Farewell, Scott Brinton, my captain

I lost my father six years ago. Of the painful dealings I’ve faced in my life up until now, nothing has quite compared to that searing loss.
The news of his death had to cross an ocean to reach me. I was in New York. He was in a hospice in Ecuador, battling stomach cancer until his last breath. We never had a proper goodbye.
My father’s untimely death has been brought into sharper focus by the departure of another significant man in my life, the Herald Community Newpapers’ executive editor, Scott Brinton. After 28 years here, Scott has moved on to his next adventure, teaching full-time at Hofstra University for the spring semester while beginning a long-term research project.
Scott’s hands were full this past year, training and guiding a new crop of young journalists — including me. It’s hard to imagine the editorial team without him. He was not only my boss, but also my mentor. I came to the Herald from Columbia University, with a degree in creative writing and political science. With no journalism training, I banked on the strength of my writing to get my foot in the door.
And Scott took a chance on me, swinging that door wide open. His first order was that I head to the public library for a copy of Carole Rich’s dazzlingly comprehensive “Writing and Reporting the News: A Coaching Method.” It’s a crash course for fledgling journalists on how to report and write the news, and Rich’s fierce clarity on the subject hooked me. I absorbed everything I could from the book, but that was only the beginning.

The real work of journalism began as a form of personal transformation: Turning myself into a community reporter in Valley Stream, where I’d never set foot, let alone lived. I did it by talking to people, taking in the scenery, breathing the air, and immersing myself in the issues people care about — and doing it all amid the time crunch of weekly story deadlines.
But before I could become an identifiable — and, I hope, trusted — figure in the community, I was the new kid on the block. It was brutal at first. But while I toiled and sweated, slammed against walls, and had doors slam on me, Scott was always my anchor and guiding compass.
Humane, relaxed and easygoing, he helped me navigate the terrain of a profession he’s known most of his adult life. When I faltered or overstepped my bounds, I dusted myself off and got back in the trenches with him. Scott never took his eyes off the story. The story mattered most. I learned by his example. And things got better.
I’m not, at least not willfully, looking for paternal substitutes in the men around me. But I couldn’t help but see the similarities to a father-son relationship in the interactions between Scott and me. I couldn’t help thinking of him as approximating — no matter how incidentally or innocuously — a second father.
In these times, a son rarely has the chance to get lost in his dad’s world. And the grimmer fact is that millions of men in America grow up without a father.
The quality of father-son bonding also seems to have depreciated. I’m not talking about the everyday guy-bonding stuff, like sitting with Pops on the couch and watching a game. I’m talking about being at his side in the midst of his work — engaging with all your senses in an endeavor the old man treasures or excels in. Sons need those moments to learn how Dad operates in the arena of life and possibly, hopefully, discover kernels of insight — no matter how small or imperfect — to help them confidently move about in this chaotic and messy world. Especially when Dad is no longer there. That father-son sharing is a priceless gift.
I wish I could have spent more time with my father. I think many men have the same wish. But he is gone, and the lessons he learned and the mistakes he made that he shared with me remain treasures to me.
There is no second try at fatherhood.
There is also great danger, I suspect, in making father figures out of the more experienced, admired and trusted men around us. We risk getting lost in their shadows, modeling ourselves after them instead of forging our own way.
Scott Brinton leaves behind a towering volume of exceptional work, the product of a passion for community journalism. He has also, like a true teacher and friend, cultivated a team of journalists who are equipped to carry on the good fight: to articulate truth, to serve the communities we cover, and to see the humanity in the stories we have the privilege of telling.
He has been a blessing in my life, and I bid him a fond goodbye and much joy in his next journey.
Farewell, Captain.

Juan Lasso is the editor of the Valley Stream Herald. Comments about this column? Jlasso@liherald.com.