Larry Benjamin. Wordsmith. Writer. Author.

“When he was young, he’d learned that words hurt, maimed, scarred. When he got older, he’d learned that words could also comfort, heal. But he’d never forgotten the first lesson. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen a career in finance: numbers. Numbers added up; they did not tear down.” From Black & Ugly I grew up in an era when our parents told us to remember “sticks and stones make break my bones, but words can never hurt me.” Having been called faggot more times than I can remember, and once the N-word by an alcoholic white trash neighbor in our otherwise democratic, and progressive East Falls neighborhood, I know from experience our parents were wrong. As a wordsmith, as a writer , I understand the power of words—I understand that words can strike with the force of a hammer. Words can also heal; they can bring us together. Or, tear us apart. Statue of Robert E. Lee, Charlottesville, Virginia Let’s talk about the Charlottesville tragedy and Trump. From this w...

"The Moody House" We had just gotten home on Saturday, when two black women walked up to the kitchen door. Attractive, smiling, there was an openness about them that made me rethink my original dismissive appraisal: Jehovah’s Witnesses . As I corralled the dogs, the older of the two said to Stanley, “Hi. We used to live here. We were hoping we could come in and see the house—” “Oh,” Stanley cried, “You’re Moodys!” They seemed surprised we knew who they were. I guess they don’t know they are practically legendary. In fact, nine years after we bought it, our house is still referred to as “The Moody House.” We’d, of course, heard about the Moodys before. A local realtor, who spoke highly of the family, once told us that when her own daughters had held a party which her mother chaperoned, her mother had called her in a panic and whispered there’s a black kid dancing in the garage with the girls!” Her response? “That’s not a black kid, that’s Moody!” We took t...

I must admit that when I first read about Rachel Dolezal ― who leads the Spokane chapter of the NAACP, teaches African studies to college students and sits on a police oversight commission, and who claims to be black when she may not be by birth ― I was surprised and amused. You see, my short story, “Howdy Billy, Cabbage Ma’am,” (Damaged Angels,2012) deals with the same issue—a privileged white woman masquerades as black for decades and is eventually found out. But the more I read, the madder I got. It seems the entire controversy surrounds how Rachel Dolezal identifies racially. Say what? Why are we so outraged by Rachel Dolezal’s racial identification in an age when we are told gender exists on a spectrum and can be “fluid,” in an age when it is argued that marriage is the right of any two people in love? Why are we outraged by this when we accept the fluidity of gender roles and embrace the reality of stay-at-home dads, and women on the battlefield? Just the other day I saw...

Boyfriend #1 The other day, I read a blog post in Huff Post Gay Voices, from the I’m from Driftwood series, “'You're Really Nice, but I Don't Date Black Guys': Racism or Preference?” I’ve been thinking about the article and its supporting video ever since.  In it a black guy named Nelson Moses Lassiter, talks about racism in the LGBT community that takes the form of rejection from white guys who don’t date black guys. (You can read the article here .)   Sophomore year in college I had a crush on Scott, a cute white boy who was struggling with his gayness. At some point the summer before junior year he ended up sharing my dorm room. Inevitably, perhaps because we were roommates, or maybe it was my awkward attempt to seduce him—I honestly don’t remember—he saw me naked. A few days later he confessed he’d dreamed of me right after. The dream was fairly explicit. As I stared at him, he’d quickly added, “But I could never sleep with a black guy—that on top of bei...