Parallel Characters

***SPOILER ALERT!!! IF YOU HAVEN’T FINISHED KINDRED,
DON’T READ THIS POST***

There are many disturbing parallels between 1976 and the antebellum South that are
explored in Kindred. One of these is that Dana and Kevin each have a sort of
“counterpart” on the Weylin plantation whose identity blurs with theirs over the course
of the novel. Dana’s “counterpart” is clearly Alice. First of all, they are actually related
and share a strong family resemblance. Additionally, they were both born free but then
brought into slavery, attempt to run away from the Weylin plantation, and are the objects
of Rufus’s infatuation. Rufus even goes so far as to describe them as “one woman. Two
halves of a whole”, and following Alice’s death tries to convince Dana to stay with him
and replace Alice as their children’s mother (257). However, much like with Alice, when
words do not work Rufus is just as willing to use violence to get what he wants, and tries
to sexually assault Dana. This is where one crucial difference between Alice and Dana
becomes clear. When Rufus forces Dana to become complicit in his rape of Alice by sending
her to his room, Alice tells her “I ought to take a knife in there with me and cut his damn
throat… Now go tell him that! Tell him I’m talking ‘bout killing him!”. But although Alice
finds everything about Rufus repugnant, she does not kill him. Dana, on the other hand when
put in a similar position only hesitates briefly before plunging her knife into Rufus’s side. This
does not make Dana “stronger”, “braver”, or “better” than Alice, but simply reflects a difference
in them caused by their home times. Alice, who only knows the antebellum South, does not see
even her own body as belonging to her. Dana, who has grown up with Second-Wave Feminism,
sees control over her body as a given and draws this as one line she refuses to cross.

An even more disturbing parallel between characters is the one that emerges between Kevin and
Rufus. Dana and the reader are horrified by how quickly Kevin initially adjusts to the 1820s, saying
that slavery wasn’t as bad as he had expected, and and sometimes seeming really into acting like a
slave owner (e.g. his elaborate story explaining why he and Dana were travelling in Maryland).
Despite having a 1976 mindset, Kevin, aided by his privilege as a white man, is able to live at first
much as Rufus does--ignoring the suffering around him and getting everything he wants. Another
similarity is that Kevin and Rufus both attempt to push their menial work off onto Dana, while
simultaneously acting as if being able to do this work is a privilege. The most striking example of
this is that both Kevin and Rufus try to talk Dana, an aspiring author, into writing down their words
instead of her own. Kevin repeatedly asks her to type his manuscripts, and Rufus orders her to write
down and edit correspondence from his dictations. Rufus and Kevin also view their romantic
relationships similarly. They don’t see their partners as humans with emotions and opinions, and
assume that because they want something their partner will as well, or will at least accept it. This is
reflected in Kevin’s marriage proposal to Dana, as well as Rufus’s feelings towards Alice, and
particularly his statement “If I lived in your time, I would have married her” (124). Would Alice have
married him? The thought never crosses his mind.

Science Fiction as a Coping Mechanism

Something interesting that has come up in class is the idea of science fiction as a coping mechanism for both Billy Pilgrim and Vonnegut himself. Until chapter 10, we had been operating under the assumption that at least in the universe of the novel, Tralfamadore and Billy’s time travel were real. The introduction of Kilgore Trout and his work begins to call this into question. For me, the first signal that everything might not be as we thought was the line “[Billy and Rosewater] were trying to re-invent themselves and their universe. Science fiction was a big help.” Trout’s novels provided alternative ways of seeing and understanding the world, and the more we hear about Trout’s ideas, the more parallels  we see between them and how Billy experiences the world. When Billy has a strong negative reaction to the barbershop quartet at his anniversary party, Trout speculates that he has seen through a “time window”, a concept similar to Billy’s being “unstuck in time”. Billy later flips through a Trout novel The Big Board, about “an Earthling man and woman who were kidnapped by extra-terrestrials. They were put on display in a zoo on a planet called Zircon-212.” This is remarkably similar to what happens to Billy and Montana Wildhack on Tralfamadore.

These similarities beg the question of whether Tralfamadorians and their view of time are real outside of Billy’s head, or if they are a coping mechanism he developed, building on the Trout’s works, to deal with his incredibly traumatic experiences. There certainly seems to be evidence to support this second possibility. Billy tends to come “unstuck in time” in moments of intense suffering or emotion, and jumps to either happier--or just blander--moments. One example of this is the first time Billy time travels. He is following the two scouts and Roland Weary through the German countryside, “cold, hungry, embarrassed, incompetent. He could scarcely distinguish between sleep and wakefulness now, on the third day, found no important differences, either, between walking and standing still”. All of a sudden, he is no longer in that moment, but before his birth, after his death, a child, and then an adult living in Illium before returning to WWII. This suggests that Billy’s time travelling could be a way of coping with trauma, and extreme physical and mental stress.

The Tralfamadorian worldview is also a tempting and convenient one for someone in Billy’s situation to develop. Billy has lived through some terrible things, but according to the Tralfamadorian way of seeing the world, none of them are his fault, and there’s nothing he could have done to prevent them. The moments were simply structured that way. It makes senseless death and destruction a bit easier to stomach to be able to say that although those people and cities aren’t looking so good right now, there are plenty of moments where they are just fine; moments where Dresden is still a beautiful and magical city, and its inhabitants are still alive. However, although this world view is comforting, it is not necessarily a good way to see the world (unless, of course, the Tralfamadorians actually are real). It absolves us of responsibility for the state of the world, and removes the very real need to reckon with and learn from the past.

It is also interesting to consider whether Vonnegut himself is using science fiction as a coping mechanism while writing this novel. Instead of simply telling us what happened in Dresden, he skirts around it for more than two hundred pages, telling us instead a story about someone he knew in WWII and their experience with time travel and aliens. Why? Perhaps as it is for Billy, science fiction is a way to frame the past in a way that makes it easier to deal with. Telling the story in this way also distances Vonnegut from the narrative. Instead of writing about his personal experiences in a linear fashion (as he says in ch. 1 he tried to do and failed), he is writing about them through Billy Pilgrim, and in a jumbled order that allows him to switch topics whenever he wants. Adding the Tralfamadorians brings in an element of fantasy that also provides distance from his very real experiences in Dresden. However, this explanation seems inadequate. Vonnegut’s writing is very deliberate, and he definitely seems aware of what he is doing by making Slaughterhouse Five a science fiction novel. Perhaps Vonnegut from Chapter One is not quite the same as Vonnegut the author. What do you think?

Atonism vs. Jes Grew in the Ballet World

We talked recently in class about what Atonism and Jes Grew look like in 2018. As many of you know, I’m involved with ballet, and this conversation got me thinking about what Atonism and Jes Grew look like today in the ballet world.

As much as I love it, ballet is probably one of the most Atonist things out there. Ballet as an art form was developed by and for Europe’s elites. It originated in the courts of Renaissance Italy and was spread to France by Catherine de Medici in the 17th Century, where the first ballet company was established by Louis XIV. He also established and codified several basic steps and positions, and is the reason ballet takes most of its terminology from French to this day. Despite having spread more or less around the world, ballet is still incredibly Eurocentric. The four most widely taught techniques (styles of dancing ballet) were developed in Russia, England, France, and Italy, and the world’s top ballet companies are mostly found in Europe, or countries that developed out of European settlements and colonies (the USA, Canada, and Australia).

Ballet also tends to be practiced and viewed by people who are both privileged and white. The stereotypical patron, especially for major companies, is probably your typical Atonist (old, white, wealthy, focused on tradition and the past). Trying to increase racial and economic diversity among the dancers themselves has also been a huge issue in the dance world in recent years. With a few notable exceptions (Misty Copeland for example), companies tend to be dominated by white dancers who had the money and resources to pursue dance to a high level. Ballet gets expensive, and since directors traditionally wanted their dancers to look as similar as possible, it unfortunately used to happen (and probably still does) that talented dancers are overlooked solely because of their race.

Ballet is also incredibly unnatural if you think about it. In what other context is it normal or good to be able to turn out your legs so that your feet make a 180 degree angle, lift your leg up so that your foot is above your head, or stand on your toes? Jes Grew is about dance, but also freedom and spontaneity. In ballet, every step is codified, and expected to be done in a very specific way. Some executions and combinations are acceptable, others are not.

An example of a recent “Jes Grew flare up” in the dance world is Hiplet, a combination of ballet with hip hop created by the artistic director at the Chicago Multi-Cultural Dance Center. The style is described as a way to keep classical ballet relevant, and takes the strength gained from training in classical ballet to combine pointe work and hip hop. Although classical ballet training is necessary to the style, Hiplet at the same time less an adaption of ballet than a co-opting of the tools used in ballet (strength in certain muscles and joints, pointe shoes, etc.) for its own purpose. The style is much freer than classical ballet, takes most of its steps from hip hop, and uses pointework in a way that would never have been considered “acceptable”. The style has also been fairly controversial, with people debating its legitimacy as an art form, the safety of it, and whether or not something like this will catch on or should even be taught. Sound familiar?

Our Identities are Entirely Constructed

[I'm going to break the 4th wall for a minute (postmodernism!!) to apologize for the weird
formatting of parts of this post. I've been having some issues with Blogger and couldn't
figure out how to fix it.]

One tenet of postmodernism as described by Edward Docx is that it claims that our

identities are solely defined based on existing power structures, while at the same time

calling for a re-evaluation of these very structures. In other words, we are all

constructions, and don’t have any personality, soul, self, etc. that is inherent or unique to

us. Doctorow plays with this idea in Ragtime in several ways.

One that will be easily recognizable to other people who took 20th Century Novel

is how Doctorow uses mirrors. In the modernist fiction we read last semester--Virginia

Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises for example--

mirrors provide a way for characters to contemplate their sense of self. Clarissa

Dalloway ponders the various aspects of her identity and draws them together into a

coherent self while sitting in front of a mirror. Jake reflects on his defining injury while

standing in front of a looking glass. Doctorow gives us a very similar image when he

describes Little Boy, who develops a habit of sitting in front of a mirror, looking at himself.

However, instead of reflecting on his identity or developing a coherent sense of who he

is, Little Boy sees “two selves facing one another, neither of which could claim to be

the real one...He was no longer anything exact as a person.” (117).

Doctorow also explores this idea through the characters of Evelyn Nesbit, Harry

Houdini, and J.P. Morgan. Doctorow’s versions of all three of these historical figures

feel like they do not belong, and are dissatisfied with their lives. However, when

confronted with these identical feelings, the three characters react in very different

ways that correspond to their background and social class. Houdini, an immigrant

who has worked hard to overcome his lower class background, responds by working

even harder and redoubling his efforts to gain a reputation as an artist. Evelyn Nesbit,

whose looks have catapulted her into the upper class, but who has never had to make

a decision or think on her own has a completely different reaction and attempts to

simply escape her troubles by forcing her way into a completely different life and

family. Morgan, who is used to having the world’s treasures at his fingertips, deals

with his feelings of not belonging by developing a philosophy that draws upon the

ancient cultures whose precious items he has stolen, and that bestows upon himself

almost god-like status. These characters different reactions to identical emotions

reinforces how their “selves” are entirely constructed by the existing power structures,

and societal constraints and expectations.

There are a couple of other odd potential examples that I’m not entirely sure what

to make of. One is that many of the characters from different spheres whose worlds

collide have very similar names. For example, take Emma Goldman and Evelyn Nesbit.

Once they meet, we learn that the unlikely pair share even more similarities. Both have

a man they care about in prison. Evelyn has used her body to make a living and Emma

Goldman once tried. Particularly important is that after spending time with Goldman,

Nesbit begins to side with her on social issues and makes anonymous donations to her

cause. The similarities between these two women raise the question of whether Emma

could have been Evelyn if she had been born into different circumstances and vice versa.

I think Doctorow would say yes. The main differences between them have arisen because

of their different stations in society, and identities they constructed as a result.

The worlds of two characters with similar names collide again when Harry Houdini sees
Harry K. Thaw in the cell across from his while showing off his ability to escape from the
Tombs. The two do not develop a relationship like Emma Goldman and Evelyn Nesbit’s,
but there is a moment where the two are described as almost mirror reflections of each other. “Quickly Houdini began to dress...Across the well the prisoner began to undress” (30). This continues until “the prisoner was as naked as Houdini had been” (30). The two figures have
the same name, but are otherwise framed as opposites--Thaw is rich while Houdini is not,
Thaw undresses as Houdini dresses, Thaw is confident and mocking in contrast to Houdini’s
self-consciousness. Their names show some commonality between them, but society has
shaped them into completely different people.

These last two examples in particular might be getting to be a bit of a stretch. What do you
all think? Are they valid examples of Doctorow playing with identity and the idea that we’re
all constructions, or is it just me reading way too much into a coincidence?

Hans Kohlhase, Michael Kohlhaas, and Coalhouse Walker

Mr. Mitchell hinted at the end of the class period today that although Coalhouse Walker is not a historical
figure like J.P. Morgan or Emma Goldman, he is also not purely Doctorow’s invention. I looked into this
a bit further, and found that in 1808, the German author Heinrich von Kleist published a novella called
“Michael Kohlhaas”, whose story is strikingly similar to Coalhouse Walker’s. The novella is based on the
experiences of a man named Hans Kohlhase.

Kohlhase (the real person), a merchant, was travelling in the October of 1532 when his horses were
seized by a nobleman named Junker von Zaschwitz, as a supposed fee for travelling through the area.
Kohlhase was furious and sought justice through the court system, but was foiled by corruption and
Junker’s powerful connections. He put out a public challenge to Junker, and began burning down
houses and plundering villages in the area when Junker did not acquiesce. Martin Luther himself tried
to stop Kohlhase, but was unsuccessful. In 1540, Kohlhase was captured and sentenced to death.

Heinrich von Kleist builds on this story a bit. In his novella, Michael Kohlhaas’s horses are not only
seized, but put to work and mistreated. Kohlhaas sues for the cost of their medical treatment, but gets
the same response as Kohlhase. His wife attempts to deliver a petition for his aid to an important
official, but is struck down by a guard and dies from her injuries. Kohlhaas, seeing no other options,
begins a private war against Junker. He destroys his castle and kills his servants, but fails to capture the
nobleman (who has fled). Martin Luther intervenes on Kohlhaas’s behalf, but Junker’s power and
connections save him again. Eventually, Kohlhaas is captured, tried, and killed. As he is being led to
his death, he learns that Junker will finally be brought to justice.

There are so many parallels between these stories and Coalhouse Walker’s that it’s hard to know where
to start. The first similarity that jumped out at me was the name. “Kohle” is the German word for coal,
and “haas” and “hase” are similar to “Haus”, the word for house. Von Kleist’s Kohlhaas becomes
Doctorow’s Coalhouse. In terms of plot, both men have their means of transportation seized as a
supposed toll or travelling fee, and after attempting to bring the other person to justice through
traditional means, turn to a form of vigilante justice that involves murder and the destruction of
property. The fictional Kohlhaas’s revenge particularly resembles Coalhouse’s, with the castle being
analogous to the firestation, and the servants to the other firefighters. Kohlhaas’s wife also dies in the
same way as Sarah.

This whole situation is incredibly postmodernist. Von Kleist took a historical figure and turned him
into the fictional protagonist of a novella. Doctorow then incorporated a variation on this same
historical figure/fictional character into a second novel that blurs the lines of fiction and reality even
further. And even though von Kleist’s novella is based on fact to a much greater degree than Ragtime,
it almost feels like he’s using a similar approach to Doctorow. The Martin Luther tried to help
Kohlhaas? Apparently.

This also brings up the question of transworld identity. If an author takes a historical figure or a character from another book and incorporates them into their own story, are they the same person in each medium, or are they different? To what extent are Hans Kohlhase, Michael Kohlhaas, and Coalhouse Walker the same person? In this case, I am going to say there are fundamental differences particularly between Kohlhase and Kohlhaas’s experiences, and those of Coalhouse Walker. A major one is the role that race plays in the destruction of Coalhouse’s property, and his inability to get justice through the police and courts. That Doctorow breaks from the figures he’s “borrowing” in such a significant way could have many potential interpretations. Is he trying to show that he as the author is in complete control and can do whatever he wants? Maybe. I think it’s also likely that he saw this as an opportunity to make a point about racial inequality in America both in the 1910s and 1970s. Through Coalhouse’s story, he can comment on the progress America had made in the 60 years separating the events of Ragtime from his writing about them, while also showing how far there still was and is to go.

Future posts will be for History as Fiction!

Pilate's Death

The moment that surprised me most in Song of Solomon was Pilate’s death. How could Pilate--the most powerful character in the novel, who “piloted” the story, saved Milkman on multiple occasions, and taught him introspection and empathy--die? But the more I reflected on the ending of the novel, the more fitting her death seemed, even if it wasn’t what I had wanted to happen.

In Pilate’s death, her life in many ways comes full circle. She has returned to her family’s place of origin and finally buried the bones of her father, which she had carried with her for decades. Milkman also sings to her as she dies: “Sugargirl don’t leave me here/ Cotton balls to choke me/ Sugargirl don’t leave me here/ Buckra’s arms to yoke me” in an inversion of the opening scene, where her own version of the same song heralds his birth. Pilate’s connection to supernaturality and flight persists even in death. When Milkman sets her body down, a bird swoops down and carries off the earring containing her name that she had worn since her father’s death. Birds are not only symbols of freedom and flight, but are often seen as bridging the human and spiritual worlds much like Pilate did.

Pilate’s death signals the completion of Milkman’s coming of age. She was portrayed throughout the novel as powerful and strong, but compassionate and ultimately a force of good. When Milkman stands back up after her death, he takes on her traits of strength, courage, and empathy and launches himself into the air without a thought as to his own safety. This moment also shows his connection to his family, something Pilate felt deeply, and his taking a decisive course of action for one of the first times in the novel. Also showing the completion of his coming of age is how Guitar refers to him in this scene. Where as Guitar had previously abbreviated “Milkman” to “Milk”, using the childish part of the nickname and dropping the part that implied adulthood and maturity, he calls Milkman “my man” in this scene, dropping the “milk” and using only the second half.

Pilate also changes the way Milkman perceives the notion of flight. The men in the book who fly (Solomon, Macon I, Milkman, Robert Smith, etc.) are portrayed ambiguously. Their flights are dramatic, almost mythical, and take them physically into the air, but at the same time cause incalculable damage to those left behind. In contrast, Pilate’s last words express her compassion, and sorrow that she hadn’t “knowed more people. I would of loved ‘em all. If I’d a knowed more, I would a loved more”. Milkman realizes here that there is more to flight than the physical state that had amazed him as a child.“Now [Milkman] knew why he loved [Pilate] so.Without ever leaving the ground, she could fly.” The defining moment of Milkman’s childhood was when he realized he could not fly, and so it’s only fitting that the moment he becomes an adult is when he realizes there are many forms flight can take.

Milkman’s reaction to Pilate’s death is also reflected in Morrison’s life. In the foreword to Song of Solomon, she writes about her father, and her reaction to his death:

He had a flattering view of me as someone interesting, capable, witty, smart, high-spirited. I did not share that view of myself, and wondered why he held it. But it was the death of that girl--the one who lived in his head--that I mourned when he died. Even more than I mourned him, I suffered the loss of the person he thought I was. (xiii)

Pilate plays the role of a mother-figure in Milkman’s life, and his reaction to her death could be read as the same as Morrison’s reaction to her father’s. Pilate saw in Milkman what he did not see in himself: someone whose life was worth saving on multiple occasions, someone worth lying for and being humiliated for, someone worth loving despite his faults. And through observing this relationship and Pilate’s unconditional love, Milkman began to learn introspection and empathy (think of the scene in the bathtub). When Pilate died, he, like Morrison, lost not only a loved one but a more positive picture of himself and who he could be. It could be argued that much like how Morrison’s father became her muse while writing Song of Solomon, Pilate is Milkman’s inspiration when he launches himself off the cliff and comes to the realization that “if you surrendered to the air, you could ride it”.