Why Eating In Public Has Empowered Me

A woman put pig emojis under my exercise video last week. Another person commented: “I didn’t know land whales exercised.”

I find these two comments ironic. Don’t most people who care about how heavy fat people are encourage them to go to the gym? Don’t they encourage them to get active? And, then—and only then—can they live a fit and free and thin life. I was exercising for health, and still I was body shamed. Guess large people can’t do anything right. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

So, if this is the case, then why do we try so hard to fit that mold of the “good fatty”? The “agreeable fatty”. The fatty who is always trying to show others that they are indeed trying their hardest to be smaller. Shrink themselves into an oblivion. Accept Susan’s excruciating diet plan once and for all.  

Seems like people who are deemed the outliers—body wise, ability wise, color wise—are always being made to feel like they could always do more to “fit in”. And, if they aren’t striving to fit the status quo then they should be made to feel shamed at every waking moment.

Hat: Amazon

No.

Nope.

A revolution has begun. Where the shame has been shed like the emergence of a fat ass, bomb ass butterfly. I made a decision to stop carrying other people’s shame on my back, on my chest. I stopped cradling it like it was my newborn baby who needed to be nurtured. I plucked that shame bare, chopped it up, seasoned it, dropped that bitch in some batter and fried it.

I’m not carrying the shame others feel about my body being big and not having a thigh gap or not being able to squeeze my fat into designer fits.

This is me. Like it or not. But shame is something I will no longer carry.

With that said, I’ve found power in eating publicly. And, not just eating healthy in public, diet coke and a nice cut of salmon with greens but eating anything in public: pizza, cake, ice cream, a bucket of chicken. Whatever.

Pants: Rebdolls

I hadn’t always been able to do that. I remember going out to eat with my thinner friends and sitting as tall as I could and making it a habit to suck my stomach in. As they ordered burgers and fries, I’d sit there starving, slowly and deliberately sipping on a diet coke with light ice. Proclaiming to the foodie universe that I was not hungry. I was not hungry. Not hungry. At all. Hunger is a mindset. A mindset that you could rewire.

I’ll never forget this thin white woman giving me unsolicited diet advice on Facebook: “The longer you just sit with your hunger, the faster it’ll just go away. Like you won’t even be hungry anymore if you just let those hunger pangs past.”

Sounds like an eating disorder to me. But, what do I know? *Hunches shoulders*

And, she’s passing it on down, spreading it just like other nasty habits that are unhealthy and degrading and problematic.

Top: F21

I’ve been told to eat salads instead. To not go back for seconds. To cut out sugar and cut out dairy and cut out air. LOL. I’ve been told that fat people eating makes them want to vomit. That it’s unattractive. Unappealing. Been called pigs and cows and pig-cows and fat bitches.

So, what do I do? I create a high-fashion spread…including food. McDonalds to be exact. Even though McDonald’s is eh. Fat people have been associated with this particular fast food restaurant for decades. I dive head first into any and all stigmas in order to challenge the way our minds are set up.

Some big people eat unhealthily. While others eat healthy. Some of us are in-betweenies and eat very balanced. Some thin people eat unhealthily and remain thin. Some eat healthy. Some are in-betweenies. Gasps. Just like big people! Everyone deserves to be able to nourish their bodies how they see fit. Without the shame of other’s gazes. Without having to become closet eaters. Without having to starve and wait till they get home. Without developing eating disorders.

Purse: F21

If you feel disgusted by someone eating, then turn your face in the opposite direction. If you feel the need to degrade someone who is eating, then pinch your lips together and mind your own business. If you feel the need to spew unsolicited diet advice, then don’t.

Worry about your health and your lifestyle and your 9-5. Okurrrrrr. *Tongue pop*

That is all.

Xoxo,

Leah V

Fat, Black, and Carefree: NYC Video Project

The first time I went to NYC was in 2013. I had just started blogging and planned to crash New York Fashion Week. My ex, at the time, worked for an airline. So the flight was free. I packed peanut butter crackers and waters on my carry-on bag. I had about 10$ to spend on food. The crackers and water was my breakfast. 

I slept in a hostel, on the top bunk, in a room filled with drifters. Each night stay was 19$. I clutched my belongings to my chest as I slept.

But, I was in New York though, and I was humbly building my brand. 

The next time I visited. I was still broke. But, this time, I had met someone who offered me lodging. After the fashion show, I went to her place only to find out that her home was infested with roaches. With no money, I found a clean spot on the couch upstairs and hoped for the best. 

Five years later, I was flown to New York. I had shoots set up. Meetings with brands. And video collaborations. I was being paid. No uncomfortable bunk beds or roaches or water and crackers. 

For some reason social media has made life look easy. They’ve caused people to see the accomplishments without the struggle. You can question where I’ve come from or how I’ve gotten to where I am, but you cannot deny that I’ve put the work in. 

At the end of the day, like my friend, Madinah says: You will NOT outwork me! 

Here’s a video, proof of a fat, Black, and very Muslim Girl from Detroit against all odds in New York making a fashion video on her terms. Just as unapologetic and carefree🤸🏾‍♀️

Share your struggle and tell me where you are now? Let’s chat. 

Video: @mister_eman 

Dress: @eloquii 

Location: New York

I Was Called a Whore Because of This Photo

All day, I’ve been blocking Muslims on Instagram. Men, women, and children. Most of them from the Middle-East.

Why? Because a modest instablog, Modestroute, that showcases Muslim women around the world decided to repost one of my photos.

In the photo, I am fully clothed. I have on all black. A faux leather jacket because I’m poor. A shirt and a pair of jeans. I also have on hijab and black lipstick. My fist is balled and in the air and my eyes are closed. I originally posted the photo back in the summer to bring awareness to racial and social injustice. It’s a dope photo. I got like fifteen mosquito bites from standing in the tall grass that day during the shoot.

Instead of people liking the photo or just scrolling past my Black face and my fat body, they went into attack mode. Swarming not only the photo on Modestroute’s page but on my personal page. “This is haram,” a Muslim man posted.

“Sorry, but how is this modest?” another user asked.

“She’s gorgeous, but she can cover up more,” said a Muslim girl who hadn’t worn hijab in her profile photo.

“Muslim??? Feminist??? Make up??? Wallahi end of times is NEAR!!!” one person exclaimed.

One user argued, “Her clothes are more modest than many other Muslim girls out there. Trust me.”

“She doesn’t represent Muslims,” a girl said. If I hadn’t represented a real Muslim woman then who was I at all?  

On my personal page, the jabs were worse. Users sought out photos and trolled in the comment sections. They said: I should cover my body for the sake of Allah (swt), what I wore wasn’t proper hijab, I was even called a whore and shaitan (devil), and that I couldn’t possibly be Muslim. The last comment hurt most of all. That my Islam was so deeply rooted by what I chose to wear…or not wear.

I blocked so many folks that I lost count.

I’ve written about this before, but I am so very tired of having to validate my Islam. I’m tired of the ‘are you Muslim’ question when clearly ‘Muslim Feminist’ is stated in my bio. I’m tired of Arab-speaking Muslims treating me as if I don’t know the rules of Islam because I’m Black, asking me if I celebrate Ramadan or if I know the Al-Fatiha by heart. Clapping like I’m some kind of circus monkey when I reply yes. Why isn’t just me saying that I’m Muslim enough? When did we move into an era where we have to prove our closeness with Allah (swt) or spirituality? And, why do some Muslims feel the need to be super-Muslim and correct every wrong and cross every T? I feel like we are in a time where everyone is an internet mufti accredited by Sheik Google.

Guess what? I know the rules of proper hijab as stated in the holy book, but I choose not to do it. I choose to wear tight jeans and leggings and turbans and lipstick and nail polish. That’s what I choose to do. And that is my ultimate choice how outwardly Muslim I’d like to look. That choice doesn’t make me any less of a Muslim. I’m sorry to burst your Islamic bubble. I don’t go around harassing Muslims who choose to wear abayas or niqab just because I don’t wear it. Nor do I judge them solely based on what they wear or how they wear it. Newsflash: there are bad Muslims who wear modest clothing. There are bad Muslims who have full beards. There are bad Muslims all around the world. Just like there are bad people all around the world.

When we get down to the root of Islam, there is a way to guide a Muslim to the straight path or correct a wrong. Bashing someone on the internet is far, far away from it. You are not helping me dress more modestly. You are not helping me strengthen my spirituality or faith. You are harming yourself, because who knows, you may end up dealing with a similar situation.

We are so worried about appearances of Muslim women and girls that we forget what Islam is all about. The outer appearance is only a small portion of our belief system. Islam encompasses all levels of spirituality from low to high, and we all struggle with different trials. I may struggle with dress and another may struggle with speech and another with greed.  

Should we all just start calling each other haram? Should we all begin trolling one another? Maybe we should check our intentions and understand that there is much more to a Muslim than his/her way of dress.

XOXO,

Leah V 

When I Finally Noticed that My Uniqueness was an Asset

I was an odd child. Of course, going through an identity crisis of how white I could act or how much percentage of black I was. In between that I was Muslim. During those times, who knew what that was supposed to mean…

I was heavy into makeup way before the makeup boom we see now was ‘in’. When I tell you no one I knew wore it, like no one wore it. You might have seen an occasional girl wearing a light wing line or some clear lip gloss, but nothing heavy. That wasn’t ‘in’. I wore foundation that was clearly too light for my caramel complexion and glitter on my cheeks like a mermaid. People thought I was weird. And, I was.

At that time, there wasn’t any dark eyeshadow palettes. I was a creative kid and had a dark lipstick palette. I was feeling mischievous so I dug my finger into the mixture and smeared it on my lids then on my lips. I was this deep, dark seductress. I think I might have been fourteen.

Mom called my name from the bottom of the stairs. I slowly crept into the light. She gasped. “Amerra, what is that on your face?”

“Makeup,” I said with my arms crossed.

Mom didn’t like the makeup I wore. She didn’t like that kind of expression. She just didn’t get it.   

Makeup: Janet Doman

I wore black nail polish and lace gloves. I wore miniskirts over my jeans and heavy eyeliner. I was heavily insecure, but you’d never know. The kind of girl that’d cuss out your grandmother. I was driven and educated. Obnoxious and funny.

For those who didn’t know me, my style stood out. Many Muslims didn’t agree with it. I was deemed a ‘hoe’ because of the way I dressed; when in reality, I was much less of a hoe than their fully covered daughters…but that’s another story completely.             

I don’t care what anybody says, the world has been stacked against me and my unparalleled uniqueness. This world, this society, the way it thinks and moves wasn’t built for people like me. And we already know why. We see it every day on the cover of magazines and plastered on billboards.

I’ve never fit into any specific categories of Muslim-ness. Of beauty. Of education. Of Black-ness. And, I don’t plan on it anytime soon.

For so long, I’ve taken my complexities and thought of them as hindrances.

I was tired. Angry. Mentally ill. People were tired of me and I tired of them.

I needed a change. And, in order to change, I had to rewire my entire mindset.

Instead of viewing my intersections as negatively as how others viewed them, I decided to try a different approach. What if I could embrace those differences? Create a path containing my truths instead of someone else’s version of what I should be?

Why is this world so obsessed with making people fall in line? Why aren’t we groomed to think outside the box and embrace differences? Well, for one, it’s easier to control individuals who don’t have their own opinions. Secondly, it’s easier to sell people things who constantly follow trends and feel the need to keep up with the “now”.   

It’s so important to always, always embrace your differences, those quirks and idiosyncrasies. They make you original, one of a kind. You’ll have people trying to change your outlook. Change the way you dress and how you speak and how you view the world from your lens. Don’t let them.

Location: Paris, France 

People were uncomfortable with my differences then and certainly are uncomfortable now. I’ve chosen to take that core value of expression and exploit it. Scream it at the rooftops. Wear it as a badge. But being your true self doesn’t come without it’s downsides. I get attacked with every new feature that sprouts. I get called ‘fat’, ‘disgusting’, ‘gross’, ‘not Muslim’, among other harsh choice words and phrases.      

What these trolls fail to understand is that I’ve been through a hell of a lot of shit in my life. The absence of parents. Friends that allowed jealousy to rip apart our relationships. Doors slammed in my face. Bill collectors on my line. A failed marriage. I’ve already been through hell and back. I’ve been through decades of self-doubt and loathing and hatred. I’m at a place where I can finally be secure with myself and a stupid comment from a faceless nut job from behind a computer screen won’t catapult me back to that insecure girl.

So, to all my weirdos, black girls who listen to 80’s rock, artists, unmarried Muslim girls being pestered by their families, trans, fatties, and dark-skinned individuals who are constantly teased, do not try to fit into a mold, allow your uniqueness to always carry you because the very people who are ‘making fun’ of you for these intersections want to secretly be you…    

xoxo,

Leah V         

Muslim Girl Dance #BodyProject

In the spring, I had this wild idea to make a solo dance video, including the elements of spoken word, model walking, and a bit of voguing. As usual, the creative budget was zero dollars. LOL. But, I believed that a fat girl dancing. A Muslim girl dancing in the streets of Detroit would make for a powerful statement, a conversation on what an American Muslim looks like? What a modern-day fat girl looks like? An overly educated black girl? I knew that if I decided to do it, that I might get backlash from the opposing side, too. 

"Why is that Muslim girl dancing?!? She shouldn't be doing that. It's not Islamic!"

"She's so fat, why is she embarrassing herself?" 

I put all that aside (cuz I'm grown) and danced my heart out, on and off, for about an hour in almost 90 degree weather to get these shots with my awesome and supportive team. 

For me, dancing is about expression. It's about self-awareness. It's about letting go. 

This video is an unveiling. Shedding the old skins of my past and just living in my truths. Living in the NOW.  

It's scary. Raw. Cinematic. Bad-ass. Feminist af. 

Yeah, I'm fat, Black, and very Muslim. 

Do I make you uncomfortable? 

Dancer: @Lvernon2000 
Videography: @ReelCleverFilms 
MUA: @Makeup_by_Madinah 
Music: Comer Dorris
Location: Detroit, MI

Visibility in Islam

I use this world a lot. Visibility. Then I always add ‘proper representation’ to that. Not only do I want to be visible but I want to be properly represented in the world I live in.

“Leah V. you’re always complaining,” a troll on Instagram said underneath a photo. “So, I’m unfollowing you.”

And, sweetheart, you’re not complaining enough, which is why we are in a fucked situation right now.

See, here’s the thing. I might not be on the front lines. I may not hold a huge sign over my head that denounces Number 45. I don’t speak at pep rallies or organize sit-ins, but that doesn’t take away my voice. And, it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m any less of an ally than my counterparts. We all want the same thing, but we travel along different routes to make that happen.

Many of you know how it feels to walk into your favorite store. In the window is a huge advertisement. There are several statuesque models with wavy hair and white skin wearing the store’s new skinny jean. As you go farther in, there are more advertisements of beautiful models who look nothing like you. You will never be tall. Never be thin. Or white.

Go into your local Barnes & Noble. Scan through the magazine section. Tell me how many white or ambiguous looking thin people are on the covers. Tell me how many dark-skin Latinas or Asians are on the covers. Muslims? Fat people? People with disabilities?

And, the newest craze is showcasing, and sometimes even exploiting, Muslim women. We Rise PopSugar just made a video showcasing modest Muslim women in fashion. In the 3-minute video, there was not ONE Black Muslim woman. Not ONE Latina Muslim. Not ONE Indian woman. All the women showcased were straight-sized European hijabis and white-looking Middle-Easterners.

We Rise PopSugar isn’t the only magazine, website, and media outlet to ‘white-wash’ Muslim women.

I live in Detroit. Not too far from Dearborn. 1/3 of the Muslim population in Michigan are African-American. But when media outlets come to the city, they miraculously only find ‘acceptable’ Muslims to interview and highlight. We are buried and hidden once again.

Just like in White AmeriKKKa.

We can’t find acceptance in our homeland, but now we can’t find it in Islam either?     

xoxo,

Leah V

Are You Even Muslim?

“Are you even Muslim?”

I hate when people ask me that. It pisses me off. They have no idea what it took, what I’ve been through to stand where I’m standing now in my Islam. My spirituality.

But, I know exactly why they’re asking. Because a black face with a traditionally wrapped hijab couldn’t possibly be Muslim. Because a girl wears leggings, couldn’t possibly be Muslim. Because she might have some tats on her arm, couldn’t possibly be Muslim. In order to be accepted as a visible Muslimah, I have to be of Middle-Eastern descent, wear an abaya, and speak Arabic.   

If you don’t fit into that mold then no one knows who you are or what you’re doing in the mosque. Stop trying and go to some other religion and hope that they accept you.

“So, you became Muslim when your Mom converted over, is that why you’ve stayed in Islam?”

Yes, I converted over when I was six or seven years old because of my mother, but as an adult that’s not why I’ve chosen to stay.

Close-ended comments/questions like these irk me because why isn’t my spirituality enough? Why do people feel the need to attach things to unrelated things or dismiss what I’m saying because they want to cram me into some square?  

To become a Muslim, convert to Islam, you only need to take shahada (profession of faith):

“Ashadu an la ilaha illa illa-ilah, wa ashadu anna muhammadan rasul ullah.”

The meaning is: "I testify that there is no god but God (Allah), and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God (Allah).

Of course, we have the pillars and other rules to being a good and ‘practicing’ Muslim. But to simply put it, this is the only thing you have to say and believe in order to be classified as a Muslim.

If in Allah’s eyes it’s so easy to be a Muslim, then why do human beings have such a hard time being convinced that I’m Muslim?

The media, other Muslims, etc, loves focusing on certain kinds of Muslims. Acceptable Muslimahs, I like to call them. They like to showcase the ‘oppressed Muslim’. The Middle-Eastern Muslim girl who is forced into an arranged marriage, isn’t allowed to drive, and covers in all-black with gloves. They show us the ‘good’ and wholesome Hijabi blogger. She’s usually a size small, wears pastels, has about a million followers, can pass for white but is usually Middle-Eastern, her photos are perfect, her pregnancy is perfect, and her husband makes fashionable cameos on her feed. Lately, the ‘activist’ Muslim has been trending. How do they look, you ask? Usually draped in an abaya or loose-fitting clothes and always with hijab. They can be found making salat on the grass at a rally for Trump’s latest Muslim ban. And, let’s not forget, they also are a fair-skinned Middle-Eastern type.

What about us “In-betweenie” Muslims?

Don’t we exist? The ones who don’t wear hijab but still dress modestly. The one who dates but doesn’t drink? The one who smokes weed but gives charity. The one who doesn’t make salat but never misses a Jumah prayer. The one who only observes the obligations of Islam during Ramadan.

What about the Black Muslim. The African Muslim. The Dark-Skinned Middle-Eastern Muslim. Asian. White. European. Hispanic. Indian.

Do we not exist in the Islamic world?

Do we not belong?

I used to be one of those Muslim girls who pretended to be super Muslim. I did it in order to appease people. I wasn’t doing it for Allah and I definitely wasn’t doing it for myself. I changed the way I dressed, pretended that I prayed five times a day or knew certain surahs. I’d say ‘inshallah’ after every sentence, wrapped my scarf the “correct” way, and even ate halal.

I was two different people.

What was interesting was that the Muslim women who were covered and praying and being as Muslim as can be had another side to them that I couldn’t quite understand. They were bitter, judgmental, and very close-minded.

As calamities started to happen and my façade began to slip away, my iman (faith) was at an all-time low. But for one thing, I knew in my heart that I still believed and wanted to be Muslim. That wasn’t enough for the community though. So instead of lifting me, I became the center of their negativity. I was called a kafir (derogatory term for an unbeliever), a hoe, and a slut. I was called fake, un-Islamic, and a bitch. Those are just a few of the names.

At that point, I was done. I stopped going to the mosque. I didn’t trust Muslims at all. I cut all ties. And, I was on the brink of actually detaching from the religion. My plan was that I could still believe in Allah (swt) but not ascribe to Islam. In my head, I wasn’t Muslim enough for my ex. Not Muslim enough for the Black Muslim community or the Arab one. I tried and got shunned. So, I was just finished.

“My sister is having a halaqa tonight,” my friend said. “You should come.”

I was going through the divorce and I hadn’t wanted to be around any judgmental Muslims. “I’m straight,” I told her.

“It’s gonna be free food there.”

I sighed. I was pretty hungry and my funds were low. “Fine!”  

I came super late. My plan was to swoop in, get a plate, then slip away.

When my friend saw my face, she said, “Glad you can make it.” I’d been spotted.  

I rolled my eyes.

The sisters were pleasant. They gave me greetings and kisses on my cheek. Wasn’t so bad, I thought. I sat on the couch and her sister turned on a lecture about being Muslim. It was a short but hard-hitting lecture. Afterwards, the sister talked about community and uplifting each other. She asked if anyone had any questions. There was a silence. A lump formed in my throat as I clutched my plate, trying to hold back tears.

“My ex called me a kafir, so I don’t think I can be Muslim anymore. I just can’t do anything right,” I told the group. “I can’t dress like a Muslim. I can’t eat like one. I can’t pray like one. And, if I can’t be a good Muslim then I can’t be one at all.”

The sister grimaced. “That’s not how this works. You ARE a Muslim. You are NOT a kafir and how dare he say that you. A Muslim should NEVER, ever say that to another Muslim. When you take shahada, you are a Muslim, dear. I don’t care what you do or have done or will do in the future. Every day we are given on earth is a day to get closer to Allah (swt). Everyone, I mean everyone, even the Muslims who appear to have it all together have their weaknesses—whether they show it or not. But, don’t ever believe that. You are Muslim.”

That was last year.

I’ve said it before, I’m not the poster child for Islam. I’m one of the many, many Muslims on this planet just trying to make it somewhere on this earth and in the hereafter. I have lots of work to do. And, I’m okay with that.  

So, when I am hit with the question: are you even Muslim?  

I say: I am. Proudly.

xoxo

Leah V. 

Battling Inner Demons

I wrote this on May 23rd on my Instagram account: He told me when we decided to get divorced that I couldn't take care of myself. That I'd see how hard it was without him. At first, I thought I could do it by myself. But recently, I've started to believe it. Believe him.

I don't make any money blogging, despite what my feed showcases. Oh, how betraying the internet can be. Fake it till you make it, right? I'm a struggling artist. Have been for a while now. Waiting for my big break like the rest of them. Trying to maintain an indie blog talking about real shit like social justice and feminism isn't what businesses want. They want the fake Instagram bloggers. Which is fine. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it.

What really irked me today was that I have about one month's worth of savings left and have been searching for jobs for the last two months. I have two masters, but I'm still unemployed. On the verge of partial homelessness, I sat in the car and thought about life real hard. How the fuck am I divorced, jobless, and highly educated at 30 🤔 Tears filled me eyes and I thought back to my ex: You can't take care of yourself without me... You know how life just beats your ass and your left stunned? That's me right now. Wondering what's next. How my story ends. Begins. I wish someone had the answers for me. Just tell me what to do. Ya know? Do y'all feel me though?

Henna Designs by Noor

At this point, I was fed up with life. I was cooked and overdone. I wanted people to stop looking at me like some kind of special person and see me for who I really was. An overly educated black girl with no parents, divorced, and no job. A fat girl with mental illness. Someone who floated around with no direction. Yup, that was me. Is me. Still me right now.  

I was sitting in the car on that sunny day, looking at my depleting bank account. Checking my emails to see if any of the 100-plus low-grade jobs that I was clearly overqualified for had sent me a message back. Nothin’. I’d had one interview a few weeks ago, but that was unsure. She was still ‘fleshing out the details of the position’. Unfortunately, my bills or rent hadn’t cared about the details. They needed to be paid. My uninsured body hadn’t cared about the details. It needed annual checkups now. My hopes and dreams hadn’t cared the fuck about the details. They needed nourishment and funding now!

As I always do, I lost my marbles. The strain of not having a family to support, help with anything weighed on me like a slab of marble. The embarrassment of having to apply for food stamps, walking into the unemployment office for ‘job assistance’, and making an appointment with a volunteer healthcare agency weighed heavily on my chest, my ribs as to where I couldn’t breathe. 

Then I remembered what my ex told me as we were getting a divorce: you can’t take care of yourself without me. You’ll see how hard it is out there.

Was he right? Had I been to overly-confident about my abilities to maintain a job and pay my own bills? I mean, to the naked eye, it seems as though I have it all. Seems as though I have the ability to take over the world. My face is beat and my outfits are amazing. I have a following. People love me. I’m the fat, black girl who’s supposed to change the fashion game. It doesn’t appear that I’m on the brink of not being able to pay my rent, or put gas in my car or food in my stomach.

The internet isn’t real. It has real moments, but it isn’t real.

I’m struggling to stay afloat. That’s the truth. I have one month’s worth of savings left. That’s the truth. I have no plan of how I’m going to do any of this. Truth. Two credit cards. Almost maxed out. TRUTH.

I’m ashamed to admit that. To say it out of my mouth. I have two fuckin’ master’s degrees and some work experience, yet I’m treated in the work world like I only have a 9th grade education. 

Same day while drinking a slushee, I burst out crying in the front of my friend’s house. In the car. Alone. I hate when people see me cry. I know. I’m weird.

As a black woman, we pride ourselves in maintaining this strong persona. We can’t let them see us weak. We can’t ask for help. Don’t let them see you down.

As a writer, I pride myself in being transparent. It’s how I built the foundation that I do have. I like sharing intimate moments with people. Especially people who get it. People who want real and appreciate that life isn’t snapshots of Instagram posts, but broken-down cars, and fucbois, and weight-gain, and bad ass kids.

Ain’t nobody perfect. Whether their profile says it or not. I don’t care how many filters they place on their selfies.

After, I posted my cry for help, people started to reach out in droves. I crocodile cried again. Y’all know that ugly ass frog-face cry? Yep, that was me.

My inbox blew up with people wanting me to know to not listen to my ex or my inner demon. People that were Muslim talked about patience. People who weren’t Muslim talked about hope and faith. A few individuals even asked for my PayPal info. I told them to hold off a few weeks (cuz ya never know, maybe a job or two would call me back). A few didn’t care and sent money anyway. *Inserts Frog-Face Tears*

I was so overwhelmed by the love. The hundreds of comments and likes. Strangers from different states offering to speak with the HR at their jobs and that they’d even put me up in a room if need be. It’s more than I’ve even gotten from my own blood relatives that see me struggle every day. Women shared similar ‘struggle-bus’ stories of when they got divorced, had their dignity stripped, and was now starting over. From scratch.

My heart swelled. And if you know me, I’m not an emotional person. Well, I try not to show it. But these strangers, these followers rejuvenated me at a time that I needed upliftment, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. They say that I was the one who gave them life on a daily basis. I believe it’s the other way around.

It’s Ramadan. It’s the first day. I’m writing this with a hunger migraine. I’m cranky. And my day has been filled with filling out job apps and researching crowdfunding sites so that I can continue to write, be an artist, I guess.

One thing I learned today was to be humble, be grateful for the things you have, and never lose hope. Who knows what tomorrow will bring for me? Maybe I won’t be broke for long. It’s up to me to have hope and keep grinding and be better in this life and for the sake of the hereafter.

Xoxo,

Leah V.   

Do You Wish You Weren’t Fat?

As a fashion influencer, I get this question all the time. Especially from straight size individuals. Do you wish you weren’t fat? I know that a lot more people want to ask, it’s on the tip of their tongues, but because they don’t want to offend me they just keep it buried with all the other questions.

“Let’s say in a perfect world you could choose your body. No strings attached. Would you still choose to be fat?” a close friend asked.

The topic was on fat activism and body positivity.

Each time, I pause and think about the pros and cons. Because the westernized part of my mind goes straight to ‘thin is better’ or ‘thin is beauty’ without even hearing any other options. Our minds have been conditioned to immediately associate beauty with fair skin, slim noses, and flat tummies. Thick hair, full lips, long legs. But as I dig further into my own ideologies of the true meaning of beauty through my lens is when the answer starts to reveal itself.

It’d be amaaaazing to walk into a store and they have all of your sizes available in the front and not buried away in the back near the restrooms. It’d be amazing to have more than two or three racks of shapeless clothing (H&M…) to choose from. It’d be cool when you date a guy that he wouldn’t assume that you’re easy with low self-esteem because you have stomach rolls and that clearly no other man wants you because you’re fat and he’s doing you a favor. And we can also assume that it’d be cool not to be asked how many months pregnant you are when you’re not pregnant at all. Or to be trolled on the internet because you’re promoting obesity even though you go to the gym five days a week. Or not be looked at with disgust when you’re clearly nourishing your body with food at a local restaurant.

But, with all that said, I wouldn’t change being fat. Why? Unfortunately, as humans, and especially as girls and women, we always want what’s in. What’s trendy. Our bodies have become trends, objects. The body that was popular in the 70’s is totally different than the body that’s ‘in’ now. So, are we going to alter our bodies every decade to fit the mold of this ‘new’ beauty standard? Or are we going to embrace the curves (or lack of) that we’re working with now?

The true goal is to be healthy and fat or healthy and thin. Not to lose (or gain) weight so the scale can flicker to an agreeable number for other’s comfort. That’s my motto. And my life has been so much more fulfilling because of it.  

Plus, the upside to being fat is that I don’t shop at the same stores that my thinner friends go to so that means no embarrassing twinning moments. I’m forced to be creative with my ensembles because my clothing options are so much more limited. Can you say, slayage? When I fall down the stairs, my butt cushion saves the bones from breaking. If I lose or gain five pounds, you won’t notice it. And, of course, I’m a pretty good cuddler.

*Winks at the guys* 

xoxo

Leah V. 

Detroit Girl in a London World

I’ll be releasing a series of photos of my London trip last month. And, yes, my blog posts have been sporadic, but bear with me. I’m creating new content, shooting better shoots, and living. But, I am so excited to click that ‘publish’ button to share my journeys with you all. And these are from Day 1.

A few weeks before my trip, life was craaaaazy. Ugh, like I was literally pulling sixteen hour days in order to prepare for my two-week adventure (that was much needed). Ever since my divorce and move last September things have been kinda sorta getting back to normal, but like everyone else, I have my days.

This trip to London was solo. I needed to get away, be someone different for a second. I needed to breathe and take a step back from family drama and friends. I needed to push myself, sit in silence, and really get a feel for who I was. It was a trip for self-discovery and meeting new people and getting lost and depending on strangers.

And even though, my wallet was stolen at a London nightclub, all was not lost. I shared a kiss on the top level of a Brixton bus, explored the city, danced, soaked up the architecture, and met some amazing individuals. So, all in all, it was an amazing trip that I wouldn’t change for shit!

The internet is a crazy place that I love dearly. Lol. I put out a call on my IG page for people in London to show me around or even collaborate. My inbox was flooded! One artist/girl boss in particular had reached out. Her name is Esmahan from Canada and she and her sister, Amnna, co-owns a company called Buno Designs, which is based in London. All through Instagram messenger, we sent ideas back and forth, measurements, and they had set up a Parisian photographer to shoot me the day I landed.

Amnna designed and hand sewn a reversible kimono/abaya just for me.

When I got off the plane, I was jetlag. Customs took over an hour to get through. I couldn’t find my luggage for a long time. And I got lost getting to the Air b’n’b. Three hours later, I finally made it to my destination. Amnna and I had a few issues with messaging (no international calling! Ha). Everything started going downhill and it seemed as though the shoot wasn’t going to happen.

I met this man on the street. He started telling me about his girlfriend that was overseas. Just a very random love of his life story. Amnna never came out of the subway exit. I got nervous. “Are you ok?” the man asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m waiting for a friend. She may be lost. Or maybe I’m lost.”

“You know there is another exit a block down.”

I thanked him and walked very fast and waited at the second exit. A few minutes passed. Then I saw her making her way up the stairs holding on to a large bag with my garment inside.

“Amnna,” I yelled over London traffic, waving my arms.

We were running about an hour behind, but luckily, the Parisian photographer was patient and waited for us to arrive at our destination.    

Because we were late, we were losing light, fast. Amnna convinced a local tailor to press the wrinkles out of the garment in ten minutes. I put on some lipstick really quickly and we shot in a magical neighborhood full of white background. It was chilly, she was sick, and I was kinda sick, too. And everyone was tired, but we thugged it out and created a really nice set of photos that I’m very proud of.

It’s so funny how we see photos and we judge them based on that moment, not all the moments that led up to that very instant. The work and sweat put into the garment she made me, or the long ass flight I was on, and the bags under my eyes that I had to cover with concealer.

So, thank you Buno Designs for allowing this Detroit girl to be herself and adding inclusivity to your brand. I love my custom kimono (that I got to take home).

Yall, check them out. They have some dope pieces.

xoxo,

Leah V.

Ghetto DIY Tumeric Face Mask

Leah V. shows ya'll how to achieve the perfect crust-less face utilizing tumeric and other household items. 

xoxo

Leah V. 

The Non-Valentine’s Day Valentine’s Day

This is my first Valentine’s Day without a Valentine in about ten years. Which may seemed fucked up to the naked eye, but because I’m trying to live my ‘new and improved’ life as an Optimistic Sally, I’ve come to terms with my current situation.

I’m divorced. Single. I ain’t got no man. Or woman. Except for my friends, but that doesn’t count. I had a few suitors, but they got swerved and didn’t make the cut. Which again, makes me very single. I’m not bitter, though, I solemenly swear it.  

I won’t be getting any flowers.

I won’t be getting one of those cheap little bears with the heart in the middle that says ‘I LOVE You” that was made in China.

No romantic dinners at the local Coney Island.

Jewelry. Nope. Hotel. Nope. Sweet nothings. NOPE. How bout dah?

Turban: Flossy's Suitcase + Faux Fur/Pant: Forever 21 + Long Sleeve: Rainbow Shops + Booties: Pay-Less Shoe Source + Shades: Alley and Eye

All this in theory sounds great, until my timeline starts getting flooded with ‘happy couple’ selfies and photos of bouquets of roses. What is a single girl to do? Well, if you’re like me you can totally stay off the internet for that entire day. But because we are lurkers, we won’t. Which is fine. At least you’ve admitted it.

Valentine’s Day isn’t really the issue here. It’s the stereotypes of being single that irks me. If you aint got a man then what are you doing with your life? If you don’t have a bae to cuddle up with at the end of a long day then you must be unhappy, desperate, undesirable. The only goal in life is to marry, have kids, get cheated on, then ultimately be single anyway! So, why not just start now? LOL. And, I’m not saying that being single is the way to go for every person, because we all have that friend who just has to have a man or she feels incomplete.

But isn’t that a sad existence? If you need another person to make you feel whole. Shouldn’t that be something that you should be working on within yourself? With these types of situations of heavy co-dependency, I notice that the co-dependent person always get the short end of the stick in the relationship. They usually do anything to keep that other person around. They ended getting mistreated by their significant other because they know that they need them in order to thrive.

I, for one, neeeeever want another person to feel like I need them or I’d just crumble into nothingness. No, sir. You aren’t about to have that much power over me. I hold my own power. Boom!

Whether you’re married or not, you need to be OK with being by yourself. And I’m not saying shut everyone out and become a recluse, I’m saying that there is usually too much noise going on and you need to have quiet, self-reflective time for you and only you. Whether it’s five minutes a day or for a month trip overseas. You-time is good for the soul. It regenerates your ummph. Puts a pep in your step. And allows you to think more openly and freely.

Do you know how much I learned about myself by doing things alone? I’ve traveled alone and learned that I’m able to hold my own in hectic situations. I’ve gone to the movies alone and figured out that I didn’t look weird by doing it, and I really enjoyed not talking throughout the film. I’ve gone to an opera alone, I’ve had coffee and alone and read a book, I’ve been to networking events alone and was made to feel like an outsider because I hadn’t come with anyone. You win some. You lose some, but it’s a very cool experience to be ok with yourself. You don’t always have to depend on another person to dictate whether you have fun or not or are able to experience the fullness of that activity.

So, Leah V. what are you doing for V-Day? Well, if you must know. I’ll be on my first “Eat. Pray. Love.” trip to London. This is my first time overseas without my ex. It’s very bittersweet. I want to prove to myself that I can and I will. And, I’m so hardcore that I’m not even going with a friend. Yeah, they’re still hurt by it, but this is my journey that I have to take alone. I want to explore the culture without bounds, I want to get lost on the ‘tube’, and party with the locals. I want to take a train to Paris and see the Eiffel Tower and take one of those very touristy photos in front of it. I want to eat good food and take cabs to nowhere. I want to take weird selfies and visit the Royal Palace.

And, that’s what I plan to do.

But, if you’re not planning on taking a trip or don’t have a bae, it’s all good. I want you to get dressed anyway, put on some falsies, go buy an expensive yet not-expensive matte lippie, and be your own bae. Make a fancy reservation at a posh restaurant with some girlfriends and have a photoshoot in the bathroom. Post it on social media so everyone with a man can be jealous that you’re having soooo much fun basking in the glow of your single-dom!

As always, you know I have to give you the word with a dose of V-Day outfit inspirations.         

Xoxo,

Leah V. 

Who Said Fat Girls Can’t Slay? Top 7 Outfits of 2016

OMG! We’ve made it into the new year. Bless up *DJ Khaled voice*. Ready for new beginnings? I know I am. We’ve shed some negative people: ex’s, frenemies, and maybe an annoying co-worker or two. Get your bucket list ready because I’ve asked my fashionable followers to vote for their top seven outfits of 2016. This list isn’t about my own self-gratification, or maybe it is… It’s about self-love. Confidence. And acceptance.

Anyone can put on makeup and slap on a bomb ensemble. But how many of us are sitting at home with stretch marks on their boobs, cellulite on them thighs, and a belly pooch that hangs over their pants? *Raises hands* I am as I’m compiling this list. Real life, bro!

So, for 2017, I want you to harness your inner Leah V. divaliciousness and as I always say, fuck it up! And by “it” I mean the world. Wear a color you’ve never thought to wear. Red lipstick? Smear that shit on. Dance when everyone is watching. Travel the world. Alone! Don’t let society’s standards stop you from living. FUCK IT UP! And when they ask why, tell em cuz Leah V. said so…

Check out these amazing ensembles from the last year of my blog, and see which styles made the list: 

#7 That pop of color though!

Photo: Adele Lane Photography

#6 So Parisian. Oui?   

Photo: Richelle Marie Photography

#5 Turbanista in red.

Photo: Danni Little

#4 Couldn’t nobody tell me nothin that day.  

Photo: Madinah Muhammad

#3 *Finger snaps in Z formation.

Photo: Brooklyn Cashmere

#2 I’ve always wanted to be a fairy.

Photo: Reel Clever Films

#1 On my Riri shit!

Photo: C. Los Productions

Wildcard! Gold Dress. Birthday extravaganza. This dress was designed by me! But I aint sew it though.  

Which one is your favorite? 

Leah V. 

How to Wrap a Pin Turban

Leah V. shows you how to wrap an easy pin turban with a Kermit the Frog colored scarf. 

And don't forget to follow her on IG: @Lvernon2000

The Black Girl with Many Faces

When I was small, I was very watchful. Thoughtful. I’d watch Mom do everything. I wanted to know how she did it, how long it took her, her mannerisms. A little black sponge, I was. For the most part, I got it. But I never understood why Mom was extra nice, extra perky, and sounded differently when she talked to white folks. It all clicked one day when we were at the doctor’s office, that like her, one day I’d become a black woman with many faces, too.

I was around eight years old. It was hard for me to climb up on the clinic’s bed because my legs were so short. Mom pulled over a step stool and up I went. I sat on the rough white disposable barrier, kicking my scuffed gym shoes from Pay-Less at the edge. Back and forth. Quiet as usual as Mom pulled out her planner and jotted down notes.

Now, mind you, I was renamed Amerra (Islamic meaning is princess) when Mom converted to Islam. So, that’s the name I knew. None other.

The doctor knocked. A white male wore an off-white lab coat and had a manila folder in hand. He shifted through the papers, looked me dead in the eye and said, “Leah?”

I froze. Who was this Leah? My name was Amerra. Mom probably noticed the baffled look on my face, so she quickly said in the most white-black voice she could muster, “Yes. This is Leah.”

My name was Leah, too!?! I had two names. Not possible.

After some snooping, I saw that the name Leah Vernon was on my social security card and on my birth certificate. And that Amerra Jaahan was a Muslim name that she’d given me when we converted. I then found out that Mom didn’t name me Leah at all, but my grandmother had when I was born because Mom didn’t want any more children after my older sister and that I was to be given up for adoption… Ultimately, I wasn’t, but that’s a completely different story.

I never asked Mom why she didn’t tell the white doctor my Muslim name. Or why she put on her ‘professional’ voice when she answered the phone versus talking to us or her black, Muslim friends.

I already knew what most little black girls figured out eventually.

That as a black woman, we must wear many faces. And control what we tell others about our true selves for protection. We are not allowed to be our true selves. Because then we become stereotypes. We are called aggressive. We are called angry. Bitter. Rough. Loud. Too woke.

I was out with a girlfriend for brunch, which is what prompted this essay. She told me that her good friend, who happened to be white, said, “why can’t you, as a black woman, be your true self. I mean, I’d accept you in your truest form.”

My friend and I burst out laughing as she recanted the story. That’s how ridiculous the white girl sounded. We both blamed white superiority/privilege to the comment she made.

No, hunny, YOU, as a white woman CAN be a white woman. A black woman, cannot be true to herself because when she does, she makes everyone around her uncomfortable. She makes the black man uncomfortable with her tirades of being treated with respect. She makes the white man uncomfortable because when she stands up for her rights she is seen as aggressive, unattractive. She makes the white woman uncomfortable because when we say that ‘All’ women ain’t the same here in America we are seen as combative. I can go on and on…

The sad part is that I have fallen into this hole, this ongoing system of changing my genuine self to ‘fit’ in with uppity white people. To fit in with ghetto black people. To fit in with extreme Muslims. My family. My ex. Expectations set and looped in a strange time zone.

I’ve worn so many faces. And it has become so normal, so ingrained that I don’t even notice that I’m doing it. It just turns on like a light switch. But sometimes, when I catch it, I am disgusted. This is not you, I say to myself.

But what do you do? What do you do when it’s become a part of your everyday routine to be someone else for the sake of others comfort?

My friend and I ended the conversation with no resolution to wearing faces that weren’t ours. Our mothers did it. Our grandmothers did it. Hell, we’ve been doing it for hundreds of years. And they survived. We can survive, too. But at what cost?

We may not have all the answers. Or be the most perfect. Or most feminine. But no one can deny that we are Perseverant. Endurable. Strong. We both agreed that black women are the strongest of all women. I know that I’ll get flack for pointing out that fact, but you have no idea unless you’ve walked in my shoes. My black mother’s shoes. Or my black grandmother’s shoes. With that innate strength, we get beat down the most for it. We are the lowest on the totem pole. We get it from all sides. We are taken and objectified. We are told we are useless by our own men. We are thought less of by other cultures. We are picked apart and left to dry in the sun.

But still, we have this unending strength and beauty against all the odds.

Frankly, I wouldn’t change being a black, Muslim woman for anything. 

Divorced and Almost 30... Where to Now?

I got married young. Well, not too young. I had just turned 20, and I thought I had all the answers. Me then versus me almost 10 years later…oh, boy. What a difference.

A lot of maturing and growth occurred between now and then. And for that, I’m grateful.

If you had only seen the immature Facebook rants and friendship drama I was involved in. Ugh. Very embarrassing.

But that’s all in the past now.

See, at this point, I have bigger fish to fry.

I had just turned 29 — and divorce happened.

No matter how we view the unfortunate and fortunate events in our lives, everything happens for a reason. I believe it. This is more of a personal self-discovery piece.

Hmm… *Shifts eyes back and forth*

Before we dig in, this is not a “bash” essay or a “woulda, coulda, shoulda if I had only known” essay.

No matter how we view the unfortunate and fortunate events in our lives, everything happens for a reason. I believe it. This is more of a personal self-discovery piece — the thoughts and questions on the aftereffects of an Islamic divorce that’s on everyone’s minds, but no one dares to utter out loud.

No matter what issues I had in my marriage, I never, ever thought we’d end up divorcing. I mean, after eight years of matrimony, I thought that was it. Right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

We’ve all sat around the table listening to our friends talk about their marriages — the good and the bad — but we never realistically put ourselves in their shoes when it came to the big one, divorce.

We can’t control outcomes; we can only control how we deal with said outcomes.

“What if your husband did that? Would you leave him?”

“What if you just wanted to move on? What exactly would happen next?”

I was that person. For some reason, I thought I was exempt from the “D” word — that if I did A, B, and C, then it would make it all better, and everything would automatically work out.

What I failed to understand was that people change, and we have absolutely zero control over it. The only person I was in charge of was my own self. And no matter what I did, it wasn’t going to change the outcome.

Sometimes in life, we have the tendency to think that just because we do A, then B should inevitably come next. We can’t control outcomes; we can only control how we deal with said outcomes. And this isn’t just for marriage, but friendships, jobs, health, etc.

Another thing about being Muslim and getting divorced is how we perceive it as the “End-All, Be-All” for the woman. Sister such and such is getting divorced. Who will marry her now? Will she uncover? How will she support herself? Will she date? It was probably her fault anyway. If she had only done what she was supposed to do, then divorce wouldn’t have happened.

Unfortunately, there is a stigma attached to an Islamic divorce. And usually, somehow, it becomes the female’s fault. Bullshit. Marriage is a two-way street. If you are divorced or going through one, don’t ever let anyone bait you into believing it was all your fault.

The interesting thing was — when I was going through this divorce, everyone kind of became relationship gurus. LOL. This is fine for the people who either went through it or just gave good advice, but others? Not so much.

Here’s a bit of advice. No one knows your spouse like you do or did, so keep that in mind when seeking consultation from others.

There is a stigma attached to an Islamic divorce. And usually, somehow, it becomes the female’s fault. Bullshit. Marriage is a two-way street. If you are divorced or going through one, don’t ever let anyone bait you into believing it was all your fault.

During my divorce period, I was asked to write about my experience. I thought it was too soon to talk about it. I didn’t want to come off as the bitter, Black, Muslim writer. So I held off. I planned on writing a few pieces when everything was finalized and when I was in a little bit of a better place.

A few people encouraged me not to reveal my divorce publicly because of the backlash I’d receive from the community (Oh, yes. It happens). The dreaded questions about what happened — and the sad, droopy faces and awww’s.

I’m not going to lie. In the beginning, I was very ashamed of the divorce. I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead. Everyone in the community knew my dirty laundry. It was etched into stone and followed me around like a dark cloud with lightning thundering around it. I felt exposed and basically like a failure.

Divorced. Divorcée? DIVORCED!

That word became me. And I was it.

But then, I got to thinking about life in general. A bit of a reflection. I thought about all the positive things I’d accomplished during the marriage. And all the things that I still planned on accomplishing after it. I figured out very quickly that I was still the same writer, blogger, sister, and friend that I was before… just without the other half and a ton more bills. Haha!

I’m not going to lie. In the beginning, I was very ashamed of the divorce. I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead. Everyone in the community knew my dirty laundry.

Then the question arose, why should I be ashamed of my divorce?

I share a lot with you guys already. Plus, this is a major milestone — one that many of us have either experienced or will experience (I hope not, though!). How many women have been through the same thing, doubting themselves through a divorce? Thinking much less of themselves? Wondering what’s next for them?

I feel like, through my life stories and gift of gab, I have a duty to share and teach. Trust me when I tell you that I’m not in the running for “Divorcée of the Year,” but I’m still growing and learning through this process, and I’d like other girls and women to do the same.

We aren’t these empty human shells. We have emotions and we go through divorces. It’s not a death sentence. It’s not the end for you. Or me.

I feel, as women, we should be able to talk about these deep, risqué issues that plague us every day.

As a Muslim, sometimes a lot of topics are hush-hush, but how is that really helping? By being quiet and not sharing vital information, how is that going to elevate us as a whole, as a community of badass chicks?

I guess I’m kind of a rebel when it comes to these things.

But it’s time to break out of this mold that we, as Muslim women, have created and allowed society to keep hold of. We aren’t these empty human shells. We have emotions and we go through divorces.

It’s not a death sentence.

It’s not the end for you. Or me.

There is so much more to the world than the small label of divorcée.

—

xoxo,

Leah V. (@Lvernon2000)

I Used To Get Bullied For Dressing Different

I’ve had a few interviews for different feminist and style blogs recently, and the question that I’m most asked is what it was like for me growing up, before Leah V. was Leah V.  

I grew up in the 90’s and early 2000’s, where nothing on my body was considered beautiful or desired. To add to that, I was Muslim and Black. And very much so fat. Triple whammy? So confidence was at an all-time low for the most part.

In my family, my mother was a pretty snazzy dresser and so was my grandmother. Even though they were large women, they still pulled out their sequins blazers, costume jewelry, and furs. My grandmother was into makeup as well. Bright red lips and blue eyeshadow was a must for any special occasion.

That’s when I fell in love, playing in her expensive lippies and shadows. I secretly painted my face, knowing my mother wouldn’t approve, and would make me wipe it off immediately.   

Makeup wasn’t in like that for young girls when I was growing up. No overly-contoured Kim K. looks.      The most we did was a heavy coating of cheap lip gloss from the beauty supply store and some mascara. Anything else was considered ‘clown face’.

I was a weird, thoughtful, and creative child. I watched a lot of movies, read a lot of books, and immersed myself into rock/pop music. Through these outlets, I began to internalize all the characters that I admired. They were sassy. They were strong. They didn’t take no shit! They were modern and stylish and outrageous. They were different just like me. And I imagined being anything I wanted.

And then it clicked… I was going to wear glitter on my eyelids, smear black lipstick on my lips, and place tiaras on top of my hijab.

Why? Because I was expressing myself and it made me happy.

Others didn’t feel the same way.

“Take that dark lipstick off your face,” Mom told me.

“Why black polish? Why not red?” Another asked.

“Why wear makeup, you already have such pretty skin,” someone commented.

“You look like a clown,” a family member said.

*Hella sighs*

I was obsessed with the Spice Girls, so I bought several pairs of those chunky flip flops. I was into Gwen Stefani from No Doubt and started wearing black nail polish and fingerless lace gloves. Then I went through the goth phase. Everything was pitch black.

I got made fun of for dressing crazy, wearing makeup, being outspoken, being fat, having big feet, pointy teeth, wearing colorful hijabs, covering my body… Blah, blah.    

The funny thing about it, I never allowed other people’s criticisms to stop me from dressing the way I wanted or affected how I carried myself. Because it was my body and I loved the expression that makeup and clothes could prompt. I wasn’t the same as the other girls, and that was fine with me.

It’s ironic, because now, I’m the trendsetter and style blogger. People ask my fat, Black Muslim self where do I get my clothes from. They ask me for fashion advice.

Although, it’s a sad thought to think what would’ve happened if I listened to those friends who made fun of my appearance and ensembles.

I wouldn’t be Leah V. I’d be some cardboard cutout. Exactly the same as the rest. Just falling in that straight and narrow line of lameness…

Beyonce said it best: “Tell him boy, bye!”  

Keep being your crazy, odd dressing, thin or plump self. Don’t let others dictate how you should or shouldn’t dress. Or that you need or don’t need makeup. Tell them it’s YOUR BODY and you can do with it as you please!

xoxo

Leah V.   

I Posted a Picture in Front of the #BlackLivesMatter Wall and the Internet Went Crazy

I used to be the kind of style blogger who didn’t speak on issues out of fear of the repercussions of what ‘others’ might say. I was a ‘style’ blogger; no one wanted to hear what I had to say when it came to politics or religion. I should’ve been talking about the newest matte lippie or what I was wearing that weekend.

With age and wisdom, and basically not giving a fuck, I came to the conclusion that I had become like all the other bloggers. I was a fashionable shell. I had thoughts and worries about the world we lived in, but I never spoke on it. I kept quiet even though the issues myself and my people faced were reality.

In January, I took my social media and blog up a few notches. I rebranded myself as an anything-goes-blogger. Whatever came to my mind about feminism or self-image or blatant racism, I was going to speak about it while adding bomb ass photos to the mix.

Unapologetically.

In Detroit, there’s this amazing Black Lives Matter wall near Midtown that popped up last year after the string of police killings of unarmed Black males. Black Lives Matter is written hundreds of times in white letters and in different sizes.

While standing in front of this powerful wall of words, I found it to be the perfect moment to throw my fist in the air in support of #BlackLivesMatter. It was the fist that many of us stick up when we are trying to make a statement.

When we are trying to push for equality. When we are telling the world that Black Lives Do In Fact Matter!

Society +

I went home and looked over the pictures that Danni took and the one with my fist planted in the air was the perfect photo to post on Instagram and Facebook. I added a caption as well about us as a whole making so many strides towards equality but taking so many steps back simultaneously with the whole racial divide happening all over the world.

I posted it and for the most part a lot of different races were feeling the picture and throwing their fist emojis up. I had a few haters that I had to delete the comments of and block since they wanted to troll my page.

The next day, a popular body positive page reposted the picture with the original caption. It got a lot of hits. Lots of supportive people said that we needed to do better as a country and they were in full support of the message. Then one troll replied: “Blue Lives Matter…”

After that all the internet trolls flooded in with comments like what about Black on Black crime? And someone even said, “White Lives Matter!”

Then people started arguing under the photo. How does one photo of an African-American Muslim blogger standing behind a Black Lives Matter wall start all this ruckus?

Wardrobe: Society +

Why are people so turned off my support of #BlackLivesMatter? How many times do people have to say that this movement has nothing to do with Black supremacy?

Listen…in case you didn’t get the memo, it has nothing to do with us being better than anyone or being wronged more than another race. We are dealing with the issues at hand. Period. And if someone standing up for themselves or for humanity bothers you, then you need to check yourself, and not some hashtag or movement!

EVERYONE deserves freedom of speech. Freedom to walk the streets without being harassed by a cop. EVERYONE deserves to live life that isn’t in constant danger. EVERYONE deserves to be free.

I am Black. I am a woman. I am a Muslim. I am a triple minority. So I get it. Trust me. I have been picked over and belittled and mistreated because one or all three of the above. A lot of us have.

What I want for you, the reader, to get from this piece is that every movement isn’t a personal attack on your culture or religion. It isn’t an attack on cops or White people. It is a movement like all others to boost awareness, to help make a change in an unequal system, and to hopefully one day live in harmony amongst one another.

*Originally posted on Muslimgirl.com*

Eid Glam: Tips on Finding the Perfect Eid Ensemble

Eid is my favorite Islamic Holiday. Why? You feel all triumphant because you cursed less during Ramadan, the people who worked your last nerve you managed to NOT go off on, and although you passed out a few times from hunger and thirst, you managed to fast for the entire month.

Congratulations.

Now, it’s time for the day everyone has been waiting for: Eid Fashions. We’ve waited all year long to see which sister is going to pull off that one-of-a-kind red carpet look at the Eid day events.

Here are a few tips on getting ready for the big day:

1.       Don’t Wait Till The Last Minute

I’ve seen this happen so many times with my girlfriends. Their looking through the magazines and ohhing and ahhing at the pretty colors. Twenty-eight days have passed because of the indecision, and they rush out to get whatever’s left at the mall the day before. Don’t be that person. Get your major pieces sewed or purchased early. You’ll be much more satisfied and stress-free. 

Photo: Lil Miss JB Style    Tulle Skirt: Society +

2.       Think Outside Of The Box

Before, I became a fashion blogger and a wardrobe stylist, the worst thing in the world happened to me. Two years in a row, I was caught wearing the same outfit as someone else. Needless to say, my friends joked about this All. Day. Long. Groans.

Of course there’s no sure way to not have the same outfit on as someone else, but I challenge you to think outside of the box when choosing your Eid outfit. Fashion is fun and daring. Pick a color or a concept and build your outfit around that.

Tip: Shop away from the malls and stores nearest you. Drive out to new stores in other cities because they have a whole array of fresh items to choose from that maybe your neighbor hadn’t thought of.

#tbt 2009

3.       Execution Is Everything

I’ve partook in some hideous Eid outfits (Check out the green monstrosity above). Make sure that whatever you decide to wear you execute it properly and you are comfortable and confident in it.

4.       Accessorize!!!

I want to see you doused in accessories this Eid. Like peacock feather head pieces, crowns, large hooped earrings, midi rings, and statements neckpieces.

Since Eid will fall in the summer, these are a few styles I’d like to see you guys rock:

Colors: Yellows, Reds, Electric Blues, and Whites

Patterns: Aztec prints, stripes, Paisley, geometric shapes, polka dots, and dark tye-dies

Textures: Lace, linen, silk, chiffon, and velvet

Photo: Remy Roman    Wrap Dress and Accessories: Peacock Room Detroit

I can't wait to see all of your Eid outfits in the next week! Make sure you hashtag #LeahVDaily

And don't forget to follow me on IG: Lvernon2000

Also, you check out the original post on Eid Glam at Muslimgirl.net