Leah V Gets a Live Brazilian Wax

A lot of folks are dying to know how I maintain my, umm, errggh, lower regions.

I am proud to say that I get Brazilian waxed regularly. So, follow me as I get a live Brazilian wax! If you love my content and want to continue to seeing my face and want to support a fat, Black, Muslim artist just trying to make a semi-honest living (LOL) then I encourage you to LIKE, SHARE, COMMENT, AND SUBSCRIBE.

And, you can always be my Patron, any amount helps: https://www.patreon.com/leahvernon

PayPal: Leahjvernon@gmail.com

Venmo: @LeahV

Lastly, don't forget to follow me @Lvernon2000

Have you ever been waxed before? What’s your experience? Let’s chat:)

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

The Secret Is Out: I Have A Book Deal!!!

I have thought about this day for my entire life. I have been writing stories since I was six years old. Words, stories have saved my life more times than you’d ever know and more times than I’d care to admit. I believe that stories, our very narratives are transformative.

I am very rarely ever speechless so it’s hard to begin. I can tell you that I am sitting in my bed as I type this, tired from packing, tired of moving things up and down the steps. I have to wake up early to load up a cargo van from Detroit and head to NYC to live with two people who I don’t know. I have a strew of unanswered emails and unanswered texts from people who wish me well in this new and strange city hundreds of miles away from my friends and family.

So, I guess I’ll get started.

I wrote my first full-length novel at seventeen. It was a YA Sci-Fi novel. About 400 pages. I wrote little scenes in between taking notes in my freshman year of college. I was obsessed. I loved how as an author, I was in control. I could be anything unlike in real life. I lived vicariously through my characters. In the worlds I created, I was what I could never be in reality. I could be thin. I could be the heroine. I could be white. Courageous. Sexy. A villain.

I sent that book out as soon as I was done to agents in NYC. I had dreams of being a big-time author like J.K. Rowling or R.L. Stein. All I needed was that one yes. I must’ve sent that book out to over a hundred agents and publishing houses. I got a ton of rejections but was optimistic. One agent asked for the full manuscript. I was elated. I used my little money to print all 400 pages. You can imagine how much that cost me. I was a poor college student.

I waited a few weeks then got a letter in the mail. He had rejected it. I remember trudging along with a heavy backpack full of used textbooks and ripping the letter apart and crying. At that moment, I swore off writing. I wasn’t good enough. No one who looked like me would ever make it in the publishing world. Fat, Black Muslim girls hadn’t had a place in that world. I hadn’t seen any.

Years later, I picked up a pen again. My soul was itching to write more stories. I wrote my second full length novel. Again, it was YA dystopian. It was much better than the first but was rejected by over two hundred agents and publishers.

Discouraged, I took a little break but began ordering all the books I could about the art of storytelling. I even enrolled in college level courses to learn what I was doing wrong. Why hadn’t the agents wanted my stories?

Finally, I decided to get a master’s in creative writing. When I tell you I was broke and scared that I’d be wasting my money. I was. I was working a full-time job that I hated and married. But, it was my last hope to be a writer. I was hungry for the knowledge. So, against the odds, I was accepted into Wilke’s University. It was hard. All of my time went to creating a third novel.

This was the one! I bellowed. This was the book that was going to get published. Finally. I had checked off every box. Spent two and a half years perfecting and deleting and adding and red-lining this manuscript to gold. I edited it over seventeen times over the span of two years.

Guess what? A few agents bit, but no one wanted it.

I was in despair. I had three books under my belt and nothing to show for it.

Life happened. My mother had become ill and distanced herself. My father was never there. Then my husband took me through the most horrific divorce ever. Treated me like I was a stranger after a decade relationship. I gave and gave and gave and then was dropped by everyone I thought would love me and be there for me forever. I learned that people aren’t always who they say they are.  

When I tell you that I was mad. I was fuckin livid. I was left with no money, no insurance, no job. Nothing. I had to start from the bottom.

To get through the depression and separation of my husband, I wrote. I needed to purge myself of the evil that people had done to me. I needed to release the madness that was building. I needed to be raw as fuck on those pages. Trauma and pain didn’t care that I was Muslim. It didn’t care that I was poor. I cried while writing those essays. Having to recall the nastiness that happened in your life was as therapeutic as it was sad.

By the time I was done, I had a whole ass book. But, it wasn’t fiction like the others, it was a memoir of essays.

Because I was embarrassed of some of the stories inside those pages, I sat on it for almost a year. Then I made a pact with myself. If I was to receive any large sum of money, that I would send the book to agents.

I ended up winning the Gilda Award for one of my essays and that was the sign I needed.

So, without further ado. I am proud to announce that I have a whole ass memoir coming out mid-October. It’s about my life: growing up, being Muslim, being Black, being fat. It also has stories of which I’ve never, ever shared with the public and even with my family and friends.

I’m not going to lie, I never thought I’d get a book deal. I never thought that someone would actually represent me and get me a contract. I never thought that a book I wrote would be on actual shelves.

I am shocked still. I am also scared as shit. That people will judge me. Make me to be some bad person. That my stories will be exploited. I am rightfully scared of these things.

On the other hand, I believe that people need to see my face. My body. They need to hear my words. Stories are transformative. They change people. They’ve changed me.

This book is all of me. And, I hope that you support me by pre-ordering a copy or two, by telling your friends how amazing it is. By posting how much you are excited about it on your social media accounts.

I hope that by reading my stories that you become more like your true self each and every day. That you feel a little less scared. A little less alone.

You can pre-order your copies of Unashamed: Musings of A Fat, Black Muslim everywhere books are sold!

Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0807012629/

Barnes and Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/9780807012628

Indie Bookstore: https://www.indiebound.org/book/9780807012628

Beacon Press: http://www.beacon.org/Unashamed-P1515.aspx

I would like to thank my agent Penelope Burns with Gelfman/Schneider, Joanna Green and the entire team at Beacon Press for believing in this project, Madinah Muhammad was head makeup artist for the cover, Daniela Lisi shot the beautiful shot, and the team at Eloquii gifted me the entire outfit.

Are you excited? Are you pre-ordering your copy? Let’s make this the next Best Seller!

xoxo,

Leah V

Fear: Taking Leaps and Bounds

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My feelings were hurt. I was defeated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V   

Simply Be UK "Express Yourself" Ad

Because I’ll be traveling all week, I just wanted to drop in and show you my latest work from the summer. I was flown to the UK, not once but twice, to shoot commercials for Simply Be UK.

Ya’ll know that I started my blog back in 2013 because I wanted to fill a gap. I wanted to show the world that beauty didn’t have a standard. It had no age, color, or religion. 
I’ve always expressed my identity through fashion. 

I was the Muslim girl who would wear black nail polish and black lipstick to prayer on Fridays and get shocked and disapproving looks from other Muslims. I was the girl who would cover her eye lids with glitter and stick flowers in her hijab while friends either made fun of me or told me that “big girls were always looking for attention”. I was the girl who always wore what she wanted on her face and body despite what people said. 

I look back at all the people that talked shit about my makeup and clothing. Called me a clown and other discouraging names. They are either in my inbox asking for styling advice or now watching from the sidelines as I rise *sips tea* 

Had I listened to their ridicule, had I wavered and changed who I truly was to please them, I surely wouldn’t be standing here shooting whole ass commercials 😂. I want to let you know that you don’t have to be an Instagram model to feel confident with your body. You don’t need a small waist, long weave with baby hairs laid, pale skin, clear skin, narrow nose, big booty, or long legs to feel beautiful. 

You can start right now. 

What makes your feel beautiful?

XOXO,

Leah V

Blogging 101: Finding Your Niche, Building Content, and Tackling Instagram

Last week, I made up my mind to stop reaching out to companies and universities. The rejection was just too much and clearly, I’m not cut out to be an entrepreneur. I planned on redoing my resume and looking for a ‘real’ job. Which is hard in itself. People aren’t hiring like that here in Detroit. I’m overqualified and they would surely underpay a creative Black girl with two masters degrees.

My heart sank as I lost a little of myself.

Last night, my sisters told me that the knowledge I have is valuable. And that I’ve worked my ass off to build a platform. She said that I give myself for free and ask for nothing in return.

Last month, I asked God, the universe to tell me what to do with tears strolling down my face. My question wasn’t answered. I contemplated doing many things that had no good in it. Things that I’d probably regret later on...

Sometimes, the answers are within us, in front of us. But, we don’t stay quiet long enough to listen.

I’ve never thought of myself as an entrepreneur. Although, I’ve always wanted to be one. So, I’m trying one more time...I won’t be working on my resume to make a random company rich. Instead, I’m launching my own. I’m launching a Blogger 101: Building an Online Presence Webinar and compiled information from how to find your niche, building an online community, social media algorithms to get your work seen, as well as reaching out to companies for collaborations.

All night, I’ve been pouring years of mistakes and lessons I wish I was told and had to learn about building an online community and social media into a legit blogging webinar. I couldn’t even fit all the knowledge into one session! I want to make this a thing y’all! I’m scared. But, I’m hopeful that you trust me to guide you in your journey of getting your business or your craft or message out there.

So, I’m gonna start with 20 spots. And, I’m gonna push until those 20 are filled this week. I’m 30 and I’m tired of struggling, negative in my bank account, and bill collectors.

Support small Black, Muslim, and female owned businesses. That’s so important right now.

So, Blogging 101: Finding Your Niche, Building Valuable Content, and Tackling Instagram is NOW available.

-One Hour Live Session (Skype/Google Hangouts)

-Topics: Utilizing social media to build your brand, what you need to start, finding your market, and unlocking Instagram’s algorithm to get your work viewed by thousands, and more...

Price: 99$ to the first 10 folks to sign-up and after that, 149$

This is not just for bloggers! It's for anyone who has a service, product, brand, and/or non-profit that they want to get out into the open. If you want to grow your business, online presence, and get your work/services seen or heard, then this webinar is for you.

*Webinar open to all countries* 

Thank you in advance for supporting a fat, Black, and very Muslim entrepreneur from Detroit. 

Purchase Webinar Here: https://www.paypal.com/paypalme/BeautyandtheMuse/100

XOXO, 

Leah V 

Reclaiming Time and Taking Up Space

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

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

Jacket Courtesy of Addition Elle

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

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

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

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

“What did I learn?” I whined.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

Inclusion: The Perception of Perfection in Islam

Photos Courtesy of Eric Puschak

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

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

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

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. 

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. 

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

Thighs That Touch

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

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

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

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

And I was fat. 

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

Obsession. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing ever lasts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is very much so acceptable.  

XOXO,

Leah V.

Detroit Girl in a London World

I’ll be releasing a series of photos of my London trip last month. And, yes, my blog posts have been sporadic, but bear with me. I’m creating new content, shooting better shoots, and living. But, I am so excited to click that ‘publish’ button to share my journeys with you all. And these are from Day 1.

A few weeks before my trip, life was craaaaazy. Ugh, like I was literally pulling sixteen hour days in order to prepare for my two-week adventure (that was much needed). Ever since my divorce and move last September things have been kinda sorta getting back to normal, but like everyone else, I have my days.

This trip to London was solo. I needed to get away, be someone different for a second. I needed to breathe and take a step back from family drama and friends. I needed to push myself, sit in silence, and really get a feel for who I was. It was a trip for self-discovery and meeting new people and getting lost and depending on strangers.

And even though, my wallet was stolen at a London nightclub, all was not lost. I shared a kiss on the top level of a Brixton bus, explored the city, danced, soaked up the architecture, and met some amazing individuals. So, all in all, it was an amazing trip that I wouldn’t change for shit!

The internet is a crazy place that I love dearly. Lol. I put out a call on my IG page for people in London to show me around or even collaborate. My inbox was flooded! One artist/girl boss in particular had reached out. Her name is Esmahan from Canada and she and her sister, Amnna, co-owns a company called Buno Designs, which is based in London. All through Instagram messenger, we sent ideas back and forth, measurements, and they had set up a Parisian photographer to shoot me the day I landed.

Amnna designed and hand sewn a reversible kimono/abaya just for me.

When I got off the plane, I was jetlag. Customs took over an hour to get through. I couldn’t find my luggage for a long time. And I got lost getting to the Air b’n’b. Three hours later, I finally made it to my destination. Amnna and I had a few issues with messaging (no international calling! Ha). Everything started going downhill and it seemed as though the shoot wasn’t going to happen.

I met this man on the street. He started telling me about his girlfriend that was overseas. Just a very random love of his life story. Amnna never came out of the subway exit. I got nervous. “Are you ok?” the man asked.

“No,” I replied. “I’m waiting for a friend. She may be lost. Or maybe I’m lost.”

“You know there is another exit a block down.”

I thanked him and walked very fast and waited at the second exit. A few minutes passed. Then I saw her making her way up the stairs holding on to a large bag with my garment inside.

“Amnna,” I yelled over London traffic, waving my arms.

We were running about an hour behind, but luckily, the Parisian photographer was patient and waited for us to arrive at our destination.    

Because we were late, we were losing light, fast. Amnna convinced a local tailor to press the wrinkles out of the garment in ten minutes. I put on some lipstick really quickly and we shot in a magical neighborhood full of white background. It was chilly, she was sick, and I was kinda sick, too. And everyone was tired, but we thugged it out and created a really nice set of photos that I’m very proud of.

It’s so funny how we see photos and we judge them based on that moment, not all the moments that led up to that very instant. The work and sweat put into the garment she made me, or the long ass flight I was on, and the bags under my eyes that I had to cover with concealer.

So, thank you Buno Designs for allowing this Detroit girl to be herself and adding inclusivity to your brand. I love my custom kimono (that I got to take home).

Yall, check them out. They have some dope pieces.

xoxo,

Leah V.