From the Systemic to the Intimate: Rufus, Dana, and "Destructive Love"
Kindred explores in depth the question of how context shapes individuals’ values, moral compass, and perceptions of themselves and others. This is reflected not only through Dana, who gradually becomes absorbed into the alien world she’s “kidnapped” into, but through Rufus as well, as he develops in a world suffused in the context of the 1820s, but permeated by the pieces of 1976 Dana brings with her. The impact of this unusual course of development especially manifests in the deeply personal, intimate, possessive relationships he forms with the slaves he’s closest to—in particular, Dana and Alice.
I would argue that Rufus’s unique brand of “destructive love” is shaped in large part by the complex, mutually dependent relationship he shares with Dana, a connection that is entirely outside of the bounds of the world he inhabits. Even as she is molded by the past, Dana’s modern sensibilities influence the way Rufus perceives his own relationships. One particularly important example of this impact is that, in a horrible way, Dana’s relationship with Kevin becomes the model for Rufus’s dynamic with Alice. In his abuse of her, he acts out a fantasy rooted in a piece 1976—a mutually loving, reciprocal (to a degree, anyway, although the complexities of Dana and Kevin’s relationship are a topic for another blog post) relationship between a white man and a Black woman—through the twisted lens of the 1820s. He models his father’s and the overseers’ callous sexual abuse of enslaved women, but there’s also a distinctly personal, specific component of to relationship with Alice that baffles the other people of his status. Likewise, much later in the story, we see Dana influence Rufus’s relationship with his son in a similar way. For the first few years of Joe’s life, he models Tom Weylin’s apathy towards all the enslaved children he’s fathered, never thinking to take a personal interest until Dana tells him about Joe’s intelligence.
Despite Rufus’s best wishes, Dana’s position as his advisor and confidant, a mentor figure who has watched him grow up, and a bystander who can choose whether he lives or dies gives her a certain power and emotional sway over him. In this vein, I think the scene at the end of “The Storm” in which Rufus sells Sam is especially illustrative. As she realizes what’s happening, Dana makes a desperate emotional appeal to him, trying to halt this vindictive reinforcement of his possession by telling him, “If you do this, you’ll destroy what you mean to preserve.” In response, he lashes out, crossing a fundamental boundary with Dana precisely because he wants to block out what he knows is a voice of reason.
This emotionality, and the “destructive love” that it manifests as, sets Rufus apart from other people of his social position. In particular, Tom Weylin, who holds the very role Rufus is destined to inherit, is in many ways his antithesis. Where Weylin makes a point of being universally “fair” (for example, he sends Dana’s letter to Kevin because he knows Rufus gave her his word about it), Rufus is capricious and unpredictable. Where Weylin sees the slaves as inhuman and exchangeable, in the coldest of economic terms, Rufus has an intensely personal connection both Alice and Dana, as well as a deep understanding of them as individuals that he uses to manipulative end.
I would argue that in many ways, the senior Weylin models the prototypical plantation owner, and represents the system of slavery: callous and cruel in its violence, inhumane, and economically driven. In contrast, Rufus is a much more complex product of both this system and the traces of 1976 that filter through to him. As the novel progresses, and Rufus takes on his own power on the plantation, the story charts this shift in the threat Dana faces, moving from the systemic to the intimate.
One symbol of this shift is the progression throughout the novel of the threat that cues Dana’s return home.* In “The Fire,” she’s alone in the woods, outside of the Weylin plantation entirely, and is assaulted by a man she has no connection to. In “The Fall,” Tom Weylin’s whipping causes her return, while in “The Fight,” it’s Rufus’s threat of violence. By “The Storm,” this transition from the cruel and impersonal to the dark and intimate is fully realized: for the first time, Dana returns to the present by way of a suicide attempt, after Rufus, who’s previously left the “dirty work” of committing violence to others, crosses a clear boundary by hitting Dana. And in “The Rope,” even Alice disappears from the story as the conflict Rufus and Dana are locked in reaches its climax; Dana returns to the present by killing Rufus to stop him from raping her, with his corpse still clinging to her arm as she yanks herself out of the past at last.
Butler makes a point in Kindred to comment not only on the evil of slavery, but on role that power dynamics and social norms play in shaping every individual within it. Throughout the story, we gain insight into the complex, interwoven effects that have made many of the characters who they are. Almost every character in the novel has more layers of complexity than meets the eye, and, as Dana learns time and time again, Rufus is no exception.
* I’m leaving out the first chapter, “The River” here, which doesn’t strictly follow this pattern, but I see that as more of an introductory little blip that Butler uses to establish the mechanics of the time travel device. At that point in the story, Dana doesn’t even know she’s traveling back to the Antebellum South, as so the vignette mostly functions to prepare her and Kevin (as well as the reader) for how the story’s going to work.
I would argue that Rufus’s unique brand of “destructive love” is shaped in large part by the complex, mutually dependent relationship he shares with Dana, a connection that is entirely outside of the bounds of the world he inhabits. Even as she is molded by the past, Dana’s modern sensibilities influence the way Rufus perceives his own relationships. One particularly important example of this impact is that, in a horrible way, Dana’s relationship with Kevin becomes the model for Rufus’s dynamic with Alice. In his abuse of her, he acts out a fantasy rooted in a piece 1976—a mutually loving, reciprocal (to a degree, anyway, although the complexities of Dana and Kevin’s relationship are a topic for another blog post) relationship between a white man and a Black woman—through the twisted lens of the 1820s. He models his father’s and the overseers’ callous sexual abuse of enslaved women, but there’s also a distinctly personal, specific component of to relationship with Alice that baffles the other people of his status. Likewise, much later in the story, we see Dana influence Rufus’s relationship with his son in a similar way. For the first few years of Joe’s life, he models Tom Weylin’s apathy towards all the enslaved children he’s fathered, never thinking to take a personal interest until Dana tells him about Joe’s intelligence.
Despite Rufus’s best wishes, Dana’s position as his advisor and confidant, a mentor figure who has watched him grow up, and a bystander who can choose whether he lives or dies gives her a certain power and emotional sway over him. In this vein, I think the scene at the end of “The Storm” in which Rufus sells Sam is especially illustrative. As she realizes what’s happening, Dana makes a desperate emotional appeal to him, trying to halt this vindictive reinforcement of his possession by telling him, “If you do this, you’ll destroy what you mean to preserve.” In response, he lashes out, crossing a fundamental boundary with Dana precisely because he wants to block out what he knows is a voice of reason.
This emotionality, and the “destructive love” that it manifests as, sets Rufus apart from other people of his social position. In particular, Tom Weylin, who holds the very role Rufus is destined to inherit, is in many ways his antithesis. Where Weylin makes a point of being universally “fair” (for example, he sends Dana’s letter to Kevin because he knows Rufus gave her his word about it), Rufus is capricious and unpredictable. Where Weylin sees the slaves as inhuman and exchangeable, in the coldest of economic terms, Rufus has an intensely personal connection both Alice and Dana, as well as a deep understanding of them as individuals that he uses to manipulative end.
I would argue that in many ways, the senior Weylin models the prototypical plantation owner, and represents the system of slavery: callous and cruel in its violence, inhumane, and economically driven. In contrast, Rufus is a much more complex product of both this system and the traces of 1976 that filter through to him. As the novel progresses, and Rufus takes on his own power on the plantation, the story charts this shift in the threat Dana faces, moving from the systemic to the intimate.
One symbol of this shift is the progression throughout the novel of the threat that cues Dana’s return home.* In “The Fire,” she’s alone in the woods, outside of the Weylin plantation entirely, and is assaulted by a man she has no connection to. In “The Fall,” Tom Weylin’s whipping causes her return, while in “The Fight,” it’s Rufus’s threat of violence. By “The Storm,” this transition from the cruel and impersonal to the dark and intimate is fully realized: for the first time, Dana returns to the present by way of a suicide attempt, after Rufus, who’s previously left the “dirty work” of committing violence to others, crosses a clear boundary by hitting Dana. And in “The Rope,” even Alice disappears from the story as the conflict Rufus and Dana are locked in reaches its climax; Dana returns to the present by killing Rufus to stop him from raping her, with his corpse still clinging to her arm as she yanks herself out of the past at last.
Butler makes a point in Kindred to comment not only on the evil of slavery, but on role that power dynamics and social norms play in shaping every individual within it. Throughout the story, we gain insight into the complex, interwoven effects that have made many of the characters who they are. Almost every character in the novel has more layers of complexity than meets the eye, and, as Dana learns time and time again, Rufus is no exception.
* I’m leaving out the first chapter, “The River” here, which doesn’t strictly follow this pattern, but I see that as more of an introductory little blip that Butler uses to establish the mechanics of the time travel device. At that point in the story, Dana doesn’t even know she’s traveling back to the Antebellum South, as so the vignette mostly functions to prepare her and Kevin (as well as the reader) for how the story’s going to work.
Great post! Dana's 1976-ness impacts Rufus in that he created a twisted form of love in his mind. His emotionality and destructive methods of love are the very cause of his death, among others. The rawness of his emotions in a time where stoicism is commonplace results in his irrational acts, such as selling Sam, hitting Dana, raping Alice, etc. This is in stark contrast with Tom Weylin, who remains indifferent towards the slaves (except Dana) throughout the tale.
ReplyDeleteYou do a nice job of accounting for the unique factors in Rufus's character development--how he is not strictly shaped by his social and cultural environment, but we see small but significant ways that Dana influences him, and he is also shaped by some very modern psychological angles, with his complex ambivalent relationships to his mother and father (in many ways, Dana seems like a LESS complicated relationship, to him!), But there's a potent irony in the ways that Dana is able to influence him: whereas Tom Weylin is the epitome of the man shaped by his time, Rufus has this troublesome emotional aspect to his relationships with the enslaved people on the plantation, and Dana has everything to do with that. But it's not as if having the model of Kevin and Dana in mind makes it any more plausible for him to have a "loving" relationship with Alice, and no reader WANTS Alice to succumb to such an affair. (Imagine how we'd react if Alice started to "love" Rufus in the way he wishes.)
ReplyDeleteHe is, ironically, able to inflict MORE damage and trauma on the people he has power over when he has "feelings" for them. In a maybe counterintuitive way, we start to see how the Tom Weylin model might even be preferable, if only because he's more predictable, systemic, not emotionally volatile.