birthday curse

The evil eye was a subject that was never allowed to rest between my mother and father. My father would let her use it passively to explain away why my sister and I got hurt on days we looked pretty. Every once in a while, however, she would become insistent, that we were in fact, afflicted with the curse of Nazar. My father, ever a practical man, couldn't help but take the bait every time. He didn't believe that people had the power to inflict harm without ever even lifting a finger. Still, we grew up with evil eye charms everywhere, a mark of the depth of my culture. Blue, black, and white eyes were strung up around every mirror and room; I was always being watched.

We were gifted a piece of evil eye jewelry every year for our birthday as an offer of protection. Though jewelry made me feel trapped, my sister and I were always adorned with a plastic evil eye clung to each wrist; even as a young person I understood the significance and was instantly fascinated. 

I understand now that I never got to experience that fascination to its natural end because the bracelets would almost always inexplicably break after wearing them for only a few days; with them, my heart would scatter across the floor. In response, I would regularly sneak into my sister's room to steal one of hers. After wearing them for only a few days, my poor sister's shiny bracelets would be ripped to shreds by my bad luck. 

I now will recall the two most devastating instances.

I started noticing the odd affliction of bad birthdays, but I never could recall the curse on the week of. I am always blinded by the alluring prospect of the celebrations ahead. Year 15 was especially promising because it was my first ‘big girl’ birthday party. We set up decorations in the most darling rollerskating rink; everything was drenched in blacklight and patterned with eighties-style lines and graphics. The songs were the kind you could scream along to and for the next two hours, we spent our time wheeling around, hands clasped and laughing. Never had I fallen with such fervent joy. We were finally sore enough for cake. My mother goaded me to the table and there I sat, catching my breath. 

There was an energy I didn't notice at the time and an odd shuffling between my family members. I heard my sister shout as she hurtled full speed at the railing, so I turned to watch.

It was all like a movie: my name, pressure in my lap, and as the camera panned back towards my mother's face, I looked down.

In my lap, sat the most precious cat the world could've manifested for me. Though she was shaking from fear, from the oddity of the patterns and the lights, she was not malicious. As I gazed at her, in pure shock, she purred and drew herself closer to me rather than a hiss. I was quickly resigned to vows, I would love this cat forever, she and I would move to New York together and despite every heartbreak, she would be the pillow I cried into. She would be my comfort and hers, and when our bones got too heavy for us to carry, we wouldn't mention it. Together we would bathe in sunlight, together we would hide from the moon. In the car ride home, I held her close to my chest and imagined my lungs breathing in time with hers. I closed my eyes until we arrived at our new life together. 

When we got there, I couldn't open them again.

We had cats before, but somewhere between my journey from child to teen, I developed an aversion to the dander of the worst kind. The puffy eyes and the red face were not helped by the crocodile tears that poured onto the floor. As quickly as she had given her to me, my mother took my companion before I could give her a name. I imagined I was Alice from Wonderland, and that my covers were the ocean I feared creating. I didn't know what love was, but I knew I would never love again. At fifteen, I lost a life that I felt was promised to me; it was rightfully mine.

And my bracelet broke.

I still didn't understand how determined The Evil Eye was. Every year it found a new way to prod at me. This year was a nightmare among nightmares. Nothing sparked my soul like the hollow flame dream of existing in New York.

This was not a want fanned by the wave of LA influencers flocking to capitalize on the brownstone-glass cityscape. It was true and deep-rooted from a young age. High school proved itself to be a difficult time, and though I had a dream, I did not have the stats. 

So, I planned! I created the person my parents always wanted me to be for myself. Calculated, precise, and always working, I soared for an entire semester with the best grades I've ever gotten. There was not a moment on this mortal coil where I was not thinking about the destination, crying over how impossible it would be, and working.

We were Arabic--- Algerians, our women do not leave the home this young. With every perfect score came more worry. My mother cried to God and wondered who could've possibly afflicted this bad luck onto her. We sat and spoke, and screamed, and my mother and father said no 7 times, following each one with a maybe. Finally, we came to a decision. We would visit Manhattan, and visit the schools I wanted to go to, and only after we came back would they make a decision about releasing me.

We planned to go the week of my birthday.

I had never seen my family so pale and weak and I had never felt so miserable. According to my mother, there was no clearer sign of bad luck than COVID. The final ‘no’ came. I was in awe, and as she explained the nature of bad luck, my father nodded along. In traitorous agreement for the first time, they left me to my despair and went about being ill. 

No cake, no presents, no New York. Where was my future? How could it leave without me? I was no longer Alice in an ocean of her own tears, I was my mattress. I was the cotton sheets and the threadbare lining. I waited in anticipation for my door to open, revealing an alternate decision. I waited for my dear companions to message me a cold ‘Happy Birthday’. I waited for a notification for new plane tickets to blip on my phone.

As I left my house for the first time after my recovery, the plastic bracelet caught on the door, sending beads spiraling down the driveway.

My life is ripe and sweet and thick at the trunk, but its edges are brittle. Time’s arrow is unrelenting and despite perceived bad luck, in hindsight, it has always been a blessing. I find it to be a good omen of the year to come when the worst of it happens first. For every bead in a landfill today, I imagine a timeline where I failed much worse, and there’s a comfort in the struggle to stand. Life is divine and there is a pattern we recognize in our own lives that outlines the form of change. I hope that my ability to sense this form is accurate because it tells me now that my yearly cuts heal with strength and offer a structured scar that bears weight that flesh couldn’t.

I see my melodrama, but all my evil eye jewelry is metal now, so hopefully its a little harder to break next year.