A–plus, decked in baggy sweatpants, a hoodie and Nike Air Max sneakers, struts in front of an unused trophy case using the glass as a mirror to critique her dance moves. Right behind Plus is Bina, a petite girl also dressed in baggy hip-hop attire posing upside briefly holding her entire body up. These b-girls are warming up for what is supposed to be an 8 p.m. practice, but the absence of three other girls impedes the October evening preparation.

After 40 minutes, three girls—Smalls, Crix, and Boogie—walk in with smiles and feelings of excitement to rejoin their sisterz. The last time these girls saw each other was in March for an anniversary event. A-plus and Bina quickly stop their twisting, shaking, posing, swirling and hand standing to exchange hugs with their fellow b-girls after the seven-month absence.

Time-crunched, the girls quickly change and a set up for practice, but not before they rush to a secluded area to discuss personal matters. No one is allowed to listen. After nearly twenty minutes, they head down to an empty staircase and stand at attention waiting for the hip hop beat to start from a white boom box.

These gyrating females are known as the Extra Credit Cru, a b-girl crew connected to the heavily influential Sisterz of the Underground, an all female collective that houses 30 emcees, deejays, graffiti artists and break dancers who use hip-hop elements to entertain, influence and educate women in the Bay Area.

Being a woman in the South Bronx-originated culture of hip hop is difficult considering that the genre is heavily male dominated. Rarely are women seen as top emcees, deejays, graffiti artists and break-dancers—much credit goes to their male counterparts. Women in hip hop are instead seen dancing in scantily clad outfits while water is poured over their bodies. Sisterz of the Underground hopes to change this perception.

“It’s really lame when a girl makes it big because she is hot, and sex sells but no talent,” explains b-girl Michelle “Crykit” Kolnik. “It’s wack that b-girls are barely being used in dope music videos and are being replaced by girls in pumps and bikinis to hang all over the men.”

Sisterz of the Underground’s success did not happen overnight—it took years before the collective became a respected contributor to hip hop culture in the Bay Area and to the empowerment of women. So how did Sisterz of the Underground become such a phenomenon? It all started with a dream and an experiment by one person—Sarah Smalls.

Sarah Saltzman, a.k.a. Smalls, remembers growing up in Los Angeles and having a strong love for music, especially hip hop.

In 1997, Smalls found herself in Santa Cruz. The lack of musical opportunities forced her to head north to San Francisco in 1999, where she studied liberal studies at SF State. A new scene meant new opportunities, and Smalls took advantage of every opportunity she was given. Smalls began throwing music events under Smokin’ Roach productions, and after some practice, she decided to throw hip-hop music events alone.

A great opportunity fell right into Small’s lap when the owner of the Justice League in San Francisco, now The Independent, told her there was an opening at the venue and asked if she wanted to throw an event. Two women inspired her—Arouz, a graffiti artist and Inchant, an emcee—to throw an all-female hip-hop show.

“It was about all elements (of hip hop) and all women. I wanted to see what would happen with an all women showcase,” says Smalls.

Finally in 2001, Smalls threw an event called the Sisterz of the Underground, a collection of talented young and independent female emcees, deejays and breakers, to showcase their talents at a sold out Justice League. Smalls couldn’t believe the turnout.

“It was just the most amazing feeling I have ever had in my life,” she explains. “It was so empowering.”

Smalls wanted to put together an all female collective and asked if some of the girls to be part of the group. Many accepted. Conveniently, she named the collective Sisterz of the Underground. Six years later, Sisterz, SOTU for short, is the only female collective of talented artists, musicians and deejays in the Bay Area.

A slight echo of hard thumping beats leaks outside the Lincoln Park community center on a chilly San Francisco evening. Inside the building is squad of break-dancers, the majority of which are men. But in a little corner in the cafeteria sized room is Extra Credit preparing for a break-dancing battle. After six rounds of other crews battling, it’s time for these girls to represent.

Four of seven members of the Extra Credit Cru walk to the center of the floor excited and nervous. Behind them are three men not shy to express their vain feelings about the girls.

“Damn, look at them girls. They got some cuties, especially that one with the black shorts and knee pads,” says a spectator referring to Kay, who is going to battle first.

Luckily, Kay didn’t hear the comments. The three-round battle did not go well as the judges declared Elite Soldiers, an all male breaking crew, the winners.

“People always underestimate us. They think that we are someone’s girlfriend,” says Sabrina Britt, a.k.a. Syndell, referring to female talent at shows.

“People look down upon you, but you just have to brush it off,” continues the 29-year-old.

Many argue that women have a difficult time gaining respect in hip-hop because the images of women in the industry are misogynistic. In an article on mysistahs.org, a youth-advocate website, the author of “The exploitation of women in hip hop culture,” Ayanna explains, “Many videos transmit, promote, and perpetuate negative images of women. All women…are seen in popular hip-hop culture as sex objects.” SOTU hopes to change the negative perception of women in hip-hop.

“I wanted us [women] to be who we were and get respect for that and not having to take off our clothes or to be the thug bitch,” Smalls explains.

Besides fighting misogynistic ideals of women in hip-hop, members of SOTU have to scrape for respect for their hip-hop skills.

“Guys don’t take us too seriously,” says Kay “A-lus” Tye, a SOTU member for two years. “They are not upfront with us in helping improve our skills. They’ll just be nice to us because we are girls.”

Not only does SOTU support each other but also women in all communities in the Bay Area. SOTU provides a hip hop educational workshop, Definitive Education, or Def-Ed, to support youth.

“We use hip hop culture, specifically the elements of emceeing, deejaying, breaking and street art,” says Smalls. “We educate youth on values like acceptance, non-violence, physical fitness and creative self expression.”

Smalls continues to explain that Def-Ed contracts out to schools, libraries, homeless shelters and juvenile halls.

According to the SOTU website, Smalls started Def Ed in 2005. Smalls acts as the program director and has hopes that hip-hop will cross the boundaries that separate class and gender communities. Def-Ed is housed under CELLspace, a communal workspace for community-based arts, and uses the elements of hip hop to promote “pro-social life.”

The Definitive Education consists of a seven part curriculum that uses the history of hip hop, story telling theatre and rap cartoons to teach 8-to-18-year-olds about acceptance, physical health, spoken and written language and technical skills.

This past March, SOTU celebrated its six-year anniversary. A simple dream has become a reality and has changed the landscape of how people view women in the hip-hop culture. While it is impossible to predict the future, it’s certain that six-years-later, the Bay Area will still be talking about one collection of sisterz in the forefront rather than in the underground.