In this chapter, I propose a frame for the university in terms of first, second, third, (and fourth) worlds. To do so, I draw from a range of political–intellectual analyses, perhaps the most contemporary of which are the four forms of civil society as analyzed by the project of México Profundo. Subcomandante Marcos of the Zapatista Army of National Liberation described the layers of Mexican civil society as Penthouse Mexico, Middle Mexico, Lower Mexico, and Basement Mexico. In the Zaptistas’ critique, Basement Mexico is not only a site of dispossession but also a deep well of Indigenous cosmology, wisdom, and sovereignty, un México profundo. This is the “fourth,” autonomous form of civil society. In this book, I use fourth world university as a placeholder for the places of epistemology that are autonomous from the university. In this sense, “fourth worlding” wisdoms are sovereign. Yet they offer decolonial strategies to be carried out within the other three civil societies, even when those strategies are wrapped within the dominant project of statecraft and transnational capital accumulation. We might think of the first and second world universities as the penthouse and middle universities. Inside these universities exists the third world university.
In this regard, I am also drawing from third world feminist conceptualizations that position the “third world” not merely as a site of domination by the Global North over the Global South but also as a crucible of transformative politics and pedagogy. Following other thinkers, I recognize the problematic uses of third world. On one hand, it was a signifier for different revolutionary nationalisms in the twentieth century: Juan Perón’s “third way” in Argentina and the Cuban Revolution were two such nationalisms that aspired to challenge Cold War binaries that revolved around the competing empires of the United States and the USSR. On the other hand, the third world is a warrant for nongovernmental organizations to operate as self-stylized humanitarian ventures and also for-profit corporations to dress up as charities. My choice to use third world is meant to be problematic. Any decolonizing project of the third world university should be a problematized one, in much the same way as revolutionary nationalisms and international aid should be problematized.
Most directly, a third world university references the organizing by the Third World Liberation Front in the late 1960s and early 1970s to found a Third World College. These events reached an apex in the 1968–69 San Francisco State Strike; at 167 days, it was the longest student strike in U.S. history.
However, I find that the most precise analogy for a third world university, both materially and symbolically, is offered by Third Cinema. Glen Mimura explains:
First Cinema, in this framework, is the cinema of the studio systems—Hollywood preeminently, but also Bollywood and any other capitalist film industry that, regardless of its formal and thematic diversity, is characterized by an ultimate commitment to corporate profits and mass entertainment. Second Cinema, comprising independent or “art” cinema, may indeed offer meaningful challenges to studio system productions; however, its defining pursuit of questions of art and aesthetics displaces the possibility of sustained, radical critique, and thereby remains circumscribed “within the system.” In contrast, Third Cinema defines itself fundamentally as a political project—as a democratic, participatory, socialist cinema that seeks to challenge and provoke the collective consciousness of its viewers toward the revolutionary transformation of society.
To be sure, no mode of cinema is completely distinct, autonomous; each mode appropriates or contains within itself elements of the other two. . . . To paraphrase an oft-quoted line by Trinh Minh-ha, there is a Third Cinema in every First and Second Cinema, and vice versa.
Materially, both cinema and the university require a high concentration of capital. Each industry requires a willing civil society of moviegoers and university-goers, physical theaters and physical campuses, digital videos and digital learning platforms. Whereas cinema’s investments are mostly liquid capital, the university’s investments are land and debt. Cinema’s horizon of consumption is the total population of visually abled people. Likewise, the university, though historically elitist, has expanded its horizons toward the total debt-enabled population—to be discussed shortly. Pedagogically, cinema and university perform complementary roles in the production of the symbolic order. Cinema is a key industry in the production of “commonsense knowledge,” as compared to the university’s production of legitimated knowledge. Whereas cinema accumulates images for a visual grammar book, the university accumulates scholarship for an epistemological grammar book.
Through this analogy of Third Cinema, we can describe the university as an amalgam of first, second, and third world formations. Substituting “university” for “cinema” and rephrasing Mimura’s description of cinema, we derive a reasonable definition for third university:
The first world university is the academic–industrial complex: “research-ones” preeminently, but also commercial universities and any other corporate academic enterprise that, regardless of its formal and thematic diversity, is characterized by an ultimate commitment to brand expansion and accumulation of patent, publication, and prestige. The second world university, comprising independent or “liberal arts” colleges, may indeed offer meaningful challenges to the academic–industrial complex, and could be said to be a democratic and participatory academy that seeks to challenge and provoke the critical consciousness of its students toward self-actualization. However, its defining pursuit of questions of art, humanities, and a libertarian mode of critical thinking displaces the possibility of sustained, radical critique and thereby remains circumscribed “within the ivory tower.” In contrast, the third world university defines itself fundamentally as a decolonial project—as an interdisciplinary, transnational, yet vocational university that equips its students with skills toward the applied practice of decolonization.
To be sure, no mode of university is completely distinct, autonomous; each mode appropriates or contains within itself elements of the other two. There is a third university in every first and second university, and vice versa.
The first world university accumulates through dispossession. The second world university “liberates” through liberalism. The third world university breaks faith from its own machinery by inspiriting the academic automaton with a fourth world soul.
The First University Accumulates
The first world university charges fees and grants degrees. This university is a machine of accumulation and expansion, increasingly carried out by neoliberal mechanisms that tie the production of knowledge to grant RFPs and revenue-generating enterprises. In the United States, it includes the R-1s that typically boast PhD programs and D-1 sports teams. Its big moneymakers are STEM degrees, MBAs, and MDs; extension programs; online classrooms; international student fees; and distance degrees. First world universities keep count of their Nobel laureates and count on large research grants from the Departments of Energy, Agriculture, Defense, and, increasingly, Homeland Security.
While I was writing this to you, Janet Napolitano, the former U.S. secretary of Homeland Security, assumed her new post as the twentieth president of the University of California system, the first woman to occupy the office. The revolving door between institutions of policing, bordering, surveillance, incarceration, illegalization, militarization, and schooling is not new. Indeed, in San Diego, where I am based, Alan Bersin was superintendent of public schools from 1998 to 2005, after three years of running U.S.–Mexican border law enforcement for Attorney General Janet Reno under President Clinton. After his stint governing schools, Bersin governed the border (again) in 2009, this time for the Obama administration, working as “border czar” under Janet Napolitano, then Homeland Security secretary, now UC president. However, it would be a misguided comparison to describe the bodies of faculty and students as analogous to the bodies of detainees and deportees and migrants and suspectees. It is not analogous power but technologies of power that recirculate in these imperial triangles, for example, debt financing, neoliberal market policies, information systems, managing noncitizen populations, land development. If we consider triangular connections between war abroad and refugee management within, antiblackness and the maintenance of black fungibility and accumulation, and militarization and Indigenous erasure throughout empire, then we can understand why the governors of war and the governors of schools can have similar résumés, without pretending that the governed suffer through identical conditions.
Of particular importance to the first world university are technologies of accumulation through colonial contract: the procuring of state resources in order to govern, expand, or research and develop. In this respect, a former director of any federal department is eminently qualified to be a university president. The first world university also accumulates through debt, that is, through the entire business of debt production and management: loaning, borrowing, repaying, defaulting. This ability to turn anyone into a debtor is what fuels the first university toward inclusion. The desires of people—especially Global South people—for meaningful education gets attached by a chain-drive into the desire of debt. We become educated by becoming indebted.
As Jean Anyon noted, one in every nine young people living in poverty in the United States has a college degree, and nearly half are attending or have attended college. In high-poverty areas, there are not enough jobs to match college degrees. There are not enough jobs for high school grads. There are not enough jobs. As educational researchers have pointed out, “schools matter, but they’re not all that matters.” The rhetoric of college-for-all has redirected public attention away from resolving issues of poverty and toward speculating on test scores. On average, a white person without a college degree has more wealth than a Black or Latino person with a college degree; this phenomenon is not well understood and has yet to be carefully studied, but mainstream pundits have already decided that the racial “wealth gap” is curable through higher education. Without functional wealth, or what Thomas Shapiro calls “transformative assets” used to offset the opportunity costs of college tuition and underemployment as a student, higher education is obtained at a very poor exchange rate.
After mortgages, student loans are the largest form of debt now in the United States. Indeed, families are mortgaging their homes (homeownership being the material definition of “middle class”) for children to attend college (the college degree being the symbolic definition of “middle class”). This is a bitter irony of dispossession through debt, whereby college-sending families lose the materiality of the middle class to obtain middle-class status.
Moreover, underrepresented minority students disproportionately enter community-oriented professions where unemployment is high and wages are low. Georgetown University’s Center on Education and the Workforce reports that the majors with the lowest earnings include social work, human services and community organizations, early childhood education, and counseling psychology, just below visual performing arts, studio arts, and drama and theater arts.
The university system has expanded under the premise that workers, and the families of students, will take on debt. With accountability regimes like No Child Left Behind and Race for the Top and the neoliberal positioning of education as a panacea for all social ills, the change we see entering the twenty-first century is that the expanding academic–industrial complex has its cross hairs on the total youth population as its biopolitical target. Thus the implication of the worker as consumer, or, more accurately, the debtor as consumer of the university, likens it to the cinema’s horizon of the total seeing population as its audience.
However, the first world university’s most expansive desire is for a global empire of satellite campuses or “outpost universities”:
Ardently pursued by university presidents as strategic and legacy plans, the race to be the global university has become an “educational gold rush.” This is tellingly mapped out by the geography of its expansion. Countries such as China, India, Singapore, and the United Arab Emirates are targeted as feasible sites because of their oil wealth as well as industrial and population growth.
Eng-Beng Lim analyzes this trend through such examples as King Abdullah University of Science and Technology (KAUST), a new graduate university in Saudi Arabia with an instant US$10 billion endowment and that has partnered with Stanford, UT Austin, and UC Berkeley. According to the New York Times, without the “post-9/11 visa problems of traveling to America,”
at Education City in Doha, Qatar’s capital, they can study medicine at Weill Medical College of Cornell University, international affairs at Georgetown, computer science and business at Carnegie Mellon, fine arts at Virginia Commonwealth, engineering at Texas A&M, and soon, journalism at Northwestern.
Lim dubs places like Education City “the return of the colonial metropole.” But, in analyzing the likes of NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts Asia in Singapore, Lim points out that the colonial metropole is not simply a science and technology magnet; arts and humanities departments have also looked toward the global university to escape budgetary decline through capitalist expansion. This leads us to the second world university.
The Second University Critiques
The second world university, like Second Cinema, is marked by its investments in critical theory, that is, the diverse work of the Frankfurt School in critiquing media and capitalist systems in the “West” that emerged out of World War II. Two threads of critical theory run through academia in the arts and humanities, on one hand, and the social sciences, on the other. Literary critical theory focuses on the deconstruction of texts for their underlying meanings, whereas social theory focuses on domination within social systems, usually from a neo-Marxist frame. At least ideologically, the second world university is committed to the transformation of society through critique, through a deconstruction of systems of power, and in this way offers fundamental analyses for any third world university curriculum. Yet its hidden curriculum reflects the material conditions of higher education—fees, degrees, expertise, and the presumed emancipatory possibilities of the mind—and reinscribes academic accumulation.
Usually, when traditionalists speak with nostalgia for the idealized university of old, the library counter in the sky where Kant and Hegel and Freire study together, this is the second world university. We are familiar with it; in the United States, it often houses the Marxist scholars, the ethnic studies formations, women’s studies, gender studies, and American studies. To borrow some rhetoric from Gayatri Spivak, it is the house of the hegemonic radical, the postcolonial ghetto neighborhood within the university metropolis.
One of the tautological traps of the second world university is mistaking its personalized pedagogy of self-actualization for decolonial transformation. When people say “another university is possible,” they are more precisely saying that “a second university is possible,” and they are often imagining second world utopias, where the professor ceases to profess, where hierarchies disappear, where all personal knowledges are special, and, in other words, none are. Their assumption is that people will “naturally” produce freedom, and freedom’s doppelganger is critical consciousness. They are rarely talking about a university that rematriates land, that disciplines scholar-warriors rather than “liberating” its students, that repurposes the industrial machinery, that supports insurrectionary nationalisms as problematic antidotes to imperialist nationalism, that acts upon financial systems rather than just critiquing them, that helps in the accumulation of third world power rather than simply disavowing first world power, that is a school-to-community pipeline, not a community-to-school pipeline. In short, “another university is possible,” so far, hasn’t made possible a third world university.
The second world university announces itself through nostalgia. Sara Ahmed describes this as “an academic world [that] can be idealised in being mourned as a lost object; a world where dons get to decide things; a world imagined as democracy, as untroubled by the whims and wishes of generations to come.” This nostalgia can be futuristic, indeed, the dons are imagining themselves a permanent future in a white academic pantheon. This is similar to settler futurity, which is always nostalgic for its own current power, fearful that it may come to pass.
The second world university is a pedagogical utopia. Its horizons are still total in that its end goal is a utopia that everyone should and can attend. This liberal expansion rests materially on the continued accumulation of fees, debt, and land by its big baby turned big baby daddy, the first world university. Nonetheless, second world critique does inform third world work. As Denise da Silva has often said, “we cannot stay in the work of critique, but we must go through critique to get to the work.” Through critique, and the dirty work that follows it, we might find some machinery useful for a third world.
A Third University Strategizes
The third world university defines itself against the first and second but is probably made up of their scrap material. Its aim is decolonization, but its attempts at decolonization can range broadly from nationalistic bids for membership into the family of nations to transnational forms of cooperation to local movements for autonomy to Indigenous sovereignty; these are particularistic strategies of anticolonial and decolonial projects that are not necessarily aligned with one another. By necessity, the third world university teaches first world curricula: medicine where hospitals are needed for sovereign bodies; engineering where wastewater systems are needed for sovereign lands; legal studies where the law is a principal site of decolonial struggle; agricultural science where seeds are being patented, modified, and sterilized; food studies where the land mass-produces net export crops but there is a food shortage; enterprise where capital is needed for sovereign economies. It teaches a second world critique, because only through critique can the colonial code be cracked. Like Third Cinema, the third world university “does not simply incorporate or quote these sources, but actively reinvents them through their appropriations . . . to synthesize these disparate sources into not only a coherent discourse but a far-reaching, transformative radical project.” It is part of the machinery of the university, a part that works by breaking down and producing counters to the first and second machineries. As a strategic reassemblage of first world parts, it is not a decolonized university but a decolonizing one. But it still produces. It probably still charges fees and grants degrees.
What does the third world university feel like? You might find this part unsatisfying. I refuse to offer a utopic description for a strategic decolonizing machine (for utopias, go to the second world). I hope you make this same refusal. However, I am sure that many readers are involved in university projects with decolonial desires to implement change pragmatically, readers who have appropriated university resources to synthesize a transformative, radical project. These formations may be personal, even solitary; they may be small working groups of like-minded university workers, research centers, degree programs, departments, even colleges. Te Whare Wānanga o Awanuiārangi in Aoteroa might be the clearest example of a decolonizing university formation. If we consider the Cuban Latin American School of Medicine as a university from which decolonizing work sometimes emerges—as it has trained more than twenty-five thousand physicians from eighty-four countries in Latin America, the Caribbean, North America, Africa, Asia, and Oceania to return to their home communities where doctors and medical care are scarce—then some third world university formations can operate at the scale of state apparatuses. However, besides literal “third world” formations like Escuela Latinoamericana de Medicina (ELAM), and explicitly decolonizing universities like Te Whare Wānanga o Awanuiārangi, the third world university also appears contemporaneously within first world universities.
As an insightful example, Ta-Nehisi Coates describes Howard University and the Mecca as imbricating and coinciding institutions:
I was admitted to Howard University, but formed and shaped by The Mecca. These institutions are related but not the same. Howard University is an institution of higher education, concerned with the LSAT, magna cum laude, and Phi Beta Kappa. The Mecca is a machine, crafted to capture and concentrate the dark energy of all African peoples and inject it directly into the student body.
Coates goes on to root the power of the machine Mecca in the reassembly of Howard University’s transhistorical networks of Black, governmental, literary, revolutionary power and the power of place:
The Mecca derives its power from the heritage of Howard University, which in Jim Crow days enjoyed a near-monopoly on black talent. And whereas most other historically black schools were scattered like forts in the great wilderness of the old Confederacy, Howard was in Washington, D.C.—Chocolate City—and thus in proximity to bother federal power and black power. The result was an alumni and professorate that spanned genre and generation—Charles Drew, Amiri Baraka, Thurgood Marshall, Ossie Davis, Doug Wilder, David Dinkins, Lucille Clifton, Toni Morrison, Kwame Ture. The history, the location, the alumni combined to create The Mecca.
This remarkable list of Howard University notables represents a fairly divergent constellation of ideologies; David Dinkins, former mayor of New York City, and Kwame Turé of the All-African Peoples Revolutionary Party provide one example of a stark contrast. Yet in the machine of the Mecca, their individual and collective Blackness comes to mean something different in assemblage with one another. As an historically Black college or university (HBCU), Howard University is already an alternative university universe. The Mecca produces yet a third reality, and it does so by reassembling Howard’s histories of power, race, and place.
To call these efforts a third university is not to say that they are in political solidarity with one another but rather to call their decolonial possibilities into existence. More precisely, we call forth a contingent collaboration across all these efforts—a transnational, multicampus, multiscalar self-awareness. It is an AI emerging. The analytic work here is to consider how the third world university emerges out of the first, in our respective locations. The political work is to assemble our efforts with a decolonizing spirit and an explicit commitment to decolonization that can be the basis of transnational collaborations and transhistorical endurance.
To Assemble a Decolonizing-Works, We Can Learn from Black Film-Works
Making movies is an apt metaphor for making movement in and through the university. Moviemaking takes place at multiple scales, from individual works of single movies to assembling “works” in another sense of “ironworks” and “waterworks.” Film-works are the places, premises, and machinery needed to make movies: from small studios to film industries. It is a good way to envision assembling the works of a decolonizing university.
Zeinabu Davis’s insightful documentary film Spirits of Rebellion reveals the scales and scopes of Black filmmaking works by tracing the contours of what some have termed the LA Rebellion—Black radical filmmakers like Julie Dash, Charles Burnett, Larry Clarke, Haile Gerima, Barbara McCullough, Jamaa Fanaka, Ben Caldwell, Billy Woodberry, Shirikiana Aina, and O. Funmilayo Makarah whose work created a shared legacy of study at the UCLA Film School from the 1960s to the 1980s. Davis herself is part of this genealogy, and her own work marks a continuation, a memory, and an evolution of this legacy as well as the larger tradition of Black film. Spirits of Rebellion covers the nuances of their filmic stories and the art of creating Black representational power out of a Hollywood overdetermined form.
What stuck with me through the stories in Davis’s documentary were the coincidental linkages between filmmakers, the collaborations necessary for making a film, the materiality of communication technologies, the copyright somersaults in using images and sound, the funding not just to make films but to have them shown, the legal and capital juggernaut of a Hollywood machine that Black filmmakers have to subvert. And all of the filmmakers in Davis’s documentary speak to the space-making work of Teshome Gabriel, UCLA professor and scholar of Third Cinema. His efforts were instrumental in composing a third worlding film factory.
Films are not just texts. Films are enterprises. Certainly the products of filmmaking are cinematic texts that can be “read” just like any other literary work—for their signifying meaning, for their impact on existing systems of representation, for the ways that communities and audiences take up the text. However, films are enterprises, requiring money, machines, casts and crews, networks of distribution, and critical audiences who discuss the films.
Donald Glover, speaking about his 2016 FX network show Atlanta, described how he organized an all-Black writers’ room, all ATLiens, all without Hollywood-esque writers’ rooms experiences:
I did it in my house where I was recording music and also doing the show. We called it the Factory. And we worked out of the Factory.
For Glover to do the representational work of a show whose “thesis . . . was to make people feel black,” he also had to assemble a Black enterprise of Black people and Black bricks and mortar. His house as cinematic factory fostered the organic intimacy he envisioned for his show.
Film movements are multiscalar endeavors. One might think about how making an independent short film is one scale. Making a Black film industry is another scale. Consider what the necessary collaborations are for making
- • a single film,
- • a body of work,
- • a film production studio,
- • a Black film industry,
- • a distribution network for theatrical releases, or
- • a Black film movement.
Assembling a decolonizing university is also a multiscalar endeavor. We might ask what the necessary collaborations are for making
- • a single project with a decolonizing aspect,
- • a body of decolonizing works,
- • a decolonizing production studio,
- • a decolonizing industry,
- • a network of decolonizing organisms, or
- • a decolonizing university movement.
Black film is Black assemblage in flight.
It is a living thing, Black cinema. It is a living thing that has endured. It has survived under duress since the beginning of the last century with no help, with no tools, with no focus, with no attention, with no water, with no sunlight. And still the images have been made by people long before us. So I do think there are beautiful things that are happening in the space, because there has always been.
The very existence of the preceding quote by filmmaker Ava DuVernay is itself an aperture into the living thing of Black cinema, into its transhistorical timelines and multiscalar assemblages. In this instance, DuVernay is speaking to Another Round, a podcast hosted by Heben Nigatu and Tracy Clayton, the Black female creators, hosts, and writers of the show. They are interviewing DuVernay about her forthcoming projects: 13th, a Netflix documentary on the advent of modern slavery through mass incarceration as generated by the Thirteenth Amendment, and Queen Sugar, a dramatic series about a Louisiana family, to be broadcast on the Oprah Winfrey Network (OWN). With a Black podcast audience surrounding her, the Oscar-nominated Hollywood film Selma behind her, a digital streaming Netflix documentary ahead of her, and a serial drama to be broadcast on a television channel owned by one of the wealthiest Black women of all time, DuVernay is in this moment a rider and a rewriter of Black cinematic assemblage in motion.
Black assemblage involves the modding of technologies raked together by the witch’s broom. YouTube, podcasts, blogs, Twitter feeds, digital streaming services, crowdfunding campaigns, are new technologies commandeered by a collaboration of organisms already-readied by producing bodies of works sometimes within first world systems. These collaborations meant that Pharrell’s YouTube channel could host Awkward Black Girl, that Oprah would televise DuVernay, that podcasts and Twitter hashtags might become Black.
The witch’s flight might fashion landing pads out of First Cinema, yet it is always poised to fly away from them. She can “walk into meetings and talk with my studio partners now with a sense of freedom,” DuVernay says, because she can always fly away. Her ever-ready refusal of First Cinema is a stance roote in self-determination: “It’s because I always know I can make something on two dollars and a paperclip. Always. Always.”
Filmmaking is collaborative but not democratic. Most films, even independent ones, require a crew of makers, seek investments by producers, need actors. Films are made collectively, yet generally hierarchically (not usually “democratically”), by a gang of folks who unevenly control the film through their invested cash, their supply and operation of video or film equipment, the coordination of schedules, their scriptwriting and their improvisation. Maybe there is a single director. Maybe creative decisions are born more collaboratively. One ought to be a little agnostic about the value of democracy if one wants to make a film.
When building a decolonizing machine out of colonizing scraps, we ought to ask, what are the types of organizational structures to get it done? What organizational structures do we think we are supposed to have? Why do we think that way?
Universities can certainly be called hierarchical, but such a critique is an incomplete analysis. An evolved colonizing machine, like any code, is not simply hierarchical. If it were, it would not be efficient—there are multiple flows of commands, some hierarchical, some lateral, some “organic” in the sense of emergence.
One ought to be a little agnostic about democracy when inside a colonizing machine. And alternatives to democracy exist. We might think of various Indigenous forms of governance such as elderships or matrilineal land stewardship. We might think about hip-hop governance, or even revolutionary organizations, as a form of relation-based organizing.
A Black film movement is ideologically diverse. What is in common for a Black film movement, I want to say, is a love for Black life and for Blackness. This love functions like gravity; it is everywhere, operating on all things. But it manifests differently in interactions big and small—planetary in scale or intimate. It is not always your friend, and it can lead to plummets, but isn’t flying just a falling heart with wings? It is the witch’s flight, not linear genealogy, that connects decolonizing work. An effective decolonizing university assemblage must be ideologically diverse; it must have different and differing parts that work. A decolonizing university has only to share that love for Black life, for Indigenous worldings, for their futures.
Axioms about the Third University
I list below axioms for third university actualities. If we consider that a decolonizing university exists already amid the colonial, and that it takes many formations at multiple scales—from the personal to the institutional to the national—then we can start to ascertain the premises for its existence. Axioms should be flexible enough to build multiple formations and to accommodate contradictions, while clear enough to catch the decolonial desires that inspirit these formations. I call them axioms not so much because they are self-evident or irrefutable. Rather, they are axioms in the second sense of the word: propositions upon which a structure, in this case, a decolonizing university, can be built.
- 1. It already exists. It is assembling. It assembles within the first and second universities.
- 2. Its mission is decolonization.
- 3. It is strategic. Its possibilities are made in the first world university.
- 4. It is timely, and yet its usefulness constantly expires.
- 5. It is vocational, in the way of the first world university.
- 6. It is unromantic. And it is not worthy of your romance.
- 7. It is problematic. In all likelihood, it charges fees and grants degrees.
- 8. It is not the fourth world.
- 9. It is anti-utopian. Its pedagogical practices may be disciplining and disciplinary. A third world university is less interested in decolonizing the university and more in operating as a decolonizing university.
- 10. It is a machine that produces machines. It assembles students into scyborgs. It assembles decolonizing machines out of scrap parts from colonial technology. It makes itself out of assemblages of the first and second world universities. To the degree that it accomplishes these assemblages, it is effective.