Emma Goldman Story: The Mother of Anarchism

When I was fifteen, I found a torn copy of Living My Life wedged behind a row of used books at a dusty thrift store. It wasn’t a planned discovery. It was more like fate—or maybe it was Emma, reaching out from history with her ink-stained fingers to slap me awake. I grew up in a world that prized obedience, politeness, and the illusion of safety over truth. I was taught to be small, quiet,…