My sister recommended this book to me with a tone that was more demanding than anything. See, she knows I’ve been “writing a book” that teeters on science fiction and explores some heavy topics.

Kindred teeters on science fiction and forcibly explores antebellum slavery.

It’s a complex novel, a timeless work of literary genius. Kindred is—for every ounce, page, sentence, word, letter—everything that I am trying to achieve as a writer. For this, I want to give it every star possible in the first paragraph of this review and encourage you to read it every few years for the rest of time.

Now that you have your orders, the review:

Kindred follows our protagonist, Dana Franklin, a young black woman in 1976, as she is mysteriously transported back to various points in 19^th century antebellum-era Maryland where her brown skin instantly brands her a slave. She is only “called” back in time when Rufus, initially a young boy—a red-haired, white, slave-owning boy—is in danger. Of course there’s more to the story, but I won’t expose any twists, though there are many.

I’ve been known to leap right into an analysis of the actual story, so easily wrapped up in the plot. Butler’s writing won’t allow it. Kindred is written in first person, past tense and it was the perfect choice. Perhaps I’m so enthralled with the point-of-view/tense choice because I am struggling to choose a tense for my novel, which also includes some graphic scenes.

Is it best to highlight the sheer terror of a traumatic moment by putting it under the microscope of present tense? Or, maybe, allow the reader to understand more angles of the issue as the protagonist recounts the tale using past tense? Either way, Butler chose past tense and I speculate whether it’s for the reason above or because, perhaps, we are physically transported to the past—it would make sense. I respect the choice and the idea that our narrator needed time to breathe and process the events before sharing them with the reader.

Another thing Butler handles effortlessly is the dialogue, creating a steady flow of conversation that folds naturally into the action despite a lack of dialogue tags. As a writer, I’ve come to understand that this works not only because of smart formatting, but also because all of the characters are, well, excellently characterized. Cut out the lines of dialogue, put them in a hat, shake them up, and you’ll easily be able to guess who said what.

When I picked up Kindred and read the synopsis on the back, I had to prepare myself for discomfort.

Dana, a modern black woman, is celebrating her twenty-sixth birthday with her new husband when she is snatched abruptly from her home in California and transported to the antebellum south. 

As a 26-year-old modern black woman, I steeled myself for whatever depiction of slavery neared. Surely it would hit me instantaneously—horrific and graphic from the start. Instead, Butler started in present day, explaining Dana, her history. This introduction not only characterized Dana as a likable, strong, intelligent woman, but a relatable one. We eased into her life, laughed a little and commiserated with her modern-day problems. When Dana was transported to the past for a brief moment, we were confused with her. When she went again, we finally understood with her. When she was abused, well, we felt some of the pain.

I also want to highlight Butler’s patience and the supreme death grip that she has on realism. For me, racism is difficult to write about. A writer needs to rely on their experiences while simultaneously removing themselves from a story to create a realistic tale, so of course I struggled when I found myself not fully hating one of the slave owners. At points I stopped and considered that these slave owners were humans—something I’d never done before. I didn’t like it. It made me uncomfortable, but it also made me respect Butler.

This isn’t a story about the broad topic of slavery. Butler dives into the broad subject, but also spends time in the quiet corners. She approaches the incapable white woman—paranoid, abusive, voiceless, and jealous in Margaret Weylin. She occasionally considers the complexities of interracial marriage across time with Dana and Kevin. Ultimately, however, the major themes that I took away from this novel speak to black endurance; the ability to exist and find strength, if not hope, in a world constructed to harm one for the benefit of others.

As the last few pages dwindled, I wondered how this story could possibly end. Our protagonist had been through so much, physically and mentally; she was scarred by a very real, tortuous anti-humane experience and that had to break something in her—alter her view of humanity. It’s frustrating, but understandable why Butler doesn’t allow her to go on unscathed.

Blacks in America today do not exist unscathed.

It took me about half a second to form a correlation between Dana’s experience and the larger experience of being black in America. To reexamine its roots and know all over again how and why it plagues our society, yet, to still feel shock when it is experienced—to be surprised by the sting when you knew it was there, waiting for you to let your guard down.

I recommend this book. I plan to read it again. And I plan to learn something new each time. All thanks be to Octavia Butler.

Five stars.