Doing The Impossible

It’s been a while since we’ve got deep. I mean real deep. I’ve been in this reflective phase for the last few weeks because several important days have passed. And, it got to me to thinking about how everything that has happened which has led me to be right here, right now. I think we all have those questions floating around our heads. Especially as we age. Why am I here? What the fuck am I doing? Is this the right path to take?!?

I remember constantly asking people: can you tell me what I need to do? The good ones, the best ones, and most knowledgeable ones would tell me that they indeed cannot tell me to go right or left. That I’d have to use my skills and talents to figure that shit out. I’d sulk in my own misery. Wondering if they were indeed so great and knowledgeable, if so, then why couldn’t they just give me a straight answer and tell me WHAT I NEEDED TO DO TO GET MY LIFE TOGETHER!

Now, now, I know the answer to the question I so desperately was seeking from others. I had those answers all along. And, so do you. You just haven’t discovered it yet.

The two days in question that have me thinking so deeply was my 31st birthday and the 2nd year divorce anniversary. Which are only two weeks apart.

Custom Outfit: Lena Harbali (Detroit)

Because, I didn’t have any money left over and still waiting for checks to clear from my awesome yet tiring European travels, I rented a cheap hot tub and pondered what life was as a newly 31-year-old fat, Black, and Muslim woman living in the states.

It was deep. Because last year, only twelve months prior to that day, I was very down. My face in an overly spicy bowl of chili. I was more broke than I am now but also with no prospects. Everything I did seemed to fail. I threatened to quit modeling. Quit blogging. Quit it all. Just like my marriage went down. That’s how the rest of my life would follow.

The ‘You’ll never be anything without me” was finally coming into fruition.  

I was afraid. But, I accepted my faith. I was going to be another soul-less professor locked in, teaching eight courses, and making student’s lives a living hell because I was unhappy. I was prepared to live life as an overly educated person working a dead-end job that hadn’t offered benefits. I mean, I still don’t have benefits but that’s another story.

What I noticed that in my own ignorance I was living comfortably in my misery and self-doubt. The world had pumped so much negativity into me that I couldn’t even see beyond it, see what others had seen in me. I was stuck in between a rock and another rock. It’s hard to be uncomfortable. Experience rejection. It’s hard to be vulnerable and to put yourself out there for everyone to dissect and gawk at.

Whoever said success, personal or financial or spiritually was easy? This shit is hard. It’s hard to look at yourself and be like: yeah, the world is fucked up, but you are your own worst critic. You are the one that’s stopping yourself from progress and greatness.

A lot of us are. And, so was I. That hurts. I know it hurt me.

Because doesn’t society already do that? Why would we want to dim our own light?  

Fit: Lena Harbali

September 1, 2018. The 2nd year anniversary of our 10-year relationship. On that day, I had a podcast interview.

The interviewer asked me when was the moment that I just didn’t give a fuck anymore about people’s opinions where I’ve truly been able to become my best and true unapologetic self.

Honestly, I had many moments throughout my life where I was just like nope. I’m tired of being stereotyped and placed into these boxes. But, I thought about the end of my marriage. That was the epiphany, that ‘light bulb over the head’ moment.

“I’m afraid to leave you because you might be somebody one day,” he said. The ex. I will never, ever forget that. Ever.

That is something that I hold onto and use to push when I can’t push anymore. When I get too comfortable when in my head I know I can be greater. To prove to myself that on the other side of fear is greatness and that there is nothing behind that wall, that door, that barrier that I can’t take on.

By looking at me, you’d never know my story. You’d never imagine the things I’ve seen or the abuse I went through that still stick with me today. How much of the abuse was from myself at times.

Just in this year alone, I’ve made leaps. I’ve jumped across mountains, mentally and metaphorically. I’ve done the impossible. Without the people that I thought would, should’ve been there. I’ve broke down several times because of Imposter Syndrome and recovered. I’ve allowed myself to sit in those feelings of lowness but understand that it’s temporary.

Xoxo,

Leah V

Transparency After Having The Hypothetical Tape Ripped From My Mouth

I always get asked, “Leah V, how are so comfortable with being transparent with your life?”

Growing up, I went from being very outspoken to quiet and withdrawn to being kinda sorta outspoken to shutting up and only saying the ‘right’ things to where I am now. And, even then, I still don’t say everything that’s on my mind. I’m getting more and more comfortable with each passing day.  

The reason that I’ve been through these waves of shutting up vs. not shutting up was because people always told me to be quiet.

My father, ahem, my sperm donor, because real fathers raise their children, used to always call me a ‘broken record”. Yes, he was an adult and I was a kid, but he was a liar and I knew that early on. So, in order to keep him in check, make him have accountabilty, I’d remind him of the things he promised to do. I’d give him follow up calls like a damn office assistant at the age of 8.

“You ain’t nothin but a broken record,” he said to me over the phone one day. “You always repeatin yoself.”

I was young. I didn’t have a response. But, my feelings had been hurt.

So, I stopped talking.

I noticed that when I expressed my feelings or dislike of something, people would get angry, offended, and say, “You talk too much.”  

So, I stopped expressing myself and kept it all inside.

No one wanted to hear what I had to say. Nothing I had to say was of importance. And, honestly, no one cared.

Model: @Fashionlayn

I ran away to books. That way I could communicate more effectively. I could live vicariously. No, they weren’t real people, but real people sucked.

Men hated me the most. Especially Muslim men. They still do actually. HA! Before I knew what feminism was and the women’s rights movements, I was an advocate and hadn’t even known. When, I’d see something foul or oppressive towards girls or women, I’d speak out. I’d be called names like “hoe” or would hear phrases like “She doing too much” and the best, “she needs to shut up because she don’t know what she’s talking about”. And, because I was married and didn’t want to rock the boat or embarrass him, I pick and chose my battles.

Again, I was quiet.

If you think about it, for hundreds of years, people have always wanted women to shut their mouths. To be quiet. To stop complaining. To disregard their truths and traumas. To get over it. The truth is a hard pill to swallow. And, it’s easier to control someone who is willing to bury the truth. Lock it in a nice fancy box.

Other than women, do you know who the world usually loves to have shut up? Women of color. It is ingrained in us to not speak up. Out of fear that we won’t be believed anyway, because we are less than. Out of fear that there will be retaliation if we dare to open our mouths. We are called liars. We are dismissed. Even by our own.

When other people’s truths are celebrated, called brave, our voices and stories go unheard. Our truths remain silenced and bottled.

There comes a certain point where a person gets fed up. Fed up of being called a ‘broken record”. Fed up of being told that you don’t know what you are talking about. Fed up of not being believed and afraid of repercussion.    

After twenty-nine years of being silenced, something marvelous happened. I got divorced and the hypothetical tape was ripped from my mouth. It hurt like hell, don’t get me wrong, but the sting was only temporary. On the other side of fear is greatness. And, my fear was being told to shut up.

I made a decision: not anymore. Not one more day will pass that I fear to speak my mind. I might not have all the answers, none of us do, but I know what I am talking about. I am not crazy, like some of them like to call women who speak their minds. We are not crazy. We’ve just transcended the oppressive societal norms that seek to silence girls.

Let’s keep the conversation going: has someone ever tried to silence you? How’d you get over your fear and start living in your truths?

Xoxo,

Leah V

Ep 3: Learning From Failure With RV Mendoza

Honey Bunches of Oats, 

The long awaited episode three is here, and we have my Leo twin, queer Filipino pop star by night and software programmer by day and of course, Emotional Intelligence Diva, RV Mendoza! I usually don't like other Leos because they are extra af. But, the first day I met RV, it was love at first sight. He's such a sweetheart, a bad ass performer, and amazing songwriter. 

In this episode, we talk about learning from personal failures and how they can lead to success, imposter syndrome, and deflecting negative voices. 

Listen to the gems being dropped in this episode, and don't forget to give RV some love by following him on Instagram: RVXMENDOZA and listen to some of his jams on his SoundCloud and twerk to his music. HA. And, if you wnat to support him, head over to his Patreon.  

After you've listened, join in on the conversation: what failures have you been through and what have you learned from it? 

xoxo,

Leah V

The Muslimah Rebel: Why Quitting Ain't an Option

I almost allowed them to stop me.

Even the most stubborn of people will crack. They will allow that seed of doubt to fester and they will stop. Quit. The ones that do quit will become bitter. Always wonder why they didn’t finish a project or travel the world or not have as many kids. Most of them will become the very person or people that stopped them from pursuing their dreams. A vicious cycle.

That was almost me.

When I say ‘them’ I mean the people closest to me. The kind of people you’d think would be rooting for you, not one plotting your demise, not one secretly jealous of your God-given talent, and definitely not a husband or a mom or a dad, or a best friend you’ve known for over a decade.

I am not perfect, which by admitting doesn’t justify or validate my actions. I’ve done my share of fucked up things. Said my share of fucked up things. But one thing I’ve always done was try to be the best version of myself. Whatever that meant at those integral times. And, I’ve always stayed in my lane. People called me selfish, when really, I was just an empath protecting my vital energies.  

I think as you get older, not just older but wiser and more self-aware, you began to float above yourself and others and dig deeper for understanding, meaning, and purpose. As a thoughtful person, I have to evaluate all of the relationships I have with people. Because everyone isn’t meant to ride with you to the end. Even in Islam, says the same thing, nothing is permanent.

As I started to evaluate my life in relation to others, I began to see a pattern. Many people tried to discourage me from being my true self. That’s crazy, you’re probably thinking. Why would someone want to stop another person from being themselves? There are so many different reasons why humans stifle or oppress other humans, but the one I found most common was a shift in power. A hyper-masculine man doesn’t want you to become your true self because you would no longer have to lie under his thumb. Same for a jealous friend, if you truly reached your highest potential then she’d feel left in the shadows. So many people wear these masks, several masks, and so caught up in the false perfections of social media or being a ‘good’ Muslim or a perfect mother that they are angered when you ditch those masks and become a rebel. When you no longer have those mental constraints, those physical constraints, people who are still trapped began to envy you, hope for your downfall, because you’ve tapped into a power source in which they’ve never seen and cannot get to.

It makes me angry when I think of all the times someone has stifled my creativity. Caused me to quit something that I truly loved. Made me feel as if I couldn’t just be. But in reality, I have only myself to blame for being weak enough to allow them to guide my life. I stopped writing for many years because I allowed others to dictate how it was done. I only wrote on certain topics to appease my ex. I allowed the Muslim community to dictate what I shared on my timeline. I allowed white fragility to stifle my Blackness and my voice. I allowed those things because I thought I was trapped. I thought that I had nowhere to go. Not a left or right in sight.

If you take nothing else from this, know that there is always more than one route to take. I solemnly promise that. And, the only entrapment we face are the ones that we create for ourselves.

Recently, I was flown to Canada to speak at the Muslim Identities Summit at the University of Ottawa. Which was such a huge honor. There, powerful women of all shades spoke about anti-Blackness, feminism, and Islamaphobia. I couldn’t contain my joy. The energy of that day was intoxicating. And, as I looked out the window from the 13th floor, I couldn’t help but to reflect on my journey up until that point. I had wanted to quit so many times. I had quit so many times and came back each and every time. And, I can only attribute the comebacks to Allah (God) because I alone am not that powerful. Obviously, I’ve been chosen to do something because every time someone trolls me or causes me to rethink my value or makes me feel like I’m not Muslim enough, he somehow sends a sign, a message to keep going. Keep pushing against the waves.   

Eyes were attentive. Smiles were large. I looked at each face over and over again during the Q&A. Was it all a dream? That every little thing I’ve done and didn’t do led me up until that exact moment. All the pain and trauma and accomplishments meant something. That the zero budget photoshoots, the messy divorce that almost derailed me, and my words, my art had got me to that point. Where I sat in front of a packed room of educated Canadians to talk about being a fuckin Muslim rebel.  

xoxo,

Leah V

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

I'm LIVE! Art Detroit Ep 2

In the summer, i had the opportunity to shoot with host, Sheila Grant from the City of Detroit's new segment called 'Art Detroit'. 

I was really nervous, but it turned out really, really good. This 9-min video will also air on Detroit Comcast Cable Network on channel 21 (if you live in the city and want the exact times just comment below). 

I encourage you to watch and comment on the video. Let the City of Detroit know that they took a step in the right direction by highlighting a Muslim artist in the city! 

Let me know what you think *Squeals*

xoxo,

Leah V

The Difference Between Religion and Spirituality

Religion Vs. Spirituality  

Depending on what type of guy my mother was married to dictated how religious she was going to be. Which trickled down to how religious us kids were going to be. Or pretended to be.

I can remember a time where Mom was married to this dude that I hadn’t cared for. He just gave me a bad vibe and even as I grew older, I still hadn’t liked him. But it was Mom’s 2nd marriage and fourth serious relationship and as children living in the 90’s, we had no voice or say so.

To the community, he was so Islamic. People looked up to him because he was knowledgeable and knew ayahs (verses) from the Quran like the back of his hand. He traveled in the name of Allah (swt) and never missed Jum’ah (congregational prayer on Fridays). He fasted and didn’t listen to music. He wore traditional garb and had a huge sunnah beard. During Ramadan, he fasted and went to make the nightly prayers.

In the home, he told us that TV was forbidden and because Mom wanted to play the religious role for her new hubby, she agreed. Now, Mom already limited the amount of TV time we had in the first place. They packed both black and white TV’s and the color one that was in the living room and placed them in the basement. We were mortified. No Xena the Warrior Princess. No Hercules, SailorMoon, Bobby’s World, or Power Rangers.

I hated him even more.

Of course, we figured out new things to do in order to occupy our time.

A few months later, I’d come home to see the color TV back upstairs in the small family room. He sat in front of it, cross-legged, dipping incense that he sold into fragrant oils.

I ran to Mom. “We can watch TV again?”

She side-eyed me, then said, “Yes, but not all day. Same rules apply.”

I heard him croaking with laughter in the background. And although, I was happy to reclaim my TV rights, I couldn’t help but wonder why the TV was now un-forbidden…

Hypocrite.

Mom used to read us the Quran twice a day. Once before homeschooling and then again before bed.

“What’s hypocrite?” My little brother asked during our nightly session.

Mom thought about it. “It’s kinda like when someone says don’t do something and then they do it themselves.”

“Like stepdad,” I said. “With the TV?”

She shot me the evil, mama eye, and I shrank into my seat.

Mom was crying. In front of her sat a hard, gray box where she kept all her credit cards and money for bills. She shook her head. “He took my money,” she said. “He took all of it!”

She hadn’t had to say who because I already knew.

***

Not only had he took Mom’s money. Our money. But he cheated on Mom as well. Then ended up marrying the lady. Mom divorced him shortly after.

How could a man who was such an outwardly devout Muslim be so scandalous?

***

I’m not going to even lie to you, I’ve had very traumatizing experiences with the Muslims in my community. And, although, I’ve met some really amazing and beautiful Muslims, I’m still weary. And my guard stays up. I believe I shared in a past post about why I’ve been traumatized and the highs and lows of my iman (faith).

And, before I get into my sort of analysis, I’m not a mufti or a scholar on the issue. This is all clearly an opinion based off my own personal, life experiences. I’m quite sure some of you have amazing and welcoming communities that never have any issues. *Thumbs up*

At one point, I tried very, very hard to fit in with the ‘good’ Muslims. I was doing stuff for other Muslims to deem me a ‘good’ Muslim and not doing it for my creator. The community had pumped our heads with always looking the part that they failed to add the part where we are all humans and we were created to make mistakes and repent. And that we should try to please our lord and not so much one another. On the flipside, if you are pleasing Allah (swt) then others will see it, feel it, and that would/should also please them.

What I got (and many others) from the community was if you pretend to be good and holy then you should be okay. If a sister makes salat five times a day (but in her head, she’s humming tunes to Rihanna’a foulest song) at least she’s doing the movements. If a brother goes to the club and its shots, shots, shots, shots, shots with Lil John, at least he never misses Jum’ah prayer. Oh, and this one is my favorite. He’s an imam (or religious leader) whose gives talks, panel discussions, and marital advice, but he’s in the mosque chasing around girls waaaay younger than he is or sliding into those DM’s. Things that make you go, hmmmm.  

And, by no means am I saying that being an oxymoron Muslim is a bad thing, an unforgivable thing, the question I’m posing is where does spirituality come into play?

A lot of my friends are non-Muslim, atheist, or just floating around certain beliefs.

I had a deep conversation with an atheist. He’s a good buddy of mine. He told me why he hadn’t ascribed to an organized religion. And he had some valid points, which I totally agreed with: people use religion to control others and evil people hide behind religion.

We have women in Islamic countries being raped then married off to their rapists in the name of religion.

Slaves were controlled by white men (and women) by introducing Christianity.

Young boys are being forced into being sex slaves in the name of religion.

Female genital mutilation. Cults. Honor killings. Modern day slave trades. The list goes on and on.

We both agreed that the real meanings behind modern day religions can be a bad thing. Especially when the wrong person controls it.

Being a visibly Muslim woman, here was my response to him: Islam is a perfect religion. With all the rules and intentions set out to make our lives easier. Better. Unfortunately, the people are not perfect, and if we were created perfect then we’d be angels. I’m Muslim. I believe in my practice wholeheartedly. And, insha’allah (if Allah wills), I’ll never be anything other than a believing Muslim. Although, I wouldn’t say that I’m religious (meaning that I don’t do all the things it takes to be a devout or practicing Muslim) I’m very much so a spiritual person.

I’m more spiritual in my late 20’s than I’ve even been in my entire life, pretending to pray five times a day or agreeing with what a sexist imam said during a khutbah (Islamic sermon). I actually do less physically and have more of a spiritual connection to my creator. And, with the last two years, I’ve had to heavily rely on Allah’s guidance and mercy.

I knew that I’d become more spiritual when the outer mattered much less to me. When I’d cry and pray in my bed that Allah (swt) would lessen my burdens. When I’d look at the sky and say SubhanAllah (glory be to God). When I stopped judging others for not being what I thought they should be.

With that said, I want you, the reader, to really reflect on your own personal religious and spiritual journey and beliefs. Are you wearing hijab for your husband? Are you praying, doing the movement only to appease others? Or are you really praying to Allah (swt) with conviction in your heart? Are you giving charity so that others can see it and praise you? Are you saying certain things on the internet so people can think you are holier than thou?

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. 

60-Second Turbanista Style

Leah V shows you how to wrap a quick turban in 60 seconds! 

You can follow me @ Lvernon2000
Blog: www.beautyandthemuse.net 

Artist: Lizzo
Song: Phone (Coconut Oil Project)

*I own no rights to this song*

Download/Stream Coconut Oil - https://atlanti.cr/coconutoilep

Follow Lizzo
https://www.facebook.com/LizzoMusic/
https://twitter.com/lizzo
https://www.instagram.com/lizzobeeating/
https://soundcloud.com/lizzomusic
http://www.lizzomusic.com/