I had the fortune of having Professor Bat-Ami Bar On as my mentor and dissertation supervisor. I engaged with her in sustained dialogue for over four years, from when she welcomed me to the graduate program in social, political, ethical, and legal philosophy at Binghamton University until our last conversation, shortly before her untimely death in November of 2020. I have been retracing in my memory some moments of this journey together, and as I do, I realize that writing this reflection is essentially a way of saying “Thank you” to Ami, or, at least, expressing my gratitude publicly to my teacher and mentor. At the same time, grateful as I am for how she guided and accompanied me, I cannot help feeling that our dialogue was abruptly interrupted and that (as time passes) the list of questions and issues that I would have liked to talk about with her only grows. Ami as a mentor and as a political thinker becomes more and more irreplaceable in my mind; and, as I recall her, I realize how much I would have liked to count on Ami for professional and personal advice in the years to come.

The three volumes I am considering in this review essay constitute a living archive of the political and epistemic movement called decolonial feminism. Together, Tejiendo de Otro Modo: Feminismo, Epistemología, y Apuestas Descoloniales en el Abya Yala, Feminismo Descolonial: Nuevos aportes metodológicos a mas de una década, and Decolonial Feminism in Abya Yala, collect the principal contributions to the profoundly important production of critical theory and radical politics. The editors and contributors include a diversity of key figures in decolonial feminism, reuniting intellectual-activists mostly from Latin America and US Latinxs, a geohistorical landscape denominated Abya Yala, an Indigenous Kuna category that stands for “the territory of all of us.” The publication of this review essay as part of a special issue of Hypatia is a meaningful move because it was in this journal that María Lugones published her foundational articles on what she termed “the modern/colonial gender system,” as well as an invitation to cultivate decolonial feminism.

I argue against the exclusive female/male divide, referring to the phenomenon of epistemic injustice in the cases of people with nonbinary gender identities and people with intersex traits. Such people have traits that are counterexamples to the binary female/male model. I have separated female and male traits into nine basic layers, five of which belong to sex (chromosomes, gonads, internal sex organs, external genitals, and secondary sex characteristics) and four to gender (gender identity, legal gender, external gender presentation, and gender pronouns). In every layer, I have found traits that are neither female nor male, and the application of the model to individuals provides examples of clusters of traits for which one layer is male and another female. Such traits and clusters of traits create the category of the nonbinary. Table 1 provides a sketch of a nonbinary model. The nonbinary category takes its name from the existing category of nonbinary gender identity; however, in the current model, it is a third category of traits, not of people. Under the nonbinary model, the basic gender concepts do not disappear. S is a woman if S is a human being with enough female traits, and the trait of having self-determined female gender identity is sufficient but not necessary.

Whether it be in universities’ curricula or in traditional accounts of the history of philosophy, early modern women philosophers have frequently been treated as secondary, inconsequential characters. Although many valuable efforts are being made to counter this state of affairs, a generalized tendency to focus on well-known male philosophers and to establish them as representative figures of the early modern period still seems to exist. But does this strategy produce an accurate historical account of early modern philosophy? This essay explores diverse causes of the exclusion of early modern women philosophers from the canon, reflecting on the historical and political aspects of this phenomenon. This piece also intends to highlight the importance of the innovative projects that have been recently created in the field of the digital humanities, which aim to mitigate and to counter said exclusion.

I've long been haunted by the image of Cosette, in the film adaptation of Les Misérables, singing from her lavish bedroom about wanting to be free. Her life would have seemed charmed from the outside, especially by those in nineteenth-century France who struggled to stay alive, yet she envied the freedom of those outside her door. She couldn't, of course, know how hard the lives were of those whom she watched, and those she watched would have scoffed at the suggestion that they had it better than she did. I, however, keenly saw and felt her struggle. I've spent my life constructing a cage for myself, with bars built out of societal and familial expectations for women. But inside the cage, I simultaneously long to be free and am afraid to leave. In my desire to appear normal, to fit in, I have constrained myself out of fear of what will happen if I leave this cage. So I watch the world around me, and like Cosette, I wonder what it's like to live outside the walls I've carefully constructed to make it appear as if I'm embodying, or at least trying to, Western societal expectations for what it means to be a woman.

Public discussion of sexual victimization has intensified within the US context and globally. One noteworthy feature of recent public discourse in the US is that it calls for a broadening of responsibility with respect to both the parties involved and the forms of sexual victimization for which people are held to account. Yet often the narratives about responsibility and practices of responsibility-taking that dominate in this discussion remain individualizing and penalizing. This essay takes stock of the myriad failures of responsibility for sexual injustices in these existing practices and narratives. The first section outlines four philosophical objections to common ways of thinking about responsibility. The second section extends these objections by analyzing the dominant neoliberal narrative framework for responsibility so as then to critique how responsibility is thought about and practiced in relation to sexuality. Finally, given the failures of these narratives and practices, the third section elaborates an alternative that can redress them: an intersectional feminist account of responsibility for sexual injustices that is nonpunitive and takes responsibility to be an intentional practice of altering social relations.

This article takes the rupturing of normative, linear, reproductive time that occurs in the event of miscarriage as a potentially generative philosophical moment—a catalyst to rethink pregnancy aside from the expectation of child-production. Pregnant time is usually imagined as a linear passage toward birth. Accordingly, the one who “miscarries” appears as suspended within an arrested journey that never arrived at its destination, or indeed, as ejected from pregnant time altogether. But here I propose to rethink both pregnancy and miscarriage through the lens of “suspended time”—a theoretical move that shifts the accent from the future as the dominating frame of reference to the lived present. Drawing on work by Kathryn Bond Stockton, Lauren Berlant, Lisa Baraitser, and others, the article explores overlooked temporalities of pregnancy and miscarriage that operate not in the mode of futural projection or futural loss, but rather through present-oriented forms of adjustment and sensing, attachment and intimacy, maintenance and care. By “suspending the future,” then, we can resist the oppositional framing of pregnancy and miscarriage, because if pregnant time is not represented in exclusively future-oriented terms as being-toward-birth, then miscarriage need not be understood as pregnancy's undoing.

There was a day in March 2020 when I discovered I was old. There had, of course, been quite a few previous intimations of impending old age, but they had not “really” defined my being for me. Some years earlier, I had been surprised when people started to offer me their seat on a crowded bus or train. At first, I politely refused the seat; later, I decided that I would accept such invitations because declining seemed ungracious, and because accepting would encourage this thoughtful behavior from which “others” would benefit. Recently, as my feet have begun to ache more, I have sometimes been happy to accept a seat on my own account. There have been other intimations too: some physical indications, such as needing a brighter light in order to read and stiffness in my knees. There have also been signs that my cultural, intellectual, and professional world, a world in which I have been deeply embedded, is passing: Students now live in an online media world that is alien to me, and a few of my colleagues have made it known that they find my research interests on Simone de Beauvoir a bit old-fashioned (I don't agree with them, of course). But none of this actually defined me for myself as “old.” Surely, still an unremarkable, white, late-middle-aged woman, I did not think I “looked my age.” Surely, I had not yet become a member of that detested “foreign species” (as Beauvoir put it) whose presence lurks within us all and that I, like most of us, so vehemently sought to deny.

Who said manifestos are dead? Some thirty years after the publication of Donna Haraway's illustrious A Cyborg Manifesto (Haraway 1991), fifty years after Valerie Solanas's angry and delightful SCUM Manifesto (Solanas 1967), and 170 years after Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels's influential Communist Manifesto (Marx and Engels 1848), a new manifesto in town in fact bears traces of all these and then some: The Xenofeminist Manifesto. This manifesto, which comes in a gorgeously designed booklet version as well as in a colorful and nostalgic 80s computer-culture website with nerdy hexadecimal page numbers and related Twitter account, is a work from the “xenofeminist” collective Laboria Cuboniks. The name of this collective, whose members are from various parts of the globe, is actually an anagram of “Nicolas Bourbaki,” a largely French collective of mathematicians in the early 1900s who sought to affirm abstraction, rigor, and generalization (Laboria Cuboniks 2014). Together with a firm foot in cyberfeminism and a strong penchant for the abstract and universal by way of the logic of computing against the arguably flawed universal of “nature,” the manifesto also clearly bears the marks of feminist ecocriticism, new materialism, queer theory, and technological accelerationism. The two books under review bring various activisms and insights together in an original way, and do so clearly with an eye toward reviving the cyberfeminist spirit through, among others, ideas from Shulamith Firestone's Dialectics of Sex (Firestone 1970). This pairing certainly had me excited, since, as I argue elsewhere, I am, together with Haraway's original cyborg manifesto, firmly of the opinion that feminisms of all kinds should intervene in and contribute even more radically to contemporary techno-culture and philosophy of technology. This is because clearly, new media and genetic technologies are at present some of the most powerful techniques by which we live and probably will live in the near future, and because these technologies are intimately interwoven with Eurocentric masculinism, heterosexism, militarism, and capitalism (Hoofd 2016, 225, 229).

This is a particularly important time to be reconsidering and revisiting radical feminism. The contemporary visibility of trans rights movements, and the unsurprising, accompanying backlash from a variety of camps makes this a politically charged and tense moment for reflection on the herstory, present, and future of this school of feminism.