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

Episode 1: Body Confidence with Etta Flyy

On Episode 1 of Respectfully Messy with Leah V, we have the dopest, most coolest, most flyy-est guest to pop this podcast's cherry, Detroit's own, Etta Flyy. She's 1/2 of the creative minds behind Naturally Flyy, Detroit's premiere and largest natural hair expo encouraging women to be who they are naturally starting with their hair. 

Today, we are talking about the highs and lows of body-confidence and what it's like to be a woman in a society that constantly tells you that you ain't enough. 

After you listen, we'd love to hear your thoughts. What's your take on body-confidence? Was there are a time where you just wasn't feeling yourself and fell prey to the pressures of unattainable societal beauty standards? 

Let's keep the conversation going! 

Check Etta Flyy out on Instagram. And, you can find me @Lvernon2000, where the shenanigans continues. 

xoxo,

Leah V 

The Last Straw: Kate, Now Anthony

I’ve been deathly ill for the last week and fighting to stay afloat. Sickness waits for no one. Especially a single artist whose staff is made up of one sole person. Me.

A few days ago, when my cold was a baby cold, I was at lunch with a friend when she gasped at her phone. My eyes widened as she explained to me that Kate Spade had committed suicide. The first word that slipped out of my mouth was ‘damn’. The next thought that came to mind was why? I mean she had the entire world at her feet. She was white and successful and rich and white and successful. Seemed like the perfect life to me, to most of us. I mean I had spent a large portion of my life trying to be a successful white woman. Until I figured out that that was totally wrong in itself.

Mental illness, suicide is something that has touched us—directly or indirectly—in some form. Yet, many of us have no idea. No clue how to contain the idea that someone just wanted ‘it’ to stop. So, they made it happen.

Growing up, we were taught that suicide was against our beliefs. And, it is in many religions and cultures. But, that’s such a small way to tackle the issue at hand. I think now that I’ve been through some things and seen some things, I look at it in a different way. I look at mental health in a different way.

Over the last few days more pieces of information were discovered about Kate Spade’s last moments, yet we still aren’t any closer to having an answer. Why’d she do it? What was the last straw? Could it have been prevented?  

Now that the topic is trending, I’m seeing comments like suicide is the coward’s way out, suicide is selfish, and suicide is not the way.

We have to be careful about making blanket statements, because we have not a clue what goes on in people’s lives. Life ain’t easy sometimes.

This morning, I woke up to more horrendous news: “Anthony Bourdain Dies at 61, Apparent Suicide”.

I screamed no in a hoarse voice as if he were a friend I hadn’t seen in over a decade.

His death hit me hard because I am such a diehard Bourdain fan. I first discovered him on the Travel Channel back in 2012 when I was working for a job I loathed. Every day, they’d make me sit with a patient that was abusive and needed much more care than I could give. For the majority of the shift, I’d be cooped up in the patient’s room, both of us shut off from the rest of the floor. I’d turn on Bourdain’s show, No Reservations, and drift off into an imaginary place. Vicariously living through his no nonsense travels, I aspired to be as bold and brave and as open and carefree as he was. He was a white man, but a down white man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty or to learn about another culture different from his.

I had mad respect for this TV personality that I’d never get to meet but could appreciate.

Again, Bourdain is rich and white and successful. But, we have no clue what internal battles people are struggling with that go way beyond success, beyond money, beyond the cars and the good looks.

These tragedies got me to thinking about my own. The ones I lived through.

I remember having a really bad mental break. I was so on edge for weeks, so manic that I started smoking cigarettes. I don’t even smoke cigarettes and I hate the smell. But, I needed something to calm my nerves. I wasn’t eating either even though I loved food. I just hadn’t had an appetite anymore.  

Whatever you can think of that’s valuable in life, I had lost it. The days leading up to it were bad. I was the lowest of the low mentally. The place I was, there was no light, no hope. Just nothingness and emptiness. I reached out. No one grabbed my hand. Maybe they hadn’t known how to deal with depression or maybe they just hadn’t found me a priority. Either way, I was left alone. I don’t ever remember being suicidal, but I do remember questioning why was I on earth? Asking myself what was the purpose of my existence, if I was just taking up space. No one cared. I was nothing. I meant nothing.

Had I sat in that misery for a day more, an hour more, perhaps I’d be in the same predicament.   

Mental illness doesn’t just touch certain people. It does not discriminate. It doesn’t care if you have money or religion or children. Sometimes its circumstantial and sometimes it’s a hormonal imbalance and other times, it’s just because the person sees no value in living.

For the ones who are still living, it is not our place to judge, tell them that they were weak or selfish. It’s our jobs to disassociate the taboos and stigmas attached to mental health and allow people to speak and live in their truths no matter what that might be. It’s our jobs to reach out to our strong friends and our weak friends and ask if there is anything you can do. Maybe they just need someone to listen, a hug, to know that someone cares.

Stop quieting people for talking about their mental health. Stop making them feel bad for reaching out. Stop telling them that if they were more spiritual or was a better human being then maybe they wouldn’t have such problems. Stop adding to the problem by pointing fingers.

Although, I am an influencer and share quite a bit about my life, I still cringe when I have to talk about my anxiety or depression or my personality disorder openly. I cringe because I don’t want to be scolded for sharing a manic episode. I don’t want people judging me or telling me that my issues aren’t valid or that ‘other people have it worse’. I know other people have it worse, but when I feel bad, I feel bad despite the rest of the world.  

But, every time I do share, I get an influx of messages from girls and women that are appreciative that someone, especially someone who belongs to so many intersections is opening the dialogue to normalizing mental health discussions.   

So, I keep talking about it, no matter how cringy. Because it’s apart of our lives, my life.

Let’s keep this discussion going: why do we feel the need to hide our mental instabilities? Why is this topic still taboo in many of our communities?

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

I’m Not Sorry. Actually I’m Unapologetic.

Know what it feels like to be silenced for your entire life? Feel as if you’re trapped inside of your own body? Never being able to live up to any of the standards that are set forth from society, religion, a parent, social media?

That was me.

It seemed as though because of my vast intersectionalities (being Black and female), right from the womb I was told to keep my mouth shut and that my feelings were invalid. I was told that I’d have to always play by the rules, come in second, sometimes third, and be content with that shit. Always smile although pain is right beneath the surface. No one wanted to hear one complain about how hard life was. No one wanted to hear about anxiety or depression or body dysmporphia. If you prayed harder, was a better person and Muslim, then you surely wouldn’t have those sorts of issues.

Fit: Fashion Nova Curve 

Seems like a lot of us are living in denial. And, that we have a ton of projection going on of insecurities. Seems like a lot of us play it too safe and become resentful when others break out of their shells.

Well, I’m here to tell you that no one gives a fuck about your feelings.

After decades of seeing thin white girls on movies stick their fingers down their throats after purging and so wanting to be that thin and that beautiful and acceptable and that white with a skinny tush, I ate and ate and ate then scrambled to the toilet to regurgitate all the ‘bad’ foods and to my dismay, my gag reflex was too strong, so I was forced to be more fat and absorb all the empty calories.  

I was dressed like a boy growing up because a Muslim girl is supposed to be modest, chaste, virgin, and unscathed by the harsh, harsh world. Men wouldn’t want to look at me sexually because I had on a huge tee that covered me like a fuckin bed sheet. Always had to worry about where a man’s eyes were. That’s the main concern. Are you too sexy? Are you asking for it? Did she deserve it?

Lip: Fenty Stunna Lip Paint 

Fat folks don’t deserve to slay. Fat folks need to cut their stomach in half, so they can be thinner with body issues and not fat with body issues. Because fat is bad. And thin is good. Fat is bad. Thin is good. Fat is bad. And, thin is…

Ya know there is one day when a person is fed up, and everything just stops.

And, you come to the realization that nothing is real. Nothing is set in stone. That the sun could just come a centimeter closer to earth and we’d all be fried to extinction. So, if that’s the case, then why are you living to make other people comfortable with you? Why are you ‘waiting’ to start your life?

Discomfort is temporary.

Discomfort is growth.

Growth is necessary.

Booties: Eloquii 

I make people uncomfortable with my mere presence. That fact tickles me. That my presence, my essence is that powerful.   

I won’t be apologizing for my mere being. For being fat. For being Black af. For being Muslim. I’ve said sorry enough by assimilating. By keeping quiet. By accepting abuse and ridiculous requests. By wasting time thinking about how dumb I sound or if I’m dimming someone’s flame because mine blazes so fierce or if this is all an illusion and I fall flat on my face instead of soaring. Maybe I’ll soar.    

Actually, I’m not sorry at all for being myself, I’m unapologetic, and it’s only gonna get better.

xoxo,

Leah V

The Power of Transparency

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

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

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

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

Location: Assemble Sound (Detroit)

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

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

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

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

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

Dress: Fashion to Figure

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V  

I Was Called a Whore Because of This Photo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blocked so many folks that I lost count.

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO,

Leah V 

Leah V on Feminism and the City of Detroit

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

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

The Muslimah Rebel: Why Quitting Ain't an Option

I almost allowed them to stop me.

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

That was almost me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

Stop Calling Women Selfish Because They Choose Birth Control

It really kills me how Muslims can be so judgmental. And, I’m not saying that ‘other’ people aren’t. Trust me they are, but because I’m very much so Muslim, we’re going to speak about that demographic right now.

Do you know how I know that the ‘haram police’ is so judgy? I used to be on the payroll. I was the girl who still maintained her virginity past the age of 13, never took off my hijab, never dated, smoked weed. Ha! Heck no. Weed was wack. And, if you smoked it you clearly were destined to dwell within the fiery pits of hell.

We grew up in a family where my mother only fed us halal meats, read the holy book to us when we woke up and right before we went to sleep (yup, the devil had to be creeping somewhere in the closet), and we weren’t allowed to watch anything over a PG-13 rating and even that was pushing it. We had to close our eyes if there were kissing scenes, and she’d fast forward any music with curse words in it. A man dressed in women’s clothing on TV? She’d turn it off completely. Magazines with Britney Spears in short-shorts, a no-no. She bought us magazines like National Geographic instead, stating it was more ‘educational’.

When I turned 19, I moved out. Her world had become overbearing and controlling.

Society had quickly let me know that the world was not as it was back at home and that judgmental shit had to be tossed immediately.

Although, I was out of Mom’s house, I still hung around a lot of Muslims and their parents. Their parents were judgmental in the wrong kinds of ways. Most of the parents were hypercritical when it came to other people’s kids and their daughters. If they had a son, they could basically be spotted in a strip club making it rain on someone’s ass and it’d be given 99 excuses plus one. But, let it be a daughter and she’s damned to hell forever.

Of course, this trickled down to the Muslim children. They ranged from middle-grade judgy to Muslim parent judgy.  

Shortly after moving on my own, I went to the doctor and requested birth control. I knew for a fact that I didn’t want to have a trillion kids like a lot of the Muslim women had in the community. Most of those women hadn’t held a job, was overly-dependent on their cheating ass husbands to pay the bills, hadn’t had anything past a high-school diploma (if that), they weren’t traveling to faraway lands or experiencing the wonders of life. A lot of them became career mothers, usually pregnant every other year.

Cheers to people who loooooooove having buckets of kids…that just wasn’t me.   

My friends are I were chatting on the couch and pregnancy came up. Someone had gotten pregnant. Again.  

“I’m 99.9 percent sure that I’m covered,” I joked.

“What do you mean?” Someone asked.

“Well, I’m on birth control now.”

By the facial expressions, you’d think I just tossed a cat out the window.

I got everything from ‘that’s not permissible in Islam’, ‘That’s unnatural’, ‘You won’t ever be able to have a child’, and ‘that’s what women are made for’.

I sat there and took the verbal abuse because that’s exactly what it was. Why was I selfish because I wanted to take control of my body? I mean, God gave me MY body. Not them or not my husband at the time. Why were they so adamant on policing my reproductive system in the name of Islam?

Years passed and I was still regularly on birth control. I’d get asked, “Why don’t you have any kids yet?”

My usual responses: because I don’t want to be a mom or I have no money or I’m pursing an education.

None of which were the correct answers for men and women alike. Every time the topic came up, I’d get shunned, told that it wasn’t Islamic, that I was poisoning my body. I’d go to my gynecologist in fear of infertility. And every time, she’d assure me that I’d be fine.

There was one time in particular this older Muslim lady asked my husband (ex) why we hadn’t had kids. He said something clever as to not expose me.

“Because I’m on birth control and when God wants us to have one, we’ll have one,” I said loudly. "Maybe I'll have a Jesus baby..."

She cut her eyes at me and pulled him away. I was shocked when I heard her telling him that she could help find him a wife that’d give him a child…

The last straw was when a friend told me that I was selfish for being on birth control because lots of women are infertile.

“Those pills are poison,” she huffed.

At that point, I’d had it. “So, the prescribed painkillers that you asked me for yesterday aren’t poison?”

Vicodin is okay but birth control is not… Things that make you go hmmm.

Over the years, I’ve gotten shit from both sides for my responsible decision to protect my body from multiple foreign invaders. Babies. I can barely afford rent or my car note. Ugh? How much does a kid cost again? *Counts loose change*

The very people that sit around shaming women for utilizing birth control are men who have multiple kids that they barely take care of, women who have used abortion as their form of birth control instead of just getting on actual birth control, and closed-minded individuals who like to hear themselves talk. Everybody wants to be a Google Gynecologist instead of focusing on themselves.

You are not selfish for wanting to be on birth control. Or not to be on it. You are not less than another Muslim. It’s your body, your choice.   

And, I really believe that this is a topic that should be more openly discussed in the Muslim community and not just shunned and told not to do. And, no I don’t mean a panel of Muslim men ‘man-splaining’ it, but women talking to other women and discussing the choices that Muslim women and girls have the right to have and make.

I can’t sit here and tell you that it’s permissible in Islam. But, Muslims like to pick and choose what they go against. They like to pick and choose what sin is worse than another. Which sin is more ‘acceptable’. That’s not how this works.

As a Muslim, my goal is to please Allah (swt) not man.

So, I’m sorry but not really sorry. I’m a firm believer in birth control as well as my right to make that decision, and I’ll stay on it until I feel the time is right to have (or not have) children.

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

Muslim Girl Dance #BodyProject

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Do I make you uncomfortable? 

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

Visibility in Islam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like in White AmeriKKKa.

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

xoxo,

Leah V

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

Boys Will Be Boys

I don’t like to be the bearer of burden. And, I’ll probably receive hella hate for writing this, but I’m about to be a young-looking 30 and as I age, I’m figuring out that I have very little fucks to give.

I’m 100% sure that this happens in every religion and culture, since the beginning of time, but because I’m Muslim, I’m going to focus on Muslim men.

Islam is a fair and peaceful religion, way of life. It lays out women’s rights; the ability to own businesses, seek divorce, and attain quality education. It clearly speaks against oppression. To even be a Muslim and oppress is an oxymoron, but time and time again we see these acts in our communities and abroad. It isn’t the religion, people! It’s the individuals obsessed with greed. It’s culture. And, it’s just plain not caring about what the religion says and using it as a form of control. From what I’ve seen mostly of the control and policing of our girls and women. Yeah, kinda like how Europeans used Christianity on African slaves or cults use ‘belief’ to control their followers.

With that said, let’s talk about the ‘boys will be boys’ mentality that I’ve seen in several Islamic communities.

One of my friends had a brother who wasn’t forced to cook dinner for the family like his sisters were. He did have dishwashing duties, but would often neglect them to hang with his friends. His sister and I were chillin’ one day and her mother called her. My friend told me that she had to go. When I asked why, she said because her mom wanted her to wash dishes.  

Another unequal rule that was enforced was girls staying out past Mahgrib. Every Muslim boy could be found playing basketball, walking to the store, or just hanging at a friend’s house while the girls were forbidden to leave the confinements of their home. When asked why, the responses ranged from it was ‘too dangerous’ for the girls or plainly, because he was a boy, he could run the streets, and you can’t so just deal with it until you get married.

I’ve had friends that brothers were allowed to receive phone calls from girls, have porn under their mattresses, and even date. If a Muslim girl even looked at a boy, it was over for her. She’d be banished to the prison that was her home. For eternity.   

Infidelity, adultery is a biggie. Muslims love to skate over that one. Especially if you have a penis. You get a ‘get out of jail’ card immediately. You get 99 excuses plus one. Basically, you didn’t even do it, even if they got you on tape. I’ve heard these responses in regards to Muslim men cheating. “Well, maybe he cheated because she wasn’t satisfying him.” “He only cheated once. What’s the big deal?” “He can have up to four wives anyway?” “You want to divorce him just because he cheated?”  

If a Muslim woman cheated, the Day of Judgement would have truly arrived. The woman would literally be pulled out of her home, beaten in the streets, tongue whipped on Facebook, scolded by all and every family member, even cousins she’s never met before, ‘whore’ stamped on her forehead, then divorced and tossed into a deep, dark pit with a hungry lion inside.

And, don’t get me started on old, crusty Muslim men or Muslim fucbois requesting virgins…

I was in college when I started partying. I ripped my hijab off and put on a little black dress. Inside the club, my friends and I noticed a few Muslim guys we knew from the local mosque with drinks in their hands. I wanted to duck and dodge, but my friends told me that they’d already seen us. I rolled my eyes and followed.

They gave us salaams.

“Why are you guys here?” one of them asked.  

I put my hand on my hip. “The same reason you guys are.”

He scoffed. “No hijab?”

“Not tonight.” I grinned.

“Y’all better not be drinking.”

I pointed to his glass. “Like you?”

Of course, he went back and told the whole community about our indecencies. So, we were deemed ‘those kind of girls’. They warned the good and holy Muslimahs not to speak or hang around us. But, the Muslim guys totally soared past the important portion of the discussion: we were all Muslim and none of us should have been in the club with drinks in hand and hijabs left in the backseat of cars. But no one, not one person pointed that out that fact as they hyped the story of us being bad Muslims.

Can we please stop this? Stop enabling these boys. You’re creating arrogant, Muslim fucbois who feel entitled to bigotry and sexism. Stop telling them that it’s okay to treat their women as if they are their mothers, that it’s okay to drink liquor but not eat pork, that it’s okay to marry a virgin when you smashed half the team. Stop making Islam look, appear to be one-sided. Stop using Islam to validate your foolishness. That is not ISLAM!  

As a Muslim girl, I feel like you have to be everything to everyone at all moments of time. How tiring is that? What kind of life is that to live? You have to be pure to Muslim men, nonthreatening to white people, become Mufti Menk at the mosque. We all can’t be Mufti Menk.   

I know that I’m not the only one whose experienced these ‘boys will be boys’ moments in the Muslim community.

I want to hear your stories. Put them in the comments below if you’re tired of the bull!

xoxo,

Leah V. 

My Hijab. My Crown. My Way.

In Boston, my Somali friend and I scarfed down fried pickles and crab legs and chatted about good food, Islam, and being a woman in America. We then ordered these huge desserts that we could barely finish just because.

“Ohh, let me see the photos from your trip to London,” she exclaimed.

I hunched my shoulders and pulled out my phone. “If you must,” I replied because, well, ya’ll know I’m extra.

I swiped over to the photos that I took for this independent Muslim designer, Buno Designs, who makes these bomb handmade kimonos in the UK. The photographer was Parisian and a hijabi and so sweet. And even though I was dead tired from flying overseas, I had approximately thirty minutes to rush to the shoot. I was totally surprised that they had come out so well.

The waitress had returned to the table with our bills and came up from behind my friend who was admiring the photos.

“That’s you?” The white server asked.

“Yes, it is.”  

“You a model?”

I raised a brow. “Yes.”

“May I?” My friend handed her my phone. She swiped right, seemingly puzzled by the photos I took. Every once in a while, she’d glance at me then back at the photos. I waited for her to say something off the wall. She finally handed the phone back.

“Where were those taken?”

“London,” I said modestly. “I had a few modeling gigs there.”

“You model with that on?” she pointed to my scarf. “All the time?”

“Yeah, I model with my hijab on.”

Becky crossed her arms over her chest trying to figure out how someone like me could model, how someone my size and my religion could be living that kind of life that she had been told was only for thin, white women. She couldn’t figure out how to compare me to the Muslims she’d seen on CNN. The ones who were very Middle-Eastern or very extreme. Confusion was written all over her face.  

“Where are you guys from?” She followed up with her interrogation tactics. This was a quite common question from her kind. She was expecting the Middle-East, because clearly there are noooo other kinds of Muslims anywhere in the world.

“I’m African-American Muslim,” I said with a smile.

My friend replied, “I’m Somali Muslim.”

“Oh.” Becky nodded then after an awkward pause she said, “Those photos are really nice.”

I yearned to reply: I know. But I said thanks instead.   

I knew she wanted to pry more into our lives but had other tables to wait. Or maybe she got the very real feeling that her delivery was all wrong and that her presence was annoying us. Whichever one it was, her mind was doing complete somersaults as she walked away. She’d just been taught a lesson on stereotyping.

But this incident got me to thinking about hijabs and why we wear them. And how others perceive a girl in hijab. A girl whose visibly Muslim af.  

Wardrobe Courtesy of Navabi

***

When I was younger, not even going to lie, I had major issues with the hijab. It made me standout, made me different. And different wasn’t in. I yearned to be normal. For the most part, I wore it because if I didn’t, I felt it’d make Mom angry, disappointed in me somehow. But I didn’t like the way it made me feel. It was a piece of long, draping clothe on my head that wasn’t that serious, but was at the same time. People had been making such a big deal out of not seeing my hair that I started to view hijab as the problem…and not society and how they viewed differences of other cultures and religions. I was too young to understand that. So, I blamed the hijab.

For me, growing up, the hijab was so closely connected to the identity of being a Muslim woman. We looked down upon girls who didn’t opt to wear the hijab. We called them weak. Ostracized them. Questioned their faith and asked what was so hard about wearing it. I mean, hadn’t they loved Allah? We had been conditioned to predict whether or not you were a ‘good’ Muslim based on a cloth that covered your hair and neck. I fell into that trap, that mentality, until I was faced with the same challenge: to wear or not to wear.

***

“Out of all the kids, I thought you’d be the one to stop wearing your scarf,” my non-Muslim aunt said to me. I was like nineteen. And it hurt my feelings.

I guessed my struggle with it was more outward than I initially thought. Even though, I’d never took it off in front of her, she sensed my indecision. For me, the hijab became safe, a habit. I wore it out of loyalty and not want. I snatched it off in the night when I was going out to party. I just wanted to be without the attachments of it, but it’d always resurface. I’d show my ID to the bouncer and he’d stare at it for a long time. Then glance up at me. My ID showed a hijabi. The girl who stood in front of him was a ‘regular’ girl just wanting to have a good time. One was so brazen to ask where my hijab was. I snatched my ID from him and stormed into the club.

How dare he? I thought.                                  

The next question to myself was, where was my hijab?

***

I’ve learned a lot as I’m nearing the big 3.0. I’m even working on a memoir to showcase the evolution of self. My growth into becoming me. Being ok with being Muslim. Being black. Being short. Being overweight. Being a child whose parentless. And because I’m cool with me, I also understand that others may not be, and that’s cool, too, because that has absolutely nothing to do with me. Your dislike of my choice of hijab, is personal and ignorant.  

People wear their hijabs (or don’t wear it) for many different reasons. But the majority of people, including Becky at the restaurant, believe that it’s a sign of oppression. The media has made it so that closeminded individuals have been brainwashed to think that when they see a Muslim woman covering her hair and body that automatically equates to she’s being forced by her evil Arabic speaking father. They have all these notions of you being bald, you being forced into an arranged marriage, you being subservient to a man, and that you absolutely, unequivocally couldn’t be a feminist. All hell would break loose if a hijabi was a feminist. *Gasps*

Deciding. Really deciding to unapologetically wear my hijab for me has been the most freeing and rebellious and feminist thing I could possibly do.

I don’t wear my hijab for others so they could think I’m a good, practicing Muslim girl. Nah. I do it because it is me, it is my crown, my shield. It tells people that I’m strong in my belief whether I say it or not. I’m proud and loud of who I am. And that no bigot shall prosper on my watch. And because I’m so ‘out there’ with it, it makes individuals (like Becky) very uncomfortable. They just can’t figure out how a girl like me continues to defy odds, being different, being openly true, while getting beat down daily for being a minority Muslim.

“They tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds.”

-- Dinos Christianopoulos

xoxo,

Leah V.

The Black Girl with Many Faces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

I’m Muslim, But I’m not the Poster Child for Islam

I blog from the heart. I don’t have ten blog posts in the que or any idea of what I’ll say prior to. I basically blog about anything that pops into my head at the moment: an idea, a pattern, controversy, or clichés. A very disorganized blogger to say the least. But I feel that it brings about this certain spontaneity that I’ve come to love and enjoy.

Yesterday, I took a good friend and vintage store owner a hearty bowl of chili. She’s just as wacky as me and we vibe. She wants me to headline one of her in-store events. Talk about perseverance and failure. As we chatted about the logistics and how I felt about the event, the conversation took an interesting turn.

Now, she isn’t Muslim but I am. Some days I’m an OK Muslim and other times I drop the ball, fall into a bowl of hot soup, tumble down a mountain, and land face first into a puddle of mud. Yes, it’s true. Unfortunately, I’m not the poster child for Islam as many think or believe.

All Photos By: Clos Productions

But let’s go back a bit.

I told her that I may have a possible collaboration with a male model coming up.

“This might cause some controversy. Ya know because I’m Muslim and all,” I divulged.

“This would be such a cool topic to discuss,” she said. “Muslim women in artistic fields. Where is the line drawn between art and religion?”

I pondered the question for a bit. Where was the line drawn for me? Then I thought of Noor Tagouri, the covered hijabi who was featured in Playboy. How did she feel when she made the decision to collaborate with an established ‘sex’ magazine? Did she understand the ‘Haram Police’ backlash that she ultimately got? As a public figure, would I be tested with the same opportunities?

My friend then asked, “So what if Vogue called you right now and offered to have you on the cover of the magazine, but only if you pose with a man with his shirt off. Would ya do it?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. It’s Vogue for goodness sake. “I mean, I wouldn’t have an issue with it, but I’m sure some Muslims would.”

Photo: Clos Productions

But then things got really confusing inside my head. As a Muslim woman, why wasn’t I outraged at Noor for being in Playboy? Why wasn’t I uncomfortable modeling with a male? What’s wrong with me? Am I like half a Muslim or something? And the rocks started to fall. I thought about all the shoots I’ve done and my clothes being tight, the lipstick heavy, and I rocked a turban and not traditional hijab. What kind of role model was I being for young Muslim girls? Was I teaching them the wrong rules? Am I saying that it’s ok to go against Islamic guidelines? Rules that are set for a reason.

Oh, boy.

When I first started blogging, I never said I was Muslim. If people assumed or asked that was one thing. But most people just thought I covered my hair for style purposes. Why did I do this? Because I didn’t want to shame Islam. I didn’t want people to get me confused with what a ‘good’ Muslim girl looks like. So, I hid it because it was easier. It’s always easier to run away instead of hitting the issue head on.

On the flip side, I argue, what does an ‘acceptable’ Muslim look like? Sound like?

I haven’t found out yet and I probably never will. I know so many Muslims on different levels of deen and life. Some are very horrible people, the scum of the earth while others are the sweetest and most caring individuals you’d ever meet.

One thing I do know is that art and expression is life for me just as my identity as being a Muslim is. Is it possible for religion, spirituality, and art to go hand in hand? Or will there always be a tug of war between these identities?

I remember when I was little, I wanted to take up ice-skating and cheerleading. Both had a uniform of tights and leotards or short skirts. Mom wasn’t going to let me do them because I was Muslim and Muslim girls didn’t show their curves. As a kid, I was so limited. I couldn’t do anything fun and be Muslim. I couldn’t write stories that had kissing in them and be Muslim. I couldn’t go to prom and be Muslim. I couldn’t say anything wrong and be Muslim! Being Muslim as a child and teen wasn’t an amazing time for me.

What I wanted to ask was what could I do as a Muslimah…

Makeup: Madinah M.

I believe that’s why I am so ‘out there’ with my expression and art today because I was stifled for so many years. Unable to explore and experiment.

So to tie all this randomness in, I say that I’m not a poster child for Islam, but in saying that have I just become the poster child for Islam? LOL. Have I become what one of the ‘real’ Muslim women in 2016 looks like?

I don’t know. You be the judge.

*Shoutout to Carlos at Clos Productions for the super fly photos. See more of his work at Clos Productions on IG.

XoXo

Leah V.

Objectification Of A Fat Woman

With this newfound divorce situation, I have officially entered into the ‘dating’ phase or as I have dubbed it “The Hunger Games”. And it is as I had expected it. Harsh af. I’m not even going to lie, I got married super young and was in my previous relationship for almost a decade. I’ve been thrown to the wolves per se. I’m a guppy now swimming with sharks. I created a Tinder account and a few others that shall not be named!

But this ain’t about me being Muslim and entering the dating scene and how wrong it is or how the ‘Haram’ police are going to troll me to death for writing this. This is about the countless men who have objectified me during the process. Let the bashing begin (told ya it was The Hunger Games).

So not only am I Muslim but I’m fat. So you can see my predicament here.

MUA: Madinah Muhammad

On my little Tinder profile, I talk about my likes and dislikes and so on and so forth. Trying to make myself appealing to the Metro-Detroit bachelor. I’ve hit a new low. I’ve accepted it. HAHA. On each of the photos I chose to share, I’m covered from head to toe. I have no boobs out, no backside shots, and no type of anything that would warrant unsolicited dick pics or 50 Shades of Grey freaks.

Oh, no. You and I thought wrong. That doesn’t matter at all. Because whether I’m naked or not, all the guys see are my curvatures. Mainly the butt and hips. And for some reason, they can’t see past those attributes. Yes, America. I’ve been objectified.  

I’ve gotten unsolicited/unwanted dick photos. I’ve been asked to ‘sit on’ someone’s face. I’ve been asked to participate in a threesome. And countless inappropriate comments regarding what they would ‘do’ to my butt, hips, and lips.

And these comments were all before even saying hello, asking my name, or inquiring about how I was doing… After I finished grimacing and taking multiple showers to scrub the filth away left by these nasty dudes, I either deleted or blocked them. If they happened to have had my number, I gave them a chance to redeem themselves. Hey, we all need a second chance to bounce back from being a sleezebag. It can happen to any one of us. Honestly.

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

One White guy, in particular, was the worst. After he let me know that he was obsessed with my lips and ass, I told him upfront that I wasn’t anyone’s fetish and to basically treat me like a ‘normal’ person aside from my curvy parts. I even went as far as to asking him to tell me what his rendition of what feminism meant. He told me. I was satisfied with his answer. The next day, he texts me referring to my hips. Then got an attitude when I told him that it wasn’t acceptable to greet someone referring to a body part. DELETE!

I get it. Men are very visual and physical beings. I also understand that ever since the Kardashian/NickiMinaj/AmberRose faux curve revolution began fat and curvy women have been overtly sexualized, fetishized, and objectified. I mean, we are sexual beings but make sure you gauge the 'freak radar' before you start asking people to, let’s say, sit on your face.  

Either way, whether you're thin or curvy, it doesn't give men (or women) the right to objectify you or your body. We get so caught up in not wanting to make others feel uncomfortable, when in turn, we are really only hurting ourselves. I'm sorry. I'd really like that date to the movies, but if you feel like you can't see past my hips to get to the real me, then no thanks. I'll take single-life-Ben-and-Jerry's-Netflix any day of the week.

Also, want to give a huge shoutout to my photographer Brooklyn Cashmere for coming up with the "Fat Girls Can Slay' concept that you see above. Yall follow her on the Gram! And give her some love.

XOXO

Leah V.