah was born and my voice was heard.

Part of getting ahead is knowing who you are. No one can achieve any type of success without having a strong sense of identity. Lots of people let the world, their friends and their family define their identities. They’re only mommy, wife, sister, friend, co-worker, bum, felon, fat or failures.  Not me. I was Super Sistah and I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me who I should be. I gave myself a name and identified my super powers. I was a writer, educator and success coach. These powers were my gift to the world.  I used them to propel people to new heights by motivating them to reclaim their lives regardless of failures and adversity.  When you break bad habits or behaviors sometimes the process hurts.  I do it without flinching, coddling or telling people what they want to hear.  A flurry of soothing platitudes never helped anybody get to where they need to be.  The truth hurts.

If you have a dream, a desire, a destiny or a handicap, a hurdle or a problem, you must first surrender fear, destroy any defeatist mentality and claim your name and your identity.  This is the first step before anything can be achieved.

I’m the Super Sistah and I believe that every sistah is super.  So what are your powers? Tell me your superhero name and identity?

Who’s the woman behind the mask? In cyberspace there’s a new masked crusader, defeatist destroyer, fear fighter, personal growth coach and tough love devotee. She won’t always tell you what you want to hear but she’ll tell you what’s necessary to reach new heights and defeat any personal human frailty that keeps your feet soldered to the ground.  Not all mortals are superheroes but all are meant to be. Discover what’s holding you back from ascending.  the Super  Sistah – the masked heroine is here.   Be Super. Watch Yourself Soar.

The Super Sistah blog is about personal growth, life and moments of randomness that inspire us all to either soar or hit the ground.