Man Curse (2 page)

Chapter 3

A
s we walked into the house, the elder women sat around the kitchen table. Food was piled on plates, stacked next to plastic cups. Meredith and I entered the kitchen just in time to hear the tail end of my cousin Gina's latest man-gone-wrong scenario. In her midfifties, single, she had flown in from California with an everlasting pessimistic attitude that seemed so contrary to the sunshine everyone bragged about on the West Coast.

“Whaaaat?” someone blurted out. “I can't believe he did that.”

“That's what they do,” said Gina. “Dogs. All of them.”

“It's part of the curse,” Mom commented with a shrug, brushing crumbs off the kitchen counter. “I'm alone today because women in this family are destined to have problems when it comes to men.”

Mom had never spoken these words before, at least not directly to me. I'd grown up hearing about the curse when eavesdropping on adult conversations during rare family occasions. Usually, it would take just one cousin discussing her man drama before words such as “curse” and phrases such as “issues with men” began morphing women of the Mitchell clan into bitter hens—fussing and clucking about roosters kicking dirt on them. After that issue passed, the conversation turned biblical, with a battle of verses and chapters validating the theory of a family generational curse.

“ ‘The Lord is slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, forgiving iniquity and transgression, but he will by no means clear the guilty, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children, to the third and the fourth generation.' Numbers 14:18.”

“Yeah, but what about ‘You shall not bow down to them or serve them, for I the Lord your God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and the fourth generation of those who hate me.' ”

“Amen,” the room would sing. “Exodus 20:5.”

“Well, don't forget Galatians 3:13. ‘Christ redeemed us from the curse of the law by becoming a curse for us—for it is written, “Cursed is everyone who is hanged on a tree.” ' That's us. 'Cause we black and we was slaves and we hung from trees.”

“Well, what about Anna Belle?”

Silence stiffened the room. I breathed a deep sigh and looked at Meredith.

“Who's Anna Belle?” she whispered in my ear loud enough for everyone to hear. But few looked up. Others acted as if they weren't moved by the question.

“ ‘She of the Mitchell clan will be without he.' That's what the curse says, right? I don't know if I believe that,” my mother said, sucking her teeth. She dug in her bag and pulled out a tissue. “I mean, yes, there may be a curse. But to blame Anna Belle? 'Cause she cheated? I don't know. I'm sure plenty people cheat and go on to be in happy relationships.”

At age eighteen, Anna Belle Mitchell, my great-great-grandmother, had an affair with the pastor of the church. His wife, upon finding them in bed together, took a strand of Anna Belle's hair left on the sheets and placed a curse on it. That doomed Anna never to find healthy, lasting love with a man, banishing her from jumping the broom. “She of the Mitchell clan will be without he” is what the pastor's wife apparently said seconds before her death. This legacy of broken relationships would be passed down through the family of Mitchell females forever.

“That's scary,” Aunt Connie said, like she always did. “That's why I don't want a man. Too much drama.”

“I don't believe that crap,” Mom answered. “I believe in God. And God answers prayers.”

“I believe in God, too. God punished. Anna Belle sinned. And now we're paying for it.”

“Shut up, Connie.”

“Why I gotta shut up? It's the truth.”

“No, it's your truth.”

“Yours, too. When's the last time you had a man?”

“I don't need a man, I got God.”

“Don't you want to get married?”

“Yes, Connie.”

“Well, don't you need a man for that?”

“Why are you asking questions you know the answer to? You sound stupid as usual.”

“You know what? I'm sick of you church people acting like God is all you need,” Connie said as she got up, grabbing her purse. “Y'all get on my nerves with that. When you know you want a man, but you spend all day in church praying on some man, when you need to be out getting a man. But you can't get one, because you're cursed. All of you. I'm so sick of talking about it.”

She tripped over the foot of a chair, grabbed her car keys, and rumbled off.

When Mom and Aunt Connie spoke, they typically argued about everything. Mom would talk down to her, and Aunt Connie would get pissed, hang up, or walk out. They were polar opposites. Mom was a yellow-skinned, 700-credit-score, size-six valedictorian who'd gotten a full ride to NYU. She'd recently accepted a new position as VP of human resources at Quest Diagnostics. Aunt Connie was a chocolate-complexioned size twenty. Deep in debt, she'd barely graduated high school and spent most days off complaining about her hourly pay as a nightclub bouncer. Her favorite pastime was curling up in bed with a bag of cookies, watching
The Price Is Right.
Aunt Connie ending a conversation with an angry, sudden exit was a familiar scene from past family occasions. So was the way this man-curse argument usually ended. Besides the snarky remarks, such as “There she goes again,” the episode would close in a silence filled with throbbing tension.

I suddenly remembered the first time I'd felt this type of man-curse discomfort. I had to have been about ten, at a family reunion. I remember the weird feeling, like a woozy butterfly fluttering in my stomach before dropping dead, a heavy lump in the gut. I quickly ran upstairs to my room. Filled with plush stuffed animals, my space was permeated with the color pink, like a woman's scent that lingers after she's left the room. Shelves atop my window seat showcased a lopsided Barbie leaning against Ken inside their white classic convertible. Nancy Drew and dusty Ramona novels by Beverly Cleary were nestled between two glass jars filled with pennies. An old Cabbage Patch Kid wearing brown pigtails and a plaid red dress smiled, holding a birth certificate that read “Katherine Fagin.” And a
Ghostbusters
movie poster hung next to a blown-up
Return of the Jedi
photo featuring Luke Skywalker and Princess Leah.

I plopped down by the window, watching two squirrels chase each other around an oak tree trunk, scurrying a path up to its top leafy branches. Holding up my left hand, I jutted out the ring finger and twisted a trash-bag tie below my wedding knuckle. I didn't believe in that curse. It couldn't be real, because I was getting married. I'd already picked out my dress in an old
Ebony
Fashion Fair magazine I found at the library. And I'd planned the ceremony: it would be on a sandy beach, and we'd be barefoot, with waves crashing to the sounds of a sweet flute blowing whimsical bridal tunes, floating above the sea. I was different than my relatives. And one day I'd show them all. One day I'd save the ladies in my family from depressive doubt and expected loneliness. I'd be married and break the man curse. It became one of my biggest goals in life.

“Meena, go put out some new trash bags in the backyard,” Mom snapped, bringing me back to the present. “And tie up the bags that are full. The flies are hovering. It looks nasty.” I motioned to Meredith to follow me outside.

I
n the backyard, the Mitchell family reunion was on display. A biannual event, it brought together cousins I loved, along with aunts and uncles I had to flip through the mental Rolodex to recollect. My aunt Deon had volunteered to host this year's event at her Jersey home, a four-bedroom ranch on a suburban, countrylike street without sidewalks. The acre-long backyard sprawled like a state park.

A wide-lensed glimpse at family reminded me that breaking the curse would be a hefty task. Heavy on estrogen, light on testosterone, the predominantly female crowd of cousins highlighted missing male elements in my family's misguided man-map. Spotted with holes and confusing paths, the way to Mr. Right was a marathon walk of tripping over trials and falling in error. It was understandable. I'd never had a consistent adult male figure to guide me with wisdom. I didn't grow up with examples of unconditional fatherly love. I hadn't gotten any testosterone-laden advice on boys and ways to manage their moves. I'd never had a grandfather. There were no older brothers to scare guys I dated into treating me like a porcelain doll. My mother had never known her father. Aunt Connie knew where her sperm donor was but had never met him. And my grandmother rarely, if ever, talked to us about her relationships to either of their dads.

Under a tent the elders of the family sat in a circle next to my grandmother, her brothers, and her sisters. Aunt Bernice and Aunt Gayle wore large, colorful hats and flowery dresses. Their handbags were oversize Gucci classics. They held their heads high when walking, sitting as the proud heads of the sixty-and-over table. The lone elderly men of the group, Uncle Johnny and Uncle Clay, sat holding their canes as they talked about “the man,” the movement, and the problems with black people.

“They still trying to kill all us off.” Uncle Johnny snorted. “Always shooting us.”

“Or locking us up,” Uncle Clay answered. “It's slavery. The prison system is slavery.”

More family members had trickled in since Meredith and I had gone to the store. From Philadelphia came my favorite boy cousins, Bernard and Bishop—the superstar athlete twins. They threw a football back and forth next to their mother, Cece, and her sister, Gladys. The family from Brooklyn featured my cousins Trey, Dedra, Deja, and their mother, Denise. I always knew when they arrived because they spoke in a volume that boomed above everyone else. My cousin Tommy, from the Bronx, came tripping toward me. A year older than I was, he was always drunk or high. He arrived with a tipsy wobble, dropped his paper bag, and a bubbly yellow substance began oozing out.

“What up, cuz!” he yelled, pulling out a can of Old English from the damp bag. As he reached over to hug me, I held my breath so I wouldn't get asphyxiated from the bar fumes. “You want a sip?”

His twelve-year-old sister, Sereena, blasted music from her headphones. I could hear Lil' Kim, “I used to be scared of the dick / Now I throw lips to the shit / Handle it like a real bitch.” She combed her hair and popped gum, rapping lyrics out loud for the entire yard to hear. They'd arrived with their mother, Aunt Nancy, who was bound to begin boozing as soon as the clock passed noon. Her rough, raspy voice evoked thoughts of those who'd lived a concrete life, in jungles crowded with drugs, liquor stores, and welfare checks. She'd married into the family after meeting my uncle Lewis. Relatives blamed Vietnam for his death. A valedictorian and decorated army vet, upon returning from the war he found himself unable to be hired in the country he'd loyally protected. Lewis drank day and night, until his organs drowned in brown, toxic fluid.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, turned around, and saw my cousin Winnie smiling. Named after the wife of the South African president Nelson Mandela, Winnie did not look like much of an activist. She wore a long, stringy weave down to her butt, with streaks of blond running through the strands. She stood at five foot five, with handles and chunks, and her thick arms were tattooed with artistic displays of hearts wrapped in the names of her boyfriend and children. At eighteen, Winnie had already given birth to twin girls. As she stood in front of me, hands on hips, round and plump, it was hard to imagine she'd skipped the ninth grade to become student government president and valedictorian of her high school. I looked down at Winnie's shirt to see a huge stomach bulge.

“Please tell me you gained weight,” I said. “Tell me that's not what I think it is.”

“If you returned calls, then you'd have known about this weeks ago,” she said, rubbing her belly. “But it's a boy! I'm so happy. I'm done with having little girls.”

I kept staring at her tummy, reaching out to touch it before yanking my hand back.

“I hear pregnancy is contagious, so I'm good,” I said, turning up my lip. “I'd die if I had a baby right now. How many months are you?”

“Five,” she said, smiling. “And I know you got career plans, but when you have a baby, you'll want another right away. I love being a mom. Ooh, and look who I brought.”

She stepped to the side and pointed at Philip. He'd been Winnie's boyfriend since the eighth grade. For some reason, he always had specks of dry paint on his shoes and pants from work he'd done as a contract painter. His baby face made him look like a teenager instead of a twenty-one-year-old man.

“Daddy finally let him move in with us.”

“Whaaat?!” I said. “They're cool with that?”

“Yeah, until the baby is born and we can afford to get our own place.”

“Where does he sleep?”

“Where do you think?” she said, sucking her teeth. “In my room, duh!”

Winnie's parents had always been more liberal than anyone I'd ever known or understood. Her father, Uncle Neddy, was my mother's first cousin. But he seemed to be from a different family, born in another universe. His lackadaisical rules and laid-back demeanor were the polar opposite of my mother's uptight parental discipline.

Winnie's mommy-to-be bulge cuddled up against her man made me think about Dexter. We were happy like that in the beginning, caught up in the newness of early-relationship euphoria. Caught up in a cloud of foggy sight that makes it hard to see past fake representatives. The ones who present their best selves, hiding their flaws, faking it just to pull you in and trap you, before their real selves appear when the relationship is tested. Dexter tricked me. And to break this curse, I had to get rid of him and make sure I'd never be fooled again.