AFTERMATHS OF THE AFRICAN DIASPORA: THE APOCALYPTIC POST- APOCALYPSE IN OCTAVIA BUTLER’S KINDRED AND NALO HOPKINSON’S BROWN GIRL IN THE RING By Rosalee Averin Thesis Submitted to the Faculty of the Graduate School of Vanderbilt University in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF ARTS in English August, 2013 Nashville, Tennessee Approved: Professor Vera Kutzinski Professor Ifeoma Nwankwo To my Scott, for helping me to believe I could fill these pages. ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page DEDICATION.....................................................................................................................ii I. Introduction........................................................................................................4 II. Of generic and terminological investments in the African diaspora..................6 III. Nations and contexts hosting the apocalyptic post-apocalypse.......................15 IV. Kindred, in the Ring.........................................................................................27 V. Towards, and of, an end without end...............................................................54 NOTES...............................................................................................................................56 BIBLIOGRAPHY AND WORKS CITED........................................................................62 iii I. Introduction Both Nalo Hopkinson’s Brown Girl in the Ring (1998) and Octavia Butler’s Kindred (1979) speak from within the African diaspora, the former from strong Caribbean roots to the multicultural metropolis of Canada, Toronto, the latter from a shifting position backwards and forwards in time to and from post-civil rights U.S. and a slave past that is present, tangible. As interpreted here, this diaspora represents, correlatively, home despite homelessness, and a search for belonging despite great loss, both phenomena that can equally be attributed to the African diaspora and to the aftermaths of apocalyptic events. We may call apocalypse what we will: catastrophe, chaotic event, the reckoning, the rapture, doomsday, the revelation, a cataclysm, global disaster, or any other figuration of that fated word, but its meanings are so proliferate as to require further justification for its use here. While dictionaries focus on the grand scale religiocentric apocalypse of tradition, we might ask, in this era of hyperbole, if we can apply it to the personal, to the abstract, to the theoretical framework, so that apocalypse extends past the literal and tangible. Here, I wish to think through the potential of circum- Atlantic slavery and its literary heritages within an apocalyptic yet post-apocalyptic framework—one that makes it not only possible but plausible to bring texts as different in setting and inspiration as Kindred and Brown Girl in the Ring into a productive and stimulating conversation that challenges and troubles the boundaries of nation, home, time, and genre.1 What follows comprises a movement from a discussion of genre and terminology to a discussion of national contexts formed by the African diaspora, to a more detailed textual analysis of Kindred and Brown Girl in the Ring. Such an organization emphasizes 4 the trajectory of analysis I take when approaching the texts themselves. Hopefully, it provides a logical progression towards understanding how post-apocalypse might be thought of alongside these texts and in the African diaspora. In this project I discuss what history and time can mean in an African diasporic context that is deliberately and strategically shifted temporally by authors intent upon troubling the boundaries of identity, of temporality in general, and of the temporality of enduring issues within the African diaspora (e.g. social and political recognition, home, belonging, citizenship, etc.). I argue that Brown Girl in the Ring and Kindred offer notably fertile ground upon which to base a study of the post-apocalyptic and apocalyptic in the African diaspora. Their differing national contexts and differing situational and temporal issues make the task of discussing them in tandem a difficult one, but to some extent such differences and difficulties characterize the majority of African diasporic literary analysis. Admittedly, the stakes of the following work are not readily discernible, in the same way that the realities and temporalities present in the texts analyzed are often indiscernible of and through their seemingly unbelievable settings and subject matters. The stakes thus lie within the importance of believing the unbelievable to affect change in diasporic contexts. Further still, the stakes of this project are the possibilities texts like Kindred and Brown Girl in the Ring expose through the use of temporally bent, apocalyptic and post- apocalyptic contexts—the possibility for change (good and bad), the possibility that we may not learn from our mistakes, that we may repeat and repeat and repeat the same mistakes, propagate the same injustices, and forget a plethora of lessons learned in the aftermaths of both large-scale and small-scale events. The opportunities inherent in such 5 possibilities for thinking through our actions within and without the African diaspora are perhaps most notable of all. Indeed, this is a diaspora project. I make this distinction early and clearly to emphasize that this is not a Black Atlantic, Atlantic, hemispheric, circum or trans- Atlantic, American or any other kind of project than a diaspora project—and yet, it is all of those things. I argue that a diaspora project and African diasporic texts can exist comfortably, if challengingly, under the auspices of any of the aforementioned frameworks, irrespective of their particular investments, whether social, political, or personal. Such is the paradigmatic endurance and strength of the very much embodied theoretical framework of the African diaspora 2 that it can both embrace and eschew the political, social, academic, and other investments of other expected frameworks. As I employ it, the African diaspora is everything and nothing, timed and timeless, locatable and diffuse, all at once. What could be more apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic than that? II. Of generic and terminological investments in the African diaspora Where does diaspora really fit in post-apocalyptic novels like Kindred and Brown Girl in the Ring, and of what use is the term in a post-apocalyptic context? Both are by my figuration post-apocalyptic and, in many ways, often signify as devoid of hope through the seemingly insurmountable challenges their characters face. Nonetheless, there must be hope in the chance we are given to read an imagined future that is not so very far from possible, that prompts us to reconsider the forces that shape a nation and a diaspora, that pushes us to reconsider what home is and what it can be. Certainly, part of what Hopkinson’s and Butler’s novels encourage is a return to terminology, particularly 6 “diaspora.” Often described as non-linear and chaotic in its past-living-in-presentness, diaspora, it seems, signifies quite differently in lived situations. Diaspora speaks to linearity, definitiveness, and rootedness. Rather than the randomness of chaos, one can chart genealogies, consult archives (whether written, oral, or imagined), interrogate or embrace nationhood, and in some ways, notice predictability. Set in motion by African slavery, a calculated, systematic/systemic, ruthless, and ambitious force of modernity, it is no wonder that as a charting of human movement (necessarily at the very least temporally linear), diaspora exhibits as linear, as calculable. When we consider an African diasporic text speaking largely of an African diasporic community, all within the generic framework of a speculative, dystopic, apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic fiction, what happens to such linearity, such predictability? Perhaps post-apocalypse lends to diaspora what theory has attempted to mine from it: a sense of chaos, of past that is present, present that is past, and a future that is ruined, uncertain, but still hopeful. Perhaps, and from two very different contexts, settings, and temporalities, Kindred and Brown Girl in the Ring offer a starkly blunt view of diaspora that exposes its encapsulation within the nation and dominant cultures that renders it incapable of a productive chaos. Hopkinson’s vague future allows us to repurpose, reconsider, so that the hope lies within the centered blindness, the disavowed and jailed center that stands for a diaspora, being a surmountable and preventable potentiality. Butler’s implicit diaspora and her slave past and post-civil rights present painted in such full relief allow us to hope for a re-learning from the past that is present, that is a preventable, if plausible, future. 7 In terms of both generic and terminological investments, why apocalypse and post-apocalypse in particular? Why not settle upon oft-used descriptors, such as the broader speculative or science fiction? Why not thriller, fantasy, or futurist text alone?3 A rather fraught term, apocalypse signifies by turns as highly religiously charged and by others as so secularly rooted in a contemporary popular culture that routinely conflates terms that it can feasibly stand in for any number of unfortunate happenings. Similar terms, of which catastrophe is the most notable, are hardly equal to apocalypse, let alone to the broad sweep of speculative fiction. Indeed, while they may signify similarly in pop cultural contexts (that is, the terms are used interchangeably, one to describe the other and vice versa), their histories vary drastically at times, both between terms and within terms. Catastrophe and apocalypse, while often conflated 4 even by theorists, both follow different etymological and definitional paths. Etymologically, apocalypse breaks down ambiguously to an action that covers and/or uncovers, and catastrophe breaks down to either an overturning or a downturning (OED Online). For the purposes of discussing Brown Girl in the Ring and Kindred, a simultaneous covering and uncovering seems more apt than an over/downturn. Terminologically, speculative fiction seems insufficiently attendant to the specificities of Hopkinson’s and Butler’s texts, broad as it is in its signification. Certainly, Brown Girl in the Ring is speculative fiction, but its investments in the aftermath of an apocalyptic event warrant specificity not offered by the sole generic category of speculative fiction. Kindred, too, requires enhanced specificity through its deeper generic investments than solely the neo-slave narrative or speculative fiction. Ingrid Thaler coins the category “Black Atlantic Speculative Fictions,” contending that “[b]y combining the speculative with diverse Black Atlantic 8 perspectives, the texts mediate—or speculate—on concepts of time and history writing, thereby mixing Black Atlantic perspectives that focus on the presence of the past with speculative time plays of past, present, and future” (2). So, speculative fiction and what I will refer to as African diasporic writing share much with post-apocalyptic fiction as I speak of it here. In all there functions a turning back to the past, a present past, and speculations, observances, portents of the future. There must, then, be a way to consider texts such as Hopkinson’s and Butler’s as holding a number of categorical and generic investments, so that post-apocalyptic fiction becomes an important and notable addition to already existing categorizations, not an exclusive replacement. Indeed, perhaps the post-apocalyptic brings the aforementioned genres to a more cohesive and thought-provoking point by revealing a thread present in all of them, that is, the present past and future. This is not the fodder of novels including Cormac McCarthy’s The Road, the literal and yet abstract post-apocalypse, nor is this the post-apocalypse that would come after the postmodern nuclear war of Baudrillard, Lyotard, and Derrida. Instead, this is a post-apocalypse always occurring and never separate from a concurrent apocalypse. If we consider the Atlantic slave trade as apocalyptic, then everything following and resultant from it is necessarily rendered post- apocalyptic. Yet, the apocalypse continues in the reliving, remembering, returning to slavery and through the continual restaging of its resultant constructs in American and global cultures. Nuclear tropes of apocalypse and major natural disaster tropes of apocalypse are not the fodder of the apocalypse stemming from the Atlantic slave trade, which, arguably, manifests differently than these tropes, is carried forward differently, 9 and can be read differently in terms of the longevity of effect, and longevity of traumatic memory.5 What differs, then, when we consider a text within the broader categorizations of African diasporic and speculative fictions and within the realm of post-apocalyptic fictions? Arguably, it is a question of semantics, of unnecessary proliferations of terms. Central to what I attempt to argue here, however, is that it is through the uncovering, through the past living in the present living in the past and future, that post-apocalyptic fiction offers extensive analytical possibilities for African diasporic literature. Post- apocalypse and apocalypse necessitate each other; time is not linear. They do not follow a path of so-called logical, temporally linear and spatially predictable modern analysis, and perhaps neither does the African diaspora or its constituents. Notably, Thaler speaks to the mixing of white and black genres, citing speculative fiction as a largely white genre. I cannot argue with her on that point. It seems obvious that when speculative or science fiction is prefaced by black or Black Atlantic in order to signify difference that there is an unsaid origin that is being repurposed. I argue that this repurposing is integral to the significance of the post-apocalyptic in African diasporic writing. I am curious, then, as to how the few existing in-depth discussions of post- apocalyptic fiction there are seem to miss the African diaspora completely, or employ works categorized as such as tokenisms, splashes of color (often of the female sort) in otherwise starkly male and blindingly white studies. One such example is Claire P. Curtis’ Postapocalyptic Fiction and the Social Contract: “We’ll Not Go Home Again,” which I will critique here as it remains one of the only works of literary criticism focused upon post-apocalyptic writing and so requires mention, particularly when discussing the 10