circa 1897-99
Story II:
James Benjamin is missing
I will never forget the first time I saw this photograph. I immediately felt sad. I thought that most of them looked a bit stunned. In shock. Exhausted. The image is faded and has a ghostly quality. I remember thinking that there seemed to be something resting heavy on their collective minds. I could feel it. Something struck me as not right. It would not be until a decade later that I viewed the photograph again. A seed had been planted within me, however. A seed that would take time to germinate before beginning to sprout.
A decade later I again find myself sitting with the photograph. I meditate on what it is that I am feeling. I ask my ancestors for help. Their permission to inquire. I want to understand why I am so drawn to them. I want to know their story. After all, it is my story too.
I am struck by how much Walter reminds me of myself. He looks kind. Distant and tired. I also notice that his right hand does not look real. It seems smaller than his left. Shiny and smooth and rigid. I feel an affinity with him. Mary stares straight into the camera lens, commanding my gaze, she draws me in. She is pretty. She holds herself sturdily. Upright but not uptight. Looks like a proud woman. A woman who does not shrink in the face of adversity. Robert and Lloyd sit at their father’s side and gently lean in toward him, while Cora stands behind, her left hand resting lovingly upon her father’s shoulder. They seem to take a protective stance. I sense that there is a deep respect for the father they surround. William, the eldest, is centered, like the trunk of his family tree. Martha reminds me of a delicate doll, which is interesting because that is the nickname given to her sister Cora, “Doll.” Noel and Fred stand bookending their family. Frederick, my great grandfather, is five years plus one day younger than Noel, and although he has a larger frame than Noel, he still has the face of a young man. They both look like capable farm hands for sure. Then I look closer. I count names and faces and I realize that one of their number is missing. I reference my research notes and confirm that I am correct, Walter and Mary had nine children, the first of whom died when she was only 14 months old. And yet, here in this photograph there are only seven siblings pictured. I refer to my notes again. I look closer and find it written that, “James, d, at age four in Nebraska.” I turn a few more pages and I read: James, killed by Indians. It is James Benjamin who is missing from the photograph.
My imagination, my chariot of flaming fire, is ignited and takes flight. How could the murder of a little boy become a mere footnote on the page of an unpublished family research paper? He was a real little boy who lived and loved. Was loved. And who were these Indians, who had not even been given names? How could those four words be written without any further explanation? It felt unlikely that no one knew more than that. Why had I never heard anything about this? I knew that I must discover the story behind those four words.
My search began with days and days of scouring collections of digitized newspapers online. I knew that I was on the right track when I stumbled upon an explanation for the odd appearance of Walter’s right hand.
Pella Advertiser,Pella, IA, January, 09 1897
Walter Jackson Benjamin
I continue to search and search and search through the online newspapers, trying to find any mention of a James Benjamin, or further mention his father, Walter. Sometimes I make myself sick with headaches from scrolling through the pages and pages of tiny, tiny words. Scanning fast, then reading slowly and repeating. In taking a break from scouring the papers, I stumble upon a Find a Grave memorial for a James C. Benjamin who is buried in the Rose Hill Cemetery located in Pender, Nebraska. The inscription reads: “James C., Son of W. J. & M. C. BENJAMIN.” The initials match those of my great, great grandparents. James’ parents. This is the first crack in the damn.
©Dennis Johnson, used with permission
Then it happens. I remember it all so well…My wife and I sit together in the evening of a late fall day in our fifth floor apartment. It is a tiny studio apartment, but warm and cozy - and each of us have the very best of company. Our two cats! Oh. And we have each other (sarcasm). Molly sits on the couch with her back to me. Her knees pulled up against her chest with feet upon the couch. She reads a book. I sit behind her at a cheap folding card table in a tiny folding chair before my computer. When you only have enough money to live in a cramped studio apartment you also probably only have enough to afford a card table to sit at. I sit, determined to find at least a single mention of my James Benjamin somewhere, anywhere. A thread I can follow into this little boy’s story. How could I not feel anything but determined in a quest such as this? And then I find the words that I have not been able to let go of to this very day. Words that moved my soul. My reality was altered. My eye is caught by a certain headline on page two of The Omaha Sunday Bee. It is dated, “Sunday Morning, July 28, 1889” and it reads:
“BRUTAL MURDER OF A BOY”
Are you kidding me? The story printed on the paper comes to life and it is overwhelming. I only remember bellowing out loud and crying and crying and crying and trying to catch my breath. My wife remembers my inability to read the words aloud without my voice catching with sobs. Finally, I just sit there, looking at the article. Feeling as if I am a part of what I am reading. I am overwhelmed and words fail me.
The Omaha Sunday Bee, Omaha, NE, July 28, 1889, page 2, column 4
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