Celebrating Denny Wilkins

Many, many words to honor the retirement of my professor, friend, and mentor

It’s August 27, 1996. Second day of my sophomore year at St. Bonaventure.

I took a seat in a classroom in the Murphy Building. I think it was Room 104, but I’m not sure. Anyway, I was in JMC 201, Editing, with a newly hired professor.

Guy by the name of Denny Wilkins.

To start class — the first time any of us had interacted with him, mind you — he started going around the room asking students the most random questions. No one knew the answer to their questions, and it was left to them to figure out the answers. Remember, this was 1996. Before smartphones. If we had computers in that classroom, they weren’t online.

Then this Wilkins guy pointed at me.

What was Harry Truman’s middle name.

I knew this one!

He didn’t have one, I said. His middle initial was S, and his parents couldn’t decide what grandparent to honor, so they just left his middle name as S. Harry S. Truman.

Denny didn’t blink.

How do you punctuate that?

I …

uh …

huh.

It was an early lesson in finding information in an era before we could just look everything up on our phones. It was an early lesson in caring enough to get every detail right, even when we think we already know the answer.

It was my introduction to Denny Wilkins.

A life lived in journalism is one that's inextricably linked to certain people. For me, one of those people was Denny Wilkins, my professor who became a mentor who became a friend. Denny retired from the Jandoli School this month after 28 years. Part of this post is adapted from a tribute I wrote for our school’s magazine this month.

My running joke in any tribute I’ve done for Denny is that I’m going to include all the needless words he has made me omit over the years.

For those of us who’ve had Denny as a professor, “omit needless words” is probably the thing we remember the most. For the longest time, his official school mug shot was him standing in front of a blackboard with “Omit Needless Words” written in white chalk

And the truth is, I’ve often failed in that —I’m guessing he can find at least 10 words in this sentence alone to omit. And while it was Dr. Rick Simpson who first tried to get me to abide by Strunk and White’s Rule 17, I most closely associate that phrase with Denny.

We talked about it on an episode of The Other 51 a few years ago. You’ll note the title of the episode. As Denny will forever point out, I do not do well with the “omit needless words” thing.

It’s September 1996. A few weeks into the semester. I was in my first weeks sports editor of the student newspaper.

At 12:30 p.m. every Monday, we had critique sessions with our faculty advisors. They would bring the previous week’s paper, marked up with comments, suggestions, critiques, ideas. Our advisors that semester were Lee Coppola, the journalism school’s new dean, and Denny.

This particular week, Denny was flying solo. He came in, sat down, and tore us a new one. Just absolutely eviscerated us for our carelessness, our sloppiness, our lack of dedication to proper journalism. We had an incorrect time for a volleyball match listed in the weekend’s events, and he missed the game because of our mistake.

He threw his copy of the paper down, and quietly walked out of the office, closing the door behind him.

We all sat, stunned. We started talking about him, about his critique, and eventually, what we could do better.

Years later, I found out that he was standing outside the door the whole time, listening to how we reacted.

One of Denny’s nicknames in the halls of the Murphy Building was “Spawn of Satan.” That came after I was a student, but I get the vibe. He could be merciless. He demanded excellence. His red pen showed no mercy. He would speak in a low monotone. He took absolutely no bullshit.

I know what this may sound like. But that’s not the case here. It wasn’t personal. It was never personal. It was never about you as a person. It was about your work.

Truth is, the crusty “Spawn of Satan” exterior was and is a façade that covers a soft gooey core of love for his students.

An example:

It’s the end of the fall semester in 1998. My senior year. I’m taking Opinion Writing with Denny.

Jared Paventi

was was not¹ in this class, too. One day, we had to read one of our editorials out loud in front of everyone, and our classmates would give us feedback. I was recovering from strep throat, so I didn’t have a voice.

Without me asking, without hesitating, Denny grabbed my paper and read my column to the class, literally being my voice for the day.

Mine is just one of hundreds of stories that Jandoli School students could tell over the years. Professional praise from Denny was to be savored, because it meant you did really good work.

If you showed him you cared, Denny became an advocate for life.

One of the columns I wrote for that opinion writing class, Denny told me I should try to get it published somewhere. In April of 1999, a week after writing a column about the anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s suicide, I took that column to Pat Vecchio, my editor at The Times Herald, and asked if he wanted to run it. That led me to having a column for the next five years.

I became a journalist because of Denny Wilkins. Years later, when my career stalled and I wanted to change things up, he took my phone calls and helped me get into and survive graduate school. When I became a professor, he was a long-distance mentor. And three years ago, he was on the search committee that brought me back home for my dream job.

It’s last Friday.

After our official work holiday luncheon, Denny and I met at The Daily Cup, an adorable cafe on Main Street in Allegany. We sat at a table in the bright cafe, sipping hot chocolate and talking.

If you’re really lucky in this world, you’ll get to a point where your professors and teachers become friends. You’ll be sitting with them and realize that you’re talking as equals about this writing life, this teaching life, about where you’ve been and where you’re going.

You’ll get to say thank you, and hear them say thank you.

Here’s the one thing I’ve learned being his student for 28 years: Nobody cares more than Denny Wilkins.

Nobody cares more about language. When you hear him talk about the writer’s moral imperative to make each sentence as clear as possible, that’s what “omit needless words” is all about.

Nobody cares more about journalism, what it can and should do for our communities and the world. He’s the rare combination of an old-school newspaper man who embraces the importance of digital and emerging media.

And absolutely nobody cares more about his students.

The thing about needless words? Yeah, that’s never happening for me.

But one lesson Denny Wilkins taught me, and all of us, will endure. In a world of needless words, he taught us the most necessary one.

Care.

1. Correction at the request of Jared Paventi, who informs me he was not in that class. Sports Media Guy regrets the error.