Leah V Goes To A Tony's After Party

Another Vlog from NYC hot off the presses. I was invited to partake in a Tony's After Party and it was lit! I also saw Lupita and froze up like a lame! LOL. It's all good though.

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Creating Your Own Opportunity

Photos Courtesy of Joshua Kissi NYC

The future is so unsure. Seems like nowadays things—people are so uncertain. Some of us are up then some of us are down, and we just fluctuate from being up and down then down and up again. I’ve noticed this since I’ve recently been deemed as whole ass grown adult that life is fluid. And, that at the end of the day we all have choices—whether we think we do or don’t. You have a choice and so do I. Doesn’t matter how bad or good something is, you can say yes or no. Perhaps, even maybe.

I remember in my teens and early 20’s that I longed for someone to tell me the “right” way to do life things. I wanted people of age to give me the answer, that golden truth of success and belonging in this world. For the most part, the people who knew nothing about me or wanted me to fall in their content with “whatever I’m given” footsteps told me what I should do, who I should be. I rebelled because if life looked anything like what they were handed, what they accepted then I wanted no parts in it.

For the few folks that I regarded with high esteem and respect, they would always tell me something along the lines of “create your own opportunity”.

I’d grumble internally, angry at the fact that they hadn’t given me the answer that I so desperately wanted, that I needed. I needed an adult to tell me what to say, how to think, and most importantly tell me what my voice was. What it sounded like. Where to find it.

“Create your own opportunity, Leah,” the voices of mentors echoed.

I couldn’t comprehend what they meant. I looked at the shit I had—which was zero and found it impossible to create something viable from nothing. These adults must’ve had it all wrong. Clearly, they’d been set up much more lucratively than I. I was never going to be the person I was looking for.

I still never stopped asking myself as well as others about this so-called self-made opportunity.

Although hard-headed and rigid in my thinking, I’ve got to give credit to myself, I have always been curious. Curious to know how stories and narratives came to be. To exist. I’ve always been curious to know why some of us have and others have not. What characteristics does one have to possess to be on the other side of greatness.

To me, greatness was always something I’ve dreamed of, yet hadn’t known exactly what it entailed. But, I always knew it’d be good for me to experience.

I complained a lot about the resources I didn’t have. I’d explain my ideas to different artists and friends, and they’d be like, you should do it. And, I’d always reply, “I’m Black, I’m fat, and I’m a poor woman. You’ve gotta have resources to pull that off.”

There were times in my life where I hadn’t had shit. Like nothing. But, looking back, that’s not fully true. I remember one time, I had upwards of ten calls per day coming from bill collectors. My bank account was in the negative. Overdraft on top of overdraft. The phone calls were getting to me. I couldn’t pay them no matter how bad I wanted to. So, they continued to blow my phone up.

“I’m stuck,” I cried. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I got up and opened the door.

I returned to the couch, sniffling and watching the clouds go by. I was angry that I was so educated and had no job. And, that the jobs that were paying were 8 and 10 dollars an hour. Which would only put a dent in my piling debt. I was mad that my husband at the time could only afford to hold down the rent and nothing else. I was mad that my mom was mentally ill and that my daddy wasn’t there. That my family hadn’t reached out nor was financially able to lift me out of the shit show that I’d created trying to educate myself in America.

I cried and cried and cried some more.

After that, I asked myself a question: what can you do right now for free instead of crying and feeling sorry for what you don’t have?

I answered myself: I could probably write. I mean, I do like writing stories and I do want to be a serious writer one day. I could write for practice at least.

So, I wrote.

What else can you do for free? I can post my stories on Instagram.

So, I posted things on Instagram.

There were fashion events and networking events that I could meet people at. Some free and some not. For the ones that weren’t free, I emailed the organizers and told them that I had no money but would like to attend. 90% of them would send me complimentary tickets.

I created content and emailed people. When that batch was a fail, I created more things and emailed it to more people. Most of them were rejected or ignored. I had my times where I was like fuck this opportunity shit. I need a real job. My bills aren’t going to get paid from “opportunity”. Which meant that in-between jobs that I absolutely loathed I created content and emailed people.

My thoughts were that if I kept doing this that one day someone would be like hey! She’s not only talented but diligent. For the most part, I would hang onto the hope that one day I’d get the yes that I was looking for. I knew that I was good, but I needed others in my fields to validate my talent on a larger scale. I couldn’t do it alone.

When I tell you to create your own opportunity, I am telling you something that has been said to the folks before me and will be told to the folks after me until the end of time. You might not get it right now and maybe you will not understand it, but there is so much wealth in that simple statement.

Opportunities are everywhere, all around us just floating around. Many of us don’t see it. Many of us miss it. Many of us allow them to pass because we are too scared that we aren’t qualified. That we will make a fool of ourselves. We get that “what will other people think?” syndrome going on.

But what would happen if you just did it anyway? Learned as you go. Grabbed that opportunity by the arm and molded it into something cool and great. Something with purpose.

Stop waiting for an opportunity to stumble upon you. Go out there and capture one.

xoxo,

Leah V

Day 1: 30 Days in NYC

Photos Courtesy of The Travel Critic

Last month, I decided to buy a ticket to New York. To live for 30 whole days. To feel what it feels to be a New Yorker. To see if I can “make it” here.

Why? Well, several reasons. Detroit is a dead-end for me. I keep trying to figure out why I’m still there, actually. Also, people never believe that I am from Detroit. It’s like I’m so freakin unicorn. They always guess New York or LA. Anywhere but Detroit. Every time I come to New York on business and see all of my friends, they always end the conversation with “Bitch, would you move here already!” I usually chuckle and say, “It’s not the right time.”

When is the time ever right, though? With the whole “time” thing, I also just don’t have the income. But, when do I ever have the income? LOL.

I am also slightly fibbing. Not like a whole ass lie, but a fib.

Although, I really don’t have the income to support myself in the Big Apple, I am scared as fuck mostly. Moving to NYC is a whole ass change from Detroit. All of my friends are in Detroit. Like my real-ass-down-for-whatever-type sister friends are there. I also hate the subway system. People just not washing their hands and touching on everything. Ugh! They also put their garbage on the sidewalk! Double ugh.

I might’ve also been in some mental distress during that time of said purchase of the ticket. But before I bought it, I asked myself. Are you really happy here? I also added: Are you truly thriving in Michigan?

My finger hoovered over that final submit button as I made sure to pick that date of February 12th (cuz I wasn’t trying to be in Detroit surrounded by all the lovey-dovey couples on V-Day). I’d rather be alone in New York than in the seemingly relationship capital of the world, Michigan.

Which brings to me why I dropped in (y’all know my blogging is sporadic af). Well, there’s several reasons. All which lead to fear. I’ll explain because I’ve been talking a lot about that lately.

Because in my 31-year-old mind, I feel like I’m anxious about everything. I’m constantly jumping up at the most minor surprises. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve literally screamed when my roommate appears out of nowhere.

For the last month, I’ve been preparing for New York. With each passing day, more anxiety surfaces. There’s not enough time to get it all done. I’m under deadlines galore. People are texting and emailing and asking for shit, that I may or may not have. On the flipside, bills are like everywhere. On top of my hijab, whispering in my ear, and putting me in headlocks.

What if you fail? I asked myself the night before my flight. I had been packing for two days straight and in a slump because New York is so expensive and for me to be here for a month will cost me too much and I still have to pay for rent and car note back at home. Double the bills!

The morning came and I felt like shit. Like complete and utter shit.

“I’m not going,” I said to myself. “Nope. Imma stay right here. Cuz it’s easier.”

I text my friend. She was like nope. I burst out crying. It was too much to uproot my entire life. What the fuck was I thinking? I can’t compete with the New York crowd. They are the top of the litter. Who was I? Just a Midwest gal trying to level up.

What had I expected to get done in 30 days? I knew I wanted to meet folks and try to get a few gigs, but other than that I hadn’t had a plan.

No plan at the age of 31 sounds messed up. By this age, I’d thought that I’d have the answers. Or at least most of them. Right now, my gut is telling me to be in New York. That there is something here that I need to discover, uncover. Yet, I have no idea what that is.

I sound crazy. Maybe I am crazy.

I’ve always wanted to be in New York, but I always wanted the glamourized version. The Caucasian movie version. With the income I have I gotta take the thug version, leap, and see what happens.

My insecurities have been heightened. Am I unique enough to break through that ceiling? Is my story worthy of being told here? Will I have the stamina, the perseverance to continue to pitch myself even when I’m told to fuck off?

Right now, I am second guessing my strength because I am in a foreign place. Right now, I am struggling to find—remember my whys. The why now? The who cares?

I don’t give myself enough credit either. I have forgotten how much shit I’ve done, accomplished from little ole Detroit, the almost middle of nowhere. How many people in New York hadn’t even gotten the same opportunities as I had, and I don’t even live here? That says something. That means that I’m valuable enough that folks have sought me out and would spend a budget to have me flown in. I still can’t believe people fly me out to give talks and model. That’s nuts!

I don’t give myself enough credit for continuing to tell my truths, my story even after the way I’ve grown up, how my marriage went, how I fucked myself over by caring what others thought of me. Even after all the shit that has been said and done to me, I am still here. I remain. Just as hardheaded as ever. Although, I have my afraid moments, I do it anyway. Although, I have no idea where I am going, I go anyway. And, that is admirable in my eyes. It means something.

I guess what I am telling you is that at some point you will be scared to do things, you will absolutely not want to do it, but if you want to metaphorically fly at some point, you’ll have to step out of your comfort zone and take the leap. No one is going to make you do it. No one is going to show you the way. You have to pave your own way. You have to be uncomfortable in order to grow. And, I don’t know about you but growth ain’t an option. It’s a necessity. I’m trying to grow beyond my wildest imagination.

So, here’s to Day 1 in New York.

xoxo,

Leah V     

Fear: Taking Leaps and Bounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My feelings were hurt. I was defeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V   

The Unconventional: Thriving As A Covered Model

Sometimes I think it’d be easier to show my ass. I mean my entire meaty ass that’s filled with fat craters and stretch marks. Like the whole thing sitting up on a sink like I see the other gals doing. You know those multiple photos on a girl’s Instagram page as she takes a half body selfie in the mirror with her ass cheeks out. Do you know how much I’d save on wardrobe??? How much time I’d save locating photographers and setting up shoots? To live the life of an IG model who posts semi-nudes and has followers stacked on followers and doesn’t have to worry about engagement because, hello! Sex sells. Bare skin sells. And, oh, I forgot to add, this only works for certain body types. Not all bodies get to show and be empowered by semi-nudity. Only the right kind of bodies get that right. The right kind of thin. And the right kind of thicc or curvy.

I was scrolling down my timeline yesterday and saw a post that read: nudity empowers some and modesty empowers others. Which I totally agree with and this is not a “bash people who are empowered by showing their bodies on the internet” post so if you know me or have read my work or follow the folks that I support and even try to place that in this equation, you can go royally fuck yourself.

What I am shedding light on is the fact that many of us feel that we should show more body (for the wrong reasons) just to stay relevant or get validation or receive more likes.

And, we see this not only with influencers but adolescents as well. I feel like now a lot of girls (and boys) have this mentality that the sexier the better. The barer the skin the prettier. The bigger the butt the worthier.

Modesty equals prudishness. It equals being confined to one stereotype. It equals less popular. The inability to be sexy, feel sexy, be fierce.

Because I grew up Muslim, we weren’t taught to be sexy. Sexy was forbidden. There was no need for a Muslim girl to feel or be sexy at all. The extreme end of modesty was humble, colorless, loose clothes, bare face. The idea that you shouldn’t want or feel the need to be seen. Lower your gaze. Be bashful.

And after hearing stories of other cultures and religions having the same experience as above, it’s as if you can be only one or the other. There is no in-between. What’s too sexy and what’s not sexy enough look like? What’s true body empowerment versus an attention seeker who just wants to be validated for her body and nothing else?

I feel like I’m in a weird place as someone who lives so openly on the net. And, believe me, I am not the most modestly dressed Muslim you’ll see, but I’m also not the most nude either.

One day, I was at an indoor spa and I had on a bathing suit in the water. It wasn’t a bikini top, but it was more like a sleeved swim top and the top part of my chest was out. I don’t remember if I had my hijab on or not, but I made a boomerang and a few Muslims went hard on me. Scolding me for showing my body. It’s this idea that you are or you aren’t. There is no in-between. This ideology that many of us carry is problematic in so many ways. It alienates people. It forces them to be someone they aren’t just to please the masses, please their communities. When truly, it’s not who they want to be.

I don’t want to feel pressured to show my ass for likes. But I appreciate others who show their asses for a cause or because they want to be free or want to show others that there is confidence in being okay with your body. I don’t want to feel pressured to cover my body or hair either. To pretend to be fake modest like I had when I was married or when I was more involved with the Muslim community. When I wanted to fit in to their standards of how a Muslim should look.    

I’d like to wear what makes me comfortable, whether I get validation or likes or not. I’d like to be liked for me. I’d like to be accepted for me. Whether that’s fully covered or not or somewhere in between.

But, I will tell you right now that in no one is it easy to be a fat, Black model who also happens to be a semi-covered Muslim. Every time, I book a gig, I am all types of shocked. And all kinds of grateful because I can’t do and wear what the other models do and wear. So, it limits me. But, when I do step up, I am serving looks so hard that I want to make them forget that they have a Muslim girl on set. I am so fierce that all they see is a girl that will kill that shot every single time. So, that other girls (and boys) who are behind me or standing beside me have a chance to walk in that door and wear their culture or religion proudly in that campaign or on that panel.

xoxo,

Leah V  

Everything is Going to Change

When I was a little girl, I used to hate change. Mom would always tease me. “Amerra, likes for everything to remain the same.

Amerra, which means “princess” in Arabic, and the Islamic name I was given as a child.

I think I’m still that person. Inside anyway. Little Amerra is still in there trying to halt movements that are too fast, too uncomfortable. It’s so safe right where we are. To move in an unknown direction, to make a leap of faith is just too much for her to carry, too much for many of us to carry.

So, we remain stagnant. And comfortable. Never venturing out into the wild that is life.

It is both sad yet understandable.  

For me, I was forced to accept change. Does that mean I’m in love with it? Hell nah! But I get it. I understand—for the most part—that if I don’t move, the world will continue to move with or without me present.

When I say that I was forced to accept change, I mean that a series of shit occurred. Shit that stunned me. Shit that rendered me helpless, confused. Everything stopped. I was at the crossroads of going left or right. On the left was pain and misery on the right was also pain and misery. But, the right had some added benefits. With that pain and misery was acceptance. It was a route that I would be able to become my own narrator. Instead of allowing the world to narrate for me.

I think that too many people are afraid to take the wheel and become their own narrator because for one it’s scary as shit and secondly, it makes them accountable.

Change to me was being accountable. Holding others accountable.

Trust me when I tell you that this role isn’t easy to slide into. You come up against a lot of foolishness once you take on the challenge. I’ve noticed that people want to do what they want without consequences. Everyone just wants to be accepted as they are. But, that’s not really fair. Maybe your ‘as is’ ain’t good. Not good for you and not good for others. I know for a fact that mine wasn’t. Like at all. The person I was five years ago wasn’t good. It was doable. But not great.

Everything is going to change, I told myself two years ago.

And, would you look at that. Everything has changed.

I’ve changed. Situations have changed. Some slow and some fast. I’ve found myself being able to cope with change much quicker and more openly than before. I’ve moved less away from the rigidity of childhood and become a tad more fluid.

Yet there are still moments of complete rigidness, where I won’t bend for shit. Some work out and others, I am again forced to accept.

I’m still learning when to hold on and when to let go.

Last year, for me, was a year of hardship and discovery. I discovered that I had writing talent that I always knew I had but others wouldn’t give me the time of day to figure out. I always wondered how I was going to get my work seen. Heard. Nobody was checking for me. My little artsy feelings were hurt. But, I had talent, I screamed from the tops of mountains. Still no one cared.

When I tell you that I quit or almost quit multiple times is an understatement. It is HARD to do what I do. You, the spectator, get to look at the pretty photos and read the well-crafted sentences for free. Not seeing all the behind the scenes work that’s put into it. Not seeing me trying to drag myself out of bed every morning. Battling depression and anxiety. Wondering if anyone is reading this shit or am I just talking to my damn self.

I made a promise though. That no matter what, I’d always write. Every day. For free, if I had to. Because I am words and words are me. Simply.

This year. Man, this year, my endurance was put to the test. There wasn’t a chance to quit or tussle with change because I had gotten all the opportunities right in my lap. They piled on top of each other. After starting my blogging career in 2013, things were starting to change. For the good and bad. Friends started to drop off like flies, their true intentions revealed. I landed my very first commercial in the UK. I went to Barcelona on a random solo trip. I still don’t have a man on the account of me being too “intimating”. I’ve cultivated so many relationships with so many lady friends and have built a tribe all over the world.

“Everything is going to change,” I said to myself right before I knew I was getting divorced. Right before I knew all the foolery that he was a willing participant in.  

I felt it in my bones. In my aura. I knew it was coming whether I wanted it to or not.

And, it did come. Sooner than I wanted but that’s not for me to control. I can only control how ready I am for it when it comes.

What has changed in your life? Were you ready for it? What kind of change would you like to see in the near future?

Xoxo,

Leah V

UK Collaboration With LOVEDROBE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Creative Director: @kokocurve 

Photo: @olivia.lennn 

Video: @kmhvideography 

Wardrobe: @topsycurvy @lovedrobe 

Looking Back On 2017

I can’t believe that I made it. For a long time, I hadn’t thought that I could.

Many of you who have followed my blog or my Instagram feed or even know me in real life understand that 2017 was filled with high highs and the lowest of lows. Having to navigate the world as a freshly divorced Muslim woman who was left with zero. Zilch. After ten years. Separating myself from toxic family members. Being dragged into bullshit by supposed friends, trolled by Muslims, and fatshamed by strange men who knew nothing of me when my dance video went semi-viral.

It has been an emotional rollercoaster to say the least.

As I sit on my bed with two pillows propped behind my back and under two old blankets, I am reminded of 2017 and all its adventures and struggles.

In January, I was severely depressed. Being only a few months post-divorce, no job or insurance, I had no prospects. It was winter, the sun was barely shining, and I fought to hang on. I was still blogging and trying to restart my YouTube page and look for a low-paying job with two masters. I tried to keep myself busy and took a shot at applying for an artist fellowship. It took me a month to complete the packet. But, I did and submitted it.

Maybe I’d get it and maybe I wouldn’t.

Things were quiet. I had to sit with myself. Figure out who I was and what I was made of.

During the silence, I’d cry when I thought about what was done to me. What I’d been through. I started to get spiritual because it was the only thing that was going to save me. My life was spiraling out of control.

I told myself that if I was to come into any money, I was going to book a trip somewhere in the world.

Shades: Alley & Eye

I’d hurt my knee in 2014 at work and the job treated me so badly, claiming because I was fat was the reason why I got hurt when clearly a patient attacked me on camera and I ended up falling over a chair.

My lawyer called me and after three years, they finally wanted to settle. Although they screwed me mostly and my lawyer took almost half, I had money to last five months. I decide to book my trip and live off the rest and try to pursue my creative career.

I was so scared to book the trip to London and Paris. I’d never been overseas by myself before. I called all my friends who traveled, just freaking out. They were just like book the damn tickets and stop trying to control everything. I booked the tickets and almost threw up. Every day, I regretted booking the flights, but there was no going back.

That trip was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever done in my life. I didn’t know what to expect and took everything moment by moment. Hell, I didn’t even have a working phone. I relied on strangers and my own intuition to get me through. I modeled (without an agent) for large companies, got my wallet stolen in Brixton, got lost a thousand times, I went on a date, I ate sushi, and semi-hitchhiked with a Russian. I made connections and I challenged myself like never before.

I came back refreshed and ready to take on the remainder of the year. During that time, I wrote another book. I’d written three books before this one, but they were all Sci-Fi. This was the first book about my life. I started with a story about being a poor fat kid growing up as the only Black Muslim in the neighborhood. Then the other stories began to spill out of me. The real story about my divorce, Mom’s mental illness, and my body image issues.

Musings of a Fat, Black Muslim was written in three months. I didn’t seek representation for it because I was running out of money and needed to look for a job. So, I put my project away. Many months were wasted filling out apps and sending my resume to hundreds of companies and not one responded.

I was being tested and failing miserably.

Skirt: Simply Be

A few gigs rolled my way and I was able to work with Go Red for Women on a social media campaign about body positivity and health, flown to New York to do a video about Muslim women for Conde Nast, and then hosted the Allied Media Conference’s opening ceremony at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

June rolled around and although I was gaining momentum, I still hadn’t found a stable job.

I started to have very bad anxiety attacks. Like the ones that come out of nowhere. Like the kind where you think you’re going to die because your heart is beating so fast and it feels like a heart attack. And, usually they’d come every once in a while, but they started coming like several times a day. I tried all the techniques and they weren’t letting up. I became severely depressed.

I was quitting everything. The blogging. The modeling. The writing. I shouldn’t have gotten a divorce; I should’ve stayed with his emotionally abusive ass because I hadn’t deserved anything better. I wasn’t shit. My work wasn’t shit. I was a fraud. But, most of all, I was alone.

Withdrawing from close friends, they tried to call, and I ignored them. I was a dark cloud and didn’t want to be bothered. No one could help me, I thought. Finally, my friend called again. I answered. She invited me to the mosque for dinner, it was free, and it was Ramadan. I was broke, so I went.

I sat down at the table as they chatted, happily. The plate in front of me went cold. Their attention went to me. They asked if I was okay. I wasn’t. They tried to help, and I started crying. My one friend ushered me to the bathroom. I told her about the depression and anxiety attacks. She allowed me to cry on her shoulder. I asked her what was I supposed to do? What had God wanted me to do? I didn’t have anything left to give.

“You are not lazy. You put in the work. I see you putting in the work. You’ve gotta let go and give it to him. You’re not in control. Let it go,” she said.

Her words swirled around my head that night. The next morning, I woke up with the heaviness that had plagued me for the last few months gone.

A few days later, the Kresge Foundation emailed me and told me that I had won the Gilda Award, which came with a $5,000 grant, beating out 750 applicants.

I didn’t plan on crying on stage in front of a room full of white people when I accepted the award. I planned on gracefully showing how I appreciative I was. The tears I shed were ones of gratefulness. That for once, I’d been deemed as a prolific writer when not too long ago, I wouldn’t even dare to call myself a writer let alone a creative.   

After the Gilda award, I bought a ticket to LA (where I hope to reside one day) and booked a few modeling gigs and met up with the Movers and Shakers. I went to the beach and laid there in a polka-dot two-piece and an Amber Rose cut. Listening to the waves as I soaked up the rays. I started crying again because my broke-ass had been blessed to make it to LA on a coach ticket and find a couch to sleep on.

As the summer winded down, I got a chance to work with Adidas Originals on their EQT launch, I was invited to do several video projects with the city of Detroit, I dropped a body-positive dance video that was viewed by over 200,000 folks and was featured nationally and internationally on CBS, CBS, Cosmopolitan, Buzzfeed, Bustle, and Teen Vogue (just to name a few). I was on local news! I was flown out to the University of Ottawa to talk about feminism and being Black and being fat. I was just featured in Elle Magazine. Yes, the hard copy.

And, the biggest accomplishment was that I was able to shop my memoir around. I sent my book proposal out to 100 agents in the matter of days. My fingers hurt from sending out all those emails. About twelve agents responded. Most of them offered me representation on the spot. On my 30th birthday, I was officially represented by a literary agency in New York. I one-day hope to see my fat ass face on the shelves of your local book store.

I never knew any of this was possible. And, I surely didn’t think my life would take this route, but I am so hopeful about the coming year.

Although, I’m still broke and figuring out how to make a living as an artist, a true artist that is transparent and raw and real, I know that my followers, my friends, and select family members will hold me down. I will hold me down.

My grandmother passed away last week, and we just laid her to rest. She was an avid reader, was photogenic, and loved makeup and fashion, like me. She was a pillar and the backbone of our family. Although, she had her quirks, like every other human, I’m here because of her. She even named me when I was born.

I have no choice but to go forward now. To push twice as hard as I have this year. To do the best I can to continue to show beauty where the media tries to hide it. To advocate for the little voices, the underrepresented, the folks that get shitted on daily. To push unconditional love and acceptance and equality of the sexes. Body positivity. Eradication of Islamaphobia and fatphobia.

To be the fattest, Blackest, Muslim with the loudest voice and the most contoured face you’d ever seen in your entire life.

2018 is gonna be litty.

xoxo,

Leah V

The Muslimah Rebel: Why Quitting Ain't an Option

I almost allowed them to stop me.

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

That was almost me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

On the Verge of Quitting

Well, this is quite embarrassing. But, what’s ego nowadays? For the last few months, I’ve known this day was coming. The day where I ran out of grant money and maxed out of a few credit cards just to stay afloat.

I’m a 30-year-old woman with multiple degrees and face plastered on the internet having to beg for money.

I laid in bed, in the dark, trying to crunch the numbers. What can you possibly do to make a quick buck to cover next month’s bills? I could sell my plasma as I had done years before when I was at the bottom of the barrel. Yeah, I almost passed out a few times and the huge needles left scars on my arms but at least you had gas money. I thought about sex work. I could make an incognito Tumblr page. No one would know if I sold a few ‘butt’ pics to some scum dude living in a basement. Although, I’m not technologically smart enough to cover my tracks and not be exposed as ‘Leah V, Muslim Blogger Sells Nudes’. I could start taking on clients that I’ve recently denied and sell my readers and supporters shit like Flat Tummy Tea, bundles of Brazilian weave, waist trainers, teeth whitening kits, and miracle creams.

Just for the money.

Basically, I’d have to change up my entire brand just to make money. How stupid of me to think that I could possibly be an organic content creator, keep it real, and not go commercial, and still pay my phone bill.

I don’t want to sell you guys (gals) stuff that I wouldn’t buy. I don’t want to sell you pipe dreams. I want to keep my blog organic and helpful and my social media a safe place for us to congregate and speak our truths, but honestly, I can’t maintain this.

I’m crying as I write this because I shouldn’t be asking for money. I should maybe have a paid off home, a nice husband who doesn’t cheat, and a family that supports me. I should maybe have a job with insurance and a 401k and a savings account. I should have two sane parents that tell me that everything is going to be okay and that they got my back.

I don’t have any of those luxuries. I’m on my own in every way possible. And, I don’t have a choice but to figure out a way. Hustle.

“Leah V has been on all these websites and magazines, I don’t believe she doesn’t have money.”

Let’s dispel that myth. Just because you are Insta-Famous doesn’t mean that you are capitalizing off of it. How many people have gone viral and are still living in their mom’s basement? Social media attention does not equate cash flow.

I have NEVER made a penny off my blog. Why? I don’t believe in forcing ads on people. I don’t believe in forcing people to buy clothes they don’t want. I don’t believe that art always has to be turned into some capitalist system. I want my blog to be a place where people go for inspiration because they want to.

I don’t make money modeling. I don’t have the luxury of living in LA or NY where modeling gigs pay. I live in Detroit. They don’t pay models here. You get the photos and that’s it.

I give out free advice and consultation. All the knowledge I have and built and created is worth something. I must not know my worth because I give out free advice all the time. I give of myself free all the time. I help people build their brands, for free. I help people gain self-confidence, for free. And, I’m not saying this to make you feel bad or to make you feel like I was doing all of this for some ulterior motive, but I’m on the brink of quitting.

I cannot sustain myself by doing free or volunteer work any longer. I cannot host events for free. I cannot be on panels for free. I cannot blog for free or consult with you for free.

As my bills pile up, as the collectors call my phone, I am angered that I am giving so much and receiving so little. Do I not value myself enough to charge? Why do I have to hit rock bottom before I start to value myself and my work?

I’m an artist first and a business person last. I have a need to create and share my art, my work with you, the world. And, although I want to quit and say F it all, I will always find a way to create.

So, will you help me continue to create?

Instead of sex work or selling bodily organs, I came up with a campaign that I’m launching right now.

I’m selling ‘10’ spots of 1 on 1 sessions. We’ll call it “Chats with Leah V”.

In this 30-minute session, you can pick my brain, ask me questions about branding, building social media platforms, how to break into modeling, networking, content creation, fashion, style, body-image, mentorship, or you can just talk to me for half an hour about whatever you want. It’s your time.

I’m charging $99 per session.

All the proceeds will go to paying off my credit card bills, creating new content, rent, tissue, food, and toothpaste and gas in my car, etc…   

So, email me Leahjvernon@gmail.com or Paypal the $99 fee to lock in your session because I’m only doing ten to start.  

I just made a Patreon account, where readers like yourself can also donate $1 to $200 monthly. Some awesome goodies are attached to those donations.

And, if you just want to help a sister out, you can either Venmo (@LeahV) or PayPal (Leahjvernon@gmail.com) me a donation, so I can keep going, stay afloat and stop crying because I can’t pay my bills.

Support the arts and the artists that make it possible.

Paypal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Patreon: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon

The Broke Artist

Clothing Courtesy of Simply Be

Too many bloggers, writers, models like to pump fake. They don’t want to tell the truth about the ‘process’ in fear of looking bad or not fitting in with the elites of social media.

Lookie, I’ve been flown out to this fancy place.

I have a fancy ass doughnut in front of a colored wall.

I’m really skinny, but I’m enjoying two scoops of fancy ice cream with my very skinny and photogenic friend.

My life is soooooo fancy and amazing.

No mental illness. No cellulite. No acne.  

Do not be fooled by pretty Instagram photos with blurred backgrounds, magical lighting effects, and poetic captions. The majority of us are struggling. Just keepin it real. *Shrugs*

I’ve never been inspired by individuals who don’t tell the truth. Who paint pictures of themselves in a certain light that just ain’t reality. Individuals who showcase the success of their careers and not the actual climb, the grueling process of making it to the top. That’s what inspires me. Your failures. The path you took and how you overcame them.

The paths we all take, artist or non, has failures riddled along them. Catastrophic ones and teeny ones. They are inevitable. Too many artists with large platforms aren’t showcasing that fact. So, their devout followers believe that the way to the top is as simple as copying a feed of someone who is successful.  

Anyone you know who has ever became an icon, most likely hadn’t done this by cutting and pasting someone else’s shit. They were innovative. Ridiculed by others. Outcasts. Weirdos growing up. They never followed trends and did their own thing no matter what others had to say about it.

They paved their own path. Created a niche.  

Obsessed with this little pink purse

A lot of us don’t even know where that path leads. We just take that leap and hope we don’t end up smashing into the ground and dying…

I started blogging in 2013. Y’all know the story. Several failed blogs and YouTube channels and years later this one caught on. During all that mess, I worked odd jobs. All of which I hated. None of them were creative or cared a fuck about me. I was just there for the paycheck. I worked on my art on and off. Mostly off. These jobs were sucking my creative juices. I’d found myself at home after work, stuck in a rut. Unable to write.

That rut lasted for five years. The worst years of my entire existence.

Somehow, by divine intervention, I was placed back on the path of art. I used my own money to buy books on editing and literature of the great storytellers of our time. I used my own money to take creative writing classes at the local community college. I joined discussion boards and wrote and read and wrote and read some more.

I worked just to invest money back into my art (and, of course, pay the dreaded adult bills). Money that could’ve went into paying off my student loans or purchasing a house or maybe traveling…

I had read all the books and took all the classes, but I still wasn’t getting anywhere. So, I decided to get my masters in creative writing. I went back and forth about it. I already had about 20,000 worth of debt left from my bachelor’s. More debt! I literally fought myself. I was really gonna spend that much money on another degree. But, my art was on the line. I had to at least see where it could take me. I prayed then took a gamble.

No one will ever invest in you like YOU will.

No one will ever be as invested in your art, your passion like YOU will.

Top + Skirt + Shoes 

And, with that mentality and stubbornness, I added on another 50,000 worth of debt.

This isn’t a woe-is-me post. I’m just telling you like it is.

But, with the debt I incurred (and still deep in), I gained a wealth of knowledge, two masters, and connections that I would’ve never made otherwise. That large investment opened many doors. One day, I do hope to pay that off.

As a broke artist, I stress out a lot about money on the regular. This entire year (prior to the divorce), I’ve been hanging on by a thread. Paying my major bills like my car and insurance and rent. Sometimes food. But I live a life that most of you don’t care to ask or just don’t know about.

I don’t get paid for 90% of my work.

The photos you see are products of bartering or friends just loaning me their time.

The clothes I wear are sent by companies who don’t even pay for blog posts half the time.

I blog for free.

My social media is free.

I have an agent, but I’m still on government assistance.

Bill collectors call my phone daily.

I’m just getting by and actually had to ask for charity a few times. (And no, I don’t have mommy and daddy or grandparents to back me up).

I’m not the only one. There are many of us out there who are just trying to make it. Trying to stay afloat. Putting $20 here and there on a $1000 medical bill.

But, I’m so close to the finish line that I couldn’t possibly quit now. No matter how many companies ask for their money back, I have this unwavering hope that one day I’ll get paid for my shoots and paid for my work. That one day all the struggles and failures and energy will just work in my favor.

Photos by Madinah

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

10 Questions with Leah V and RV

10 Questions with Leah V and RV is a good time. We whipped up ten questions at the kitchen table and dumped them in a bowl. It gets real shady. You don't want to miss it.

Watch RV's version on his channel: https://youtu.be/uemgCgI9koA

Find us on Instagram:

@RVXmendoza

@Lvernon2000

Follow us on Snapchat: 

https://www.snapchat.com/add/rvmendoza

https://www.snapchat.com/add/leahvdaily

Thighs That Touch

“The reason why your aunt can’t get a job is because she’s fat,” Mom said matter-of-factly to my younger sister and I. 

In my own fat thirteen-year old body I thought, that’s not the reason why. It’s just a bad economy.

Although Mom wasn’t as big as my aunt, her weight was up and down. Mostly up. She had suffered from eating disorders for most of her life including mild anorexia. To be honest, I never really recalled Mom eating ‘real food’ like the stuff she fed us. She was a closet eater who binged on cakes and doughnuts in the privacy of her bedroom. The sheets would be riddled with crumbs and the aroma of sugary frosting lingered. 

Mom showed us old photos of her younger, thinner self in the 70’s with her short shorts on, a crop top, and rocking a thick, black afro. She said proudly while pointing, “See. My thighs didn’t touch back then. When they touched, I knew that I was eating too much.”  Thin was good in our house. Great even. Fat was unacceptable. 

And I was fat. 

My thighs touched. My belly hung over my panties. My boobs jumped when I jumped. My double chin greeted you before I was able to. My arms squeezed into jackets that didn’t stretch. 

Obsession. 

One day, I decided to turn on my own fat body. To mistreat it like it was my worst enemy. To destroy it until there was nothing left. I was tired of boys only flirting with my thin friends, I was tired of stuffing myself into jeans that only made it partially up my thick thighs, and I was sick and tired of obsessing over how other people perceived my fat ass! Am I eating too fast? Should I get the salad instead? Should I just shut up? Who wants to hear what a fattie has to say?  

Scouring the latest teen fashion magazines, I ripped out dozens of pages of unrealistic supermodels, thin white actresses, and statuesque bombshells with straight teeth. I went on a rampage and started pasting them on my bedroom wall, the closet door, and around my dresser’s mirror. I wanted to see what I wasn’t, but what I could possibly be. Skinny and beautiful. Wanted and validated. Mom would be proud of me. But only if my thighs didn’t touch. 

I went out and bought a pair of stylish jeans that were three sizes too small. When I got home, I placed them on a hanger and hung them on the window over my bed. Motivation. The person who could fit inside those jeans was better in some way. Outgoing. A fuckin’ boss. 

I envisioned myself in those jeans every morning when I woke up before school, when I ate a handful of pretzels and drank a low-calorie drink for lunch, when I thought about having a slice of pizza, and right before I went to bed. My inability to focus and the migraines due to malnutrition didn’t matter. Nor had the churning and grinding of my empty stomach. Not even the silent late night cry sessions due to gaining a half a pound the day prior meant anything. 

After five months, I had lost seventy pounds. And how things changed. Everyone was sooooo happy. It was as if I had won some sick lottery. My teachers asked me how I did it. “It’s easy,” I lied. Guys started to notice me. Girls were jealous of me. I was living the life. 

At home, when the cheers died and I was all alone, I was still fat. Inside. The scale said one thing, but my mind told me another. 

Losing the weight was brutal. Maintaining it was different. My antics got wilder as I scrambled to stay thin. In the morning, I’d clear my bowels and bladder, strip, and hop on the scale butt naked. If the scale was even a pound heavier, my entire day would be ruined. If the scale was in the negative, the day would be amazing because I was closer to being more skinny. I was on the no-carb diet, so I peed on a stick twice a day (sometimes three if I got crazy) to see if I was in optimal ketosis, fat burning mode. I’d chew on no-sugar sticks of gum all day to curb my appetite. I’d go through packs and packs of gum. Mom bought them in bulk from Costco. She was trying to lose weight, too. I’d strip again, in the evening, and hop on the scale. Then I’d turn on the Style Network and watch models strutting down the runway in expensive clothes and cry.    

Nothing ever lasts.

For spring break, I purchased a cheap flight to my grandma’s house in the south. I finally arrived and plopped down in a chair at the kitchen table. 

“What’s wrong?” she placed her palm on the small of my back. 

I held back tears. I hadn’t eaten that day. “I’m just—I’m so hungry.”

She fried shrimp and baked biscuits. I ate it all. Every morsel. Felt sicker. I wasn’t used to the heaviness of food. 

After that, I never stopped eating and gained the seventy pounds I’d lost, plus some. 

Over the last ten years, I’d lost some and gained more. On this body awareness roller-coaster, I’ve hated my body, I’ve mistreated it, and allowed others to dictate how I felt about it. But I’ve also loved it, caressed it, celebrated it, and adorned it. 

I’m at a point where I’m in complete awe of it. The way it breathes for me. Blinks for me. Allows me to type this very essay about it. I’m in love with myself and how it rolls and sways when I move. How it affects others so delightfully. 

I’m happier in this fat body than I ever was trying to fit into those jeans that were three sizes too small.    

My thighs touch. My belly hangs over my panties. My boobs jump when I jump. My double chin greets you before I am able to. My arms squeeze into jackets that don’t stretch.

And that is very much so acceptable.  

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.