Our ignorance, avoidance, and silencing of all discussions of female-associated viscera is not polite. It’s killing us.
“They’re looking for PJ’s head honchos,” my father said. “Russ just had a mob in front of their house thinking his diplomatic plates were Venezuelan issue for the regime.”
I should have been in that backseat, eyes forward, hands folded, as America vanished behind us, the self-contained, four-person unit jetting back into our Real World. Instead, here I was, stranded alone in America, astonished to find myself broken apart from the family unit with which I’d negotiated 18 years in Latin America, Europe, and the even stranger land of the Washington DC suburbs.
I have been broken many times. I suspect most people have. In practicing the Japanese art of Kintsukoroi, one repairs broken pottery by filling in the cracks with gold, silver, or platinum. The choice to highlight the breaks with precious metals not only acknowledges them, but also pays tribute to the vessel that has been…