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

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

I’m 283 pounds.

There. I said it!

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

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

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

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

Makeup by Madinah Muhammad (Detroit)

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

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

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

“Hop on the scale,” the nurse said.

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

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

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

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

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

The doctor knocked then came in.

Time for the weight-loss talk.

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

Why Can't We Be #BodyGoals?

My birthday is in t-minus 2 days. 48 hours. Leo season. I’m freaking out. I have no plans. I’m more tired than ever before. I think I may have witnessed a bag forming under my eye. Not sure.

I’m eating healthier than ever before. I go to the gym. I even have one of those old lady pill separators for the hundreds of vitamins and doctor prescribed supplements that I take daily. The one that says Sunday. Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday…

The big 3-0.

I never thought about 30 before. 30 years on earth. I’m surprised I made it this far, though. I even had the pleasure of witnessing the invention of fidget spinners and an orange Cheshire cat become number 45.

Ahh, what a time to be alive.

So, I posted a photo on Instagram (per usual) and someone hashtagged ‘body goals’. I repeat. #BodyGoals under my picture. I chuckled internally. My little shoulders bobbing up and down as I sat in front of an old ASUS laptop (I hate it, but it’s easier to type on than the MAC).

My body was a goal? Interesting, I pondered.

The next day, I posted another pic. A different person (totes unrelated to the first person) also used #BodyGoals. I must’ve been wrapped up in some CIA conspiracy because as I drank my tea and ate a bowl of oatmeal, my boobs literally rested on my knees. Who’d want a body like that? Like mine? Preposterous. From the positive comments, I found myself going down the list of why, how my body wasn’t goals.

My teeth had irregular spaces as to where I could fit the tip of my tongue through. I had a huge forehead. I mean, huge. The hairline was as far back as Lebron’s. I never liked the shape of my face. My little brother used to tell me that my profile resembled the shape of a fat moon crescent and that I had a pug nose. Barely had a neck. I wanted one of those statuesque ballerina necks. The ones that just went on for days and they still had more neck to spare even after that. My waistline was okay, but it was riddled with brownish stretch marks that meandered to the top of my butt. Let’s not forget the two fat donut rolls on each side. My thighs. Lordt. They constantly got stuck in chairs with arms. I could never just safely ‘squeeze past’ anyone, either. There’s not a smooth surface on my thigh. Both are like large columns filled with cottage cheese. My toes, Monkey Toes, they used to call em. They are very long and spread far apart, but I can pick up a penny from a wood floor like nobody’s business…  

Makeup: Madinah Muhammad

How was any of that #BodyGoals? Especially in today’s time. Our beauty standards consist of high cheekbones lined with fancy highlighter, remove-my-ribs-to-get-the-perfect waist, and pump my lips with asphalt and concrete so that I can resemble Daffy Duck and become a high-ranking Instagram makeup artist.

I thought those were goals.

Who’d in their right mind would want to look like me?

Yes. I wear the makeup. The pretty clothes. And, I know my angles, for the most part. I work with amazing photographers who know how to use lighting and create moods. But, I’m still fat. I’m a fat model. A fat person.

I scrolled through my Instagram and was like, oh, okay I can see why they placed my body on a pedestal. I was tricking them! If only they saw me naked, then they wouldn’t ever, ever say that.

Why had I been so bent on discrediting myself? My body? Was I doing it to be more ‘real’ to my followers or was I partaking in momentary self-hatred of my own body?

I express myself through photos. And words, of course. I wanted to do a shoot where it was less about angles to make myself appear one way, but to let the parts that I’m sometimes self-conscious about peek through. Like my under-belly flap (Iegit not wearing a Spanx) and my back (which didn’t look as bad as I imagined) and my funny toes (not gonna lie, I cringed). Because when I face something that I’m afraid to show or share or makes me self-conscious, it’s best to dive in completely and show the insecurity to the world. Then go from there.

“I don’t take photos sitting down,” I said to my thinner friend. “I literally turn into a bowling ball. I have about 3 inches of torso and hundreds of pounds that surround it. It’s not flattering.”

She looked at me like I was crazy. 

We are our own worst enemy. I am my own worst critic. I am the downfall of myself. On the flipside, I can also be my own best ally. I made a conscious decision to focus on the negatives when clearly that’s not how other people viewed me.

The question I asked myself: As a fat girl, why can’t I be #BodyGoals?

I can be #BodyGoals.

As a matter of fact, I am #BodyGoals just like those whole two people said. 

Leah V is #BodyGoals in all her saggy boob and cellulite glory.

xoxo,

Leah V

The Difference Between Religion and Spirituality

Religion Vs. Spirituality  

Depending on what type of guy my mother was married to dictated how religious she was going to be. Which trickled down to how religious us kids were going to be. Or pretended to be.

I can remember a time where Mom was married to this dude that I hadn’t cared for. He just gave me a bad vibe and even as I grew older, I still hadn’t liked him. But it was Mom’s 2nd marriage and fourth serious relationship and as children living in the 90’s, we had no voice or say so.

To the community, he was so Islamic. People looked up to him because he was knowledgeable and knew ayahs (verses) from the Quran like the back of his hand. He traveled in the name of Allah (swt) and never missed Jum’ah (congregational prayer on Fridays). He fasted and didn’t listen to music. He wore traditional garb and had a huge sunnah beard. During Ramadan, he fasted and went to make the nightly prayers.

In the home, he told us that TV was forbidden and because Mom wanted to play the religious role for her new hubby, she agreed. Now, Mom already limited the amount of TV time we had in the first place. They packed both black and white TV’s and the color one that was in the living room and placed them in the basement. We were mortified. No Xena the Warrior Princess. No Hercules, SailorMoon, Bobby’s World, or Power Rangers.

I hated him even more.

Of course, we figured out new things to do in order to occupy our time.

A few months later, I’d come home to see the color TV back upstairs in the small family room. He sat in front of it, cross-legged, dipping incense that he sold into fragrant oils.

I ran to Mom. “We can watch TV again?”

She side-eyed me, then said, “Yes, but not all day. Same rules apply.”

I heard him croaking with laughter in the background. And although, I was happy to reclaim my TV rights, I couldn’t help but wonder why the TV was now un-forbidden…

Hypocrite.

Mom used to read us the Quran twice a day. Once before homeschooling and then again before bed.

“What’s hypocrite?” My little brother asked during our nightly session.

Mom thought about it. “It’s kinda like when someone says don’t do something and then they do it themselves.”

“Like stepdad,” I said. “With the TV?”

She shot me the evil, mama eye, and I shrank into my seat.

Mom was crying. In front of her sat a hard, gray box where she kept all her credit cards and money for bills. She shook her head. “He took my money,” she said. “He took all of it!”

She hadn’t had to say who because I already knew.

***

Not only had he took Mom’s money. Our money. But he cheated on Mom as well. Then ended up marrying the lady. Mom divorced him shortly after.

How could a man who was such an outwardly devout Muslim be so scandalous?

***

I’m not going to even lie to you, I’ve had very traumatizing experiences with the Muslims in my community. And, although, I’ve met some really amazing and beautiful Muslims, I’m still weary. And my guard stays up. I believe I shared in a past post about why I’ve been traumatized and the highs and lows of my iman (faith).

And, before I get into my sort of analysis, I’m not a mufti or a scholar on the issue. This is all clearly an opinion based off my own personal, life experiences. I’m quite sure some of you have amazing and welcoming communities that never have any issues. *Thumbs up*

At one point, I tried very, very hard to fit in with the ‘good’ Muslims. I was doing stuff for other Muslims to deem me a ‘good’ Muslim and not doing it for my creator. The community had pumped our heads with always looking the part that they failed to add the part where we are all humans and we were created to make mistakes and repent. And that we should try to please our lord and not so much one another. On the flipside, if you are pleasing Allah (swt) then others will see it, feel it, and that would/should also please them.

What I got (and many others) from the community was if you pretend to be good and holy then you should be okay. If a sister makes salat five times a day (but in her head, she’s humming tunes to Rihanna’a foulest song) at least she’s doing the movements. If a brother goes to the club and its shots, shots, shots, shots, shots with Lil John, at least he never misses Jum’ah prayer. Oh, and this one is my favorite. He’s an imam (or religious leader) whose gives talks, panel discussions, and marital advice, but he’s in the mosque chasing around girls waaaay younger than he is or sliding into those DM’s. Things that make you go, hmmmm.  

And, by no means am I saying that being an oxymoron Muslim is a bad thing, an unforgivable thing, the question I’m posing is where does spirituality come into play?

A lot of my friends are non-Muslim, atheist, or just floating around certain beliefs.

I had a deep conversation with an atheist. He’s a good buddy of mine. He told me why he hadn’t ascribed to an organized religion. And he had some valid points, which I totally agreed with: people use religion to control others and evil people hide behind religion.

We have women in Islamic countries being raped then married off to their rapists in the name of religion.

Slaves were controlled by white men (and women) by introducing Christianity.

Young boys are being forced into being sex slaves in the name of religion.

Female genital mutilation. Cults. Honor killings. Modern day slave trades. The list goes on and on.

We both agreed that the real meanings behind modern day religions can be a bad thing. Especially when the wrong person controls it.

Being a visibly Muslim woman, here was my response to him: Islam is a perfect religion. With all the rules and intentions set out to make our lives easier. Better. Unfortunately, the people are not perfect, and if we were created perfect then we’d be angels. I’m Muslim. I believe in my practice wholeheartedly. And, insha’allah (if Allah wills), I’ll never be anything other than a believing Muslim. Although, I wouldn’t say that I’m religious (meaning that I don’t do all the things it takes to be a devout or practicing Muslim) I’m very much so a spiritual person.

I’m more spiritual in my late 20’s than I’ve even been in my entire life, pretending to pray five times a day or agreeing with what a sexist imam said during a khutbah (Islamic sermon). I actually do less physically and have more of a spiritual connection to my creator. And, with the last two years, I’ve had to heavily rely on Allah’s guidance and mercy.

I knew that I’d become more spiritual when the outer mattered much less to me. When I’d cry and pray in my bed that Allah (swt) would lessen my burdens. When I’d look at the sky and say SubhanAllah (glory be to God). When I stopped judging others for not being what I thought they should be.

With that said, I want you, the reader, to really reflect on your own personal religious and spiritual journey and beliefs. Are you wearing hijab for your husband? Are you praying, doing the movement only to appease others? Or are you really praying to Allah (swt) with conviction in your heart? Are you giving charity so that others can see it and praise you? Are you saying certain things on the internet so people can think you are holier than thou?

XOXO,

Leah V    

Why Does Female Empowerment Make You Uncomfortable?

I just had an epiphany.

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

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

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

That’s crazy. Powerful. Odd.

Dress: Eloquii

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

XOXO,

Leah V

Leading the Resistance: Your Voice Counts

Photos Courtesy of Eric Puschak (Detroit)

I wrote my first story at six-years-old. It was called ‘King and Queen’ and I was excited to send it to the Reading Rainbow Short Story contest. My love of words, stories, stringing sentences together to form legible thoughts to be conveyed to an audience was innate, I believe. Plus, Mom used to pop me with a thick comb if I hadn’t learned to spell at least ten words a day during homeschool sessions. Words and I became best friends. I read and wrote. And read and wrote some more. It was my outlet away from being daddy-less and watching our single, Black mother work damn hard to keep five kids together, off the streets, and fed. As you could imagine, she was there but then again, she wasn’t. She had too much on her plate to be everything we needed her to be. Stories became my life. And, 24 years later, it still rings true.

I’ve had many of rough patches, and will probably have many more if I live long enough, but one in particular almost took me out the game. Yes, a fucked up relationship stirred in with heavy mental illness and lack of family support and financial issues played a major role, but looking back on it, the major issue was that I felt as if I hadn’t had a voice in the world. I’d tried my hand at creating a blog and putting some fiction on there. It failed. The following year, I tried to start a trendy YouTube page where I talked about myself and celebrities. It was reckless. People bashed me. I embarrassed myself and stopped immediately. I made a public video where I basically had a mental breakdown on camera. Posted it. Again, embarrassing myself. I wrote tons of full-length novels. Four to be exact. Those got shot down by every agent in LA and New York. Started another blog. Failed.

I keep using the words ‘fail’ and ‘embarrass’ because that’s how I genuinely felt at the time. I had so many ideas in my head. Like some cutting-edge shit and no one (or not many) understood them. No one got it like I needed them to, so I was ignored.

Friends (well, not any more) would make fun of me. One time, in particular, I had wrote a quirky feminist poem. I was so scared to get on stage and perform it. I stumbled a bit, but I got up there and did it. After the applause died and I went back to my seat. She kept taunting me and laughing at the words I wrote. I sat there, confused. Wondering why was it so funny to overcome your fears and have the courage to say something, even if it sounded stupid to her. Why had she had to kill my moment? But, people like her, individuals who don’t have courage to fuck up, don’t have the persistence to keep at it, even though you’ve failed a hundred times just don’t get people like me or you.

I thought I valued myself, but I hadn’t. Not at all. I never saw myself as a writer. A creative. A creator. An artist. I deemed myself as someone who wrote words. Why? Everyone could write words. I made myself plain. Regular. I boxed myself in with the ‘normal’ people. The one’s who didn’t have any special abilities. I’d been told so many times that I wasn’t special that I started to believe them. I was the person who hadn’t spoke because it’d make people feel uncomfortable. There were stories I hadn’t wrote because I was afraid to stir the pot, make waves. Because of all the restrictions and limits I placed on myself, I became a drone.

The difference was that the inside hadn’t matched the outside which created turmoil like no other. I was fighting a silent battle that no one saw or heard. One that almost destroyed me. And, I am the only one to blame for that. But no one told me that I could be me. That it was okay to be unapologetic in my very own skin. I was always told to put on a face, be the bigger person, do what you gotta do to survive. And, I never questioned it. I watched the women in my life crumble because of that norm. They’d gone through the same battle as I was and suppressed it. They were stuck. I hadn’t and I don’t want to be stuck like my grandmother. Like my mom. Like my aunts. And my cousins.

I wanted to be free. Free of constraints.

I was told that it wasn’t possible. That I could never model as a Muslim woman. That no one would buy my work, my stories. That I could never write and tell the whole truth. That I could never be me. The real me.

I became resistant. And, man, was it a lonely road. When you truly figure out who you’re supposed to be, it makes others mad, resentful, uncomfortable. I had no friends. A husband that barely wanted to be there. And myself.

I still had myself. That was more than enough. We gotta be okay with just being. Ourselves.

The resistance grew. And grew and grew. I hadn’t cared about money. I stopped caring about success. I’d write. Every day. At one point, I was thinking about just living out of my car but as long as I had a notepad and access to a library then I’d be fine. As long as I could create. Then I’d be so fine.

The question I get asked a lot is how am I so raw with the pieces that I share? When you are good to yourself and stop placing limitations on you and what you put out, then you’ll become what you are meant to become. A lot of these limitations come from ourselves, first and foremost, and our perceptions of what other people will think of us. We are wrapped in holding up these facades that we don’t even know who the fuck we are anymore. We care so much about what someone who isn’t paying our bills or brushing our teeth that we don’t even try to step outside the box and explore ourselves.

It’s funny because I’ve become this sort of beacon for individuals who’ve had no voice. I’ve been deemed as this, I guess, motivational speaker and writer, almost. People actually come to me with their problems and their body image issues and we talk—chat and share stories. They throw words at me like ‘inspirational’ and ‘motivational’ and ‘innovative’. Each time, I’m in awe that they see me in those ways. I write for myself, for the most part. As an artist, if you don’t feel your shit then who will?

A few ladies came up to me after I accepted the Gilda Award last week, and grabbed my hand or my shoulders, and squeezed. Each one said, “You are needed. Your voice is needed. And you belong. Speak for us ladies that don’t have the courage to do so.”

xoxo,

Leah V. 

Are You Even Muslim?

“Are you even Muslim?”

I hate when people ask me that. It pisses me off. They have no idea what it took, what I’ve been through to stand where I’m standing now in my Islam. My spirituality.

But, I know exactly why they’re asking. Because a black face with a traditionally wrapped hijab couldn’t possibly be Muslim. Because a girl wears leggings, couldn’t possibly be Muslim. Because she might have some tats on her arm, couldn’t possibly be Muslim. In order to be accepted as a visible Muslimah, I have to be of Middle-Eastern descent, wear an abaya, and speak Arabic.   

If you don’t fit into that mold then no one knows who you are or what you’re doing in the mosque. Stop trying and go to some other religion and hope that they accept you.

“So, you became Muslim when your Mom converted over, is that why you’ve stayed in Islam?”

Yes, I converted over when I was six or seven years old because of my mother, but as an adult that’s not why I’ve chosen to stay.

Close-ended comments/questions like these irk me because why isn’t my spirituality enough? Why do people feel the need to attach things to unrelated things or dismiss what I’m saying because they want to cram me into some square?  

To become a Muslim, convert to Islam, you only need to take shahada (profession of faith):

“Ashadu an la ilaha illa illa-ilah, wa ashadu anna muhammadan rasul ullah.”

The meaning is: "I testify that there is no god but God (Allah), and I testify that Muhammad is the messenger of God (Allah).

Of course, we have the pillars and other rules to being a good and ‘practicing’ Muslim. But to simply put it, this is the only thing you have to say and believe in order to be classified as a Muslim.

If in Allah’s eyes it’s so easy to be a Muslim, then why do human beings have such a hard time being convinced that I’m Muslim?

The media, other Muslims, etc, loves focusing on certain kinds of Muslims. Acceptable Muslimahs, I like to call them. They like to showcase the ‘oppressed Muslim’. The Middle-Eastern Muslim girl who is forced into an arranged marriage, isn’t allowed to drive, and covers in all-black with gloves. They show us the ‘good’ and wholesome Hijabi blogger. She’s usually a size small, wears pastels, has about a million followers, can pass for white but is usually Middle-Eastern, her photos are perfect, her pregnancy is perfect, and her husband makes fashionable cameos on her feed. Lately, the ‘activist’ Muslim has been trending. How do they look, you ask? Usually draped in an abaya or loose-fitting clothes and always with hijab. They can be found making salat on the grass at a rally for Trump’s latest Muslim ban. And, let’s not forget, they also are a fair-skinned Middle-Eastern type.

What about us “In-betweenie” Muslims?

Don’t we exist? The ones who don’t wear hijab but still dress modestly. The one who dates but doesn’t drink? The one who smokes weed but gives charity. The one who doesn’t make salat but never misses a Jumah prayer. The one who only observes the obligations of Islam during Ramadan.

What about the Black Muslim. The African Muslim. The Dark-Skinned Middle-Eastern Muslim. Asian. White. European. Hispanic. Indian.

Do we not exist in the Islamic world?

Do we not belong?

I used to be one of those Muslim girls who pretended to be super Muslim. I did it in order to appease people. I wasn’t doing it for Allah and I definitely wasn’t doing it for myself. I changed the way I dressed, pretended that I prayed five times a day or knew certain surahs. I’d say ‘inshallah’ after every sentence, wrapped my scarf the “correct” way, and even ate halal.

I was two different people.

What was interesting was that the Muslim women who were covered and praying and being as Muslim as can be had another side to them that I couldn’t quite understand. They were bitter, judgmental, and very close-minded.

As calamities started to happen and my façade began to slip away, my iman (faith) was at an all-time low. But for one thing, I knew in my heart that I still believed and wanted to be Muslim. That wasn’t enough for the community though. So instead of lifting me, I became the center of their negativity. I was called a kafir (derogatory term for an unbeliever), a hoe, and a slut. I was called fake, un-Islamic, and a bitch. Those are just a few of the names.

At that point, I was done. I stopped going to the mosque. I didn’t trust Muslims at all. I cut all ties. And, I was on the brink of actually detaching from the religion. My plan was that I could still believe in Allah (swt) but not ascribe to Islam. In my head, I wasn’t Muslim enough for my ex. Not Muslim enough for the Black Muslim community or the Arab one. I tried and got shunned. So, I was just finished.

“My sister is having a halaqa tonight,” my friend said. “You should come.”

I was going through the divorce and I hadn’t wanted to be around any judgmental Muslims. “I’m straight,” I told her.

“It’s gonna be free food there.”

I sighed. I was pretty hungry and my funds were low. “Fine!”  

I came super late. My plan was to swoop in, get a plate, then slip away.

When my friend saw my face, she said, “Glad you can make it.” I’d been spotted.  

I rolled my eyes.

The sisters were pleasant. They gave me greetings and kisses on my cheek. Wasn’t so bad, I thought. I sat on the couch and her sister turned on a lecture about being Muslim. It was a short but hard-hitting lecture. Afterwards, the sister talked about community and uplifting each other. She asked if anyone had any questions. There was a silence. A lump formed in my throat as I clutched my plate, trying to hold back tears.

“My ex called me a kafir, so I don’t think I can be Muslim anymore. I just can’t do anything right,” I told the group. “I can’t dress like a Muslim. I can’t eat like one. I can’t pray like one. And, if I can’t be a good Muslim then I can’t be one at all.”

The sister grimaced. “That’s not how this works. You ARE a Muslim. You are NOT a kafir and how dare he say that you. A Muslim should NEVER, ever say that to another Muslim. When you take shahada, you are a Muslim, dear. I don’t care what you do or have done or will do in the future. Every day we are given on earth is a day to get closer to Allah (swt). Everyone, I mean everyone, even the Muslims who appear to have it all together have their weaknesses—whether they show it or not. But, don’t ever believe that. You are Muslim.”

That was last year.

I’ve said it before, I’m not the poster child for Islam. I’m one of the many, many Muslims on this planet just trying to make it somewhere on this earth and in the hereafter. I have lots of work to do. And, I’m okay with that.  

So, when I am hit with the question: are you even Muslim?  

I say: I am. Proudly.

xoxo

Leah V. 

First Times Can Be Charms, Too

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

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

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

I beat out 750 artists who applied in Michigan.

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

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

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

Thank you for rocking with meeeeeeeee. 

Leah V. 

The #BODYProject Trailer

This is the most scared I've ever been releasing a project. Ahhh! Like, seriously, y'all. This is the teaser/trailer to a new series of visual art pieces called #BodyProject brought to you by myself and the brilliant team of Reel Clever Films

I used to hide behind ill-fitting clothes. Makeup. A man. My thin girlfriends. I wanted to hide because I was told that a fat girl's only place was behind-the-scenes. A Muslim girl's only role was to be a wife, a mother. A Black girl's only role was to conform. Straighten her hair. Talk proper. To never offend. 

I'm here to smash all of the one-dimensional, stereotypes of what a fat, Black, and very Muslim girl should be with one question: Do I make you uncomfortable? GOOD. 

Full Video Drops 7/8/17!!!  

MUA: Madinah Muhammad
MUSIC: Comer Dorris

LIKE. SHARE. COMMENT. AND SHOW SOME LOVE.

***Use the hashtag #BodyProject 

60-Second Turbanista Style

Leah V shows you how to wrap a quick turban in 60 seconds! 

You can follow me @ Lvernon2000
Blog: www.beautyandthemuse.net 

Artist: Lizzo
Song: Phone (Coconut Oil Project)

*I own no rights to this song*

Download/Stream Coconut Oil - https://atlanti.cr/coconutoilep

Follow Lizzo
https://www.facebook.com/LizzoMusic/
https://twitter.com/lizzo
https://www.instagram.com/lizzobeeating/
https://soundcloud.com/lizzomusic
http://www.lizzomusic.com/

Social Media: Stop Allowing it to Define Your Self-Worth

Social Media: Stop Allowing it to Define Your Self-Worth

I’m slacking on my blog posts. *bites nails* My intimate essays that I share with you at least once a week. I’ve been trying to break into making more videos (ya know, since people barely read anymore) and that’s time-consuming. Unfortunately, I don’t have a team (I’m a one-lady show) and my time is being stretched super thin. Obligations here and there and everywhere. You get the idea.

But, today, I want to talk a bit about the influence of social media.

Last night, I was in a discussion group of local artists. A researcher asked us tons of stuff about living in Detroit and the ‘creative’ lifestyle. One of the questions that popped up was about millennials, social media, and interaction. How does it affect one’s psyche?

I thought about how people treat me before they see my Instagram account. The difference is astonishing…

Photos courtesy of Richelle Marie Photography

Before I go into my answer, I want to give you a little history. I started out as a style blogger in 2013 with the hopes that people would read my other works. I’ve always been a writer, but no one paid any attention to ‘Leah the Writer’. In order to bring people in, I started adding visuals to the blog posts. At that moment, I became a plus-size, Muslim model. I fell into it, but it was never my intent. I just wanted people to read my shit. I started getting attention for my photos and not really my writing. Which frustrated me, but it worked out in the end because now people actually read and appreciate my stuff.  

Over the years, my followers tripled, and now I have—on Instagram alone—over 14k followers.

Now, there are bloggers with waaaaaaay more followers than me. I’m middle-grade compared to them. Which is fine, but when I meet people in real-life and they stumble upon my account, it’s the first thing that latch onto. The numbers.  

“Errrrmagawd,” one guy said scanning my feed. “You’re like insta-famous.”

“How’d you get so many followers?” A girl asked. “I can’t even break a thousand.”

And, I always get someone who asks, “Did you like buy your followers?”

I neeeeever tell people or flaunt the fact that I have a fan base or a semi-medium following. Because you can see the difference in how they look at me. It’s more like I’m a reality star to them and not a human being. I’ve become some sort of object, a trophy to flaunt about. Oh yeah, I know her. Smh.

Check out her blog: FashionLayn

Not gonna lie. Was it important at a certain point? Hell yeah. Because unfortunately, in the current climate, numbers seem to define a lot of our self-worth. And, that’s where the problem lies.

“I kinda hate the heavy importance people put on social media appearances and numbers. I’ve often seen people blatantly lie about how great their husband is to them, how amazing their job is, and how much fun their having at a party they hadn’t wanted to go to and hated everyone in attendance just to save face for colleagues or friends and sometimes, even strangers on the internet. Why is everyone so obsessed with appearing to be someone they’re not? It’s okay to have a shitty day. We all have shitty days. But, what I really need is for people to stop defining their entire existence on how many people like their selfie!”

Social media is like Catfishing on steroids. You can be whoever you want to be. Lay 17 different filters on you face, blur that double chin, and cinch in that waist… Giiiiirrrrrrl, you’ve become a 2-second Kardashian but without the Kardashian money. But, is that all life is about though? Being a carbon-copy of another person to feel some sort of false validation?  

Stop allowing likes, comments, stats, and selfie angles to define your worth. Stop flipping back and forth from the same thirty photos to see which one makes you look taller. Stop pretending that perfection can ever be attained. It can’t be; no matter if you get a trillion likes. Outside of social media, you have real-life friends that see your double chin and watch you swallow an entire burger without even chewing.

xoxo,

Leah V.  

Battling Inner Demons

I wrote this on May 23rd on my Instagram account: He told me when we decided to get divorced that I couldn't take care of myself. That I'd see how hard it was without him. At first, I thought I could do it by myself. But recently, I've started to believe it. Believe him.

I don't make any money blogging, despite what my feed showcases. Oh, how betraying the internet can be. Fake it till you make it, right? I'm a struggling artist. Have been for a while now. Waiting for my big break like the rest of them. Trying to maintain an indie blog talking about real shit like social justice and feminism isn't what businesses want. They want the fake Instagram bloggers. Which is fine. I've made my bed and I'll lie in it.

What really irked me today was that I have about one month's worth of savings left and have been searching for jobs for the last two months. I have two masters, but I'm still unemployed. On the verge of partial homelessness, I sat in the car and thought about life real hard. How the fuck am I divorced, jobless, and highly educated at 30 🤔 Tears filled me eyes and I thought back to my ex: You can't take care of yourself without me... You know how life just beats your ass and your left stunned? That's me right now. Wondering what's next. How my story ends. Begins. I wish someone had the answers for me. Just tell me what to do. Ya know? Do y'all feel me though?

Henna Designs by Noor

At this point, I was fed up with life. I was cooked and overdone. I wanted people to stop looking at me like some kind of special person and see me for who I really was. An overly educated black girl with no parents, divorced, and no job. A fat girl with mental illness. Someone who floated around with no direction. Yup, that was me. Is me. Still me right now.  

I was sitting in the car on that sunny day, looking at my depleting bank account. Checking my emails to see if any of the 100-plus low-grade jobs that I was clearly overqualified for had sent me a message back. Nothin’. I’d had one interview a few weeks ago, but that was unsure. She was still ‘fleshing out the details of the position’. Unfortunately, my bills or rent hadn’t cared about the details. They needed to be paid. My uninsured body hadn’t cared about the details. It needed annual checkups now. My hopes and dreams hadn’t cared the fuck about the details. They needed nourishment and funding now!

As I always do, I lost my marbles. The strain of not having a family to support, help with anything weighed on me like a slab of marble. The embarrassment of having to apply for food stamps, walking into the unemployment office for ‘job assistance’, and making an appointment with a volunteer healthcare agency weighed heavily on my chest, my ribs as to where I couldn’t breathe. 

Then I remembered what my ex told me as we were getting a divorce: you can’t take care of yourself without me. You’ll see how hard it is out there.

Was he right? Had I been to overly-confident about my abilities to maintain a job and pay my own bills? I mean, to the naked eye, it seems as though I have it all. Seems as though I have the ability to take over the world. My face is beat and my outfits are amazing. I have a following. People love me. I’m the fat, black girl who’s supposed to change the fashion game. It doesn’t appear that I’m on the brink of not being able to pay my rent, or put gas in my car or food in my stomach.

The internet isn’t real. It has real moments, but it isn’t real.

I’m struggling to stay afloat. That’s the truth. I have one month’s worth of savings left. That’s the truth. I have no plan of how I’m going to do any of this. Truth. Two credit cards. Almost maxed out. TRUTH.

I’m ashamed to admit that. To say it out of my mouth. I have two fuckin’ master’s degrees and some work experience, yet I’m treated in the work world like I only have a 9th grade education. 

Same day while drinking a slushee, I burst out crying in the front of my friend’s house. In the car. Alone. I hate when people see me cry. I know. I’m weird.

As a black woman, we pride ourselves in maintaining this strong persona. We can’t let them see us weak. We can’t ask for help. Don’t let them see you down.

As a writer, I pride myself in being transparent. It’s how I built the foundation that I do have. I like sharing intimate moments with people. Especially people who get it. People who want real and appreciate that life isn’t snapshots of Instagram posts, but broken-down cars, and fucbois, and weight-gain, and bad ass kids.

Ain’t nobody perfect. Whether their profile says it or not. I don’t care how many filters they place on their selfies.

After, I posted my cry for help, people started to reach out in droves. I crocodile cried again. Y’all know that ugly ass frog-face cry? Yep, that was me.

My inbox blew up with people wanting me to know to not listen to my ex or my inner demon. People that were Muslim talked about patience. People who weren’t Muslim talked about hope and faith. A few individuals even asked for my PayPal info. I told them to hold off a few weeks (cuz ya never know, maybe a job or two would call me back). A few didn’t care and sent money anyway. *Inserts Frog-Face Tears*

I was so overwhelmed by the love. The hundreds of comments and likes. Strangers from different states offering to speak with the HR at their jobs and that they’d even put me up in a room if need be. It’s more than I’ve even gotten from my own blood relatives that see me struggle every day. Women shared similar ‘struggle-bus’ stories of when they got divorced, had their dignity stripped, and was now starting over. From scratch.

My heart swelled. And if you know me, I’m not an emotional person. Well, I try not to show it. But these strangers, these followers rejuvenated me at a time that I needed upliftment, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. They say that I was the one who gave them life on a daily basis. I believe it’s the other way around.

It’s Ramadan. It’s the first day. I’m writing this with a hunger migraine. I’m cranky. And my day has been filled with filling out job apps and researching crowdfunding sites so that I can continue to write, be an artist, I guess.

One thing I learned today was to be humble, be grateful for the things you have, and never lose hope. Who knows what tomorrow will bring for me? Maybe I won’t be broke for long. It’s up to me to have hope and keep grinding and be better in this life and for the sake of the hereafter.

Xoxo,

Leah V.   

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

Boys Will Be Boys

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They gave us salaams.

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

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

He scoffed. “No hijab?”

“Not tonight.” I grinned.

“Y’all better not be drinking.”

I pointed to his glass. “Like you?”

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V. 

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

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

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

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

Don't forget to follow me @ LVernon2000

Fan Questions Answered with Leah V.

Fan Questions Answered with Leah V.

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

So, here are my answers:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MUA: Madinah Muhammad

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

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

@Prettyinpigment What do you love most about Detroit

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

@Lateeforigninals What’s your favorite color?

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

@lionwinemountain What books inspire you?

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

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

Dress: PinkCloveUK

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

@Saneelatameez What is your greatest fear in life?

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

@itsbenstange What do you want to be your legacy?

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

xoxo,

Leah V.