Bibi B.’s “Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin Should’ve Interviewed Some Women”: Serving a Reprimand with Tea (GUEST blog by Karen Zwolenski)
Allison Wyss’s Reading Like a Writer column welcomes a Lit!Commons subscriber takeover! This time, Karen Zwolenski offers a wonderfully sharp analysis of Bibi B.’s ekphrastic flash story, unpacking its inventive use of repetition and detail.
“Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin Should’ve Interviewed Some Women,” by Bibi B., is a flash piece told from a daughter’s point of view. The daughter serves tea to her father’s guests, with Mortenson presumably among them. Mortenson and Relin authored Three Cups of Tea, the 2007 best-selling memoir that highlighted humanitarian efforts to build schools in Afghanistan and Pakistan. In 2011, CBS News’ 60 Minutes reported that some events in the book had not occurred and funds had been misused.
In this story, Bibi B. uses run-ons and repetition to create a reprimand. Her portrayal of the daughter’s reality with these unconventional techniques highlights why the authors of Three Cups of Tea should have interviewed women and reported more accurately on likely events.
The story opens as the daughter serves tea and observes, “the third round of tea brewed obviously cements his friendship with the guests.” She says “obviously” as if the reader should know that the third cup of tea signifies something more than friendship. In this case, the guest becomes family, and the word “cement” evokes a sense of solidity, or perhaps rigidity, in this tradition. The third round also feels like a backhanded nod to Mortenson and Relin’s book title. I can almost see the daughter rolling her eyes as she says “obviously” with a teenage don’t-you-know-it attitude.
The daughter lists the guests: “this uncle and that uncle and their brothers and their uncles too because unless it’s your father or brother it’s your uncle (until one of them is your husband).” Her sing-song recitation mocks the network of men, especially by calling them “this” uncle or “that” uncle. They are nameless, which distances us as readers and collectively lumps them into “men.” Ultimately, Bibi B. delivers a punch: “until one of them is your husband.” This clause reveals not only the daughter’s current reality but also how her future may be cemented.
After the daughter is tasked with serving another round of tea, Bibi B. details the job description. Every step is recited with a feeling of never-ending momentum, much like the unfinished quality of housework: “Collect the cups to wash the stack of dishes (cups and saucers and kettle and serving pot),” and “brew the tea and pour the milk and wait for it to scald perfectly and crush the cinnamon, clove, and elaichi for aroma’s sake, pour the cups, and bring them to the guests.” The drudgery is palpable, with each step connected by “and.” This slow rhythm feels like a pendulum, numbing us into compliance.
But then, the boredom is interrupted by the daughter’s first mistake. Her hands are full, and her shawl slips: “so my father chastises me for my indecency and the men laugh and commend him for raising me well when I use my teeth to hold the scarf in its modest place and brew the tea…” We can feel our teeth gripping the fabric—perhaps cotton—dry and rough against the lips, pulling the shawl taut as she carries the cups. It’s a desperate image, like the expression “by the skin of your teeth.” But it doesn’t matter that she manages to hold the cloth in place; the men laugh at her anyway. The sentence spills further as the men “commend him (her father) for raising me well.” This brief exchange stings, and I can feel my own cheeks burning for her.
It doesn’t stop there. After the scarf debacle, the girl brings more tea: “my father has sipped the crushed elaichi so he chastises me for failing to remove the pod (heaven forbid a guest sip it) and so I take the cup from him and brew another apology…” Does the daughter still use her snarky voice for “heaven forbid a guest sip it”? I think so. Yet she knows she must “brew” another apology. She plays her part, but her inner voice reminds us she is part of the show—or sham—of this tradition.
As the scene closes, “dusk finally envelops the sky,” and with the word “finally,” we imagine the girl relieved that the guests are leaving. But this relief cascades into emptiness, for as the guests leave, the daughter is excluded from their embraces: “and they prepare to leave to their homes hugging each other and bidding farewell and the uncles and brothers and their uncles all thank my father for his generous hospitality.” The daughter returns to her duties: “when they leave I go collect the cups.” This is not the final action for the girl but the continuation of her duties, because collecting the cups inevitably leads to the next step.
Here, over the empty cups, I imagine Bibi B. shaking her finger one last time at Mortenson and Relin for omitting this and every daughter’s story in the never-ending chores of their days and lives.