The Power of Transparency

I wasn’t always so transparent. Growing up I was very quiet. Always in deep thought or some imaginary land. I never said what I was thinking. When I had, my peers thought I was weird.

Then I went through a phase where I spoke a lot more. I was told that I ‘talked too much’ and that I ‘sounded like a broken recorder’. From an early age, I found out that adults needed to be reminded and that most of them lacked accountability. And, if I wanted to get things done, I had to be assertive and vocal about my needs.

In my teen years, the person I was inside hadn’t matched the outside. So, I hid within myself. I dove into writing fictional stories, that way I could live vicariously through characters, leaving the real world behind.

Years passed, and I still clung to fictional stories even as an adult. No one would accept me—the real me—if I ever spoke my truths. I’d get eaten alive by the Islamic communities and the online ones, too. For sure, I thought that no one wanted to hear anything other than what famous blogger I met in New York or what I wore that day or what lipstick I was wearing. They couldn’t possibly want to hear the ugly truths about my life. Why would they want my stories to taint the beautiful aesthetics of social media?

Location: Assemble Sound (Detroit)

For years, I posted what I thought people wanted to see. They liked my fashion. Not me as a real-life person. A human being who struggled with her husband or mental illness or eating disorders. A person who struggled with a Muslim identity, a Black identity in a Eurocentric-crazed society.

One time, I posted something about body insecurities. I didn’t go into full detail or anything. I just gave Instagram a snippet into an ongoing problem in my life. Women began commenting about their own body issues, just openly sharing their stories and praising me for being honest. My inbox was flooded with more stories about the hardships of being a fat woman and how my photos gave them hope.

Even then, that wasn’t enough to get me to completely come out of my shell. I was still very much so a ‘style blogger’ who kinda-sorta talked about body stuff.

I get asked a lot how am I so comfortably transparent about my life, on the internet and in person. Especially with the rise of hardcore trolling and judgmental-ness of peers. And the fact that I am in a fat, Black Muslim body that is constantly policed more so than my counterparts. I can’t tell you how I started to become more transparent on the ‘Gram’, but I know for a fact it was in small doses at first. I didn’t just jump out there like HEY! THIS IS ME!

No. No. No. Rome wasn’t built in a day, y’all. Nor is self-discovery and acceptance.

Dress: Fashion to Figure

But, on some real shit, the tipping point for me was the divorce. I most definitely 100% used the marriage as an excuse to ‘not say certain things’ that could embarrass him or the façade of perfection that he tried so hard to attain.

I felt like half a person when I wrote or shared things. Always keeping him in the back of my head. Is this appropriate? Would he be mad? Is this Islamically pleasing for me to say or post?

Transparency was a no-no. And it hurt me greatly. To be an artist is to be comfortable and transparent with your work. I was too busy trying to please others and forgot about pleasing myself. I played it safe and suffered for it.

To be transparent about my life, raw with you, the reader, the watcher is therapeutic for me as a writer. To be able to openly live in my truth is so much more rewarding than hiding my oddness. To be able to connect with a person half way across the world from a story, a photo is amazing.

Of course, I got a lot of backlash from my decision to go word-rogue and I have trolls on the daily who harass me. But, the people who I’ve touched and who have touched me through my journey is far greater than any negative thing someone says about me or my spirituality or my body.  

I challenge you to live in your truth and be a little more transparent each day. You never know who will be touched by your truths.  

xoxo,

Leah V  

Leah V on Feminism and the City of Detroit

The Neighborhoods Detroit is highlighting Detroiters in 60 seconds in a new video series:The Reason Why.

Leah V. (IG: @lvernon2000) is a body positive activist, model and founder of Beauty and the Muse, a blog she created to spread style and self-love to underrepresented groups and provide representation of real beauty in the media.

My Photos Tell A Story

Usually, I have these long, drawn out blog posts about identity or weight or the usual struggle. We are nearing the end of 2017, gearing up for the new year. A fresh start as I like to call it. But, for right now, I’d like for you to enjoy this photoset as I have enjoyed creating it with my #BlackGirlMagic team.

ELOQII allowed me to choose two items. I searched high and low until I stumbled upon this one. I’ve always been a fan of the vintage glam look. The kind of look that you’d imagine in the Great Gatsby. Which is my fave, by the way. Of course, women who look like me weren’t the pillars of those stylish times. They were usually white, thin and most likely, weren’t Muslim.

Dress: ELOQUII

I like to take concepts and make them my own. Make them modern. I want them to tell a story. What does each photo say to you?

The day of shooting, I was very tired and had just started my period. Score! I had wanted to buy a pair of shoes to match the outfit better, but hadn’t had the money, so I found the ones I’m wearing at the bottom of my shoe bin from two years ago and made it work.

I told my makeup artist, Madinah, that I wanted makeup with red and blue hues.

Makeup: Madinah Muhammad

We picked up Tiarra, the photographer, then drove all the way to Ann Arbor to Graffiti Alley.

Ann Arbor is a suburban city with lots of white folk. I was a Muslim gal wearing an award show dress and face beat to the gawds. As, we made our way to the location I got lots and lots of stares. I wanted to ask, “Have none of you ever seen a celeb in real life before?” Instead I sashayed down the sidewalk. LOL.

When on set, it takes me a moment to get into the ‘modeling’ zone. The first photos are usually trash because I am trying to get a feel for the ensemble, the photographer, and the mood.

Model: Kostya Dombr

What helps is taking on a character. Any character that fits what I want to portray. For this golden dress, I imagined myself as a confident yet sassy ‘Roaring 20’s’ speakeasy owner. The kind that smoked cigarettes from fancy, bedazzled holders and wore feather boas on Friday nights. She probably knew how to use a shotgun. She was feminine yet strong and hadn’t taken no shit.

After we took photos with the graffiti, we went back towards the car. We stumbled upon an old-style looking theatre. My friend said, “OMG. You gotta take some photos here.”

We took some more amazing shots at Michigan Theatre.  

Then my friend, pointed through the glass door. “Yo, we need to get that guy inside to take a photo with you.”

“Go ask,” I said. “That’d be dope to have a male model.”

Minutes later, my friend emerged with Kostya, who did an amazing job.

Location: Michigan Theatre

When I model, it’s all about expression and going with the flow. I love how I can just be. I feel most confident in front of the camera, creating these amazing images that will forever be floating around and inspiring others to continue to create visual masterpieces. Create content, written, painted, drawn, or digital.

Just keep creating.  

xoxo,

Leah V

Stop Policing a Woman's Body

In the array of crazy yet insightful conversations my girls and I have, the one that arises most, across the board, is how much women’s bodies are policed. Policed on every damn level from the opposite sex, the same sex, the media, and, of course, family. And recently, the government.  

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When my Muslim mother started to notice that I was ‘filling in’, she no longer allowed me to pick out my own clothes. She tried to be clever and gave me two or three choices to choose from the department store then she’d proceed to purchase the largest size they had, which resulted in my entire body being swallowed in a sea of fold and flaps. Most of the time, I looked like I rocked a fitted bed sheet. It was humiliating once I saw what the other kids were wearing. Self-esteem plummeted.

And, I’m not saying that she should’ve allowed me to wear booty shorts and itty-bitty tees so I could fit in but bed sheets aren’t cool! I also got that we were Muslim and Muslim women in puberty were supposed to dress modestly and cover their hair, but shouldn’t it have been a choice? My choice? Wouldn’t it make more sense to explain the reasoning behind covering and then give the option? Yeah, I was a dumb thirteen-year-old, but I felt as though she’d already made up her mind that I was going to dress modestly because she said so. Which is fine, but kids are oh-so-clever and during adolescence, we figure out ways to do what the hell we want to do anyway.

Photos Courtesy of Remus Roman Photography 

And boy, was I clever. Oh, Mom won’t let me wear those tight jeans with the rips in the knee, then I’ll take my allowance, pretend to ride my bike to the convenience store, but really take a detour to the strip mall, and buy those jeans anyway, stuff them in my backpack, sneak them upstairs, and plot another way on how I could wear them to the mall with my friend.

Same thing with the hijab. It wasn’t optional growing up in my household. Initially, I wanted to wear it. Mom wore it and all her friends wore it. Their kids wore it. To me, it was a sign of beauty and ultimate Muslim-ness.

One day, Mom had taken me to get my hair braided and beaded. OMG. I was sooooo ecstatic and it was a change from my usual two cornrows. The beads were small and multicolored. When I walked or shook my head they’d clink together. I was fancy. I couldn’t wait to show the girls in the neighborhood my new do. Mom paid the stylist then at the door handed me my scarf.

My eyes widened. I had to put that, the hijab, over my new hairstyle? I had to cover up the multicolored beads? No one would see it? I slowly took the scarf from her and tied it around my head. My shoulders slumped as I followed her to the minivan.

At that moment, I didn’t want to wear it anymore. But I was young, I hadn’t had a choice.

Turban: Flossy's Suitcase

I have really large hips. It’s hell to find pants that fit. I remember it like it was yesterday, it was our Islamic holiday, Eid, about five years ago. I always wore dresses to the prayer and festivities, but that year, I wanted to try something different. I was going to rock a pant and blazer. I had found the shirt and satin blazer the week before and had tried desperately to find the perfect pair of slacks that were loose. I’d gone to at least seven stores. Eid was the next morning, and I was mad tired, so I had to settle on a pair of slacks that were fitted. I knew that my husband at the time would be a little annoyed, but the under shirt I had covered a bit of my hips. I could get away with it. Or so I thought…

I stepped into the mosque, feeling good and looking great. All the sisters stopped me and looked me up and down. “What a fashionista!” they exclaimed and showered me with kisses and hugs. We took selfies and tons of group photos. I actually mastered the smoky eye look and it turned out amazing. It was a happy occasion. Until I saw him standing with his family. I made my way across the room and tried to hug him. He didn’t hug me back. “What’s wrong?”  

“Why are you wearing pants?” he asked.  

I scoffed. “What? I can’t wear pants now?”

“They’re tight.”

“My shirt is long,” I replied.

“Everyone can see your shape. Do you see all these men here looking at you, my wife?”

I grabbed his arm. “No one is looking at me.”

He snatched his arm away and left me standing there. I grinned nervously as his sisters frowned judgingly at me from their table.

Later on, I tried to make things better but then he blew up. “Who comes out the house looking like that?” he yelled, darts of spit flying into my face. “You couldn’t have put on an abaya? You embarrassed me.”

I sunk farther down into the seat, crying. “I just wanted to wear a pantsuit this time.”

“They don’t sell looser pants!?!”

“Do you have to scream?” I sat up. “And no, I went to so many stores, and this was what could fit.”

The next Eid, I had learned my lesson. I used my own money to get a dress made. Since, I had embarrassed him so bad and he made me feel like I had just walked in front of his family and the entire mosque in a bikini. The dress was long sleeved, fitted yet flowy at the top with a full swing skirt at the bottom. It was a little big in the waist, so I had the seamstress make me a matching belt.  

Once again, I walked into the mosque, greeted by the sisters who swooned over my custom-made dress. My husband was on his phone, leaned against the wall. I snuck up behind him. He looked up and grinned. I twirled then posed. “How do you like my dress?”

He looked me up and down once more, then said. “It’s too tight in the waist, and I can still see your shape.”

My body has been policed by my mother trying to hide my body from men, my ex who tried to disguise my shapely bottom half, women who think I should show more and stop being controlled by my religion, Muslims who tell me that my clothes are too tight and not fitting of a ‘hijabi’, by fat-shamers who tell me that I should not wear anything fashionable because fatties should be hidden in a tower or under a bridge, and the government which tells me that religious or cultural head coverings are oppressive. I can’t walk around nude because I’m asking for rape. I can’t breastfeed my child when he’s hungry because society has sexualized boobies and not what they are actually created for, to feed hungry babies without being publicly shamed. I can’t wear a burkini because it’s making semi-nude people on the beach ‘uncomfortable’. I can’t wear hijab in the workplace because somehow, wearing a piece of fabric on my head ultimately makes me apart of a terrorist group, makes my co-workers distrust me, makes me do my job less.  

I’m here to tell you that we are not dolls to be dressed up. We are not objects despite what the hell everyone else says, what their feelings or opinions are. Muslim, Atheist, or Christian. Our bodies do not belong to our husbands, the government, or workplace cultures. They belong to US. You. Fully and solely. If we want to wear nipple pasties and a thong to the beach or cover in full traditional Islamic-wear it is OUR choice.