In 1976, Dana, a black woman, is transported from California to some unknown place. She sees Rufus, a young white boy, drowning in a nearby river and rushes to save him. His parents, mistaking her for his attacker, try to shoot her; in an instant, she’s returned home. Eventually, she discovers the truth: Rufus is not just her distant ancestor but the son of a slaveowner in the antebellum South. And to ensure her existence, she has to keep him alive.
Kindred gives Dana’s journey to the past all the nuance it deserves. Dana is thoroughly unlike anything anyone from the past has seen before. Her accent and education are threatening to the white characters, as you’d expect. Still, these qualities also alienate her from the black characters, as does her closeness to Rufus and her relatively comfortable position on the plantation. Dana and Rufus’s relationship changes as he grows up and assumes more power. It’s heartbreaking to watch Dana shift from “modern woman playing at being a slave” to a vulnerable woman forced to make more and more compromises to protect both herself and the people she’s come to love. No matter how old he gets, Rufus remains the same person: grasping, loving, childish, and utterly selfish. Sometimes his cruelty is deliberate, and sometimes it comes from a place of unthinking, earnest narcissism. Dana, the other slaves, and I all hated him, but we couldn’t bring ourselves to do it entirely; and I think that the author’s choice to work through our love, hate, and fear is one of the many reasons this book is a masterpiece. Kindred is a powerfully cathartic read, and I think it’s perfect for times like these.