Language and Agency in Nalo Hopkinson’s Midnight Robber

Nalo Hopkinson begins her novel, Midnight Robber, with a poem by David Findlay entitled “Stolen”. “I stole the torturer’s tongue,” the narrator proclaims, “it’s the first side of me some see/ the first line you hear/ first line of defense when I say/ “See this tongue illicitly acquired – doesn’t it suit me well?””(Findlay). Findlay’s poem is one rooted in the literary discussion of colonialism, and following his words lies the world that Hopkinson soon plunges the reader into – an imagined, technologically advanced planet, known as Toussaint, that is colonized by a people whose society is colored with Caribbean culture. 

It is a world monitored by an omniscient AI known as Granny Nanny, a world in which the humans who are born into it are quickly integrated into the computerized system of government the minute they are born by small “ear bugs” implanted in their ears. It is a world where all humans are equal, and addressed as “Compère,” no matter status or rank, a world in which physical labor is virtually unknown, a world, in most respects, very different from our own. However, as Findlay’s poem indicates, while the planet of Toussaint is close to utopic, it is still a world that is shaped and formed by the echoing effects of colonialism, much like our own. 

Even without the introduction of Findlay’s poem, Hopkinson’s text is one clearly situated in the discussion of colonialism. Hopkinson’s main character, Tan-Tan deals with this overtly when she and her father Antonio are exiled to the prison colony of New Half-Way Tree where, for the first time, she encounters a race of people other than her own. When Tan-Tan and Antonio reach the settlement of Junjuh, they are met by two men known as Claude and One-Eye. These are the first humans they encounter in New Half-Way tree, and when Chichibud, their douen trail guide addresses One-Eye as “Boss,” Tan-Tan scolds him saying, “He not your boss, Chichibud…Shipmates all have the same status. Nobody higher than a next somebody. You must call he ‘Compère” (Hopkinson 121). The men laugh and Claude asks Tan-Tan, “Is a human that? … how he could call we Compère?” (Hopkinson 121).

 It is here that Tan-Tan is first faced with the distinction between human and other, or, on a more fundamental level, the difference between who is a person and who is not. However, what points the discussion of the novel towards colonialism, rather than pure race relations, is the fact that the settlement governed by Claude and One-Eye is one made up of a group of people who have come to settle in a new place through the displacement of another. The humans in New Half-Way Tree, while having come as outsiders, have situated themselves as the dominant people in an area once inhabited only by the douen people. Thus, the interactions between the douen and the humans are a very clear allegorical tool in the discussion of human expansion, colonialism, and the subordination of a native people.

However, while Tan-Tan’s interactions with the douen people in New Half-Way Tree stand as her first physical encounters with colonialism and its ramifications, the world imagined by Hopkinson for The Midnight Robber is one that is deeply entrenched with the cultural effects of the institution. The novel begins on Tan-Tan’s home planet of Toussaint, which the back of the novel describes as a “Caribbean-colonized planet” (Hopkinson). Hopkinson quickly immerses the reader into this colorful world with the jaunty prose of her invented creole, a blend of Jamaican and Trinidadian that is spoken by both the characters and the narrator of the novel (SF Site). 

The character’s speak in a language recognizable as English, but at the same time identifiable as its own distinct vernacular, placing the story both physically and linguistically within Hopkinson’s imagined cultural world. In this way both the language and the events of the novel place the text within a specific cultural geography, and more importantly, place the novel within a cultural context that for most readers is connected inherently with a history of European colonialism and cooptation of culture.

Because of this it is impossible to read even a sentence of Hopkinson’s words, impossible to hear of Granny Nanny –“named after the revolutionary and magic worker who won independent rule in Jamaica for the Maroons who had run away from slavery” (SF Site)– without immediately connecting Hopkinson’s text with images of colonialism, and a culture forever altered by its implications.

Thus, Hopkinson’s text deals with colonialism on two fundamental levels. There is the more overt layer of surface events: the cultural interactions between human and douen. But there is also the underlying cultural understanding that the world of Toussaint and, by extension, the world of New Half-Way Tree, is one that has been forged by a history of colonialism back on earth, a history that we ourselves remember. In this way, colonialism is both past and present in a world that has been founded by the colonization of another, making both Toussaint and New Half Way Tree communities that are inhabitable by humans only through the expulsion of their former inhabitants.

The root, then, of Hopkinson’s less overt discussion of colonialism lies not in the events that take place during the novel, but in the events that have occurred long before the novel’s opening, and that have led to the creation of the culture and people who enact them. One of the most distinct aspects of The Midnight Robber is the writing and the language used by Hopkinson to narrate Tan-Tan’s story. The language spoken by the characters in the novel connects them directly to a specific cultural heritage, identifies them undoubtedly as equal participants in political life (as Compère), and separates them from those who do not speak the same language – namely, the douen. Thus, language, in many ways, becomes the basis of personhood within the novel. It is what distinguishes “people” from “creatures,” and what entitles some to address a figure as Compère, and leaves others to address him as Boss.

The role of language within The Midnight Robber, and within the discussion of colonialism as a whole, is introduced, once again, in Findlay’s poem in the opening pages of the novel. The “torturer’s tongue” can be understood as a number of metaphorical symbols, but within the context of The Midnight Robber, it is best understood in linguistic terms: the torturer’s tongue is the language of the torturer. It is the native tongue of a people who have arrived to assert their cultural dominance. It is the langue of the European colonizers.

However, as the narrator of the poem notes, the tongue has been altered after its acquisition. “I stole the torturer’s tongue!” the narrator declares, “man wouldn’t recognize this dancing, twining, retrained flesh” (Findlay). Here, Findlay alludes to the creation of creole languages, languages that arise through the amalgamation of native and foreign tongues. The tongue stolen by the narrator of the poem is one that has been twisted into a creole, in order to create a language that is based off of another, but that is entirely its own. It speaks of the birth of the Jamaican and Trinidadian dialects after contact with English settlers, and it speaks of the very tongue in which Hopkinson’s novel is told.

What is important about Findlay’s poem is that it equates the adoption and transformation of the torturer’s tongue with a sense of empowerment. By coopting and altering the language of the oppressor, the oppressed has in some way found the ability to give himself a certain agency. He has taken a tool of the oppressor, a symbol of his dominance, and made it his own in a way that places a sense of power and agency in the hands of the “thief.”

In much the same way as Findlay’s poem, Hopkinson’s novel lends to language great symbolic weight. Language means knowledge, it means intelligence, it means an allegiance to a specific cultural heritage, and it is the basis of personhood and status between the human and douen characters in the novel. In fact, it can be argued, that the levels of personhood within Hopkinson’s novel exist on a spectrum of who speaks what language, and how well. There is, of course, the clear distinction between douen and human. However, even within these two broad categories, further classifications can be made that lead to different outward manifestations of personhood within the novel.

At the top of the social ladder, of course, are those for whom the language of Toussaint is their native tongue. Ostensibly, these are the humans: all of those who, as Tan-Tan recites in her parable to Chichibud, have come to the planet of Toussaint as shipmates. However, within the humans, limits of linguistic prowess translate to limits in personhood. This can be seen in the character of Quamina, who is developmentally delayed because of having gone through the portal to New Half-Way Tree while still in her mother’s womb.

The adults in New Half-Way Tree frequently speak of Quamina’s ailments, noting that for a great while she could not even speak (Hopkinson 129) and noting how her mother “never think say one day she would be able to help sheself” (Hopkinson 147). Here, it is the acquisition of language that initiates Quamina’s change from helpless creature, to quasi-personhood. After beginning to speak, Quamina begins to be able to care for herself. However, it is frequently noted that Quamina “might never come into she full age” (Hopkinson 130), which leaves her forever in the role of a child, unlike Tan-Tan who eventually graduates into personhood at the age of sixteen, or the age of adulthood in New Half-Way Tree. 

In a similar in-between state lay the douen men, who speak the language of the humans, but are not themselves part of the human race. The ability to communicate with the humans gives the douen men some aspect of agency: they interact with the humans and fit into an established hierarchical system. However, while the ability to speak the language of the humans allows them recognition as thinking creatures, it does not allow them recognition as people. Because they are not human, they are not granted the label of personhood; they will never be considered Compère.

On the other end of the linguistic spectrum lay the douen women. The douen women are seen as pack birds by the humans because they do not speak. Because the women never converse with the humans, it is incomprehensible to them that the pack birds might be people. This distinction is evident in Tan-Tan’s reactions to Chichibud’s wife. Tan-Tan repeatedly forgets that Benta is “a woman, not a pack animal” (Hopkinson 183). But what is notable about Tan-Tan’s understanding of Benta’s personhood is that it hinges on Benta’s ability to speak. It is not until Tan-Tan learns that Benta can communicate, that Tan-Tan grants her the position of personhood. Furthermore, the way in which Tan-Tan fails to acknowledge her personhood is by failing to speak directly to her, and by speaking through Chichibud instead. “Talk to me!” Benta insists (Hopkinson 182), asking her, essentially, to address her as a person.

The idea of language as a symbol of personhood, as an instrument of cultural power, is one that is threaded throughout Hopkinson’s tale and is a unique look on the cultural implications of colonialism. Much in the same way that the narrator in Findlay’s poem manipulates language to assert his own cultural dominance, the douen women manipulate their use of speech to keep their identities hidden. By not revealing their ability to speak, the douen women choose to be viewed as animals rather than people. What is so interesting about this manipulation is that the douen women are asserting their agency, and their personhood, by refusing to do the one thing that would grant them agency and personhood. By remaining silent, they are both renouncing their agency, and acting on it.

            Midnight Robber is a fascinating tale that delves bravely into the discussion of colonialism. However, what makes it unique amongst other literature of its kind is its attention to the role of language within that narrative, and its understanding of how language makes us people, how languages gives us agency, and how language is both shaped by and shapes the cultures in which we live.

Works Cited

Findlay, David. Stolen. 1997

Hopkinson, Nalo. Midnight Robber. New York: Warner, 2000. Print.

"The SF Site: A Conversation With Nalo Hopkinson." The SF Site. N.p., n.d. Web. <http://www.sfsite.com/03b/nh77.htm>.

The Evolution of a Language in Hopkinson's Midnight Robber

As a Linguistics major, what stood out to me, and interested me most, about Nalo Hopkinson's novel, Midnight Robber, was the language used both by her characters, and her narrator. The grammar was a little bit jarring at first, but eventually, it becomes easy to follow along, as your mind settles in to the jaunty flow of the the writing.

I was really curious to see if the language she wrote in was a real creole, or one that Hopkinson invented for her narrative, and so I did a bit of searching. There is not a vast amount of information out there about the language used in her novel, but I did find her response to this question on a website called sfsite.com. The whole interview can be find here (it is the same interview Professor Jerng referenced in class).

Why did you write this novel in Creole? What Creole is it? Are you worried that some readers will find it too difficult?

 I grew up in a Caribbean literary community. It is perfectly acceptable there to write narrative and dialogue in the vernacular. It's not that difficult to understand. I was interested in the way that Creoles can be accorded the full status of languages. The Creoles in this novel are the formal, written form of the language of the people in it. And the language shapes thought. If I had writtenMidnight Robber completely in English Standard, it would have had a very different feel and rhythm. I could say "Carnival revelry," but it wouldn't convey movement, sound, joy the same way that "ring-bang ruction" does. What I have done differently is created a hybrid Creole, since the people in the novel have formed hybrid Caribbean communities. It's largely a blend of Jamaican and Trinidadian, the two vernaculars I know best. And whenever I worry that some readers may find the language to be too much work, I remember A Clockwork Orange and Riddley Walker, two classics in the genre that were both written in invented dialects.

I love Hopkinson's response for a number of reasons. First, the way she addresses the question of whether or not she worries that she might drive readers away because of the language is precisely how I have viewed the topic. Mark Twain received criticism for writing The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in a southern dialect, but as an author, he recognized the necessity of bringing to his work a particular narrative voice, and now the work is regarded as a classic rarely criticized for the way it is written. Hopkinson's novel must be approached in the same way -- it would not be the same story, nor would it do justice to the story if Hopkinson had written her narrative in standard English. So much is gained from writing in her invented creole, that any initial confusion is negligible by comparison.

The second thing I loved about her answer was the sociolinguistic aspects of the language she uses. I love the idea that the language she uses is some hybrid of two caribbean creoles, themselves hybrids of the english language. It meshes well with the idea that this planet is inhabited by the mixing  of various cultural groups, who have blended both cultural and, subsequently, language. I find most interesting the idea that these creole languages, these offshoots of an "actual" accepted language have emerged in the dominant position, and have become an official language all their own, rendering standard English obsolete in this world. Language is so often a reflection of greater social change, and Hopkinson renders the speech of her characters skillfully in this novel, in ways that represent the growth and evolution of this new Caribbean colonized planet.

Exploring a new genre

I have always been a reader, but I have never branched into the field of science fiction, and my journey into the realm of fantasy begins and ends with Tolkien. Because of this, this class has introduced me to many new authors, some of which are quickly becoming favorites, and has also showed me the complexities of the genre and the ways in which it extends far beyond what an outsider might imagine its reach to be.

Before taking this class, I had never read Díaz, though I had heard much about him, and I had never heard of Okorafor. I must admit that I much prefer Díaz's writing, but it struck me, after reading the three short stories we were assigned by the two authors, how similar the approach of the two authors were in theme and construction. Díaz's narrator is unique in voice, and is distinctly Díaz (or is it distinctly Yunior?), while Okorafor's is more generic. But the themes present in each narrative are strikingly similar, as well as the world constructed by each author within which the events of their various stories takes place.

When given a piece of Díaz's writing, it is immediately evident that you have been plunged into his constructed world. In fact, though dealing with different characters, and decidedly more "science fiction" than Oscar Wao, it is difficult to distinguish the narrative voice and location of Díaz's "Monstro" from that of his novel. The events of either could easily take place within the other.
In a similar vein, Okorafor's stories, though affecting different women in different Nigerian villages, with different elements of science fiction, are very uniform in description, and in conflict. Much like Díaz's stories, Okorafor's seem to be two competing narratives of a time and place constructed within her writing.

But beyond this similarity (a constructed world within which the author situates many of his/her stories) the utility of science fiction plays a similar role for each author. For Okorafor, the Zombies are a physical manifestation of the oppression suffered by the Nigerian people, the bionic arm given to Anya's father an emblem of foreign "aid," both contrasted and mirrored by the AK-47 of the men at the oil spill.  Similarly, Díaz's disease in "Monstro," though fictional, is given an all too realistic response, highlighting through the extreme, our interactions with and reactions to the conflicts in the third world.

What both tempers and highlights the science fiction elements in the narratives of both authors is the addition of the mundane as well as the acceptance of the extraordinary. Anya and her mother, as well as the other villagers, do not question the technology that has produced her father's bionic arm. The villagers in "Spider the Artist" accept the Zombies as an inescapable part of life. But more than that, the narratives are sprinkled with very human problems. Anya's story is one of a family dealing with the major injury of the father. Eme is threatened more immediately by the abuse of her husband, than the Zombies that guard the pipeline. And in Díaz's "Monstro," equal narrative weight is given to the narrator's pursuit of Mysty as is the story of the outbreak of the disease. Here, again, is an area in which the two author converge, in their ability to normalize their fantastical stories they both add weight and a sense of realism to the unreal, and highlight how devastating the reality is, by mirroring the atrocities of real life in the science fiction of their stories.

Critical Essay Response

            In his essay, “Concocting Terrorism off the Reservation, Liberal Orientalism in Sherman Alexie’s Post-9/11 Fiction,” Steven Salaita grapples with Alexie’s attempts to contextualize the convergence of personal and political violence within post-9/11 America, and the ways in which Alexie’s narrative produces, or is affected by, what Salatia calls Liberal Orientalism. Salatia defines Liberal Orientalism as “a matter of representation, of approaching Arabs and Muslims…as humans or barbarians… with the consequence of interpellating into plot and theme a distinctly American moral or existential struggle through their presence” (Salaita). Essentially, Alexie’s Muslim characters serve only as devices to contextualize the issues of modern race relations, of terrorism, and political violence. They act metonymically as symbols that catalyze the discussion of these topics for the reader, and for the other characters, without emerging as fully-fledged characters themselves. In this way, Alexie’s attempts to dismantle prominent ideas of race are complicated by both upholding and relying on the very ideas he questions.

Salatia’s argument rests largely on Alexie’s characterization of the pilot, Abbad. As Salaita notes, Abbad plays heavily into post-9/11 racial stereotypes of Muslim men, and is identified “repeatedly as brown and Muslim,” with a “propensity for destruction, one whose mindlessness always threatens to betray the sort of decorous American credulity that Jimmy embodies” (Salaita). What is notable in this description, and is central to Salaita’s argument that Abbad is not only an embodiment of Muslim stereotypes, but an example of Alexie’s construction of Liberal Orientalism within his narrative, is that Abaad’s flaws are directly contrasted with the strengths of his white, American counterpart, Jimmy. This distinction can be seen most clearly in the discussion between the two of the differences between American and Muslim wives: Abbad chastises Jimmy for not wearing the “big pants” in the relationship, the exchange ultimately characterizing “Abbad’s sexist obstinacy…in opposition to the ostensibly more enlightened Jimmy” (Salaita) who operates under a more “modern,” “American” idea of gender relations and equality. Central to the idea of Orientalism is not only “the other,” but the contrast between the other, and what is “normal” or accepted. In Alexie’s, Flight, this notion is blatantly apparent in the characterization of Abbad, and, more importantly, in the differences between him and his white counterpart.

What makes the presence of such Liberal Orientalism in Alexie’s narrative particularly problematic is that its existence stands in opposition to the goal of Alexie’s writing. While Alexie’s novel aims to break down common perceptions of race and race relations, particularly the ideas of terrorism in a post-9/11 world, his treatment of the character of Abbad in his novel, Flight, relies on the very stereotypes he attempts to dismantle in his effort to dismantle them. Alexie’s treatment of Abbad is then both problematic and paradoxical; while Alexie succeeds in introducing new ideas to the dialogue surrounding political violence (that of the convergence of national and personal violence, seen in Jimmy’s feeling of personal betrayal by Abbad’s political act of violence), he fails to reject the stereotypical ideas of what it means to be Muslim in the process, and instead reinforces them.

While Salaita’s argument focuses largely on Alexie’s treatment of Muslim characters and Liberal Orientalism, the same ideas spread across racial depictions throughout the novel. As Salaita notes, “both Indians and Muslims in Alexie’s fiction question sociopolitical orthodoxies, but both rely on orthodox assumptions about the limits of intercultural engagement” (Salaita). However, Salaita fails to extend this idea beyond these two racial groups, or deal extensively with Alexie’s representation of Native Americans. This idea, however, has a broad application across Alexie’s characters. Salatia notes that the scene between Jimmy and Abbad stands out in the narrative because it is the one scene that Zits travels to that does not revolve around Native-American centered violence or conflict. However, while this is true, I would argue that the reason the scene stands out in the novel is not only because of its anomalous subject matter, but because of how apparent Alexie’s use of racial stereotyping and Liberal Orientalism is. In addition, this can also explain why the ending is so dissatisfactory to many readers. Though dealing now with two separate race groups (Native Americans and white Americans), Alexie treats the characters and their actions in much the same way that he handles Abbad in his portion of the story, tainting the ending of the novel with an unsettling feeling as Zits’ eventual happiness relies on the canonical kindness of his white heroes.

It would be incorrect to say that all of Alexie’s characters adhere to the strict definitions of prominent racial stereotypes. On a whole, Alexie’s characters are varied and complex, their race a secondary, though important, attribute. However, there are certain scenes that are defined by these stereotypes, and the ending is one of them. There are, of course, white characters in Flight, who are flawed. Take, for instance, the foster parents Zits is living with when we first meet him in chapter one: the father is violent and hostile, and neither he nor the mother are particularly caring (Alexie 13). Even Jimmy, who stands contrasted to Abbad’s “Muslim flaws” finds himself in the midst of committing adulterous acts, and is by no means a perfect character (Alexie). Furthermore, Zits tells us that he has experienced the worst of all foster parents, both Indian and white, proving that neither kindness and compassion nor violence and hatred, are inherent to the character of any one race (Alexie).

The issue, then, is not necessarily that when Zits finally finds a home that it is with a white family, but that the family is provided to him by the same tough-but-caring white police officer who has watched Zits on his path to self destruction for many years. Much like the character of Abbad, who’s existence relies on racial stereotypes, Officer Dave reads like the stereotypical white savior who comes into the life of an underprivileged-minority youth, and eventually serves as the source of his happiness and path to a better life. Not only is the ending unrealistic, and decidedly sugar-coated, which contrasts drastically with the rest of the novel, the fact that Zits’ salvation is ultimately handed to him by his white protector echoes Alexie’s dialogue of Liberal Orientalism in its support of the traditional idea that the young, wayward, minority must ultimately be saved by a more affluent white protector who steps in to pull him out of the cycle of violence and poverty. Thus, in his attempts to dismantle traditional racial ideologies, Alexie simultaneously supports them, creating an unsettling and paradoxical tone at the end of his novel.

Works Cited

Alexie, Sherman. Flight: A Novel. New York: Black Cat, 2007. Print.

Salaita, Steven. "Concocting Terrorism off the Reservation Liberal Orientalism in Sherman Alexie’s Post-9/11 Fiction." Studies in American Indian Literatures 22.2 (Summer 2010): n. pag. Print.

Kindred Fan Fiction

“I could feel the knife in my hand, still slippery with perspiration. A slave was a slave. Anything could be done to her. And Rufus was Rufus…” (Butler 260)

I would not allow him this. No matter the consequences, I needed to leave. I had escaped last time with my life, just barely. There was no telling whether I would be as lucky this time or not. But if I did stay, if I accepted Rufus as my lover, as my master what would I have left? My life, yes. But my autonomy, my freedom, my last shred of self I had managed to hang onto all this time in Rufus’ world – what would come of those?

I twisted away from him sharply, but he caught my side. The light breaking through the cracks in the attic wall glinted off my knife and reflected off the glassy surface of Rufus’ eyes. They turned to me and pleaded me not to. Not demanded, as a master would, but begged me, as a child. I brought the knife down anyway, plunging it into my side. I thought I knew where to aim well enough to avoid the major organs. I had seen a picture once that diagramed the abdomen. But it was home now, far away, hidden in one of the many books still waiting to be unpacked in my and Kevin’s apartment. The jab itself has been more or less a guess, my idea of where exactly I had stabbed myself as distant as the book back in 1976.

But the pain was present, and it was strong. Then suddenly the dizziness hit. I was aware of a searing pain in my gut, of Rufus’ hands clamped on my arms shaking me in anger. The darkness grew around me, the sounds of Rufus’ screams began to fade but the pressure of his hands around my body remained strong. He was not letting go. Why didn’t he let go?

            I awoke on the kitchen floor back in our apartment. Kevin was rifling through the cabinets muttering desperate obscenities. He had left the water running in the kitchen sink. My side suddenly erupted in pain and I let out a moan, reaching my hand down to the wound and finding thick ruby blood seeping onto my shirt.

            At that Kevin turned and brought a kitchen rag soaked in warm water to my wound.

            “What the hell were you thinking, Dana?”

            “I know, I know I swore I wouldn’t try again, but there was nothing else I could do, I couldn’t just…” My voice trailed off, as the pain in my abdomen overwhelmed my thoughts.

            “Not that,” Kevin said. “I, I understand. I mean, I can try to. But why would you bring him back?”

            My heart jumped, and then suddenly I remembered. The way Rufus had gripped my arms after I had plunged the knife into my side. The way he had shook me in anger, how his grip had only tightened as the darkness grew around us. I suddenly became aware of another presence in the room.

            “Help me up,” I said. Kevin finished bandaging my wound and then dragged me to the kitchen cabinet where I could be propped up and observe the rest of the apartment. There he was, face down on the living room floor, his red hair disheveled, looking as dead as he did the night I found him drunk in the puddle after the storm.

            “Is he…?”

            “No,” Kevin said, shaking his head. “I checked earlier, once I was sure you’d be okay. He was breathing fine. I think he’s passed out. The shock of the journey maybe? You didn't last long on your first trip either, remember?”

            I glanced at Rufus lying on our rug, just across the room from our television, and an electric lamp. Seeing him in his brown trousers and leather boots, in contrast with the room around him, I realized now how ridiculous I had looked in my men’s clothing to everyone back in Rufus’ time. When he slept I could almost forgive him, forget what he had done – or tried to do. Asleep, that red hair belonged to the little boy I once saved from the river, not the man who would grow to keep his own children from freedom, the man who would drive the woman he loved to take her own life, just to teach her a lesson. For a moment I forgot all this.

But this was wrong. Something was wrong. Rufus should not be here. Rufus, and everything he had done, all the evils that existed back in his time; they had no place in the present. Wasn’t that true?

I had gone back. That was how it had always worked. I had stomached the past because I knew how it ended, I knew that it would stay there, that I was safe here in my own time.

But had I been wrong? After all, the scabs the whip had left still itched my back and bled when I was not careful. My jaw still ached from where Tom Weylin’s boot had met my cheek. If the pain could follow me back, could cling onto me through time, why couldn’t the man who had caused it?

It felt so wrong to see him lying there. And yet there he was. Nothing had stopped him from following me to the present. The great distance that once separated my own life from Rufus’ had vanished. But had it ever really been there? Or was it always just a veil that separated the two, a veil so thin that all it took was Rufus’ touch to tear it. I had thought more had separated us. I had thought more had existed between the violence of his world and my own. But now I realized we had just never noticed how truly close we were. How little it took to bring back the past, no matter how long forgotten we thought it was.

I shuddered as Rufus stirred across the room. We would have to find a way to send him back. I was not sure how we would, if it was even possible. But somehow I knew, that even if we succeeded, even if we expelled him from the present, I would never be able to shake the memory of him lying on my living room floor. I would never be able to forget his presence here in my own apartment, a place I had once considered safe. Rufus was a part of my past, this I had always understood. But now, I saw, he was also a part of my present.

Authors Note:

In the novel, Dana engages frequently with the past, bringing back with her many battle wounds when she returns to the present. However, interaction rarely occurs the other way around - the past rarely engages with the future. At the end of the novel, Dana and Kevin struggle with the ephemerality of their memories. Even though Dana is physically maimed from her last journey back in time, she and Kevin still question whether or not the time travel had actually taken place and they seek physical proof within their own time to assure themselves that it had. 

Butler's end to the novel makes the past appear distant: it has the ability to scar, but not to linger. I wanted Dana to be confronted with a different reality - the idea that perhaps the past is not as far away as it seems, that the traces of the past might remain as more than scars, and actually have a physical presence in her world - and see how Dana would react to this notion.