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  The New Womans Broken Heart

  Andrea Dworkin

  THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

  By A ndrea Dworkin

  WOMAN HATING

  OUR BLOOD: PROPHECIES AND DISCOURSES

  ON SEXUAL POLITICS

  THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

  Short Stories

  Andrea Dworkin

  Frog In The Well

  430 Oakdale Road

  East Palo Alto, California 94303

  1980

  THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

  Copyright © 1980 by Andrea Dworkin

  Copyright © 1975, 1977, 1978, 1979 by Andrea Dworkin

  All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this

  book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

  permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Elaine Markson Literary Agency, 44 Greenwich Avenue, New York, New York 10011.

  “the simple story of a lesbian girlhood” was first published in

  Christopher Street, Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1977, in an earlier version

  under the title “The Simple Story of a Lesbian Childhood. ”

  Copyright ©

  1977 by Andrea Dworkin.

  “bertha schneiders existential edge” was first published in Bitches and

  Sad Ladies,

  edited by Pat Rotter, Harper’s Magazine Press, 1975.

  Copyright © 1975 by Andrea Dworkin.

  “the new womans broken heart” was first published in Heresies, Vol. 2

  No. 3, Spring 1979. Copyright © 1978, 1979 by Andrea Dworkin.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters in this

  book and real persons living or dead is coincidental.

  FIRST EDITION

  ISBN: 0-9603628-0-0

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 79-055919

  Printed at Up Press, 1944 University Ave.,

  East Palo Alto, CA 94303. (415) 328-3944

  Typeset by GJGraphics, 2336 Palo Verde St.,

  East Palo Alto, CA 94303. (415) 322-7188

  No, Claudine, I do not shudder. All that is life, time

  flowing on, the hoped-for miracle that may lie round the

  next bend of the road. It is because of my faith in that

  miracle that I am escaping.

  Colette, Claudine and Annie

  Acknowledgments

  I thank especially Elaine Markson, Jeannette Koszuth, Sheryl Dare,

  Susan Hester, John Stoltenberg, Eleanor Johnson, and Judah Kata-

  loni for their unwavering support and faith.

  I also thank the many friends whose lives, opinions, values, and accomplishments encouraged and inspired me during the years in which these stories were written.

  I

  also thank the many individuals who helped me to survive with

  loans and gifts of money over the same period.

  Andrea Dworkin

  Contents

  1

  the simple story of a lesbian girlhood

  1

  2

  bertha schneiders existential edge

  6

  3

  how seasons pass

  11

  4

  some awful facts, recounted by bertha schneider

  15

  5

  the new womans broken heart

  6

  the wild cherries of lust

  7

  bertha schneiders unrelenting sadness

  8

  the slit

  the simple story of a lesbian girlhood

  it began quite possibly with Nancy Drew.

  there she was.

  her father Carson was a lawyer and her boyfriend Ned always wore

  a suit.

  she solved mysteries.

  in particular I remember The Secret in the Old A ttic. there she

  was, her hands tied behind her back, her feet tied together, thrown

  on the floor of a deserted attic in the middle of the night, that was

  because she had singlehandedly and against all odds discovered the

  murderous villain who had committed unspeakable crimes. I cant

  remember what they were but Nancy never underestimated or

  overestimated. he wanted to kill her so (it seemed absolutely logical

  then) he locked her in a pitch black attic with a black widow spider.

  there she was, on the floor, struggling and twisting, at any moment,

  any wrong move, she would be bitten by the black widow spider and

  die a slow, lingering, agonizing death. she wasnt even afraid.

  me, I was terrified. I had learned to be terrified in the 2nd grade,

  Mrs. (as we said then) Jones class, when we did a science project—

  the boys did theirs on spiders, we did ours on seashells. every time

  the boys discovered a new poisonous or even a very ugly non-

  poisonous spider they made creepy sounds. for about 8 years I

  always felt at the foot of my bed for spiders and wore socks. naturally

  I was relieved when, on the last page, Carson and Ned flung open the

  door to the attic, turned on the light, and stomped on the black

  widow spider which was just inches from her brave, abused body, she

  never even screamed or cried.

  there were also, of course, Cherry Ames Student Nurse and Ginny

  Gordon Detective and Flossie of the Bobbsey Twins and Nan who

  was I think another Bobbsey Twin (there were 2 sets), they always

  had adventures and went out at night and had boyfriends and were

  rescued just in the nick of time, they werent much as heroes go but

  they were all I had.

  sometime about the 6th grade I got into the heavy stuff. Scarlett

  O’Hara and Marjorie Momingstar. I read Gone with the Wind at

  least 22 times. I had total visual recall of every page. I could open it

  up at will to any episode and begin crying immediately. I would sit in

  my room, door locked, and cry—tears streaming down my cheeks,

  body racked in agony, but quietly so my mother wouldnt hear and

  take the book away, when Rhett carried her up those stairs. “My

  dear, I don’t give a dam n, ” he said when finally, at last, she begged,

  when Ashley died, when Tara was burned to the ground, how

  Scarlett suffered and how I suffered, we were the same really, both

  women of greatness. I saw my grand white house in rubble, myself in

  ashes and sackcloth, destitute, humiliated, my slaves loved me (here

  I quivered, knowing even then I was a jerk) and were forced to leave.

  Rhett. Rhett. I was her, and I was him, and I was her being cruel to

  him, and him being cruel to her, and all of us, suffering, heroic,

  driven, by History no less. Melanie, or Melody, or whatever her name

  was, pale, dull, and well behaved under every circumstance, appalled me. I skipped all the parts she was in.

  Marjorie, the thrill of eating bacon for the 1st time, of course I had

  eaten bacon all my life. I just hadnt ever before known how

  dangerous it really was. Noel Airman. An Actor, soon he would be

  balding, thats how old and evil he was. danger, sex. I could feel his

  creepy decadence. I looked for it everywhere. I couldnt find it in the

  grammar school I went to. he would corrupt her. he would corrupt

  me. somewh
ere in the world there was a Noel Airman waiting to do

  some dirty thing to me—IT they called it—that would degrade me. I

  would never be able to be with decent people again. I might even go

  to Hell. I would be an artist. I would be able to feel. I would know

  everything. I ignored the 2nd part of the book where she married

  that jerk, none of that for me. keeping kosher indeed.

  also that same year. A. F. fell in love with me. he gave me a wooden

  snake. I was supposed to scream in horror so I did even though I

  quite liked it and later named it Herman, he wouldnt let me play

  with the other boys, he grabbed my arms and pulled me out of all the

  games, also Joel Christian and Agnes, he was at least 19. they necked

  all the time, everywhere, during recess, they expelled him but she got

  pregnant anyway.

  the next year I went to camp.

  with my best friend S.

  we were one year too young to be counselors-in-training. it was humiliating. we were above going on hikes and making beaded purses.

  Barry Greenberg was a counselor-in-training. he was tall and thin

  and had a crew cut that stood up. he wore a bright red shirt that said

  SAM’S MEAT MARKET, he worked there after school in the

  winter.

  we tried to follow him everywhere.

  finally we even went bowling to see him. he always hit the pins but

  we didnt dare, we always missed and giggled, we wore tight sweaters,

  he was pretty bored and above it all.

  then we went back to school, desperate for Barry Greenberg, in

  love, suffering. Rhett. Noel. Barry Greenberg.

  a few months later I slept at her house or she slept at mine, we put

  on our pajamas and giggled for hours, we talked about Barry

  Greenberg.

  then I said, 111 be Barry Greenberg and I climbed on top of her and

  I was Barry Greenberg, then she said, 111 be Barry Greenberg and

  she climbed on top of me and she was Barry Greenberg, then I was

  Barry Greenberg, then she was Barry Greenberg, then I was Barry

  Greenberg, then she was Barry Greenberg. I might have been twice

  in a row when she got tired, then the light broke and we lay together

  drenched in sweat and love of Barry Greenberg, then we went to

  school and danced together during recess to “Chantilly Lace” and

  invented a new step where I swung her over me and she swung me

  over her and we both turned around,

  then we met Mary and everything changed.

  Mary wasnt like us. we were both brilliant. Mary wasnt. we were

  both in fact, according to ourselves, prodigies. Mary wasnt. we were

  both Jewish. Mary wasnt. we were both too smart to be popular.

  Mary wasnt.

  we loved Mary immediately.

  Mary was a conservative, that meant that she wore only beige and

  blue and certain shades of green and peter pan collars and a circle

  pin on the correct side (one side meant virgin, the other meant

  whore, typically I never could remember which was which). S. and I

  both wore sweaters and dark red neither of which was conservative,

  we each wanted Mary to be our best friend,

  so S. told Mary lies about me and Mary stopped speaking to me. I

  suffered. Rhett. Noel. Mary, then I told Mary lies about S. and Mary

  stopped speaking to her.

  there was a confrontation. I won. I won Mary, it was strictly

  platonic and ethereal. S. had a nervous breakdown and her mother

  sent her to school in another city, when she was 15 she had an affair

  with a painter, he fucked her and she became a woman, then she

  became a Bunny in a Playboy Club, then she disappeared. Once S.

  left, Mary seemed kind of dull.

  then my best friend was Rona. she was afraid of me because by

  then I was angry as well as smart. I wore only black by then, she had

  read in Dear Abby that if you had a close friend and she didnt pluck

  her eyebrows and they were hairy you should take her aside and tell

  her to pluck her eyebrows. Rona and I had never spoken but since

  she wanted me to be her friend she took me aside anyway and told

  me to pluck my eyebrows. I did. then she was my best friend.

  because I wore black and we both emulated Holden Caulfield as

  much as possible we went to Ronas house every Wednesday night to

  drink her parents booze, they went bowling. Rona had a boyfriend

  who had a boyfriend, her boyfriend was tall, handsome, blond,

  broad shouldered, and had been in the Navy, she wasnt allowed to

  see him because her parents thought he was a creep and too mature

  for her. her boyfriends boyfriend was (as we said then) a fag. he said

  mean malicious things about everyone we knew and we thought he

  was very clever. Ronas boyfriend of course was not a fag since he was

  Ronas boyfriend, had been in the Navy, and was tall, handsome,

  blond, and broad shouldered, he had even, Rona whispered, made

  some girl pregnant and fucked a real whore.

  the 4 of us would drink whatever we thought Ronas parents

  wouldnt miss (we drank mostly from heavily tinted bottles) and

  make lewd remarks to the best of our combined abilities and talk

  about the disgusting fact that Rona and I were virgins, it disgusted

  all of us but not equally, it particularly disgusted Ronas boyfriend

  and her boyfriends boyfriend. they after all did everything, whatever

  that was.

  the next morning I would go to school wasted, superior, and

  dangerous, and shout in the hall: damn this damn school, an outlaw

  I was.

  then we met Johnny, he was a real outlaw, he had 7 brothers and

  sisters and was Catholic and went to a Catholic school, he made his

  tuition turning tricks in bars in Philadelphia, and he smoked grass,

  and he used morphine, he was our hero.

  he came to visit us in school, beer spilled out of his pockets and we

  hid him in the girls room and he drank his beer while we smoked the

  grass he had brought for us.

  once he was in a car crash and went through the windshield and

  they took him to the hospital and shot him up with morphine and he

  loved it so much that he did it again.

  he said that he turned tricks in the bars in Philadelphia to make

  his tuition so that he could go to Catholic school even though his

  family was poor, he said that in a Catholic school they couldnt touch

  his mind or fuck him up. he was our image of purity.

  the night we graduated from high school Rona gave a party and

  one of our teachers fucked one of our friends and she had a nervous

  breakdown when he never called her again, until 2 years later when

  he called her. then it got worse because he made her suck his cock all

  the time and then would tell her that if she ever did it to anyone else

  she would be a disgusting slut,

  he didnt call Rona until she got married.

  he and I had an even stormier story, before graduation he threatened to turn me in to the FBI for smoking grass and to take me to a hospital to watch junkies scream and vomit and he made a list for

  me, he explained everything that would happen throughout life—

  THERES ORAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE

  WOMAN SUCKS THE COCK OF THE MAN AND

  THERES ANAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE
<
br />   MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE ASS AND THEN

  THERES REGULAR INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN

  THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE VAGINA—

  thats what sex is, he said, thats what happens, he drew pictures to illustrate his points,

  he taught me everything I know.

  I never believed a word he said.

  he was, according to our unspoken mutual understanding, going

  to be my first lover but he turned into such a jerk, traitor, and

  villainous turncoat that I had to look elsewhere.

  S. of course hadnt been.

  now the thing about this story is that, like life, it just goes on and

  on, or, like life as we know it, it did for about 8 years which was 250

  or so men, women, and variations thereof later, then I thought it

  time to reassess and perhaps invent,

  at some point S. was.

  at some point, in Amsterdam, or on Crete, in London, or maybe on

  a boat somewhere S. was.

  at some point whenever I lay on some floor or bed or the backseat

  of some car drenched in sweat, watching the light break, it wasnt

  Barry Greenberg, or Rhett, or Noel, or some rotten high school

  teacher, it was S. pure and simple, who had a nervous breakdown,

  got fucked by a painter, became a woman, then a Bunny, then disappeared. vanished into thin air, which is here, there, and everywhere.

  bertha schneiders existential edge

  first I gave up men.

  it wasnt easy but it sure as hell was obvious, you may want to

  know, woman to woman, what it was that made me decide, well, it

  wasnt the times I was raped by strangers. I mean christ you do the

  whole trip then, nightmares, cold sweats, fear and trembling and a

  not inconsiderable amount of loathing as well—but one thing you

  cant do is take it personally. I mean I always figured that, statistically at least, it had nothing to do with me, bertha schneider.

  now the two I knew a little bit, that was different. I mean, I felt

  there was something personal in it. the man from Rand, that well-

  mannered smart ass, and some starving painter who limped for

  christ sake. I mean, I figure I must have asked for it. I mean, Im

  always reading that I must have asked for it, and in the movies