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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 ...