Fear: Taking Leaps and Bounds

Believe it or not, I am very scary. A scared person. I am afraid of spiders—well, any bug really. I am afraid of failure as well as success. I am scared of myself. The person who I may become and perhaps not like in the near future. My scariness stems from several aspects of my life. One is my obsession with control. I am the kind of person who has to try and control everything and anything. I feel naked without some kind of control. An unwanted and uncomfortable vulnerability arises from letting things flow. I don’t want things to flow; I want things to go the right way, how I want them to go. On top of that, I am overly over-analytical. The type of person that if something doesn’t go as planned, I have an internal freak out. The world will end. I will die. Like seriously, dead.

Over the years, I’ve learned how to have internal freak outs, instead of outward ones. People don’t know how to deal with the outward ones. Then they start thinking I’m crazy. Which isn’t too far from the truth anyway…

So, how does someone like me do what I do? To get where I am, where I am standing, one couldn’t possibly be so rigid, so afraid, so rule-abiding. They’d have to be fearless, able to flow like water, able to keep calm, strategize in healthy ways.

Let me tell you a story of how someone like me took a leap, a bound and dived into the unknown.

I was married. Content as a Muslim wife. Or so I made myself believe. I was in hella student loan debt and working a job that I hated making a sort of good wage. I’d stopped writing stories for years. I was angry most of the time, floating around. Wondering was this what life was like for a girl in her mid-20’s.

I didn’t know what the hell I wanted. And, life wouldn’t give me a chance, a break to explore the possibilities. What more was out there. I had to be this way for work, that way for my husband, and this way for the community. And that was it. That was my existence. Being everything for everyone else and nothing for myself.

I wasn’t allowed. I hadn’t allowed myself that luxury. If I stayed in line, then it’d just all work out. Doesn’t it always work out in the end?  

I started getting heavy back into writing: ordering all the books on editing and story-telling and even using my own money to take creative writing and literature classes. I made a promise that whether or not I get paid to write stories, I would never abandon them again. I was obsessed with stories. I wrote damn near every day. I wrote when I woke up and I wrote at work and I wrote when I got off at night. I wrote and studied and wrote some more.

My work, although getting better, wasn’t going anywhere. No one was reading it. The point of a writer is to have a reader, an audience.

One of my lit teacher’s had his MFA in creative writing from some college in Vermont. He taught and wrote. I could do that, I thought. I was about 30k in debt from my undergraduate degree and because of that, I planned on working a dead-end job, pay off my debt then pursue a graduate degree in creative writing.

Two years passed. I was still in debt and no where near putting a dent into my student loans.

What have you got to lose, but more money to Sallie Mae? You aren’t getting any younger. Your work isn’t being read. The worst that can happen is that this creative writing program is bullshit and you waste 40k…Or you can pursue this and something great happens. But, you’ll never know until you try. Writing is your passion. Fuckin do it.

So, I applied. One rejection from a university in Michigan.

My feelings were hurt. I was defeated.

Try again. Try another school out of state. How will I get there? You’ll figure it out.   

I submitted an app to two universities and was accepted to one in Pennsylvania. I was ecstatic. But, also so very afraid. I hadn’t known anything about Pennsylvania. Other than a lot of white people lived there.

When I told my husband, he wasn’t happy for me but instead bothered. “I don’t think a Muslim woman should be going that far away from home.”

“I have to do this.” I reassured him. “I’ve gotta try.”

The semester started in one month. Due to my job, I wasn’t able to attend.

Will I ever get a chance to go pursue my dream? I thought.

I’m going next semester. I don’t care if I have to quit that job. I figured out how to finesse the rules and was able to get a chunk of time off work to attend the winter semester.  

The night before I was supposed to fly out, I started freaking out. I had no idea what I was getting into. I didn’t know the faculty or the students or the campus. I was a girl from Detroit. I called my sister and told her that I’d made a huge mistake and that I wasn’t going. She said, “You are getting on that plane. You are going to that program.”

I remember walking into class the first day, stomach grumbling with fear. My flight had been delayed and I was the last one to arrive. I arrived to a class full of white faces staring back at me. I gulped. What had I done? I just signed my death wish. They’d hate me. I’d hate them. They wouldn’t get me. They wouldn’t understand my multicultural weird ass writing or stories.

Those nine days surrounded by the most Caucasian writers and artists who were nothing like me was one of the most transformative experiences that I’d ever had in my life. I’d never been around white people like that before. I’d never been around anyone who was so different from me before. That experience of understanding that we aren’t meant to be around the same people all the time, that there is so much more than the little bubble I grew up in, confined myself to. There was a whole ass world out there.

On our last day, I was so overwhelmed by it all, the connections that I made, the courage that I mustered to even go, and how deeply I loved and was passionate for the art of stories, that I cried. I cried hard.

One cannot truly live without leaping into the unknown. Letting go and flying without knowing if you’ll be able to figure out how your wings work. Or if they will work when you need them to.

Do what scares you the most. This is such a simple concept, but its by far the scariest. No one wants to wander into the dark without a flashlight, but you have to have faith, hope that along the way you will find batteries and a flashlight and then a compass then a map and maybe a guide that will lead you to a place where no one has dared gone.

xoxo,

Leah V   

BRUT Feature: Power In Numbers

So, this video went from 22k views to after me sharing it having over 130k views in over a week. Ya'll are just amazing. 

Watch it and keep sharing and liking and commenting on the video because in numbers we can change narratives. They aren’t going to take us seriously unless we show them that we can pull numbers. 

For a hot minute, I was getting these major features and interviews back to back. There were so many that I couldn’t keep up. I remember feeling validated. I was poppin *Tongue pop* 

Then they suddenly stopped. I wasn’t the “it” girl anymore. I was “normal”. Probably never gonna see that much shine again unless a sex tape surfaced 😂

Who was I if I was no longer validated by huge media outlets? Who was I if I wasn’t poppin on the net? 

Y’all know that I am constantly checking myself. Why? Because I’m not trying to slip and slide back into my past self. I refuse to be a slave to my old habits because I’ve worked damn hard to level up. 

I had to remember my why. My purpose. I hadn’t started my journey to seek validation for empty likes or a thousand retweets. I started because through my self discovery I could help others rediscover themselves. 

I’m delighted to tell you that I have been featured in Brut and they made a whole ass video of meee. Here’s one of the nasty comments: “If it wasn't for Brut we would have never heard of this person and we'll probably never hear from her again.”

I thought it was funny because you’ll definitely be hearing from me again. 

Go comment nice things on it 😎

Watch it and here and lemme know what you think: 

https://www.facebook.com/brutamerica/videos/1982250172073492/UzpfSTc5NTY3MDAyMzg3NzUyOToxNTk0OTMxMjg3Mjg0NzI4/

UK Collaboration With LOVEDROBE

Heeeeeeeey! I definitely feel like one of those fuck bois who texts you regularly then all of a sudden stops then resumes texting you out of the blue. I haven't shared anything on my blog for a whole entire month. *Gasps* That's when you unequivocally know that I've been super de duper busy.  

A few days ago, I landed back in the states, Detroit to be exact, after two hard weeks in Europe. On top of that, I have been readjusting to normal everyday life. When I tell you sis has been grinding hard for the last month or so, I have not been playing. 

I've been making connections, meeting influencers, landing huge campaigns *flips hijab* as well as gaining another year. Hey, I'm 31 now. On the flip side, I haven't been able to truly take in some of my recent accomplishments and being overwhelmed by the recent influx of my so-called popularity. 

It's a lot to handle folks, but I am so grateful to get the chance to make a change, make a difference, and do the damn thang! 

I have so much more to share about life moments that unfolded during my month long absence. But, I'll leave that for a future blog post. 

For now, I'd like to show you this video I worked on while in the UK. 

I reached out to @lovedrobe @topsycurvyand asked if they would have my fat, Black, and very Muslim self as a model for their brand. After months of deliberation and to my surprise, they said yes. On a few hours of sleep and a full three hours of travel, I became their first Black Hijabi model. *Tongue pop* 

This video was the last to be shot. I'm really proud of this and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. 

What's your favorite part of this video? Let's chat. 

Creative Director: @kokocurve 

Photo: @olivia.lennn 

Video: @kmhvideography 

Wardrobe: @topsycurvy @lovedrobe 

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

Ramadan Chronicles: Embracing Imperfections

Because my platform is so diverse, I never want to feel preachy or overbearing. That Muslim girl who forces her religion on you. I’ve met Muslims who are constantly trying to force their beliefs on others and it becomes tiring and honestly, annoying. So, I’m very careful about what I share when talking about my spirituality.

Since we’re in the holy month, I’ve shared some stories about my relationship with Ramadan over the past years and how I tackle it now.

I had no idea that people, non-Muslims and Muslims, would be so interested in fasting and my experience with Ramadan. The conversations were heavy.  

I talked about how everyone is so happy when Ramadan comes around. You’ve got the Ramadan Mubarak memes and the smiling faces in pastel hijabs and the religious Facebook statuses with ayats from the Quran.

Ramadan is such a perfect time for perfect Muslims to fast and everything just seems so easy.

No one talks about how Ramadan can be not so easy for others who are converts who have been banished from their families for accepting Islam or people who don’t live near mosques or other Muslims who have to break fast alone every night. No one talks about Muslims who are having physical ailments and feel low because they are unable to participate in Ramadan fully or how a woman on her period has to constantly defend her reasons for not fasting to the Haram Police. No one talks about Muslims who have eating disorders, triggered by fasting or the ones suffering from mental illnesses. Like me.

Last year, when my divorce was still fresh and my mental health at an all-time low, I told my friend that I wasn’t participating in Ramadan. I hadn’t seen the point in it. All I saw were fake people trying to be holy for 30 days then become the same sucky people after it was over, after they were done playing super Muslim.    

She told me that it was my choice to participate or not. But, then she added, that my Ramadan wasn’t for other people. It wasn’t for the Muslims who judged me or my ex or to show everyone how good of a person I was because I abstained from food and water and curse words during the daylight hours. She told me that my Ramadan was for me.

I went home and thought about what she said. She was absolutely right, and at that moment, I figured out that all those prior years, I had always been fasting to appease others. I had wanted to seem like the perfect, law-abiding Muslim that I lost track of what Ramadan was really about: self-reflection through prayer, gratefulness to our creator, and centering oneself.

It was never about perfection but embracing one’s uniqueness in imperfection. 

We’re a week into Ramadan, and I’ve missed some days of fasting already. This morning, I was determined to wake up early enough to make suhoor (pre-dawn meal before fasting), read the Quran, and pray.

Prayers in Islam are integral. It’s a time where we mediate, keep in remembrance of our blessings, and ask.

Usually when I pray, I ask for general things for other people and I always leave myself out. As dumb as this may sound, I don’t believe that I deserve to ask for anything. So, I don’t.

But, Ramadan is the best time to ask and reflect.

I sat on my prayer rug that was once collecting dust and spoke out loud. I asked for the heaviness to be lifted. For a means to continue my art without struggling financially. I asked for a peace of mind. Forgiveness for any messed up stuff I’ve done to my body and to others.

After that, I gave thanks. For having working limbs, a mouth to speak, access to food, opportunities just laid in front of me. I’m not the richest or the smartest or the best, but I’ve done things most haven’t. Tears streamed down my eyes. Not sad ones but happy ones as I rejoiced. That the things that happened, good and bad, had been written for me way before I was born.

But, I always had a choice.

So, when I’m fasting and experiencing hunger pangs, when I’m feeling like I cannot go any further, I know that I can go further.

How’s your fast going?

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

A REAL Beauty Campaign

I talk a lot about representation of real bodies and faces in the media and especially in beauty advertisements.

I challenge you to open a magazine or check out the Instagram feed of your favorite makeup or beauty line and tell me what you see... Thin white women and thin racially ambiguous models.

Fat girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Black girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Dark-skinned girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. Muslim girls are worthy of feeling beautiful. So, why aren’t we being represented? Why aren’t we being shown as equal or as beautiful as our lighter skinned counterparts?

I was glad to work with an all-girl team of students from @ccs_detroit on this inclusive mock beauty ad for @milkmakeup Many times, we talk about change but don’t put in the work. They have to listen if we speak louder. Our budget was damn near none, but we are passionate about changing the narrative of unrealistic beauty standards.

If you like it, SHARE it. If you feel what I’m saying, COMMENT. If you know someone who needs to see this, SHOW them. MiLK Makeup: Intergalactic Glow Stick on the cheeks, Eye Pigment, and Lip Metal

Videographer: @elysemarcinkowski

MUA: @ilamindell

Stylist/Model: @lvernon2000

Dating in a Fatphobic World

There’s been many, many fat activists and body-positive folks responding to the topics of dating, finding love, and intimacy while being fat. And, let me tell you, the responses have been ridiculous and the backlash agonizing. Anytime, I post commentary about plus-size dating, the conversation grows long and weary. I mean, dating in general has become trash since the boom of internet faux-ness, where you can get anything and everything in the matter of a few clicks, but dating for straight-size versus plus-size is very different.  

When I got divorced, I went on a dating frenzy. Like, I had something to prove. I had never been boy-crazy prior to my marriage, but something about asserting my sexuality after years of being repressed was attractive to me. It became a sick obsession.

I had four dating apps in rotation. I’d spend hours swiping to the left or swiping to the right. I was on them so much, that I started to see some of the same guys on different apps. At a few points, I came upon the profiles of a friend’s ex and dudes I worked with in real life. So, if I saw them then they had to have seen me. And although embarrassing, it hadn’t deterred me from having seventeen separate conversations with different dudes in the city.    

I was born in an era with one foot in the age of online dating and one foot out. Basically, I was still a bit clueless on how to navigate them. I thought the guys on the other end were like me. Just wanting to test the waters and perhaps find real companionship. Boy was I wrong.

On my dating profile, I was covered. Like if you were to go on my Instagram account, you’d see the same photos. I mixed in face shots with full body photos. I wasn’t trying to catfish anyone because I wouldn’t want anyone to catfish my ass. I wanted the possible suitor to know that I was, indeed, a fat woman.

The first message I got was a couple trying to have me as their third, as in third wheel, as in a threesome. I politely declined. The following messages would start off with men requesting that I ‘sit on their face’. No hi, hello, or how are you? They’d make disgusting comments about my hips and butt. Some of the white dudes, especially, would objectify my Black body, highlighting the size of my lips and what they’d do to them. I was sent unsolicited dick pics by the dozens. Being asking to send nudes was a common request. I was also fat-shamed by angry users who I wasn’t interested in.

I would tell my smaller friends who were using the same dating apps my stories. They’d shake their heads and tell me that they weren’t getting the same messages. They weren’t having men ask them to sit on their faces or make comments about how big their butt was or any body shaming comments.      

I decided to delete every dating app because I was tired of being reduced to the curves on my body or the thickness of my lips. I decided to do some research on dating while fat and found so much stuff. I was not alone in my struggle. Women shared stories about being hidden away by their boyfriends because of their weight, being oversexualized and objectified based on the shape of their body, being fat-shamed, called names like pig and fat bitch when they declined sex or dates.

For women online who were plus-sized bloggers who dated or married a muscular or a socially ‘attractive’ man, trolls would leave nasty comments about how could someone so fat be with a fit guy, or he’s only using you for sex, or that’s impossible for him to actually love her.  

So, according to the census, fat women don’t deserve love, their bodies are only reduced to an object only used for pleasing sexually, and no one who is socially attractive should ever want a fattie.

Kimono: Black Lace Boutique

Before, I go any further I want to give folks who indulge in fatphobia a few facts:

Fat people are human beings. Stop asking fat people to hide themselves. We are allowed to take up as much space as we want. Don’t worry about why fat people are fat. Do you worry about why skinny people are skinny? You are not a physician. Clearly, you aren’t smart enough. Fat people deserve love. Fat people deserve intimacy. If you like fat women, that’s okay. Stop allowing your friends to dictate who you love. Stop being a coward and enjoining in fatphobic rhetoric when you truly don’t feel that way. And, lastly fat people aren’t fetishes.  

By no means am I saying that smaller women and men don’t get picked on or objectified, but we don’t experience mass skinny-phobia were a model has loads of trolls under her photos saying things like omg, she’s just so small, is she even healthy? Is she anorexic? Why doesn’t she just eat a sandwich? She’s so ugly, who’d want to be that thin?  

Instead we see comments praising her, we say that her body is bodygoals, we demean our own bodies, and skip a meal, we show our little girls that skinny is good and fat is bad. That if she is thin, she will be deserving of intimacy and love and money and beauty, but if she is big that she should go hide behind ill-fitting clothes and shrink herself. That she should just be happy with any man who deals her any ole kind of attention. That she shouldn’t strive for better because of the shape of her natural hips or the hugeness of her breasts and stomach.      

Stop allowing men to body-shame you. Nip it in the bud every time, so that the next time he approaches a big girl he’ll know what’s up. Stop allowing thin privilege to shrink you. You do not have to be skinny to live your best life. Stop teaching your little boys and girls that they don’t deserve to take up space. Teach them to be healthy and confident at any size.  

It’s time we nipped fatphobia in the bud.

Xoxo,

Leah V  

Mistaking a Woman's Trauma as Bitterness

It’s been nineteen years since I witnessed the first physical altercation between a man and a woman. Mom and my brother’s dad. Fifteen years since I saw my brother choke one of Mom’s temporary husbands because of yet another domestic dispute. Five years since I, myself, was incarcerated for domestic violence because that boy I used to be married to called me a ‘slut’ for wearing pants. Two and a half years since I was betrayed by him and a bitch at his job who stated he was a ‘good man’. Fourteen months since my messy divorce ended. And, four months since I saw him parading around the local mosque like an idiot, putting on a show for my family.   

I counted in the dark last night before I drifted off to sleep.

“Men are trash,” I said to my two closest friends.

The phrase that I’ve been living by for the last year. I mean, I knew they were trash before, but I just couldn’t openly say it since I was married and all.

Coat Courtesy of Addition Elle

“I don’t think you should make ‘all men’ statements,” she said. “That’s just not the case since you haven’t met ‘all’ men.”

I rolled my eyes. I mean, I do hate ‘all’ statements because it’s just not possibly true. Buuuuuut, humans make assumptions and have valid reasons of feeling how they feel from past experiences. And, you can’t invalidate someone’s experience, even if it’s farfetched. All you can do, really, is redirect.

You know when you’re doing or saying something it doesn’t seem that bad? I don’t trash men as bad on the internet as I do in person. Like, if I’m chilling with my friends, I will go into my ‘trash men mode’. Why? Because it’s relevant and they do it sooooo much. Trump grabbing em by the pussy, girls overseas being forced to marry old men, female genital mutilation, sex-trafficking in my home state of Michigan. Every time I see a #MeToo post or hear a story about yet another executive pulling his little dick out and waving it at a young actress or witness a hyper masculine douchebag trolling a sexual assault victim on Facebook, it really traumatizes me.

As a woman, I am traumatized by men. To be truthful, I’ve been traumatized by them since I was a little girl. Men scare me. Even now. They could hit me in the face or rape me or pretend they love me then drop me for another girl, or guy. Shit, I don’t know.

Shoes Courtesy of Evan's UK

I witnessed my first domestic violence fight at the tender age of six. It’s one of my earliest memories actually. I remember just standing there, watching as Mom tossed a computer at him and my brother’s father hitting her. Neither of them cared that I was there. Maybe I had become a fixture in their fucked-up world. What kills me now just thinking about it was that I never screamed or ran away or hid. I just stood there as if two adults throwing blows was a normal, everyday occurrence.

Mom had mental issues. Which didn’t help in her male selection process. We saw most of the dysfunction, if not all of it. In our home, men were disposable. If she didn’t like how they were, then she’d get rid of them and add another to the list. Mom was married about seven times before I’d turned seventeen, and I’m being modest by not including boyfriends or fiancées.

Mom taught her girls, in a nutshell, that men only wanted your body, they only wanted babies, and to use you, so to never, ever depend on them. Never tell them your finances, keep a secret savings because they weren’t to be trusted. Mom never trusted men. And, neither do I.

I’ve become her when I really never wanted to. Deep. I know.   

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

I got married young because I loved him, I thought I could change him, and I was Muslim and hadn’t wanted to sin anymore. I wanted to be a good Muslim girl in the eyes of God.

He brought the worst out of me. He also brought the best, too. Unfortunately, he brought more of the worst than the best.

At first, I didn’t trust him. Slowly, I started to. Then I let go and trusted him wholeheartedly. It took a while, but I’d done it. Growing up the way I had, I never thought it was possible. Then he betrayed that trust, and I reverted back to my old ways. Just like that.

And like an idiot, to curb my pain, I entered the dating scene right after the divorce. Bumble. Tinder. Plenty of Fish. You name it. Trying to flex the muscle that hadn’t been flexed in over a decade. Bad idea! What I needed was time. Time to heal.

I got messages from randoms asking me to ‘sit on their faces’, propositioning me for threesomes, and polyamorous relationships. I’ve had white men objectify me, commenting on the thickness of my lips and thighs. How they’ve never been with a Black chick. I’ve had men fetishize my hijab. Body-shame me. Tell me how intimidating I am because I have two masters and that I might be ‘too smart’ for them.

“I’m a feminist,” I told one dude, while on a date.

“So, you must hate men, then.”

“I do now…” I replied, in my head.

For additional winter coats check out Simply Be

Another guy told me that I hated men. I think he high-key wanted to call me bitter. And, that’s fine. If the shoe fits, right? Maybe it is me. Maybe I attract shit dudes because I’m a shit person.

“Maybe you should switch teams,” one friend suggested.

I cringed. “I’m not touching boobs.”

My other friend, who happened to be gay said, “Actually, same-sex relationships have many of the same problems as hetero relationships do.”

“Fuck,” I said. “Then it’s back to being asexual.”

And, who knows, maybe one day I will trust a dude again. Maybe all men aren’t trash. I’ve just come across some trashy ones.

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

Inclusion: The Perception of Perfection in Islam

Photos Courtesy of Eric Puschak

Recently, I’ve been politely shunned because of the kinds of videos I make and the kinds of things I say aren’t ‘halal’ enough for Islamic audiences. I’ve also been outright told by another Islamic organization that I “don’t meet the needs for their current student body” and was denied a speaking engagement. Times like these I want to move further away from so-called Islamic organizations and communities.

Because I talk about bikini waxing, I’m not Muslim enough.

Because I talk about dating, I’m not Muslim enough.

Because I wear tight jeans and turbans, I’m not Muslim enough.

Ever since I was a young, Black Muslimah, I’ve always felt displaced. No matter how hard I tried to outwardly appear Muslim and fit in, it was never enough to just believe. To the Arab-speaking Muslims, I wasn’t Arab so I was immediately dismissed. They wouldn’t give me salaams even though I’d offer it first or embrace me like they would other Arabs. I was ignored, pushed to the side. When I was in the Black Muslim communities, I hadn’t covered my face with niqab or wore black all the time, so to them I wasn’t Muslim enough because I was chasing the Dunya.

I’d go to the mosque seeking spiritual cleansing just to be stared down for wearing pants or bright colors or nail polish. I’d been told that my prayers weren’t going to be accepted. Basically, why are you even praying was what I heard. I always thought that in Islam, you come as you are.        

When I think of Islam, I imagine acceptance and openness and beauty and a sense of calming. Instead, I am met with opposition, fakeness, sexism, and criticism.   

I’ve been invited to speak at the University of Ottawa next month about Islam and feminism. I was so shocked that Muslims at the collegiate level wanted me to speak about such a taboo topic. I thought that I’d reach out to other Islamic organizations as well and propose to lecture on topics like prejudice, sexism, and feminism within the communities.  

It’s 2017 and with all the community based campaigns that have been going on about tolerance and acceptance, I thought that perhaps some change had occurred.

I’ve emailed about 60 organizations. Not one has accepted my invitation to speak. Will my Black face tarnish the other male speakers or the perfect Middle-eastern or Indian hijabi speakers? Will my turban, red lipstick, and nail polish create a frenzy at your panel discussion?

It’s funny how I’m too risqué for certain Muslims. What uproar do you see when DJ Khaled partners with Ciroc or when French Montana was dating a Kardashian but was openly fasting during the month of Ramadan or how Nouman Ali Khan was playing the field but still keeping it halal? How interesting that communities want perfect, virgin Muslim women to speak, be in the forefront, but men are judged on an entire different level.

The truth is, I don’t belong. And, I’m not sure if I should be sad about it or liberated. I’m too out there. Too opinionated. Too real for the organizations who like keep up appearances. How sad that we can’t include all Muslims in discussions. Include all Muslims in community campaigns and events. As a Muslim woman, why do other organizations welcome me with open arms? The LGBTQ community, the body positive community, random artists, and loners and the small amount of Muslim sisters who rock with me. With no judgment. They care about my character more than my appearance as a human being.

As for me, I’m going to reach out to other organizations that can handle and will celebrate a fierce, Black Muslim girl.

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 Pitfalls of Being on Social Media and Other Inadequacies

It’s so hard to maintain individuality, a sense of uniqueness in a world that's created for individuals to follow trends.

Sometimes I feel as though I'm not enough. But, why should I? With all the body-positive campaigns and fat women on runways and the first hijab supermodel gracing Fenty beauty, I should be more than happy. Right? I should be basking in the advancements being made by women who kinda-sorta look like me. Something I didn't have growing up. Yes, we've made strides. Things and people's perceptions are changing. But, somehow, the internet still makes me feel...inadequate.

Like I'm not doing enough. Not posting enough. Not the size I should be or at the level of success I should be. Not as perfect as that blogger who was asked to NYFW or cool enough for a company to sponsor her trip to CurvyCon. I sometimes ask myself: what am I doing wrong? Should I just say fuck it and conform? Should I snatch my hijab off, buy a pair of short-shorts and just live?  

I feel ridiculous for even writing things like this, but right now, the internet is my enemy. 

Tulle Skirt: Society Plus 

I'm in one of those erratic moments where I want to delete my accounts and go back to the times where the internet wasn't important. Where we didn't have to vie for attention or calculate engagement levels on posts or swipe through 17 similar selfies to find that one perfect photo. Or make videos in hopes that it'll go viral, in hopes that some important person will take notice and pull us out of our shitty lives of bill collectors and snotty nosed kids or soul-sucking jobs and spouses that ignore us. 

Everyone wants to go viral. Everyone. They want that momentary glory of being known.

If only for a moment. 

What many of us fail to understand is that the internet is ever-changing with a quick turnover rate. One moment you're in and the next, you’re not. The internet is unforgiving. Relentless. Will take a photo of a child with a disability and exploit it. Take a fat man dancing and tell him to kill himself. Take a murder of a black girl and make it 'funny'. 

Is it possible to bring the human element back to the internet? Or am I just chasing my own tail? Is this monster too big for me to slay? 

As a social media influencer, as a writer, and as a model, I feel inadequate. 

I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of fat ass shots and lace fronts and nipples. I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of heavy filters and blurred backgrounds. I'm a covered Muslim girl in a sea of Carbi B lyrics, provocative poses, and injected lips. Big, fake tits at suggested angles outperform my degrees. Waist trainers outperform my words. Flat Tummy Tea outperforms my hijab. 

We live in an era where fake wins. Where white skin wins. Where thin bodies win. Where the most money wins. The most views. The most likes.

How many people do you know who live totally different lives on the internet vs. reality? A staggering amount. People are really creating different versions of themselves and what do we do? We believe it and celebrate it. Boost it to the highest pedestal which makes it hard for the real ones. Makes it hard for the true artists to emerge when we have to constantly fight just to be our true selves. 

The internet and I have a love-hate relationship. I love the fact that we can use it how we want. There's really no rules or structure. For the most part, it's a free for all. It also gives unconventional voices the opportunity to grow their brands and personal lives when they wouldn't otherwise have had a chance against mainstream media. On the flip side, it's become this machine: one where you feed it falseness and it spits out likes and re-shares. Where "IG" cliques are formed and if you're not in the in-crowd then just go fuck yourself because you’re not cool enough. Commercial enough to be tagged, acknowledged. Companies don't want to work with so and so because she doesn't have enough followers or only wants to work with so and so because she's gone viral. What about the story? The quality? The message? 

I'm not feeling that well. In my self-destruction and boredom, I began scrolling through social media. Everyone is so happy. Everyone's lives are going great. Everyone has a man. Has a career. Vacationing in foreign lands. Beat faces and good lighting. Able to buy Riri’s new products before they sold out. 

And, I'm sitting at home in front of the fan. No bra on. Trying to figure out my next step. With the reoccurring question: to social media or not?

xoxo.

Leah V

No Longer Bound By The Scale. How Much I Really Weigh.

I’m 283 pounds.

There. I said it!

In my entire life, I’ve never, ever, ever told my actual weight. Like ever.

I hadn’t even felt comfortable telling people the size clothes I wore. They’d hassle me about it, wanting to buy me jeans or swap shirts, and I’d become enraged that they kept pestering me about my weight and size that I just shut down. “I’m not telling you, ok?” I’d scream.

Funny how life works. How we just up and change, if we want to and if we work really, really hard at it. Never in a million years would I have done this because growing up (and, still today) women and men are so obsessed with calories, portion sizes, and of course, the dreaded bathroom scale.

At my largest, I pushed 340lbs. At those heavier times, since my weight was up and down, but mostly up, I was still modeling and living life. Ayeeeee! But, I avoided scales. Like the plague. I’d go to my thinner friend’s bathroom, shut the door, and when I’d turn around to see a scale, I’d literally jump back into the wall like an alarmed cat. Once I calmed myself, I’d tiptoe around the flat creature and plop down on the toilet. While I peed, I kept my eye on it.

Makeup by Madinah Muhammad (Detroit)

If I hadn’t known what my weight was then I’d be fiiiiiiine.

The lowest weight that I’d ever been as an adult was 143lbs. That was like almost ten years ago, but I can vividly recall everything that it took from me to become a ‘normal’ weight. To become acceptable to society. To get praised by the girls and hit on by the boys. Would you believe that at my lowest weight I still had a ‘fat girl’ mentality? That at my smallest, I felt that I was the hugest human being ever to walk the planet? The fact that I had weighed myself twice a day, had migraines from improper eating to no eating at all, and suffered from body dysmorphia just wasn’t enough to raise a red flag. As long as you looked good on the outside, who cares about the inside. Right?

I chose to be fat and happy, but even that came with its downsides. Unfortunately, as a grown woman, you have to get yearly checkups. That’s when I’d receive my daily dose of reality.

“Hop on the scale,” the nurse said.

I stepped on. The numbers started going up, up, up.

I closed my eyes. I hadn’t wanted to know.

“337,” the nurse announced with what seemed like an intercom for all the staff and patients to hear.

Damn, I had packed on hundreds of thousands of pounds, I thought as she led me to the exam room.

Outfit Courtesy of Torrid. I'm especially digging the Game of Thrones tee! 

The doctor knocked then came in.

Time for the weight-loss talk.

“You see, you’re at risk for diabetes and high-cholesterol and joint problems.” He brought out a chart and pointed. “See, you’re 5”4 and you are in the morbidly obese realm right now. You should be around 140lbs.”

I sat there and thought about what he said. I was already around 140lbs and I almost killed myself mentally and physically trying to stay at that weight. I wasn’t going back there.

Years passed and I’d lose 50 here, gain 100 there, lose 40 and then gain back 70. I wasn’t very nice to my body. I’m surprised it still takes care of me today.

Although, I weigh myself now, I don’t make it a habit. My worth isn’t attached to the numbers that calculate then pop up. I’m not a chart and I won’t be confined to a category of what’s healthy and not. I don’t complain about my weight. I do not obsess over it and I don’t expect others to. My weight. My body is my business. I decide whether it goes up and up, or down and down.

I’m not focusing on the scale anymore. I’m focusing on being a healthier and stronger me—mentally and physically.

***

I hurt my knee at work back in 2013. I could barely walk. Then I got surgery. Oh, man, I was in a ton of pain and wasn’t able to be physical for almost two years. After physical therapy was done, I decided to start swimming. My therapist thought it’d be a good idea to get active because I had anxiety and depression over the accident, my marriage, and just my life in general. Winter hit and I didn’t want to catch a cold, so I enrolled at a small gym. I couldn’t even do ten minutes on the elliptical machine. It was a sad day. After, I had done 30 minutes of exercise, my muscles and bones hurt super bad. I was sore for a week, but I went back. I noticed that I had more energy, I was less angry, and more productive.

The following year, I was going through a divorce. That’s when I started going to the gym twice a day to keep from hurting him and myself. To sweat out all the frustration and embarrassment I felt. The gym and lifting weights became a habit, a healthy habit. I’ve been going five to six days a week for over a year and a half now. And, although, I’m still morbidly obese (as the chart states), I am stronger than I’ve ever been. I can lift 80lbs, I can hold my own body weight up, and I can do an hour of cardio without breaks. I’m flexible, I have energy, and the doctor just gave me a clean bill of health (minus the IBS, ugh!).

I have lost weight, but I will not glamourize it. We have enough before and after photos to make us feel bad about how we don’t look. What I wanted to share are the accomplishments I’ve made once I gave up trying to fit into an acceptable weight category. Once, the power of the scale held not an ounce of power any longer.

If you're no longer held back by what's on the scale, I challenge you to share how much you weigh! It'll be like one of those cool 'burning ceremonies' where we collectively release the (figuritive) weight we put on ourselves. 

xoxo,

Leah V

Why Does Female Empowerment Make You Uncomfortable?

I just had an epiphany.

By just being little, old me, by being a voice, using my voice, not giving two flying fucks about what a hater gotta say, I’m threatening people with my very existence.

I’ll repeat that for the ones in the back. The ones that are hard of hearing.

By being unapologetically me, I’m threatening Muslim men who are clearly sexist, Muslim women who are oppressed and don’t even know it or fail to see it, people from local Islamic communities who are stuck in their archaic and rigid ways of thinking, fatphobic individuals, and white women and men who don’t see color with my mere existence.

That’s crazy. Powerful. Odd.

Dress: Eloquii

I’ve been hearing things. Noticing things. Taking in the comments, sly remarks, and whispers of those around me. I’d like to think that I’m a pretty objective person when I’m not being completely one-sided. And, honestly, I have no problem with constructive criticism. Stuff that’ll actually help me, I don’t know, grow in some way. But some of the things that I’ve been experiencing lately has been ridiculous. If you’d like to paint a picture of me, then you better damn well make that shit accurate, or as close to it as possible.

I’ll give you a bit of insight without going into too much detail because I’m trying to get to a bigger point here and not dwell in the bullshit of others. A few things I’ve noticed are people either blatantly lying about my character, taking slick shots over the internet when they have nooooo business talking, and attacking me (my content) over social media.

“Leah V.” My friend told me, “As you get bigger, more people are gonna come harder with the faux-ness. It’s the name of the game. People are going to make you out to be some kind of villain. Talk shit about you. Hell, even try to ruin your career. Those people have no life. They are just jealous. You gotta let it go in one ear and out the other. Be the bigger person.”

A lot of stuff I agreed with but I’m a human being and letting negative words or comments just pass through without being affected at some point takes its toll. I also have feelings. Feelings that I try my hardest to protect. What does one do when they take the high-road but other people go low? Take the cheap shots as you sit there and block, play defense? And in most of these cases, you can’t even speak up for yourself because a web of lies has already tarnished your name.

Things like this really makes you wonder why people hide, shield themselves with the strongest of walls, and never put themselves or their work out there. It’s hard, man. This shit ain’t easy. Divulging my life. Admitting my faults. Placing my body out in the open for heavy criticism by strangers. By Muslims. Islamaphobes. This isn’t what I signed up for…

In between rants and angry outbursts and curse words of frustration and sadness, I figured out something. When you have problems or issues or you want to figure anything out, you go straight to the source. So, that’s what I did with one question: what does Leah V stand for?

I stand for equality for girls to be able to do the same as boys. I stand for people being comfortable in their own skin. I stand for having the right to decide how you view your body. I stand for one having the right to practice religion or spirituality freely and without the restraints of man or groups of so-called religious communities. I stand for doing what the fuck you want to do when you want to do it. Being you without rules. Twerking. Getting divorced. Wearing hijab. Being proud. Getting an education. Equal pay. Creating art. Exploring your sexuality. Figuring shit out on YOUR own terms.

The last question was why would something I stand for openly make someone else so uncomfortable?

When I started sharing my work, blogging. I told many, many people that I wasn’t a role model. I didn’t want the heaviness of that title to weigh on my shoulders. That I wasn’t a good person and that no woman, man, or child should follow me. That I wrote for me. And if it helped other people then cool. If not, then I wasn’t going to force it down anyone’s throat. You dig me or you don’t. I keep it 100%

But, see, that’s how they wanted me to think. They wanted me think so negatively of myself that I couldn’t successfully push my work, my stories, my narrative. I was told no, no, no. Write this way. Look that way. Don’t be that. You’ll go to hell with the rest of the rebel women. The ones who don’t listen. I just knew that I was going to hell for the way I looked, the thoughts I had, and my inability to please the other Muslims in my community.

They are threatened by me because I embody everything that they are against. They spew lies because they want everyone to know that I’m not worthy of the attention. That what I’m saying has no merit. Who had I thought I was? Breaking down barriers. Telling little Muslim girls that they absolutely do not have to get married at the age of 14, 15 to an old ass man. Telling them that they could be something other than a mother or a housewife. That they could travel alone and not ask for permission.  

When I post a photo. Post a bomb caption. Telling girls to leave that shell behind. I’m doing what they don’t want me to do: empower. Empowering girls. Empowering women. Allowing them the power to make their own decisions about religion, free of constraints, makes them uncontrollable. Free. And the oppressor never wants you to be free. They always want control. And tearing me down and others like me who preach about feminism and equality threatens the control they have over their wives, sisters, and daughters.

I’m here to tell you that although I’m human, I’m also part unicorn. Which means I’m rare, resilient, and easy on the eyes. Trolls, butt-hurt Muslim men, and Islamaphobes won’t silence me. I’ve come too far in my personal life and career to be scared off by some very mean yet personal comments. There’s a girl right now, sitting at home, perhaps sneaking and reading this post or has seen my Instagram feed. Probably hopeless before, she might be empowered, inspired to ask questions, be less conforming, be more herself.

My job as a writer, an influencer is to create a spark, and it’s up to you to turn it into a flame.

XOXO,

Leah V

First Times Can Be Charms, Too

You've probably been wondering where I've been. Well, I've been grinding, day in and day out. Trying to pave a way--on foot--for the fat, black Muslim girl and every other underrepresented individual that's been deemed unworthy by society's standards. 

Posted by Lvernon2000 (June 22, 2017): I'm emotional (tears + snot nose). So, I'm the winner of the 2017 Gilda Award for my work in creative nonfiction by @kresgeartsdet 🎉🎉🎉
I started writing when I was 6. Reading Rainbow was my shit. I entered my first contest then lost, but Levar Burton sent a cool rejection letter so I wasn't going to stop. In my teen years, my father was never there. Mom was juggling 5 kids from different fathers and no help from family. I sought refuge in stories and other worlds. I was homeschooled, weird and thoughtful, more advanced than the kids my age. My friends were librarians. I'd sit in the library nook for hours and just read and dream of a life different from my own broken home. 
I started entering contests. Won a few. I loved Sci-Fi but noticed the lack of black heroines and writers. I set out to be the first and wrote my first novel in college at 17. It was rejected. I wrote 2 more novels and they were also rejected. I blamed it on my color and socioeconomic status. All the successful writers were white and female. There was no room for my fat, black ass. So I stopped and never wrote again...
It was the toughest five years. Can you imagine not fulfilling your purpose? Then one day, when I almost admitted myself to a psych ward, I thought about my life. Like really dug into my core. My passions and talents. I asked myself, "who the fuck are you? Without your ex-husband? Your family? Your friends? Who are YOU?" The response: YOU are words. Stories. After that day, I've never tried to get rich or popular from writing. I was going to write for me. To uplift and to make change. If I had to write for free for ever and ever then that was what I was prepared to do. 
Now, here we are. Making waves 🙏🏾This white photo represents purity, an awakening, a new beginning for me in my career to change the narrative.

Last week, it was announced that I was the recipient of the 2017 Gilda Award for my works of creative nonfiction. 

I beat out 750 artists who applied in Michigan.

With my stories. Stories about my life. That's nuts!!!  

If that doesn't blow your mind, then I'm not sure what can. 

There's so much I'd like to say about this. This huge honor. I'll probably end up writing an essay about it at a later date. I just wanted to be a good friend, pop in, and tell you that I'm not dead. LOL. That I'm okay. And, that I'll be back to regular blog posts in August when my schedule is less hectic.   

Thank you for rocking with meeeeeeeee. 

Leah V. 

How Well Do You Know Your Muslim Friend? (Pt. 1)

Leah V. pulled four of her random friends to have a seat on the orange couch for part one of the "How Well Do You Know Your Muslim friend?" segment..

Prior to the recording, none of them were told what they were being filmed for.

Big thanks to Lala Trips, Brian Peck, RV Mendoza, and Remus Roman far chatting with me. 

Don't forget to follow me @ LVernon2000

Fan Questions Answered with Leah V.

Fan Questions Answered with Leah V.

I like to do random shit. If I feel it, I’m most likely gonna say it (or type it). LOL. I had this cool idea to ask some of my followers to give me some questions to answer. Like LIVE, but not really because it’s like weeks later. I was shocked at the high quality of questions I got. I thought people were gonna ask completely ridiculous stuff. See? That’s what I get for assuming. But, yeah. They really gave me thought-provoking questions.

So, here are my answers:

@Candeecurry What do you feel is your unique purpose in the world? Do you feel as though you are on track?

LV: This is such a good question! And, honestly, it took me a long time to figure out how to answer it. At this point in life, I know that my purpose is to create content and share it with the world. My work is very niche, so everyone isn’t going to get it or like it. My purpose is to defy the odds, show girls, woman (and men) that you can look totally different and not fit the mold of societal beauty or power and still be whatever it is that you want to be. Which, in this world, is hard to swallow.   

Am I on the right track? If you would’ve asked me last month, I would’ve said, hell yeah! Today, I’m not so sure. My ideologies of ‘on track’ differ from day to day. I always hope I am though.

@JasmineN What’s your fave piece of clothing and why?

LV: Surprisingly, I don’t have one. I have a fave food though. HAHA. I’m sorry, I lied. My fave item of clothing are leggings because you can lounge in them and stretch whenever or wherever you are in the world, comfortably.

@becoming_becca.again_ Whose your biggest influencer, the person you look up to?

LV: I have many. A lot of them aren’t even in the “fashion” arena. I really look up to people who are real, raw, and have a backstory that doesn’t involve a silver spoon in the mouth. I love individuals that are a little rough around the edges, ones who went through hell to get to where they are now. People like Oprah, Maya Angelou, and J.K. Rowling. I struggle all the time doing what I do. I’m struggling today. But reading stories of their struggles and how they just believed and kept going really changes my life and outlook.

MUA: Madinah Muhammad

@Thisis_esi Dating as a young fat, black, Muslim woman, challenges? Best and worst experiences?

LV: Oh lordy! Lol. Girl, now you know there is a lot of those challenges when dating. And this is such a touchy topic because I’m Muslim and Muslims aren’t supposed to date, but you know I keep it real. Most guys don’t even approach me because I wear hijab so that knocks out about ninety percent. For the ten percent that have the guts to come up to me or message, they span from fat-shamers, BBW fetishizers, and wierdos. I’ve had okay dates, but no one has stuck yet because I’m finnicky like a cat.

@Prettyinpigment What do you love most about Detroit

LV: Detroit is OK. LOL. The job market sucks. The food here is pretty tasty. Detroit isn’t a fast-paced city but it isn’t slow either. It’s a good balance. It’s laid back and still growing which is cool. I don’t think I’d stay here though; it’s not growing fast enough in the fields of fashion or publishing.

@Lateeforigninals What’s your favorite color?

LV: Black. Darkness! And I like colors, too. Don’t have a favorite. Back in the day it used to be yellow.  

@lionwinemountain What books inspire you?

LV: The Harry Potter Series. I really love YA fiction and dystopian novels. I love being immersed in other worlds. And I’m really inspired by the author’s story of how she created the characters while being broke.

@notmycupofchai What advice would you give to your young Muslim sisters who are trying to find themselves?

Dress: PinkCloveUK

LV: I’d tell them to stick to their guns. Family, friends, and the media will try to persuade you from being who you are truly meant to be. Who you’re comfortable being. Don’t allow them to. You have to be true to yourself and listen to your gut.   

@Saneelatameez What is your greatest fear in life?

LV: Wow. Y’all didn’t come to play games today! Right now, my biggest fear is failure. I’ve always been an overachiever and I thought that perfection was attainable. I still have to remind myself to chill, but it’s hard. I just don’t want to let anyone down.

@itsbenstange What do you want to be your legacy?

LV: I want my legacy to be that girl who didn’t take no for an answer. Who pushed through the glass ceiling even though she had negative two bucks in her account. I want to be that beacon of change of the mass ideology that beauty is only thin or only white. That as a Muslim woman you can. That as a black woman you can. That as a fat person you can. And you will. And you deserve. All of it. I want my legacy to be words. With meaning. With direction. Substance. To change the world from hate and ignorance to understanding and respect for all humankind.

xoxo,

Leah V. 

Stop Policing a Woman's Body

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

***

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

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

Photos Courtesy of Remus Roman Photography 

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

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

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

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

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

Turban: Flossy's Suitcase

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

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

“Why are you wearing pants?” he asked.  

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

“They’re tight.”

“My shirt is long,” I replied.

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

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

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

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

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

“They don’t sell looser pants!?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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