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Red Emma

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by Howie Good

“Hello, Americans!” the distinctive baritone of commentator Paul Harvey boomed from the radio. The masses at large remained inert. Emma Goldman, “Red Emma,” was in her house in New Jersey. “Red Emma” wasn’t actually a Red. The scurrilous tabloid press had reflexively branded her that. She was short, stout, and dressed matronly, and she called in her speeches and writings for free love. “We’ll meet again,” said Nietzsche, “but on one condition – we get divorced.”

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