Tommy's Gold Coin
By Tom Nguyen
If what they say at Poynter is true, that everyone has a story, and that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things, then my story has only just begun.
After college graduation, I spent a year pursuing a career in journalism, a journey that brought me to The Poynter Institute in St. Petersburg for a News Writing and Reporting Fellowship. There, I learned various tools to become a better journalist; I discovered the "Gold Coin": a colorful, insightful piece of reporting and writing that charms the reader.
"Place gold coins along the path. Don't load all your best stuff high in the story," said Roy Peter Clark, Poynter's senior scholar. "Space special effects throughout the story, encouraging readers to find them and be delighted by them."
Although I didn't realize it then, I was suddenly on my way to discovering my own gold coins in life.
During my first day at Poynter, I confessed to my peers and faculty that my greatest fear was having to grow up. The knee problems. The kids and mortgage payments. The constant soul searching and experiential narrative that would follow. Everyone laughed and thought little of it. Growing up was easy for everyone else, apparently.
Three weeks later, Alysia Tate—a visiting lecturer at Poynter—approached another Poynter Fellow and me with an interesting request. She wanted us to interview each other in front of the class and faculty so we could demonstrate to our peers how to "find the heart of the story." It seemed innocent enough.
It was early in the morning—the day after Wednesday deadline, no less—and I wanted to take the training exercise easy. I was planning on asking Laura Fries, my interviewing partner, questions like: What's your favorite word? Do you like Usher's new CD? Don't you think he's the greatest dancer in the world? Do you prefer Justin Timberlake?
For a moment, I forgot I was at Poynter. Because Laura was ready to pull a Barbara Walters on me. She interviewed me first—and it was the longest 15 minutes of my life.
First question: When was the last time you cried, Tom? Second question: When are you most scared? Follow-up to second question: Is it because of your fear of intimacy? More follow-ups: Was it because of a girl? Can you give us a name?
Laura understood that some of the greatest stories begin with a girl; she knew it, and she was ready to grill me in front of our peers and faculty to prove it.
I sat there helplessly and soaked in her questions. The first thing that came to mind: I can't believe I flew 3,000 miles for this shit.
I told the class about the girl of my dreams, Joan, the lyrical expression of God's grace and elan. She had this way of moving through a room. It was as if all the lights and colors would only follow her. She walked into my life and simply amazed me. She was my answer to life's uncertainties.
But she wasn't mine. She was already taken. And so I told the class a sad story: I didn't even have enough words to say goodbye to her on a fateful day in San Francisco, as we sat on a hill, overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge. I sat there quietly as she told me how she didn't know where she would end up in the next year, how God had a plan, and how she didn't want to talk anymore.
I drove her home later that day. It's the saddest thing, when a girl walks away and you're helpless, only able to watch the distance between you and her grow larger and larger, until she's finally disappeared.
In our interview, Laura got the girl's name but she didn't get the Gold Coin. She only got a part of the story.
After weeks of introspection and writing, I'm ready now to give up my much-guarded Gold Coin.
The girl's name isn't as important as the meaning of her name. When translated, it means, "God is gracious." It's so poetic, really. We met in a church fellowship group. More importantly, her name captures her beauty, smile and warmth so eloquently. At first, I thought it was destiny—a divine and cosmic plan designed to bring me closer to Heaven—and then after that fateful day I wondered whether God was pulling the old bait and switch on me.
I understand now that she represented a fantasy. She was an idea that was easy to fall in love with, incredible to imagine, but short-lived and finally out of reach.
En route to adulthood, I think, a lot of us have this fantasy of breaking out, dropping everything, running away with a girl and extending a wonderful feeling forever.
At least, I had it. After all, I was afraid of growing up.
Growing up means being overwhelmed by complexity and conflict coupled with a lack of easy answers; it means facing a reality that doesn't revolve around me; it means dealing with loss and mutability, pain and regret; it means being vulnerable, indecisive and even rebellious. I wasn't ready for the Real World—and she was my fantasy flight who promised the magic bullet to my anxiety.
But she also reminds me of my own capacity to love, to find peace and hope in the sadness and complexity that exist every day, from our personal lives to the daily news. Our time together wasn't all bad. Even the loneliest moments are still wistful reminders that grace is freely given, at work in each of us, spurring us on to an even greater faith in the possibilities in life.
God is gracious.
As I think about my incomplete responses to Laura's questions that day, I can't help but think of Joe Redner. It makes sense, I guess, that the love of my life would naturally evoke Tampa's Strip Club King
Redner was one of our first assignments here at Poynter. Thirty-two young and ambitious journalists, all collaborating on a project to scour the local police precincts, court houses, election offices, private businesses and even his bedroom, to dig up information on him and create a report.
According to the 2004 Fellows, the final verdict on Mr. Redner was in: not only a self-made millionaire whose strip clubs and political activism had made him a notorious figure, but also an old man who had trouble telling his granddaughter how much he loved her.
He was a man who was deeply aware of his flaws—someone who shouldn't have had children, he said—but was proud to share his naked story with complete strangers.
There was so much more to him. And there's so much more to me.
If I told you about Joan, you might think I was just a wide-eyed, hopeless romantic, when in actuality I was struggling to find the truth about myself, about hope, faith and love.
The story I told that day wasn't just about heartbreak and disappointment—it was about having to grow up. As scary as it sounds, it was about having to accept the fact that reality is much more complicated than I'd like it to be. And yet I still have to make sense of it to move on, to have a story to tell at the end of the day.
If what they say at Poynter is true, that everyone has a story, and that ordinary people are capable of extraordinary things, then my story—which began with loneliness, heartache and clumsiness—should serve as a reminder that today's news will give way to tomorrow's headlines.
This is me growing up, finally.
After a long day of classes on ethics and style and reporting, I usually walk home by myself. St. Pete has its moments, especially when I realize that I am thousands of miles away from home, and every sight and sound comes into the universe boldly and loudly, complete with awe and sweetness. And these days it feels like I'm in love again, in love with life.
Sometimes there are tropical thunderstorms, and when I find myself caught in the middle of one, I run and duck for cover. I light up a cigarette and watch the cracks of lightning floating in the distance, signaling something greater far, far ahead.
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