I spent part of my Labor Day weekend ruminating over poetry and short stories written by my teenage self. An embarrassing endeavor, in parts, and a dusty one, as I was forced to tackle boxes in our attic, but my search proved fruitful when I came up with a typewritten page covered with wandering, sideways script dissecting my literary attempts. The handwriting belonged to Kenn Johnson, my high school journalism teacher, who died on September 5, 2026.
Kenner Ellis Johnson, 1944-2026. Photograph from obituary, Taul Funeral Homes.
The news of Mr. Johnson’s death doesn’t seem possible, immersed as I have been in the past. Rifling through copies of The Tribal Tribune, the school newspaper Johnson helmed, I imagine I smell coffee (a cup was rarely far from his hands) and the memories of the noise and buzz of a high school classroom vibrate, dizzyingly alive for just a moment.
Mr. Johnson was a force – whip smart, funny, candid, insightful, and wholly committed to his craft. He challenged his students and he made learning ridiculously fun. I was already a nerd, and loved to write, but delving into the history of journalism changed my world.
Back in the days when cutting and pasting was done with scissors and glue…
I wish I still had my notebooks from our dive into Watergate – I remember scrawling page after page of notes, all of my attention focused on the teacher making Woodward and Bernstein’s journalistic journey come alive. The hunt for the truth and the ability of newspaper reporters to hold up that truth to power thrilled me. After one semester on the school paper, I knew I was destined to be an investigative reporter.
Mr. Johnson wasn’t just a high school journalism teacher. He was a journalist and a damn fine writer. When he told you to do something, it was because he knew what he was talking about.
This particular issue included an article entitled “Hooters: the war between the sexes, ” which concluded with this quote from a young man, “There’s nothing wrong with good food and good looking women.” (Casey Miller authored said piece.)
Writing for the school paper was the best possible exercise for an imaginative girl with more than a tendency to produce purple prose. Newspaper articles demanded concise language within a structured framework – not my natural milieu. Neither was discipline, at least as far as it applied to writing. But being part of the newspaper staff meant that I learned discipline, attention to detail, and how to meet a deadline (and how to do all these things with a smile and a laugh – and sometimes with an arched eyebrow – were hallmarks of Mr. Johnson’s style).
I particularly like this one: “Get rid of some of the characters – you have enough for Gone with the Wind.”
But beyond the mechanics and the fundamentals of journalism, Mr. Johnson was interested in his students and their dreams. He encouraged me to write in as many different formats as possible and to read widely.
Most importantly, he possessed a well-developed ability to cut through the BS – and I was a full of it even at the tender age of 15.
He took my writing portfolio and gave me his considered thoughts. I’ve held onto those appalling forays into writing for years and years. And, oh – Mr. Johnson! I wish I could apologize to you for that portfolio, crammed with 50 or more sheets (carefully printed out on my dot-matrix printer) of poetry and stories. He read it all on his own time, and then he didn’t sugarcoat his thoughts.
He delivered his verdict with candor, which was exactly what I needed – but he also told me to keep writing. His encouragement meant the world to me – because he was a real writer.
Notes from Kenn Johnson.
And so I’ve kept writing. I majored in English in college, and kept on writing as I went through graduate school. I never quite thought I would be the sort of writer I am now – I always thought I would drift back into fiction. But there are so many real stories that I want to share, that I’ve never gone back into the land of prose and poetry.
Thanks to Mr. Johnson’s long ago lessons, I think more about my words, their impact, and what it is I am trying to convey. I love researching a story, and feeling how my words give breath and soul to the people I am writing about. Stories are so important.
I know I thanked Mr. Johnson when he handed my portfolio back to me, but I didn’t get this appreciation written until it was too late for him to read it, and for that I am so sorry. But I am beyond thankful that I knew him, even just for a little bit.
What a lovely tribute.