in memoriam: Andrea Dworkin And Me

Off Our Backs, May/Jun 2005 by Stark, Christine

I met Andrea Dworkin for the first time at the Madison airport in 1991. I was not entirely sure what she looked like and I was worried that I would not recognize her when she got off the airplane. Earlier that morning, I'd grabbed one of her books off the shelf at A Room of One's Own and memorized her author's photo: a black and white shoulder shot of a woman with dark, curly hair and a kind, yet mischievous smile. I hoped she had not changed much since the photo.

I was nervous. Twenty-one years old, new to feminism, new to a life without drugs and alcohol, new to being out as a lesbian or bisexual-I couldn't make up my mind. There I was, standing at Gate Three, in faded levis and a cable knit kelly green sweater, the late afternoon sun was shining in sheets off the steel sides of the airplanes parked at angles around the terminal. I waited with my girlfriend Sue and 30 strangers for Flight 590 from La Guardia to arrive. It was a heady moment-me waiting to meet a famous feminist. Me, doing anything other than lying on my back staring at the ceiling or curled in a fetal position. I was having so many flashbacks to sexual abuse and beatings I barely knew which way was up.

When I met Andrea at the airport, I knew very little about her or her work. I knew she wrote about sexual violence, including incest, domestic violence, prostitution and pornography, but I had only read one of her articles printed the previous semester in an alternative Madison newspaper called The Edge. I'll never forget that moment. I was in the Rathskellar, a bar and grill in the University of Wisconsin's union, waiting for my next class to begin. I couldn't find any of my stoner, slam dancing buddies, so I sat by myself. I read her article about battery in The Edge by accident. It was on the table where I'd sat. I'd never heard of Andréa before, couldn't have named a single feminist, and knew nothing about feminism. I don't remember the title of Andrea's piece; I don't remember if she talked about her personal experiences of being battered by her husband. I remember feeling stunned that there was someone else in the world who knew about these things, who named them, said they were not okay. It was a simple moment, really, as most lifechanging moments are. Her words pushed against the silence of my life.

My father had beaten my mother and me throughout my childhood. He threw silverware across the floor and made my mother pick it up on her hands and knees. Whipped me raw with his belt whenever my mother went to card club. Raped me. Threatened to burn down the house. Threatened to choke us, shoot us with the rifles lined up against that cold, pale yellow concrete wall in the basement.

In the article, Andrea did not look away. Andrea did not say to be quiet. She did not apologize for the batterer or minimize the hurt. I sat in the Rat holding Andrea's article in my hand. I was stunned. Somehow her words got behind my defenses, because months later, when I joined the Anti-Sexual Harassment Task Force at the University of Wisconsin, I yelled out Andrea Dworkin when the group asked for the names of potential speakers to bring to the Union Theater. Somehow, that article, that information, her emotions found a way through the drugged, numbed me to a part that felt that pain, that indignation, that righteous rage.

The people on Flight 590 filed off the plane, most were weary business travelers on their way home from a week in New York City or some other east coast city. I looked each passenger over carefully to be sure I wouldn't miss the woman in the photo. I was nervous. Everyone knew feminists were scary, angry, militant, and judgmental. The yelling type. What if I did something wrong? Said something wrong? Wore the wrong clothes? Worse yet, what if I didn't recognize Andrea and she wandered around the airport terminal looking for Chris, the woman from the Anti-Sexual Harassment Task Force at the University of Wisconsin? What if she had to page me over the intercom? Chris from the Anti-Sexual Harassment Task Force meet your party at the vending machines near the Bucky Badger Booster Kiosk on level one. What would she do while she waited for me? (This was before airport Starbucks.) And where would she sit, in those orange bucket seats or on the hard window ledges with the heating vents that puffed up the back of your shirt when the heat came on?

Then there she was, the woman in the photo. Unmistakable! It was Andrea Dworkin. Her curly black hair, black t-shirt and denim overalls. My anxiety turned to excitement. Sue nudged me. I watched Andrea walk behind another passenger, scanning the crowd. Then she saw me and said, "Chris?" I nodded, wondering how she knew it was me. It felt like destiny. She walked to us. "Hello," she nodded, stopped in front of us and set down two small, grey duffel bags. "I'm Andrea." Her voice was kind and soft. And that's when my unabashed love for Andrea Dworkin began. We walked across the terminal toward the down escalator. She carried her bags and I worried whether I should ask her if she wanted help. I didn't know if she would be offended. After all, aren't feminists supposed to be self-reliant? She seemed tired as we neared the escalator so I finally asked her if she would like some help with the bags. "Yes," she said. And I could hear the relief in her voice.