Alessandra's Story

When Alessandra was 5, she visited Morocco with Claude, her French-Canadian come-what-may father, and Danielle, her American feminist mother. Danielle agreed to wear traditional dress out of respect for their hosts, but the family found their vacation to another country not exactly what they had in mind.

Alessandra and her parents shopped at an outdoor market for figs and vodka. The local men and women were fascinated with Alessandra's golden curls and large blue eyes, but Dani resented their unfamiliar hands and constant reaching out to touch her daughter's hair and face. (Chantel gets this). When Alessandra and her parents returned to the home of their hosts, Dani was even more resentful when she realized that she was expected to spend the rest of the day helping to prepare dinner-- tending a fire and turning the spit that held a whole lamb.

Dinner was a process in which everyone ate from the same bowl with their fingers: Take two fingers, dip, suck, dip again, suck, and pass. The bowl went to all the men first, boys second, women third, and little girls last. By the time the food reached Alessandra, it had passed through 30 hands, (or 150 fingers and 30 types of saliva.)

After dinner Danielle was dancing with the other women when Alessandra pulled on her skirt. She looked down at her daughter's green face, scooped her up, and ran out into the courtyard where Alessandra "evacuated her dinner at both ends."

A local doctor came to the house. As soon as he arrived, the doctor turned Alessandra over and much to her surprise and her mother's horror, gave her a suppository. Danielle had had it.

"Claude, call a cab! We are leaving!"

Danielle wrapped Alessandra in a blanket, changed back into her jeans and t-shirt, and the family went to a hotel in Marakesh.

This was the gist of a story we critqued the other day in my non-fiction workshop. Our purpose was to discuss what worked, what didn't. We made comments and suggestions, and we asked the writer questions. Our chatter was full of astute observations--invaluable to any serious writer. But typical of the feminine ability to multi-task, our critique went from the meaning of the word "evacuating" into multiple directions like exploding fireworks--or maybe like projectile vomiting.

"What's a suppository?"
"Have you ever heard of those intestine cleaning things?"
"I know a woman who gives herself a wheat grass enema every day."
"Some people use coffee--"
"Yeah, or cocaine--"
"Its like a giant horse-pill in some kind of medium that dissolves quickly."
"Using suppositories is the absolute fastest way of absorbing medicine, much faster than swallowing a pill."
"Did you say a cocaine enema?"
"Those are called colonics."
"Have you ever seen pictures of what's inside your intestines?"
"If you eat a lot of cheese and stuff, you can have a build-up."
"I guess that would help if you can't hold anything down."
"What's a colonic?"
"People get carried away with the whole cleansing thing."
"It's supposed to be really relaxing."
"Yeah, right!"
"The pictures on the internet are amazing."
"Yeah, but you have to be careful what you eat for awhile after that."
"Well, what's the purpose of cleansing if you're just going to eat more crap?"
"Like this two-foot long piece that looked like tar."
"How does it work?"
"That sounds gross."
"Is there a drip pan, or what?
"Well, some people want to see what's in their bodies--sort of motivating you know?
"Some things are better left to the imagination."

Clearly, this critique had gone sideways. Alessandra sat at the end of the table to my left. "See what your story started?" I said. She laughed.

I had been watching the faces of my classmates, but especially my professor, a small Chinese man with a dry sense of humor and quick, anxious mannerisms. He had been listening the whole time, laughing occasionally, but remaining quiet. Finally when there was a break in the chatter, he said, "Ok then...uh...'evacuate at both ends'---that means puke and poo, right?" The whole table erupted in laughter. We had come full circle.