The Unconventional: Thriving As A Covered Model

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V  

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

The Muslimah Rebel: Why Quitting Ain't an Option

I almost allowed them to stop me.

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

That was almost me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

xoxo,

Leah V

10 Questions with Leah V and RV

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

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

Find us on Instagram:

@RVXmendoza

@Lvernon2000

Follow us on Snapchat: 

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

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

Thighs That Touch

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

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

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

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

And I was fat. 

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

Obsession. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing ever lasts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is very much so acceptable.  

XOXO,

Leah V.