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Andrea Dworkin: The Political Memoir of a Feminist Militant

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Andrea Dworkin The Political Memoir of a Feminist Militant

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one of my nemeses among English teachers, made us skip the

first three pages of Romeo and Juliet - the part about the maidenheads - only to read aloud Juliet herself throughout the rest of

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Plato

the play, partnered with the captain of the footbal team as

Romeo. Stereotypes aside, his reading was not delightful. And

yet we al had to sit there and wait while he tried manfully, as

it were, to sound out words. Her pedagogy was to encourage

him while let ing the rest of us rot.

I, true to form, wanted to know what a maidenhead was,

and to say that I was relentless on the subject would be to understate. Miss Fox’s retaliation was authoritarian and extreme. I had been out of class sick and had to take a makeup vocabulary test, multiple choice. I failed. I did not just fail: I got a zero. I was pained but respectful on my first five or ten trips

up to her desk to ask her how it was possible to get a zero on

a multiple-choice test, even if one did not know the meaning

of one word on the test. Final y, exhausted, I just asked her to

regrade the test. Since she was sure of her rightness in al things

English, we struck a deal: she’d regrade the test and whatever

the outcome I’d shut up. She glistened with superiority, Eve

the second after biting into the apple; I was tense now that the

challenge had been taken up. It turned out that she had used

the wrong key in grading the test; the answers she wanted me to

give were for some other test. I was good but not that good.

I wanted out, Tangerine lipstick notwithstanding. I wanted

smart people whether or not their noses shined enough to

illuminate a room or a house or a city. I wanted someone who

cared about me in particular, as an individual, enough to

notice that I could not get a zero on a vocabulary test because

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Heartbreak

I had too big a vocabulary. I was so worn out by Miss Fox that

when she graded an essay on contemporary education a B

because, as she said to me, some commas were wrong and it

wasn’t anything personal, after a halfhearted and utterly futile

argument I accepted the B. She even put her arm around me,

genuinely adding insult to injury. I knew I’d get her someday

and this is it: eat shit, bitch. No one said that sisterhood was

easy.

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The High School

Library

Nowadays librarians actively try to get students Internet access

to pornography, at least in the United States. Organized as a

First Amendment lobby group, librarians go to court - or their

professional organizations do - to defend pornographers and

pornography. Truly, this does not happen because James Joyce

and Henry Miller were banned as obscene a hundred years

ago; I once wrote an affidavit for a court on the differences

between Nabokov’s Lolita and a pimp’s pictorial with words,

“Lolita Pissing. ” These are some of life’s easier distinctions. I

used to ask groups of folks how the retailers of pornography

could tell the difference between Joyce and hard-core visual

pornography. I noted that although, generally speaking, they

weren’t the best and the brightest, they managed never to

stock Ulysses. If they could do it, I thought, so could the rest

of us. Instead, the idea seems to be that keeping a child -

someone underaged - away from anything is akin to treason.

One is violating sacred constitutional rights and assassinating

Jefferson, Washington, and Lincoln (for the second time).

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Heartbreak

In my high school days, librarians were the militia, the first

line of defense in keeping the underaged away from books, al

sorts of books in every field.

My high school library was tall, I remember, as if piles of

books held up the ceiling; it was dense with books organized

according to the Dewey decimal system. I liked to look at and

to touch the books. I believed I could feel the heat emanating

from them, and no heat meant no light. My father had told

me I had to read everything, that to read books of only one

view was the equivalent of a moral wrong. When I asked why,

he uttered the incomprehensible words: “Sometimes writers

lie.” In my early years, my parents made up for the latitude

they gave me in reading by seeing to it that I read on a continuum, both political and literary. When I went weak in the knees for Dostoyevsky, my dad gave me some Mark Twain or

my mother one of Eric Bentley’s books on the theater. I just

wanted to read everything; there was never enough. It wasn’t

quite as simple as it sounds. My mother was more tense about

what I read than my father, but then, she was in the thick of

it: my bad attitudes, bad habits, and bad behavior. I did get

ideas from books: that’s what they’re for. I’ve been astonished

by the pro-pornography argument that people are not influenced by what they read or see. Why, then, bother writing or making films? One wants to persuade. One wants to knock

the reader senseless with the shock of the new or the old

reconceived. Rimbaud articulated the writing ambition when

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The High School Library

he wanted to derange the senses, though he meant his own.

Sometimes it’s the rawness of the writing that makes everything inside shake and break; sometimes it’s the delicacy of the writing that makes everything inside simply recognize a reality

different from the known one or experience a lyricism heretofore unknown. For me, subtle writing was almost always anti-urban; it took me to the steppes of Russia or Huck Finn*s

South.

The library brought the world to me: I went with Darwin

on the HMS Beagle and I dived with Freud into the mind and

I plot ed with Marx about how to end poverty. I had read

most of Freud, al of Darwin, and most of Marx before I graduated from high school. This was not with the help of the high school librarians.

Instead, I learned their work schedules, because we were not

allowed to take out more than two books a day and I needed

a bigger fix than that. Al records were kept by hand. So if I

went into the library during a new shift, I could get two more

books, then two more, then two more. The librarians treated

the books like contraband, and so did I. My friends and I had

a commitment to Catcher in the Rye, which was not allowed

in the library. We bought a lot of copies over time. We shelved

them. Each time it would be a different one of us who had

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