Confusion In New York: Week One

My Confusion In New York: Week One

This marks week one down as a New Yorker.

I am clearly not one. Yet. Or maybe ever. I’m still on the fence about this whole big move thing. I mean, you never really know if you are actually going to like something until you dive in and then figure out that you absolutely hate it or love that shit. Or eh about it.   

Although I don’t necessarily miss Detroit, I don’t want to actually be here as of now. New York is an unfamiliar place. It’s busy and loud and busy and lots of funny smells. By funny smells, I mean shit. It sometimes smells like shit.

When I used to day dream about the big city, I always used to think of it like in the movies. It was very fancy and very Caucasian. Love stories and opportunities and things just seemed quite easy.

That it not the case. It is not as easy as the movies would make it seem. Everything is close but so spaced apart. Most of my friends live in other boroughs that are about 45-minute subway rides away. Although me and my weak knees are semi-capable of trudging down hundreds of cement steps to push through crowds of bodies on the platform, it seems like so much to do just for an hour and a half of social interaction.

I am used to the ease of hopping in my car and driving 15 minutes to unexpectedly drop into my friends’ house and have snacks and talk shit about people we don’t like.

Here is not the same. They have no idea of the people that I don’t like. They don’t know shit about me at all.  

Which is a bit isolating. I just want to put my old friends in my fuckin pocket and bring them here. But, they have lives and kids, I guess. And, there’s not much room in my pocket to thrive.  

Another thing is that everyone is busy all the time here. That’s what I came for though, so why hadn’t I expected everyone to carry that same dose of grind? Detroit has a very laid-back type atmosphere that I have grown used to. New York does not. It’s a city on steroids. Everyone is on go-go-go mode.

People keep saying that I will get used to it, but will I?

On top of that, I am being semi-kicked out of my new-ish apartment after only being moved in for three whole ass days. I know that one day I will look back on this major inconvenience and laugh about it. As of now, this is no laughing matter. I am pissed. The time that I could be spending looking for jobs to pay rent, I know have to find another place plus find gigs to pay rent.

I am already tired of thinking about it.

And!!! I don’t have the credit score or income to qualify for most rooms. So, there’s that. Welcome to NEW YORK! The land of shady landlords that kick folks out after only a few days of residence.

The last thing that I will complain about and update you on would be that I do not belong. And not in that sense, I do belong in some way or another, but I don’t have a core group of folks that got my back or can shoot my photos or help me do random shit late at night.

I am starting from scratch. Just that sentence made me doze off. I have to start over again building my core people. It took me damn near years to do that in Detroit and now at 31 years old, I gotta do it again. Clearly, I like abuse because NYC is gnawing at my leg right now.  

Baby steps, girl, is what I keep telling myself. Because if I don’t, then I will pack a truck with all my shit and dart right back to Detroit. Where it is bland but at least I know people!

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 Black Girl with Many Faces

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diversity In YA Books: Brown Girls Need Heroines, Too!

https://www.launchgood.com/project/muslimah_author_seeks_selfpublish_funds

This is a call to action!

So, you guys (my readers, my loves, and supporters!) have been rocking with me since day one. Since the grainy photos, the horrid style choices, and the iffy fashion shows. You witnessed my growth, my insecurities, and my accomplishments.

This year has brought about some major family and personal challenges in my life. A lot of them negative and unexpected. But I’ve chosen my path. And I CHOOSE to keep moving forward. I’ve chosen to drown out all the ‘NO’s’ and turn those bad boys into some fuckin’ YES’s! I’m sick and tired of being scared of success and failure. Because at the end of the day, I’m battling MYSELF. I’m the one who holds myself back… No one else.

I was going through some things last week, being challenged heavily on the mental side. I took a night drive and was thinking about all the stuff I’ve done and could be doing. I thought about my book. The novel I spent years and years and years on. Why wasn’t in out there? Why wasn’t I allowing anyone to read it? How many brown girls are out there waiting to see a kick-ass protagonist that looks just like they do?

Rough draft cover of my novel by student: Fatima Harbali

Fear.

I was afraid that if I did publish it on my own that I wouldn’t be able to handle the business, production, and upkeep of a small publishing company. I’d fail miserably and all the people that ‘told-me-so’ would be vindicated. I knew Leah couldn’t do it. I knew she didn’t have it in her. So I thought: what if I died tomorrow. Yes, grim, I know. But necessary. What if I died tomorrow and never tried to publish my book?

That thought catapulted me into what I’m doing now. I’m publishing my book. I don’t care. I’m doing it. Failure or not. I’ve mustered up the courage and maxed out my credit card to get a few printed.

One of my friends suggested I run a campaign. Oh, how I hate asking for handouts. But she assured me that people WANT to help me succeed. And here we are…

I have a Launchgood campaign to offset some of the costs of printing, production, marketing, and launch. And I really want you guys to hear me out. It’s donating to a good cause. There aren’t enough women of color who are leads in Sci-Fi novels. There aren’t enough girls of color who are superheroes. There isn’t enough color in the publishing world altogether. Help be a part of that change that we’re always tweeting about. I really need you guys to come through and donate and even share the link if possible.  

I’m asking you guys to make someone’s dream come true. We all have been helped to get where we are today. I believe in karma. When you put good energy out into the world, it comes back to you in an abundance.

How my face will be when I reach my goal! And sell the mess out of these books. Hehe.

DONATE, SHARE the link, and SUPPORT your fellow artist.

I’ll be ever so grateful… and you get some goodies for donating, too!

>>>>Click here to Donate<<<

And donating offline is also an option.