Leah Vernon - Unashamed: Musings of a Fat, Black Muslim

To all those who are struggling to find the uniqueness in their beauty

I m a fat, Black, Muslim woman from Detroit.

And where I come from, women hide things. My family, my people, have been hiding all their lives. My great-grandmother took my great-grandfathers identity to the grave. A piece of the past, our past, gone in the wind.

We hide molestation, child abuse, spousal abuse. We conceal mental illness and eating disorders. We hide illegitimate children, abortion, and drug abuse. Most of us sit on information and hide behind computer screens and pretend to be people that we arent. When our husbands cheat with strippers, we smile and give greetings. When we are attacked by Islamophobes, we hug and pray. When we hurt, we conceal. Hide the trauma. Hide the pain. Dont say a word. Dont be ungrateful. There are bigger problems in this world. You are one of the lucky ones.

When I first started writing, I planned to write under a pen name. I didnt want anyone to know mea Muslim woman, writing about things I shouldnt. I was going to embarrass myself, my husband, my friends, and my religion. In my mind, Id be a complete disgrace.

I allowed white sensitivity to dictate what I said and how I said it. When there was a social justice issue, I zipped my lips, not allowing myself to participate in the hush-hush conversation going on among my people of color.

Feminism? What was that? I couldnt be a feminist because I was married. I was Muslim. Certain kinds of women empowerment made certain men uncomfortable.

Seems like when youre born with a vagina, stereotypes and ceilings and walls and fortresses are instantaneously built around you. Society says that my body is too fat, too curvy, too lumpy. Why do I have to be constantly policed? Your teeth are fucked. Go buy a new grill. No lashes? Buy some. Pile your face with makeup and youre fake. If you dont, then youre not a lady. Youre not feminine enough.

As soon as they stamp your birth certificate with a minority race, its only downhill from there. You will always, always, be judged. If its natural or on a Black face, then its deemed unworthy. Your lips are too big, but big is okay for a white girl whose lips are poked and injected. Your hair is too nappy; just perm it or put on a blonde wig so that you resemble a white girl.

Same thing with religion: Take off the scarf. It means youre oppressed by a man. It makes Americans feel more comfortable with you if you dont wear it, no longer rep for Islam. You want to get on birth control? Cant do that. Thats not what God intended.

When I walk into a room, it seems all people see is my hijab. Then my Black face. Then my obese body. Through all of my trials and tribulations, my existence has been reduced to two choices: be myself or allow the world to dictate who I am.

For too long, Ive allowed the world to dictate. And now, we are here. Right at this very moment. Im sharing some things that Ive never, ever shared with my close friends. Im exposing myself. What I was and who I am now. Although, exposing is such a negative word.

To me, I am freeing myself.

The day I let go of the heaviness of how the world viewed me was the day I let myself go.

Im not a poster child for anything. Please dont deem me as this or that. I am me. Solely me. With my own opinions and skewed outlooks and quirks. Im not seeking validation nor am I seeking a pat on the back.

With these stories, I want you to learn. Heal. Think outside the box. Disengage from groupthink. Detach from the ideology that people, humans, can be stuffed into a nice little circle with a polka-dot bow on top. I dont care what people post, how amazing their photos look, or how their husbands have that perfect jawline. We are all humans with complexities. We are equal. We are fucked up. But we are beautiful and interesting and knowledgeable.

And we all have a story to tell.

W hen Mom noticed that I was filling in, she no longer allowed me to pick out my own clothes. Shed take us to one of her favorite spots, Mammoth, a department store that sold irregular-sized socks and undershirts.

We lived in an era of baby-tees that hung just above the belly button, neck chokers, embellished jeans, and slip dresses. I wanted in. But I couldnt really get in-in because Muslim girls are only allowed to show their hands, feet, and face. The rest has to be covered to practice modesty.

Little Sister went first. Mom picked colorful shirts for her with sparkles and unicorns and other cutesy embroideries on them. Mom was in a good mood because she had a little money in her pocket since it was tax time, so I was going to try to convince herwithout telling on myself because we werent allowed to watch anything over the PG rating due to sexual conduct in many of the movies that Mom deemed inappropriate for our young Muslim mindsto let me mimic a few styles from the movie Clueless.

I stood in the middle of the juniors section with all the newest styles. They even had hip-hugger bell-bottoms. There were racks upon racks of jeans in different colors. I grabbed a pair, sucked in my stomach, and put it up to my waist. They were cute but barely covered my fat legs. I peeked inside the jeans and pulled out the tag. Size eight. Wtf? Well, not wtf because thats a newer saying. It was more like, what da heck!

I needed to find my size and searched for the double-digit rack. I doubled back. Every rack ended at a size twelve. Not a real size twelve but a size twelve in juniors. Which was basically like two sizes too small.

Panicking, I searched again. Maybe Id missed that lonely rack with slightly extended sizes. I couldve squeezed into something. I couldve lost weight or cut off a part of my thigh. I was going to make a pair of jeans in that department store work.

Time passed and Operation Find Plus-Size Jeans was a complete fail. I figured that if they didnt have jeans, then maybe they had shirts in my size. I didnt have much boob, so how hard could it be?

The shirts were also made tiny, but it was fine because I could just stuff my rolls into a size large. I was big, but I wasnt that big.

I snatched a cute stretchy, tie-dye shirt with long sleeves off the hanger and rushed to the full-body mirror by the dressing rooms. I burst into an empty room and tore off my shirt. I pulled the new shirt over my head. So far, so good. But thensee what had happened was, as I tried to put my arms into the sleeves, the fat got caught. The stretch of the shirt had reached its maximum stretch capacity. I looked in the mirror and stared at the stuffed human sausage staring back. The double chin peeking over the soft neckline and the belly roll resting over my too big distressed jeans.

Mom called my name. I carefully placed the cute little shirt that I couldnt fit back on the hanger and met up with Mom and Little Sister, who was happily hanging off the side of the shopping cart filled with clothes.

Come on, Mom said.

I took the walk of shame to the mens department, dragging my Payless brand sneakers along the dull tile. Mom parked her cart near the T-shirt rack and dove in.