On September 11, 2001 I was working as an assistant news director in Arkansas. When names of the victims were released, it was discovered one of the flight attendants was from our area. Naturally every station in the Midwest wanted a live shot. Since none of our reporters had ever done a series of satellite shots, I rolled on the story. The young woman’s name was Sara Low. The townspeople were handing out red, white and blue ribbons when we arrived. I pinned one on my lapel, put together a package and did my live shots. That week I, like most people, couldn’t sleep. I kept seeing Sara’s face even though I'd never met her and had only seen her picture. I got up in the middle of the night and started to write.
Two years later I was field producing the 9/11 anniversary coverage in New York City. As we were gathering video a man carrying a stack of American flags came by and handed one to us. Since we were very busy, I thanked him, put it in my satchel and forgot about it.
Two days later I unpacked and discovered this wasn’t just any flag. The stripes contain the names of all the 9/11 victims. The sheer volume of names is enough to make you cry, which is what it did to me. I unfolded the flag, determined to find Sara’s name. I didn’t have to look far. Hers was on the first row.
I had saved the ribbon from that day in 2001, and pinned it to her name. The flag hangs over my desk in my home to this day.
The story I wrote after she died follows. I share this with you in the hopes that whenever you cover a tragic story, you will remember there is a life behind every name and every number…
SARA'S STORY
by Randy Tatano
They say the eyes are the windows of the soul.
The eyes tell me the soul wants to be anywhere but in front of a camera. I am number three in a succession of local and network reporters; we’ve been circling, waiting to prey on the man’s grief in quest of the perfect sound bite.
Don’t pick too much now, reporter number one. Leave some for the rest of us...
I am reminded of a rule lawyers follow. Never ask a question unless you know the answer. So why, I wonder, as I flap my wings and circle, do so many reporters follow that rule in times like these and ask the world’s most stupid question?
“How do you feel?”
I shake my head as we sit in the outer office, sinking into the soft leather chair that feels like money. Reporter number two enters the buffet line as number one exits, licking his chops. They nod at each other and smile as they pass.
I wonder if there will be anything left when it is my turn. I think of the stranger I'm about to interview and put myself in his place, a person I’ve never met whose life I’m about to invade with all the subtlety of a punch in the mouth. How would I answer the world’s stupidest question?
How do you think he feels after watching her plane fly into the World Trade Center and blow up on national television every ten minutes in slow motion, frame by frame? You already know, so why ask?
Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry sir, but it’s my job and the viewers want to share your grief and maybe seeing someone from their hometown they can make a connection and...
Oh, please.
“He’ll see you now.”
I grab the electronic sword I’m about to jab into his heart.
After all, it is my job.
And the viewers want to know, right?
Number two and a photographer blow out the door, and I know it is my turn. He comes out of the office and moves forward to greet me. The handshake is tired and without sincerity. The windows to his soul are wide open, shattered by insensitive questions and demands on personal grief God never meant to be shared, much less broadcast to millions of people. It will be a while before the windows will close again.
He invites me into the office and sits at a conference table. I take a seat opposite him as the photographer sets up his gear. His eyes beg you not to take that road for the umpteenth time. Please, not again. Please. Yes, I know you’re just doing your job, and the people want to know, but please, not there again.
So I won’t go there. I won’t tread through the footprints that have already beaten a path across this man’s heart. The preceding reporters have already picked the man clean. There’s nothing left.
I’ll take the road not taken.
“Tell me something about her that makes you smile. Give me a happy memory.”
The eyes breathe a sigh of relief. The words flow. He remembers how she lived, not how she died. He has a picture and shares it with me. She had a name, Sara Low, and a life. She was young and pretty and single and probably had the world by the tail; a small town girl making it as a flight attendant in the big city. She had a smile that was no doubt vaporized in an instant but one that left a permanent fingerprint on his heart. It is perfectly silent in the office as he chooses his words. He pauses for a moment; it is so quiet I hear the sound of the electronic zoom lens. The shot tightens up, the eyes brighter now; the tears which clouded the windows are gone.
We’re done in two minutes. The photographer takes Sara’s photograph and frames up a shot. As I look at it, she seems to be looking right into my soul.
Though we've never met.
He stands up and shakes my hand, warmly this time. “Thank you,” he says.
I steal one more glance at Sara’s picture. I don’t want to forget her.
We pack up and head across town to meet the satellite truck.
I discover I am the lead in everyone’s newscast. Big surprise.
Suddenly the irony hits me.
I am reminded of the old newsroom joke about why we cover tragedy so often. Would anyone watch if we started our newscast by saying “a plane didn’t crash today?”
You’re darned right they would.
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