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 

A REAL Beauty Campaign

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

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

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

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

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

Videographer: @elysemarcinkowski

MUA: @ilamindell

Stylist/Model: @lvernon2000

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

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.

Dating in a Fatphobic World

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kimono: Black Lace Boutique

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

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

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

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

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

It’s time we nipped fatphobia in the bud.

Xoxo,

Leah V  

Reclaiming Time and Taking Up Space

This week has been very interesting. Well, this entire year has been interesting to say the least. I’ve learned much about setting boundaries, cutting off dead-weight friends and family who are clueless to that fact, not accountable for their actions, and high-key jealous. I’ve learned about drive, about pushing one’s self to the outer limits, where few people go. Fear of success and fear of loneliness. I’ve especially learned the two biggest lessons of them all: reclaiming my time and taking up space.

Last year, I remember asking myself, how can I top last year? How can I make my photoshoots better? My wardrobe fiercer? My voice louder? How can I be more authentic, raw, helpful? Although, I thought I was woke, I was only semi-woke because I hadn’t thought outside the box. Many of us think that we’re thinking so big, but are we really? Whatever you think could happen, could go so much farther, bigger. And, I hadn’t known this until I got to work with Adidas Originals and was flown to Canada by the University of Ottawa. All expenses paid.

Jacket Courtesy of Addition Elle

I want to talk about reclaiming time (thanks Auntie Maxine!). Now, we all know that you can’t actually reclaim time. When time is up, it’s gone, and you can never, ever get it back. With this fact, why the fuck do people waste so much of it? And, why do folks allow others to waste theirs? We have women who stay with men who verbally abuse them, treat them like shit on a stick, and they stay. Wasting good, vital years on a human who doesn’t even value their time. We have people who allow their family to belittle them, offer surface conversation, hurt feelings, and steal more of their time. Same thing with a dead-end job, how much time are they claiming from you?

Unfortunately, we can’t maximize every moment of every second of the day, and we will have to, at some point, engage in time wasted, but it’s up to you as to how much of your time you waste.

“I’ve wasted almost a decade,” I complained to my sister when I got divorced. “Do you know what I could’ve done with all that time?”

She replied, “You didn’t waste any time. You learned a lesson.”

“What did I learn?” I whined.

“Well, you learned what you don’t want in life.”

And, she was right. I did learn a great deal about what I wanted, what I needed, and what I hadn’t wanted ever again.

Do you ever meet up with someone or go to an event, and wondered why you even wasted your time going? Stop doing that. Reclaim your time. Stop doing things that you feel are going to make other people happy. Stop indulging in activities that you don’t want to do. Stop being friends with that girl that you really don’t mesh with anymore or that dude you feel inclined to be with just because. You are not doing yourself a favor. You are merely passing time, wasting time that could be spent on developing you.

I, honestly, feel bad for people like that. People who only have connections just to say they do or only going because ABC, but have no real interest in it. They aren’t really living life. Life is living them.

I used to be that person. Outwardly, I’d have a hard smile plastered on my face, but inside I was bored, dead, unenthusiastic. Why was I trying to be someone that I wasn’t? Why was I wasting time on relationships that clearly weren’t going to develop into anything but surface shit?

After being hurt by individuals who I tried to please for many, many years, I made a pact with myself. I was going to reclaim my time and only speak to people I was interested in, who I vibed with and do things that I liked to do. No more pretending to fit into this group or be cool with that group. Fuck that! In addition to my ‘fuck that’ moment, I was going to allow myself to take up space. Which meant that I was going to shine at my brightest watt without a care as to who was blinded by it.

For most of my circle, they accepted the Leah V who was changing, being more comfortable in her skin. For others, they started to hold resentment and dropped off like flies, which is fine, because that frees up space for better people to occupy. And, it has.

Sometimes, I get weirded out by all the folks that support me. It takes time getting used to. I’m a traumatized Black girl from Detroit with a trash family and a messy divorce that gets me mad from time to time, so when someone reaches out and is like ‘I got you’, it never ceases to amaze me.    

Give yourself the time and ability to reclaim your time and take up space.

xoxo,

Leah V

Mistaking a Woman's Trauma as Bitterness

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

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

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

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

Coat Courtesy of Addition Elle

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

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

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

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

Shoes Courtesy of Evan's UK

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

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

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

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

Turban Fabric: Flossy's Suitcase

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So, you must hate men, then.”

“I do now…” I replied, in my head.

For additional winter coats check out Simply Be

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

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

I cringed. “I’m not touching boobs.”

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

The Muslimah Rebel: Why Quitting Ain't an Option

I almost allowed them to stop me.

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

That was almost me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

My Photos Tell A Story

Usually, I have these long, drawn out blog posts about identity or weight or the usual struggle. We are nearing the end of 2017, gearing up for the new year. A fresh start as I like to call it. But, for right now, I’d like for you to enjoy this photoset as I have enjoyed creating it with my #BlackGirlMagic team.

ELOQII allowed me to choose two items. I searched high and low until I stumbled upon this one. I’ve always been a fan of the vintage glam look. The kind of look that you’d imagine in the Great Gatsby. Which is my fave, by the way. Of course, women who look like me weren’t the pillars of those stylish times. They were usually white, thin and most likely, weren’t Muslim.

Dress: ELOQUII

I like to take concepts and make them my own. Make them modern. I want them to tell a story. What does each photo say to you?

The day of shooting, I was very tired and had just started my period. Score! I had wanted to buy a pair of shoes to match the outfit better, but hadn’t had the money, so I found the ones I’m wearing at the bottom of my shoe bin from two years ago and made it work.

I told my makeup artist, Madinah, that I wanted makeup with red and blue hues.

Makeup: Madinah Muhammad

We picked up Tiarra, the photographer, then drove all the way to Ann Arbor to Graffiti Alley.

Ann Arbor is a suburban city with lots of white folk. I was a Muslim gal wearing an award show dress and face beat to the gawds. As, we made our way to the location I got lots and lots of stares. I wanted to ask, “Have none of you ever seen a celeb in real life before?” Instead I sashayed down the sidewalk. LOL.

When on set, it takes me a moment to get into the ‘modeling’ zone. The first photos are usually trash because I am trying to get a feel for the ensemble, the photographer, and the mood.

Model: Kostya Dombr

What helps is taking on a character. Any character that fits what I want to portray. For this golden dress, I imagined myself as a confident yet sassy ‘Roaring 20’s’ speakeasy owner. The kind that smoked cigarettes from fancy, bedazzled holders and wore feather boas on Friday nights. She probably knew how to use a shotgun. She was feminine yet strong and hadn’t taken no shit.

After we took photos with the graffiti, we went back towards the car. We stumbled upon an old-style looking theatre. My friend said, “OMG. You gotta take some photos here.”

We took some more amazing shots at Michigan Theatre.  

Then my friend, pointed through the glass door. “Yo, we need to get that guy inside to take a photo with you.”

“Go ask,” I said. “That’d be dope to have a male model.”

Minutes later, my friend emerged with Kostya, who did an amazing job.

Location: Michigan Theatre

When I model, it’s all about expression and going with the flow. I love how I can just be. I feel most confident in front of the camera, creating these amazing images that will forever be floating around and inspiring others to continue to create visual masterpieces. Create content, written, painted, drawn, or digital.

Just keep creating.  

xoxo,

Leah V

Inclusion: The Perception of Perfection in Islam

Photos Courtesy of Eric Puschak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

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

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

When I Finally Noticed that My Uniqueness was an Asset

I was an odd child. Of course, going through an identity crisis of how white I could act or how much percentage of black I was. In between that I was Muslim. During those times, who knew what that was supposed to mean…

I was heavy into makeup way before the makeup boom we see now was ‘in’. When I tell you no one I knew wore it, like no one wore it. You might have seen an occasional girl wearing a light wing line or some clear lip gloss, but nothing heavy. That wasn’t ‘in’. I wore foundation that was clearly too light for my caramel complexion and glitter on my cheeks like a mermaid. People thought I was weird. And, I was.

At that time, there wasn’t any dark eyeshadow palettes. I was a creative kid and had a dark lipstick palette. I was feeling mischievous so I dug my finger into the mixture and smeared it on my lids then on my lips. I was this deep, dark seductress. I think I might have been fourteen.

Mom called my name from the bottom of the stairs. I slowly crept into the light. She gasped. “Amerra, what is that on your face?”

“Makeup,” I said with my arms crossed.

Mom didn’t like the makeup I wore. She didn’t like that kind of expression. She just didn’t get it.   

Makeup: Janet Doman

I wore black nail polish and lace gloves. I wore miniskirts over my jeans and heavy eyeliner. I was heavily insecure, but you’d never know. The kind of girl that’d cuss out your grandmother. I was driven and educated. Obnoxious and funny.

For those who didn’t know me, my style stood out. Many Muslims didn’t agree with it. I was deemed a ‘hoe’ because of the way I dressed; when in reality, I was much less of a hoe than their fully covered daughters…but that’s another story completely.             

I don’t care what anybody says, the world has been stacked against me and my unparalleled uniqueness. This world, this society, the way it thinks and moves wasn’t built for people like me. And we already know why. We see it every day on the cover of magazines and plastered on billboards.

I’ve never fit into any specific categories of Muslim-ness. Of beauty. Of education. Of Black-ness. And, I don’t plan on it anytime soon.

For so long, I’ve taken my complexities and thought of them as hindrances.

I was tired. Angry. Mentally ill. People were tired of me and I tired of them.

I needed a change. And, in order to change, I had to rewire my entire mindset.

Instead of viewing my intersections as negatively as how others viewed them, I decided to try a different approach. What if I could embrace those differences? Create a path containing my truths instead of someone else’s version of what I should be?

Why is this world so obsessed with making people fall in line? Why aren’t we groomed to think outside the box and embrace differences? Well, for one, it’s easier to control individuals who don’t have their own opinions. Secondly, it’s easier to sell people things who constantly follow trends and feel the need to keep up with the “now”.   

It’s so important to always, always embrace your differences, those quirks and idiosyncrasies. They make you original, one of a kind. You’ll have people trying to change your outlook. Change the way you dress and how you speak and how you view the world from your lens. Don’t let them.

Location: Paris, France 

People were uncomfortable with my differences then and certainly are uncomfortable now. I’ve chosen to take that core value of expression and exploit it. Scream it at the rooftops. Wear it as a badge. But being your true self doesn’t come without it’s downsides. I get attacked with every new feature that sprouts. I get called ‘fat’, ‘disgusting’, ‘gross’, ‘not Muslim’, among other harsh choice words and phrases.      

What these trolls fail to understand is that I’ve been through a hell of a lot of shit in my life. The absence of parents. Friends that allowed jealousy to rip apart our relationships. Doors slammed in my face. Bill collectors on my line. A failed marriage. I’ve already been through hell and back. I’ve been through decades of self-doubt and loathing and hatred. I’m at a place where I can finally be secure with myself and a stupid comment from a faceless nut job from behind a computer screen won’t catapult me back to that insecure girl.

So, to all my weirdos, black girls who listen to 80’s rock, artists, unmarried Muslim girls being pestered by their families, trans, fatties, and dark-skinned individuals who are constantly teased, do not try to fit into a mold, allow your uniqueness to always carry you because the very people who are ‘making fun’ of you for these intersections want to secretly be you…    

xoxo,

Leah V         

The Pitfalls of Being on Social Media and Other Inadequacies

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

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

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

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

Tulle Skirt: Society Plus 

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

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

If only for a moment. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo.

Leah V

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

One-Year Divorce Anniversary

I knew this day was coming. Just not so soon. I remember the moments. All of the moments leading up to the day where I would no longer be a wife, but a divorcee. A branded woman. Someone with more baggage than she already had. Someone that men would try to come at now because she was fresh out of a situation to see who could claim the floating prize. Tame me.

All have tried. Not one succeeded.

When I was living with my ex during the divorce process, I used to sit in the backroom, that was once our room, alone. At this point, I’d made him retreat to the lumpy couch. That was the least of his punishment for doing what he’d done, was still doing.

On said couch, he used to talk to other bitches on Facetime. Yes, I said bitches. Because that’s what a woman is when she knowingly enters into a relationship with a man whose married.

He’d have his little earbuds in, giggling and laughing at the side girl’s jokes.

I wanted to laugh, too.

I knew it was a female because of the way the tone of his voice changed. It was the same way he used to speak to me when we were young and in love. When he was trying to semi-court me. Before I just became a waste of ten years. Something disposable. A working vagina to him.

I’d lay in bed with only the thin door separating the both of us and not cry. He’d made me cry so much in the first few days of the initial process that I had used my allotted number of tears for the entire year. So, I’d NOT cry in the dark. I just laid there as he giggled with some other lady that was taking my place and thought about how fucked up that was. How fucked up that I thought I was safe from being cheated on like the rest of the women in my family and friend circle. That, somehow, I had the magic touch and that a calamity so great would never touch someone like me. How fucked that he could’ve at least gave me the decency of a human being who’d he’d known and grew up with for a decade, been to hell and back, to at least talk to that ‘other woman’ privately at his friend’s house, work, maybe, or his car. The same car that I helped him get that now she’d be driving in.   

It’s safe to say that a year later, I’m still bitter.

And, I don’t mean bitter in a messy way. A way that has me stalking the alleged girl’s Instagram page or calling him late at night or randomly popping up at his mama’s doorstep and beating the first bitch ass that tries me. But bitter in the fact that I feel as though he hadn’t gotten what he deserved. During the divorce, I was too nice. Too understanding. Yeah, I had my moments of complete insanity where I said some really fucked shit, but I didn’t do him like the black women do in the movies. Like my mama had done.  

He forced me to make him lunch. Pack it when he went to work. Wash his clothes. He tried to solicit me for sex, but I told him that I’d rather sleep with a hobo than ever touch him again. Yeah, that’s the kind of stranger that he turned into. An emotionally abusive stranger. I didn’t take his iPad and smash it to smithereens. I didn’t blast him on the internet. I didn’t bust the windows out his car. Bleach his clothes. Toss them on the porch. Harass his family. Harass the new girl. I stayed quiet. I stayed calm. I took the high road. Why? Because he wanted me to wild out, so that he’d have more ammunition to claim that’s why I was the ‘bad guy’. That’s why he did what he did because I couldn’t control my anger. And, I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of being able to talk more shit about me with his knucklehead posse. He’d already spewed enough one-sided lies. Playing the victim as usual.

One day, we were halfway into the divorce proceedings and he was getting ready for work. I was in the kitchen making a meal. Playing house in a house that was burning fast. He sat down and I placed his plate in front of him. I handed him a napkin and then poured him some juice. He looked at me with that awkward smile he had. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked.

“What are you talking about?”

“We’re getting divorced,” he began. “You’re being too nice. I’m starting to think you’ve poisoned this food.”

I smiled an uncomfortable smile. At that point, he was a strange man sitting in my kitchen. “All the shit you’ve done to me… If I were going to poison you, I’d have already done it.”

***

Last night, I was scrolling through Instagram since it’s like my very private yet public diary. I went back to the posts of last year around the time I was officially divorced. Officially moved out on my own. Officially confused and stunned. No job, no insurance, or income. Just a bit of savings. He left me with nothing. No alimony. Nothing.

One of the photos, I openly express a looming mental breakdown. On another, I’m celebrating my first Huffington Post feature. On another, I talk about hope. During that week, those following months, I had to pull myself together for photoshoots, for events, and projects. Although, I was going through deep pain and self-hatred, I still had to work and keep my brand going. I still had to blog and work my social media sites. I still had to show my face and let people know that I wasn’t all the way dead. That although I felt like shit, inside was a glimmer of me still in there buried somewhere.

I was told by many divorcees that it’d take me years to get over, completely heal from the trauma of divorce. Having someone there but not anymore. The familiarity being disrupted. The meanness that was so easily given in those last months. I told them all that it wasn’t me. That I was going to bounce back quick. I was going to work twice as hard to not fall into the category of the ‘usual’ damaged divorcee.  

And, I’m not going to lie. I had my days, still do when anger and resentment creeps up. When I have those woe-is-me moments that I just can’t kick. When I ask questions that I will never get the answers to. But, overall, I cannot deny the work that I’ve put in. The glow up that I’ve received one-year post divorce. It would be ungrateful to even skim over that.

I’ve accomplished more than I have creatively and professionally. I’ve been featured in newspapers, magazines, countless blogs and websites. I’ve been flown to NY. Modeled in LA, London, and Paris. I finished my memoir. Landed an agent for said memoir! My book will be on bookstore shelves. Mark my word. You’re witnessing the makings of a NY Times Bestseller. I’ve partnered with large name clothing companies. I won the Gilda Award. I’ve ate good food. Traveled to distant lands. I’ve got lost. Fallen on my face. Lost friends. Explored my body. Gotten stronger.

In twelve short months, I’ve done a lot.

Yes, today is the day that my divorce was finalized, but there is so much more to me than that.

So, here’s to another 12 months of growth, prosperity, and change.

xoxo,

Leah V

Visibility in Islam

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like in White AmeriKKKa.

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

xoxo,

Leah V