Because of this very human desire for recognition, Dexter faces serious challenges when others promise to understand him for who he really is. When Brian reveals himself to Dexter as his long-lost brother and fellow serial killer, he holds out this promise of recognition: “You’re not alone anymore, Dexter. You can be yourself, with me. Your real, genuine self.” But in the end, Dexter has to kill him, the one person who could see him and “handle” his “truth” (“Born Free,” Season 1).
In Season 2, however, Dexter finds a new possibility in Lila: “I thought I closed the door to anyone seeing me for who I am, but this woman sees me. She doesn’t know it, but she’s looking behind the mask and not turning away” ( “The Dark Defender.” Season 2). All of Dexter’s previous relationships had been “built on not knowing,” but Lila presents the possibility of “a life without secrets.” She promises to help Dexter discover who he is—in Hegelian terms, to mediate his identity. She pushes Dexter to ask himself honestly who he is, what he needs, what he wants (“I thought she was going to give me answers. Instead I just got more questions”). A deep bond develops between them, but we know how that ends: Lila turns out to be a pyromaniac and killer, and Dexter kills her.
The same fate awaits Miguel Prado, who also sees Dexter and doesn’t turn away. With Prado, however, Dexter doesn’t find the recognition of a brother or a lover, but a friend. Aristotle famously describes the friend as “another self,”20 and at first this is what Dexter finds, as Prado begins to share Dexter’s taste for vigilante killing. But when Prado’s killing turns vindictive and spurns the Code, Dexter has to take him out as well. In short, things don’t turn out well for those who see Dexter’s hidden side. Even Harry was ultimately unable to bear what he had helped Dexter become, and committed suicide. Dexter seems tragically unable to form relationships based on mutual honesty. Despite his desire to be seen, he remains an outsider, donning the appropriate mask for the occasion. All of these failed attempts at recognition feel like so many failed attempts at humanity.
Dexter is highly conscious of feeling like an outsider, looking in on human beings who seem so normal. He tries to act the way humans are supposed to act, but all the while insists that this is merely a mask. As the series progresses, however, we start to see a conflict between Dexter’s familiar self-interpretation, and the humanity that is revealing itself. This conflict is particularly apparent in the way he responds to Rita’s murder. Just before he discovers Rita’s body at the end of Season 4, Dexter seems to have made a breakthrough in his humanity. He starts to see how his Dark Passenger is ruining his life. Harry objects, “It is your life.” But Dexter replies “I don’t want it to be. I don’t want it.” Dexter is beginning to glimpse the possibility of being rid of the Dark Passenger, of getting away from the old Dexter and embracing his family life. But this hope comes crashing down when he discovers Rita dead in their bathtub, a victim of the Trinity Killer: “I thought I could change what I am, keep my family safe. But it doesn’t matter what I do, what I choose. I’m what’s wrong. This is fate” (“The Getaway,” Season 4). Dexter retreats into his old self-interpretation, seeing himself as a character marked by a tragic flaw.
After finding Rita dead, Dexter can’t grasp the full significance of what has happened, and he doesn’t know how to respond. He interprets his lack of emotional response in familiar terms: the real Dexter is the unfeeling outsider, wearing masks to appear human. As Rita lies in her coffin, Dexter confesses to her: “I’m a serial killer. That’s what I am. I know I led you to believe I’m a human being, but I’m not. It’s a lie” (“My Bad,” Season 5).
Should we take Dexter at his word here? What if the supposedly real “Dexter” is actually the mask? Blindsided by such a devastating loss, it’s easier for Dexter to retreat from his humanity and the very real grief this loss entails. Dexter finally allows this grief to surface in the rest-stop bathroom, where he kills the man who crudely insults Dexter’s dead wife. Facing Dexter in a broken mirror, Harry says to him: “That’s the first human thing I’ve seen you do since she died, Dexter.” Dexter sinks to his hands and knees, letting out a chilling shriek, finally able to respond to what happened. Now what is “human” is not the mask Dexter wears to fit in, but the honesty of his response. In that moment, what is most real is Dexter the human being.
We’re not likely to see Dexter reconcile his conflicting identities, nor watch him find a healthy relationship based on mutual recognition. Those who can see and accept Dexter’s homicidal activities are not the sort of people Dexter can really embrace. As he puts it, “the willful taking of life represents the ultimate disconnect from humanity. It leaves you an outsider, forever looking in, searching for company to keep” (“Popping Cherry,” Season 1). And yet it’s precisely in this unfulfilled desire for company, this need to be “seen,” that we catch sight of Dexter’s humanity.
A Story in Search of a Narrator
As human beings, our identities are always in transition; we’re always changing, sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse. But if I’m always changing, how can I be the same person at different points in my life? Am I the same person I was ten years ago? Can we say that Dexter is the same person he is in Season 5 as he was during Season 1, during his Early Cuts, his teenage years, or when he was a young child? Clearly Dexter has changed, grown, and developed in many ways. And yet he’s still Dexter. How is this possible? What provides this continuity through time and change?
A number of contemporary philosophers, most notably Alasdair MacIntyre, Paul Ricoeur, and Charles Taylor, have argued that personal identity over time depends on narrative. Who we are changes over time, but our identities have a certain continuity because of the stories we tell about ourselves. I can tell who I am by giving an account of how I got here and where I am going, and I understand who others are through their stories. We interpret ourselves through self-narration. By telling our stories we make sense of our memories, experiences, goals, and hopes. Narrative brings our past, present, and future into a meaningful whole. Human existence is a story waiting to be told.
Now, Dexter Morgan’s life is a great story, and we know who he is by following this story. As viewers and readers we’re privy to his actions in the present as well as flashbacks that help us to piece together fragments from his past. As these details emerge, we’re always implicitly sorting them out in the order of a plot. And as we follow Dexter’s story, we’re also anticipating what this means for his future. Our ability to watch and understand Dexter depends on its narrative ordering. The details are often sketchy and fragmentary, which is appropriate since Dexter only discovers the formative events of his identity in bits and pieces, as he discovered the truth about his mother, his brother, and Harry. This is also appropriate because Dexter’s story is always subject to reinterpretation. This is true for everyone: self-interpretation is a work in progress. Narration is ongoing, subject to re-interpretation in light of new discoveries about the past, new experiences in the present, and new expectations for the future. Until we die, then, we can never conclude our stories with a tidy “The End.”
In addition to having a great story, Dexter is also a great storyteller—in one sense, at least. As he explains at the scene of a multiple homicide, blood spatter tells a story, and it’s his job to trace out the plot. Dexter’s job is to tell stories written in blood, which is fitting since blood is central to his own story. He was “born in blood,” having witnessed the gruesome murder of his mother when we was a child. He also keeps slides with blood samples from his victims, a token of his past, a reminder of who he really is. These slides are almost like notes—in point form—for the day Dexter tells his own story. But that’s a story he is less eager to tell.
Dexter does let us in on much of his story. He tells us a lot in his voice-over narration, much like the tragic heroes of film noir. Yet noir protagonists typically tell us how they came to their present predicament; they narrate, in other words. Dexter’s voiceovers, by contrast, are of
ten less narration than commentary (often with razor-sharp irony). He interprets himself, his actions, his circumstances, but he also leaves us in the dark about certain things. In Season 4, for instance, he suddenly has a storage unit. Dexter has his reasons for not telling his full story—to us as viewers, or to anyone else in his world. Besides the obvious legal reasons, there’s also the troubling fact that everyone who has “seen” Dexter has not fared well.
And yet we can’t help but wonder if Dexter will ever tell his story, if he will give an account of himself. The possibility that he might, whether voluntarily or not, is part of the suspense of the show. But it’s also a question inherent in Dexter’s developing humanity, as part of the need for recognition. We need to tell our stories with others. The problem with solitary self-narration is that no one can challenge, correct, or supplement one’s individual account of things. As Alasdair MacIntyre argues in After Virtue, our individual narratives always interlock with others, so we are accountable to others in the stories we tell about ourselves: “Asking you what you did and why, saying what I did and why, pondering the differences between your account of what I did and my account of what I did, and vice versa, these are essential conditions of all but the very simplest and barest of narratives. ”21
In addition to his desire to be seen by another, is it possible that Dexter will become aware of the need to be heard by another? He loves to reveal himself covertly, with comments whose double meaning is only apparent to us, his loyal viewers. Is it possible that these ironic comments indicate an unconscious desire to be open?
Dexter is torn between his desire to remain hidden and a desire to come into the open. Therein lies his power to fascinate. If Dexter were simply a sociopath trying to keep secrets, he wouldn’t intrigue us like he does. He clearly has a human desire to understand and be understood. He is a self-interpreting animal. Does this mean Dexter is human? He is clearly not a healthy, flourishing human being. But if he were simply a monster with no humanity, or an outsider posing as a human (like the Terminator, or the alien in Species), he wouldn’t be so conflicted, so marked by the desire to understand who he is, what he’s doing, and where he’s going.
This also leaves us fans of Dexter feeling torn. We want to see him disclose himself and become more fully human—and yet we don’t want it, since we know this will spell the end of the conflicted humanity that makes Dexter such a fascinating character. In the meantime, we’ll keep watching to see what happens.
7
Is Dexter Morgan Practically Perfect in Every Way?
RICHARD GREENE
One of the first things we learn about Dexter Morgan is that he has virtually no emotions. He has compulsions, which are kind of like strong feelings—his Dark Passenger certainly exerts some sort of coercive power over him—but he lacks any real feelings beyond a penchant for things like coffee, doughnuts, and pulledpork sandwiches.
Dexter doesn’t feel love, empathy, friendship, guilt, remorse, compassion for others, or fear. This, of course, makes him extremely rational. Without pesky emotions getting in the way, Dexter is in the position of always doing the rational thing, given his particular set of desires.
This is exactly how Dexter is presented to us in both the series of books and the television show—a hyper-rational agent calculating the consequences of every action to perfection. Every detail and variable is taken into consideration and placed under the microscope that is his famously huge intellect. His plans rarely hit a snag, as reason tells him exactly what to expect. Dexter is neat, exacting, and meticulous.
Practical rationality is the area of philosophy that asks the question: what does reason dictate that we do in a particular situation? Dexter is presented as nearly always being practically rational. Even when it comes to things such as matters of the heart, he acts on reason. For example, his relationship with Rita Bennett begins because Dexter calculates that being in a relationship helps him hide his identity as a serial killer by appearing normal, and thus, making it easier to fit in. There are exceptions to this. For example, Dexter should not have prevented Trinity from falling off a roof in hopes of killing him himself later, but these lapses in judgment are few and far between.
This characterization pretty much fits Dexter perfectly until he meets Lumen Ann Pierce early in Season 5.
Groomin’ Lumen
When we first encounter Lumen, Dexter has just killed Boyd Fowler, another serial killer who tortures his victims for some time before eventually disposing of them in metal drums, which then get thrown into a swamp. Unbeknownst to Dexter, Lumen—whom Fowler had held captive, tortured, and raped for some time—witnessed him kill Fowler. Immediately after the act is completed, Dexter hears Lumen sneaking away from her viewing position on the other side of a slightly ajar door. Dexter consequently finds himself in a tough predicament. Harry’s Code—the set of rules by which Dexter qua serial killer operates—dictates that Dexter do whatever is necessary to ensure that he not get caught. Here the easiest and most efficient way of acting in accordance with this part of Harry’s Code would be to simply kill her. On the other hand, Harry’s Code requires Dexter to refrain from harming innocents. Lumen is clearly an innocent. In fact, she’s a victim of both Fowler and the circumstance she presently finds herself in.
This would be an interesting place to raise questions of practical rationality. What does reason dictate that Dexter do? Is there any way to act in accordance with both tenets of the Code? We’re not, however, going to address practical rationality here, as there are even more interesting questions ahead.
After ruminating on the situation for some time, Dexter, in a very uncharacteristic fashion, decides to take a leap of faith—he decides to trust Lumen not to turn him in or notify the authorities, thus satisfying the “harm no innocents” requirement. This is a bit of a departure from Harry’s Code, as the Don’t Get Caught requirement is routinely presented throughout the series as being of the utmost importance. Here we see Dexter opting for the moral requirement over the purely self-interested requirement. (Obviously, I’m not an ethical egoist.)
Given that Dexter lacks feelings such as guilt and remorse, it’s curious that he chooses as he does. Even more curious is what follows. It turns out that Boyd Fowler was not acting alone. He was part of a ring of five or six friends that had been torturing, killing, raping, and disposing of women in the aforementioned manner for several decades. Lumen was to have been the fourteenth victim. Lumen decides to seek revenge on her captors. Dexter initially counsels her to let it go and move back to the Midwest. Eventually Dexter decides to assist Lumen in her efforts to kill each of the men involved in the ring. Later Lumen asks Dexter to train her to be a Dexter-like killer, and Dexter acquiesces. It is these two decisions—the decision to help Lumen avenge the crimes enacted upon her, and the decision to train Lumen to become a “professional” killer—that I’d like to consider from the perspective of practical rationality. Was it rational for Dexter to do these things?
Corrupting the Youth of Miami
It is often said that “the ends justify the means.” Of course, this expression is likely as often denied as affirmed, but the ubiquity of the expression alone suggests that it is at least worth considering as a norm of practical rationality. So our first stab at determining whether it was rational for Dexter to help Lumen gain revenge and become a killer herself will involve examining the consequences of his doing so.
Generally speaking the consequences of Dexter’s actions were good. Things worked out pretty well for Dexter and very well for Lumen. Neither Dexter nor Lumen were caught (although it was a bit “touch and go” toward the end), each of the perpetrators was killed and disposed of in a way that won’t come back to haunt either Dexter or Lumen, our couple had a nice, albeit brief, romantic relationship, in which Dexter actually felt loved for who he was (as opposed to having to hide his true self in order to maintain a relationship), and Lumen appears to have exorcised the demons that being raped and tortured bestowed upon her
.
Does the fact that Dexter’s decisions led to good states of affairs make those decisions rational? Not by itself. To see why, suppose that one month Vince Masuka has enough cash to pay some but not all of his monthly bills. Also suppose that Masuka decides to spend what cash he has all in one evening at a local strip club, instead of paying those bills that he can pay. (Vince loves the ladies!) At this point I think it’s fair to judge that Masuka has not acted rationally, and it doesn’t alter our assessment of Masuka’s rationality if we add to the story that on the way out of the strip club he found a bag with a large sum of money in it. Under such circumstances the right thing to conclude is that Masuka was lucky, not rational.
While merely focusing on the consequences alone is not sufficient for determining the rationality of an act, perhaps focusing on the clearly foreseeable consequences can salvage the strategy. Certainly Masuka could not have foreseen that he would find the bag of money and that his financial problems would be solved, but perhaps Dexter could have foreseen how things would likely go with Lumen upon deciding to assist her in exacting revenge. This, however, seems quite unlikely. A large part of what allows Dexter to keep from getting caught is his ability to control most or all of the variables when he goes on a kill. Prior to agreeing to assist Lumen he had plenty of reason to believe that she was somewhat erratic and in a highly emotional state a large percentage of the time (who wouldn’t be after what she had just been through!)—she had been dishonest with him about her intentions to return to the Midwest, for example. Dexter had no reason to think that Lumen would allow him to follow Harry’s Code while they attempted to exact revenge on her captors.
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