When I was a sophomore in college working the night shift at a building on campus, a visiting professor put his hands on my body without my consent. In the days that followed, my boss got involved, university administration got involved, my family got involved.
Until recently, I hadn't realized that our wedding was how I mourned. For months, our little New York apartment was buried under the debris of my maniacal crafting—mulberry silk, scraps of paper, tubes of silver sealing wax. My sister called it "the wedding sweatshop."