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Along the portion of Interstate 70 that runs through Missouri, yellow rocket swarmed the roadside, redbuds laid magenta feathers against the stolid pines and green-misted treetops framed mile after mile of farmland the glittering silos and the black cows, the sudden absolute red of an American barn inevitably followed by a white house with a green roof nestled under a few shade trees amid fields either fallow or plowed.
Driving this road recently, my throat thickened and throbbed. For a moment I thought it was in response to the simple wonder of seeing spring rising from the heartland, gracious and inevitable, even after this terrible year. Then I looked at my son, in the front seat, and remembered that I am a mother and mothers always cry at a child’s graduation, even when that graduation is small, masked, socially distant and a year too late.
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I’ve been really wanting to go to Peru. My next-door neighbor is Peruvian for one thing. And I just haven’t spent any time in South America ever. I was a foreign correspondent, and covered the entire Asian region, but that’s been to the exclusion of South America, of Latin America.
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Some unfinished business with the story of modern South Korean and women. The imperative to be a woman who fits into rigid beauty standards. Now I am thinking about writing a book about it.
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