It was late, and I was dozing a bit as my husband took the off ramp that would bring us into the small town we call home. Suddenly, out of the blue, he says to me, “The Kenyon women are on a weeklong sex strike.” Surely my sleepy brain had misunderstood. A sex strike . . . . in Kenyon? Trying to shake off my sleepiness I asked my husband to repeat this startling revelation? Sure enough, I’d heard him correctly. Who, I wondered, orchestrated such a radical strike?
My husband informed me that these women were trying to get their husbands to take action on changing a political stance. “In Kenyon?” I questioned. What kind of political drama could be going on in Kenyon? “Yeah,” he responded, “I can’t remember what it’s all about but I saved the article.” There’s an article? None of this was making sense and I was beginning to wonder if I was in the middle of a very real, and weird, type of dream.
Suddenly, once I was fully awake, it occurred to me that perhaps my sweet man wasn’t speaking of the women in Kenyon, MN, a small town 20 miles southwest of ours. “Do you mean the women in Kenya, Africa?” I inquired. Sure enough, Kenyan women, not Kenyon women. I should have bought a different vowel. But still, a sex strike? I wonder if it worked?