“Alias Grace”: A Question of Trauma, Agency, and Culpability
Having sampled Margaret Atwood’s dark and dystopian taste in The Handmaid’s Tale, I should have been prepared for the violence and unsettling suspense of Alias Grace. After my dad and I finished watching the television adaptation, I couldn’t help exclaiming, “What a terrible show!” — and in one sense I meant it. The content was chilling — unflinching in its portrayal of the brutal and gruesome— and continued to haunt me.
The uncomfortable truth is that Alias Grace depicts a historical reality, beyond its inspiration from actual events: in the history of the world, the experience of women has largely been one of vulnerability, hardship, and even abuse. In many ways, the life of Grace Marks exemplifies the insecurity and dehumanizing treatment of the lower-class woman — treatment, moreover, so common that it was passively accepted by society as the way of things, however regrettable and unsavory. Though sexual desire and abuse were certainly deemed transgressive, even sinful, it was even more taboo to speak of these issues. The deliberate muteness of witnesses, in addition to the law’s disregard for the rights of women, combined to effectively silence victims. In one striking way, then, Grace is an exception: we know her story. Did she choose to shatter the silence? Did she willingly participate in the murder of her employer and his housekeeper in order to avenge past wrongs and assert control over her narrative? Or was Grace once again the victim, brutally caught up in circumstances beyond her control?
When the television show opens, Grace Marks is a thirty-year-old woman who, convicted of murder, has already passed fifteen years in Canada’s Kingston Penitentiary. The press touts her as a “celebrated murderess,” a choice of words that seems to give Grace a certain dark amusement. (Is this because she is indeed guilty, and proud of her infamy? Or is she simply trying to find humor in a humorless situation?) Grace’s circumstances have thus come to the attention of a reform group, headed by a reverend, that sees her as a victim of society and of the law and seeks to clear her of her charge. Hoping to argue either that she is innocent of any involvement in the crime or perhaps absolved of blame due to mental instability, the reverend calls in an American doctor of the mind to assess Grace.
It is through this Dr. Jordan that we learn Grace’s story, which she gradually reveals to him during a series of private sessions. Along with Jordan, we seek to unravel the mystery surrounding Grace in order to diagnose her as mentally healthy or unwell, and (though Jordan denies it) to judge her as guilty or innocent. Because of Jordan, we perceive Grace through a sympathetic lens: he is as much a physician caring for his patient as he is a man receiving Grace’s trust and, ultimately, her heart. Grace herself strikes us as largely an honest and straightforward raconteur, though she is shy of some details and reluctant to relive her grief for her friend, Mary Whitney. She appears to possess a quiet fortitude, hiding the depth of her pain and desires behind a dignified, rather resigned composure. There is no way such a gentle woman was complicit in the murder of two people — is there?
All along we are on Grace’s side, pitying her and hoping for her release; but the final episode throws everything we think we know about Grace into question. Piece by piece, Dr. Jordan has drawn out her story, which she recounts with (what appears to be) not only sincerity but also rationality; she seems to be as mentally stable as he is. Everything proceeds smoothly until we arrive at the fateful day of the murders, which Grace says she cannot recall. Nothing Jordan asks or hints sparks a memory or a revelation, so he broods instead over the court testimonies of James McDermott, the primary culprit, and of Grace herself, which she claims to be her lawyer’s words — not her own. In court she only said what they told her to say, Grace tells Jordan. She herself cannot remember the actual events.
It is at this point in the story that I first began to doubt Grace. If what she says is true, then she is in prison for a crime that she most likely did not commit — yet she does not seem to concerned about the truth. Grace cooperates with Jordan but does not show any emotional investment in the outcome of his interview or his involvement. Despite having no memory, is she so certain of herself that she does not even entertain the idea of being guilty? Does she no longer care about the truth because either way, she is condemned by society to a living death? Or is she not curious because she does remember — because she is, in actuality, culpable?
Unable to make further progress, Doctor Jordan is overruled by the reverend and his reform group, who wish to subject Grace to a session of hypnotism. The test is thought to be able to draw out her suppressed or forgotten memories so that the mystery can at last be solved. Though hesitant, eyeing with unease all the people present for the session, Grace cooperates with Dr. Jordan’s reassurance that all will be well. She sits down in the chair prepared for her and closes her eyes, as directed by the hypnotist — who turns out to be Jeremiah, Grace’s former close acquaintance. (Is his presence suspicious? Do he and Grace have an understanding, or is he simply a man who believes in his trade?) Captivated by the drama and expectations of the nineteenth-century scene, we cannot help but have confidence that Jeremiah will succeed where Dr. Jordan has not. The moment has arrived at last; our hearts beat quickly in anticipation.
What next unfolds is a scene worthy of a horror film. At first “asleep” and answering questions in her usual tone and attitude, Grace abruptly changes. When a young woman seated next to Jordan reaches out to hold his hand, Grace’s eyes, previously open but dreamy, fall upon them with a cold focus. Her voice rises in pitch, becomes nasal; her lips assume a knowing smirk as her eyes glitter with a cunning malice. She speaks harshly, vulgarly, shocking the audience in the room and unnerving me on the other side of the screen. This Grace claims that she remembers everything — that she acted willingly, wishing to avenge herself against the capricious tyranny of the housekeeper Nancy and the sexual advances of her employer, Mr. Kinnear. Most shocking of all, this Grace claims that she is not actually Grace. Don’t you recall, Dr. Jordan? Can’t you tell from the timbre of her voice, the boldness of her bearing? She is Mary Whitney, Grace’s dearest friend who met the ignominious fate of the fallen woman. And Mary is here to accomplish what she could not in life: to exact revenge on the type of people who took advantage of and wronged her.
And yet, this is no horror film. Though the emergence of “Mary” is thematically fitting and her monologue eerily convincing, I do not believe Grace to be possessed by the spirit of her dead friend. I believe that Grace is a trauma victim and has, as a coping mechanism, developed multiple personalities.
Though post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) is a term familiar to us in the twenty-first century, it was only added to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders in 1980. In other words, it is a phenomenon that we have only recently begun to identify and understand. In Grace Marks’ day, no such term existed. It was not until the end of the nineteenth century that the link between (sexual) trauma and mental illness began to be discussed and elucidated by members of the scientific community. About fifty years after Grace’s trial, Freud published his famous paper “The Aetiology of Hysteria,” in which he reported some shocking findings. (For details, see The New Yorker article titled “Can Greek Tragedy Get Us Through the Pandemic?”) Searching for a cause, Freud helped his patients trace their severe “hysterical” symptoms back to their earliest memories; in the process, each of the eighteen patients recalled — on their own — a childhood experience of sexual trauma. Since the symptoms of hysteria, as described by doctors of those times, correspond with those of PTSD, it has been concluded that patients deemed “hysterical” were actually suffering from the psychological effects of their trauma.
The story of Grace Marks fits all too well into our modern understanding of trauma. Though her early childhood is not depicted, as an adolescent Grace endures physical and emotional horrors. Most prominently, she is sexualized and desired by almost every man who crosses her path: first, her father (though shocking and extremely uncomfortable, far from the most grotesque scene), Mrs. Parkinson’s son, James McDermott, and likely Mr. Kinnear; later, the asylum employees and prison guards; and even young Jamie Walsh and Dr. Jordan, though thankfully their interest is respectful. In order to distance herself from her traumatic experiences, as a form of protection, Grace develops multiple personalities: the kind, dignified, long-suffering Grace and the Grace who has turned all her fear and pain into rage and retribution. It is the former Grace that we are accustomed to, the former Grace who would never harm another human being; but it is the latter Grace who emerges when she is cornered, a Grace who is capable of great violence in order to survive.
The television show itself refrains from making a definite judgment: while it does not persuade us of Grace’s innocence, nor does it positively condemn her as a guilty perpetrator. Though others may make a different argument, I believe that Grace had a hand in the demise of Nancy and Mr. Kinnear. If not, why did Grace not flee once McDermott, the stableboy and handyman, informed her of his intentions to kill the other members of the household? Why would Jamie Walsh, who was in love with Grace, give damning evidence — namely, that he saw her at the time of the incident, wearing Nancy’s clothes and smiling in triumph — unless it were true? And why can Grace not remember, unless it was her other, dangerous personality who was awake and complicit?
We now arrive at the tricky question at the heart of the matter: is Grace guilty? If it was Grace’s buried “dark” personality who committed the crime, and her principal “light” personality has no memory of it, how do we hold her accountable? If memory equals identity, one Grace has committed the crime and the other faces punishment for it. In such a case, how do you justly decide responsibility and blame? Furthermore, if Grace is mentally ill, is she truly an agent, acting consciously and in control? Or is she entirely a victim, blameless and only deserving of sympathy and assistance?
What is the right thing to do when none of these questions can be answered indubitably?
The complexities and ambiguities do not stop there. Upon reflection, another unsettling question appears: why is the story called, of all things, Alias Grace? Such a title suggests that my dad’s interpretation of Grace is more accurate: rather than a victim with multiple personalities, she is a cold-blooded and calculated protagonist. Throughout everything, Grace is conscious and in control. Her real personality is that of her “dark” self “Mary,” the vulgar and vindictive woman who does not shy away from violence. She uses the session of hypnotism — which is directed by Jeremiah, a man who was her friend and confidant in the past — to reveal her true character and feelings. The entire time she is mocking those around her, toying with their belief in the inherent weakness of women and in the supernatural. The Grace that we are familiar with and like is nothing but an affectation, a front that she maintains in order to manipulate those around her. We, too, have been drawn in and fooled.
After entertaining various possibilities, the story concludes without any definite conclusion because there is none. Instead, it leaves us pondering the weighty questions of mental illness, agency, and culpability — questions that are of utmost importance in any society striving for justice. As a result, even if Grace should be held responsible for her actions, I want to emphasize that she is not solely culpable. The society in which she moved is also at fault for allowing and perpetuating exploitative, often abusive treatment of women, especially those from the lower class. This point leads me to a critical aspect of the show and one of its most frightening aspects. We see how easy it is for a woman to slip from a respectable, relatively secure position to one of disgrace and desperation. All it takes is an encounter — encouraged or forced — with an unscrupulous man and an enlarged belly, and a woman’s fate is sealed. We witness the fall of Mary Whitney, persuaded by false promises and then abandoned, and mourn her premature and tragic death. We worry for Grace, constantly beset by unwanted advances and the threat of a similar fate. Grace is so very close to the edge — though her eventual fall on the other side is not the one that we expect.
