In my country you say, "there is no word for it." In my country you say, "our way of life." In my country you might over- hear the story of the woman with eleven children, who never once achieved orgasm. Here, the diffident are the squires of conviction; they know that talking undid a few people. Here, a woman saddened by love might lose her gloves, blame her children, then find them under her hat on top of her head. It is always the mother in my country. Tell me it is different in yours.