The Black body is one of the boring, limiting terms that abound in decolonial discourse. The fact that it is an unknown or almost unknown term in Guinea-Bissau (I’ve no idea if I need statistics to say this), makes me wonder: how do you decolonize Africa without Africans being involved?
What is a person? It's a threshold question, as if it could only be asked in the passage between an end and a beginning, at a moment when the list of the virtues of human existence is exhausted, dries up, and we finally see that what we thought was properly human is, after all, shared with other beings. In its tendency to move away from purist differentiations governed by exclusive properties, science not only fails to offer this guarantee, but has contributed to shattering the logic of unity, of restriction, of what is, in short, singular.
I kept my grip on the spot, my feet firmly rooted, almost glued to it. I needed to propel myself forward, but I didn't know how. As if my body had forgotten one of its capabilities. I couldn't even understand if the urge I felt was rational or if it was coming from my gut, or from the voices I heard urging me to fall, because the body was resisting and, when the body resists, we must listen to it, accept that resistance, that insistence on self-preservation.
The author argues that racism and sexism, institutionalized as patriarchy, are at the base of the social structure, in this case in the United States, but can be extrapolated to many other societies, such as our own. By criticizing the various feminisms that have left out the experiences and social places of black women, she shows how they have had to carve out their own path of resistance. T
Maybe that's the secret of satire: behaving like Schrödinger's cat: for every side that wants it dead, there's an opposite side that keeps it alive. But this is just a maybe, I barely know enough about humor, let alone physics, to know if the metaphor is actually applicable.
The Black body is one of the boring, limiting terms that abound in decolonial discourse. The fact that it is an unknown or almost unknown term in Guinea-Bissau (I’ve no idea if I need statistics to say this), makes me wonder: how do you decolonize Africa without Africans being involved? 
What is a person? It's a threshold question, as if it could only be asked in the passage between an end and a beginning, at a moment when the list of the virtues of human existence is exhausted, dries up, and we finally see that what we thought was properly human is, after all, shared with other beings. In its tendency to move away from purist differentiations governed by exclusive properties, science not only fails to offer this guarantee, but has contributed to shattering the logic of unity, of restriction, of what is, in short, singular. 
I kept my grip on the spot, my feet firmly rooted, almost glued to it. I needed to propel myself forward, but I didn't know how. As if my body had forgotten one of its capabilities. I couldn't even understand if the urge I felt was rational or if it was coming from my gut, or from the voices I heard urging me to fall, because the body was resisting and, when the body resists, we must listen to it, accept that resistance, that insistence on self-preservation. 
The author argues that racism and sexism, institutionalized as patriarchy, are at the base of the social structure, in this case in the United States, but can be extrapolated to many other societies, such as our own. By criticizing the various feminisms that have left out the experiences and social places of black women, she shows how they have had to carve out their own path of resistance. T 
Maybe that's the secret of satire: behaving like Schrödinger's cat: for every side that wants it dead, there's an opposite side that keeps it alive. But this is just a maybe, I barely know enough about humor, let alone physics, to know if the metaphor is actually applicable. 
