One prominent motif in Kindred is the destructive form of love best exemplified by Rufus, whose actions bring great suffering to Alice and Dana, the two women whom he loves, albeit in different ways. Dana first recognizes this aspect of Rufus’s character when he attempts to explain why he attempted to rape Alice, despite her disinterest in him and the fact that she is already married to Isaac:
He turned his head toward me and peered at me through swollen eyes. “I begged her not to go with him,” he said quietly. “Do you hear me, I begged her!” I said nothing. I was beginning to realize that he loved the woman—to her misfortune. There was no shame in raping a black woman, but there could be shame in loving one.
“I didn’t want to just drag her off into the bushes,” said Rufus. “I never wanted it to be like that. But she kept saying no.”
Here, Dana recognizes that Rufus does, in some sense, truly love Alice, though his love brings her only “misfortune,” as he refuses to accept her rejection of him. Instead of respecting her decision, he attempts to rape Alice, prompting Isaac to beat him up, causing major injuries. When Alice and Isaac attempt to flee, they are later caught and beaten brutally. Isaac is maimed and sold to a southern slaveowner, and Alice is forcefully enslaved despite her status as a free woman of color. Later, when Dana offers to try and clean Alice’s serious wounds, she again reflects upon this “destructive” capacity of love:
“Let me see your back,” said Rufus. I hesitated, swallowed a few indignant words. He spoke out of love for the girl—a destructive love, but a love, nevertheless. He needed to know that it was necessary to hurt her more and that I had some idea what I was doing. I turned my back to him and raised my shirt a little. My cuts were healed or nearly healed.
Here, Rufus asks to see Dana’s scars, as she treated her own wounds after being whipped on the orders of Tom Weylin. Ultimately, he is satisfied that Dana’s wounds have healed well and gives her permission to attend to Alice. Again, Dana notes the “destructive love” of Rufus, who loves Alice but nevertheless ruins her life in an attempt to gain possession over her. Love, in Kindred, is not always a positive force, and Dana also suffers as a result of Rufus’s love for her.
The lingering effects of trauma serve as a major motif in Kindred. Both Dana and Kevin, in different ways, experience trauma during the time they spend in the early 19th century. In Kindred, trauma takes something from a person, leaving them permanently marked by their experiences. When Kevin is reunited with Dana in 1976 after spending several years alone in the past, Dana argues that he must give himself time to heal, as he has lost part of himself:
“Kevin …” He stalked out of the room before I could finish. I ran after him, caught his arm. “Kevin!” He stopped, glared at me as though I was some stranger who had dared to lay hands on him. “Kevin, you can’t come back all at once any more than you can leave all at once. It takes time. After a while, though, things will fall into place.” His expression did not change.
Though Kevin is, to some extent, relieved to return to 1976, he has difficulty adjusting after spending so much time in the past, responding angrily to the signs of their previous life left in their apartment. Dana, however, argues that he “can’t come back all at once,” as parts of him are emotionally still trapped in the 19th century. Ultimately, Kevin’s healing proves to be a long and uneven process. Dana, too, loses part of herself when she finally returns to 1976 for good. For her, however, the loss is more physical, as her arm is severed during her return:
I was still caught somehow, joined to the wall as though my arm were growing out of it—or growing into it. From the elbow to the ends of the fingers, my left arm had become a part of the wall. I looked at the spot where flesh joined with plaster, stared at it uncomprehending. It was the exact spot Rufus’s fingers had grasped. I pulled my arm toward me, pulled hard. And suddenly, there was an avalanche of pain, red impossible agony! And I screamed and screamed.
Dana’s relief at returning to her own time quickly turns to shocking pain as her arm is “joined to the wall” and is ultimately severed when she pulls away from the wall, leaving her in an “avalanche of pain,” a metaphor that suggests that the pain is absolutely overwhelming. Through the motif of trauma and wholeness, Butler underscores the lingering effects of trauma and the difficulty—or even impossibility—of returning from traumatic experiences “whole,” without having lost anything.
The lingering effects of trauma serve as a major motif in Kindred. Both Dana and Kevin, in different ways, experience trauma during the time they spend in the early 19th century. In Kindred, trauma takes something from a person, leaving them permanently marked by their experiences. When Kevin is reunited with Dana in 1976 after spending several years alone in the past, Dana argues that he must give himself time to heal, as he has lost part of himself:
“Kevin …” He stalked out of the room before I could finish. I ran after him, caught his arm. “Kevin!” He stopped, glared at me as though I was some stranger who had dared to lay hands on him. “Kevin, you can’t come back all at once any more than you can leave all at once. It takes time. After a while, though, things will fall into place.” His expression did not change.
Though Kevin is, to some extent, relieved to return to 1976, he has difficulty adjusting after spending so much time in the past, responding angrily to the signs of their previous life left in their apartment. Dana, however, argues that he “can’t come back all at once,” as parts of him are emotionally still trapped in the 19th century. Ultimately, Kevin’s healing proves to be a long and uneven process. Dana, too, loses part of herself when she finally returns to 1976 for good. For her, however, the loss is more physical, as her arm is severed during her return:
I was still caught somehow, joined to the wall as though my arm were growing out of it—or growing into it. From the elbow to the ends of the fingers, my left arm had become a part of the wall. I looked at the spot where flesh joined with plaster, stared at it uncomprehending. It was the exact spot Rufus’s fingers had grasped. I pulled my arm toward me, pulled hard. And suddenly, there was an avalanche of pain, red impossible agony! And I screamed and screamed.
Dana’s relief at returning to her own time quickly turns to shocking pain as her arm is “joined to the wall” and is ultimately severed when she pulls away from the wall, leaving her in an “avalanche of pain,” a metaphor that suggests that the pain is absolutely overwhelming. Through the motif of trauma and wholeness, Butler underscores the lingering effects of trauma and the difficulty—or even impossibility—of returning from traumatic experiences “whole,” without having lost anything.