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“I took a survey of Europe post-1800. I saw black people, rendered through ‘white’ eyes, unlike any I’d seen before – the black people looked regal and human. These images, cast in the sixteenth and seventeenth centries, were contrasted with those created after enslavement, the Sambo cariatures I had always known. What was the difference? In my survey course of America, I’d seen portratis of the Irish drawn in the same ravenous, lustful, and simian way…. Perhaps, the Irish too had once lost their bodies. Perhaps being named ‘black’ had nothing to do with any of this; perhaps being named ‘black’ was just someone’s name for being at the bottom, a human turned to object, object turned to pariah.

“There was nothing holy or particular in my skin; I was black because of history and heritage. There was no nobiilty in falling, in bein gbound, in living oppressed, and there was no inherent meaning in black blood. Black blood wasn’t black; black skin wasn’t even black.”

– Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me


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