There is Work to be Done

by Sharon Kayne

I will never forget that Sept. 11, 2001, was a Tuesday. That’s because Wednesday is production day here at Crosswinds Weekly. The day we put each new issue to bed. I woke up on that Tuesday like every other day—listening to NPR. But this day is not like every other day. Carl Kasell is saying a plane has crashed into one of the World Trade towers. But he sounds tentative, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s reporting. It may be a fluke, I think. Then a second plane crashes. This is no fluke. My fiancé and I get up to turn on the TV. There is smoke and fire coming from two of New York’s most impressive skyscrapers. Peter Jennings is talking, and then we’re seeing live pictures of smoke over the Pentagon. The reporter there isn’t sure what’s happening. It can’t be related, I think. Then Jennings is talking about a plane crash in Pennsylvania. It must be a coincidence, I think.

Then as we watch, sitting there on our couch, one skyscraper implodes in on itself. Collapsing like a tower of playing cards. Peter Jennings, who’s obviously looking at a different monitor, is talking about the Pentagon. He’s confused for a moment while some off-camera producer fills him in. I jump up and run to the bathroom to shower. I must get to work. The cover story we have slated for that week’s issue is about the re-edited re-release of Apocalypse Now, which is opening that weekend in movie theaters. Somewhere between the living room and the bathroom I realize we can’t put the word “Apocalypse” on the cover in reference to some contrived piece of Hollywood entertainment.

The drive to work is surreal. As I listen to coverage on the radio, I wonder why there are so many cars on the road. How can all these people be going to work; to jobs at banks and factories and discount stores? When I get to the office, I call my boss who’s out of the country on vacation. We agree that I’ll write a new cover story; a story on collective grieving. I’ll interview psychologists, ministers and therapists. The first person I call is my own therapist.

I work the whole day in relative seclusion; the one person I share my office with is out sick. In between phone interviews, I write. I find myself wishing I was still working in television news on this day. I miss the energy of the newsroom. I miss the flood of instant information. I miss the collective force of dozens of people working together toward a singular goal.

When I get home my fiancé is still watching the news coverage. I watch for a while but there is work to be done. We turn off the TV and I labor on my cover story until 11 o’clock. Wednesday, as usual, is a long day. I get home late. Nearly two days have passed, and I’ve seen very little coverage of the story that’s changed everything. I am too tired to feel.

Journalists are like EMTs, police officers, and Red Cross workers—when things go to hell there is little time for shock, anger and grief; there is work to be done. We are human, just like our public servants, just like our readers and viewers. Fallible, emotional, curious humans. Rescue workers are revered. Journalists are often reviled. We don’t bandage wounds or feed volunteers—we tell stories. It can be bittersweet, this job I love; crafting a message out of words. Too often the message is bad. More often the message is obscene.

      *

It’s 1999 and I sit in the television newsroom writing my evening broadcast when CNN begins feeding live pictures of American bombs bursting like fireworks over Kosovo. It is obscene, I think, that we have the hubris to bring terror, destruction, and death to strangers, and then watch it from the safety of our living rooms as if it is so much entertainment. When people see these images on their TV screens tonight, they will blame this nameless, faceless news producer for disrupting their peaceful lives with obscenities. I want to turn it off. I want to walk away. But there are stories to tell; there is work to be done.

      *

I am in the control booth producing my noon newscast when the red “urgent” messages flash across the bottom of my computer screen. Someone is shooting children at a high school in Littleton, Colorado. I cobble together a breaking news script and prep my anchors via their earpieces. Before long, CNN and ABC both have live coverage, beamed from helicopters over Columbine High School. We cut to their coverage, and the rest of my broadcast is scrapped. I sit and watch the unfathomable events unfold. I want to cry. I want to shut it out. But there is work to be done.

      *

This year, Sept. 11 falls on a Wednesday. I will not be attending any vigils, any memorial services. I will not be watching any coverage. Wednesday is production day here at Crosswinds Weekly; there is work to be done. I’ll be here late putting the new issue to bed.

This classic Citizen Kayne column was originally published the week of Sept. 5-11, 2002, in Crosswinds Weekly, an alternative newspaper based in Albuquerque, NM.

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