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

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  

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

Visibility in Islam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like in White AmeriKKKa.

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

xoxo,

Leah V

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

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.   

Vulnerability Doesn’t Mean Weakness

I’m an extreme thinker, which comes mostly from my personality disorder. Or so I’ve been told by a mental health professional a few years back. No, I’m kidding. I really do have a personality disorder. Sounds a lot harsher than it really is. Kinda. LOL. Anyway, when an individual thinks in ‘extreme’ terms it usually means that they see the world in black and white. It’s either this or that. There is no middle ground, no in between or gray areas. Of course, that’s a skewed way of thinking, right? There is always an exception to the rule. Especially when we are dealing with the complexities of a human mind.

Vulnerability. The word scared the fuck out of me growing up. I’d witnessed acts of vulnerability in women and seen people get chewed up, mistreated, and tossed out like waste. Vulnerability equated weakness to me. And that learned behavior was a fact in my world. So, I stuck with it. And vowed to never be vulnerable. To never show more emotion than I should. To listen more than I spoke. To always have a one-up on anyone who wanted to fraternize with me.

Emotions. Eww. I’d cry in secret, burying my face deep down in the pillow to ensure that no one would discover my ‘soft’ core. Hugs used to make me feel weird. I’d stand there like a log until they stopped. A few of my family members nicknamed me ‘robot’. I thought it was pretty funny until I got into therapy and she started to unpeel the layers…

Publicly, I’d mask sadness and grief with anger and aggression. Always ending up in a verbal, and on a few occasions, physical outbursts. One time, one of my verbal altercations turned into a physical one. And I ended up in jail for the night. After I was released, I went to my therapist.

“Why are you so angry?” she asked with a straight face.

I hunched my shoulders. Still very much so mad that I’d embarrassed myself and gone to jail in the first place.

She asked again, this time more stern. And, I had a hunch that she’d keep asking until I gave her something.

“Because, I’m a villain and villains are always angry,” I said with a smile.

She chuckled. “How are you a villain?”

I sat up straight. “Villains don’t have emotions. Just like me.”

Her eyes shifted. “You must not be human because I’ve never met a human without emotion”

“Well, my family does call me a robot.”

“You do have emotions,” she concluded. “And you’re certainly not a villain.”

I rolled my eyes. “If I do have them they are completely under control.”

“Under control?”

I nodded.

“So much so that you just got arrested for domestic violence?”

My lips pressed together and she continued, “You’re always angry because your masking your emotions with aggression. It’s ok to be sad. It’s ok feel grief or fear. These are healthy emotions to experience.”

“Stuff like that is for soft people. People who don’t have a backbone. People who get trampled on. I won’t let anyone step all over me. Not happening.” I crossed my arms over my chest like a two-year-old.

“Who ever said that being less angry, vulnerable, and more open made you ‘soft’ or weak?” She explained, “There is a middle ground here. We’ve just got to find one for you.”

During this time, I was very hard-headed. I listened to her to an extent, which led me to keep bumping my head against the wall. Each time, I’d go back to her and explain my outbursts and she’d reiterate the same facts with patience, over and over again. It was ok to be vulnerable. It was ok to show emotions. Emotions didn’t mean that you were weak. She told me that I wasn’t weak. That I was the strongest person she’d ever met. I cried in front of her. She asked me how I felt about that. I told her that I hated crying in front of people and that it made me feel vulnerable. She said, good.

It took me some time to get over it. Well, not really get over it. But to sway my way of thinking about vulnerability as a fat, black, Muslim woman in the united states. How the act works with me or against me as an artist and as a budding business-lady.

In addition to the therapy, blogging and modeling has really helped me break out of the box I’d placed myself in. I find myself the most vulnerable when I’m adding content to my captions or writing an essay about how an event in my childhood unfolded or how experiencing an emotion made me feel. I feel much freer, lighter. More real. Much more like myself. A human being. And that’s pretty cool. I’m less aggressive, less angry. Don’t get me wrong being vulnerable with our emotions isn’t all lollipops and gravy, and you’ll get those jerks that will take advantage, but that doesn’t even add up to the benefits you’ll gain by being your true self. 

xoxo

Leah V. 

Identity: I Wanted to be a White Girl

It’s embarrassing to admit that I wanted to be a white girl for a large part of my life. I wanted the two-parent household, the bed with the canopy in the suburb, the size medium North Face jacket, the long, bone straight hair that always got in my way, and all the privilege and fun that came with it. 

I was in my teens when I drowned myself in white culture. I knew their white movies, their white songs from the 80’s and 90’s, and I just knew that if I lost weight and became ‘flat bodied’ I could pull a white male to marry and have mixed children with, just hoping that they’d have a much better grade of hair that I had.

I had my Caucasian future planned out.

MUA: Madinah M.

Pasted on my wall and doors were pages torn out of magazines of attractive white women. I studied them every time I woke up and every time I went to sleep. I cried softly in my pillow wondering why God put me in a black body. A fat body. An unattractive body.

Magazines were important. They held weight. They notified me of the trends—what’s in and what’s out. Black faces were out. Black bodies were out. White faces, no curves, and long legs were in. Straight teeth, full lips, and light hair was in. Smooth skin, cinched waist, and narrow noses were in. I had none of those attributes. And would never attain any without the help of cosmetic procedures.

I hated myself and no one even knew. I hid my identity issues behind aggression and haughtiness. I was that bitch. That no one could mess with, penetrate, or compete with. But in that mindset, I was stagnant and didn’t even know it. I was closed and warped. I was a white woman trapped in a fat body. I was confused and misunderstood. I was a ball of contradictions. Dying inside, nowhere to turn, no one to talk to about it, no role model to seek out.

Vest: Society+

Just thinking about it now, makes me sad. Makes me angry. It also makes me ponder, how many other girls out there are going through this silent identity crisis? Competing against magazine reality? Wanting to be something that they could never be?

The magazines I trusted and idolized, the magazine that utilized only one model of color in the entire spread who was usually on the lighter side or mixed had betrayed me. The media only highlighting rail-thin models who were as tall as giraffes betrayed me. Those very white movies that I studied weren’t real at all because white-based happy endings didn’t happen in my black, Muslim world. All of it was a sham. Created solely to boost the agenda of what the standard of beauty was and to degrade another. Photoshopped covers of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears was all I could think of. How smooth their skin was, no stretch marks, both breasts the same size, not one hair out of place. I believed that they had attained perfection. That God had given them complete bodily perfection.

Model: Leah V,

Until I figured out that the media wasn’t for me. For us. For the underrepresented. The disabled. The dark. The short. The so-called unattractive. The Muslim.

I had to hit rock bottom before I realized who I was. Who I really was as a person from the inside out. And on the inside, I was not a white woman. I no longer wanted to be a white woman. God didn’t make me a white woman for a reason. And I had become content with that fact. I dived in my blackness wholeheartedly like a mermaid. I created my own beauty standards. Producing my own body positive and beauty campaigns with my own funds. My blood. My mental illnesses.

I stopped believing in those magazines. That reality TV show. Those airbrushed and photoshopped photos that I silently died to attain and started believing in my own abilities. My skills. And I emerged as a stronger black woman. A proud black woman. A crazy Muslim girl in her voluptuous hips and thoughtful mind.

xoxo

Leah V.