{"id":2186,"date":"2021-09-09T12:00:18","date_gmt":"2021-09-09T12:00:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2021\/09\/09\/a-9-11-survival-story-honoring-accuracy-and-voice-in-eyewitness-accounts\/"},"modified":"2024-10-16T16:05:38","modified_gmt":"2024-10-16T16:05:38","slug":"a-9-11-survival-story-honoring-accuracy-and-voice-in-eyewitness-accounts","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2021\/09\/09\/a-9-11-survival-story-honoring-accuracy-and-voice-in-eyewitness-accounts\/","title":{"rendered":"A 9\/11 survival story: Honoring accuracy and voice in eyewitness accounts"},"content":{"rendered":" \n
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EDITOR\u2019S NOTE:<\/strong> This post was published in partnership with our friends at the Poynter Institute<\/a>.<\/em>As the 20th<\/sup> anniversary of Sept. 11 looms, I am reminded of one of my favorite anthologies of journalism: \u201cEyewitness to History,\u201d<\/a> edited by British scholar John Carey. The book offers historical narratives that extend from ancient chronicles to 20th<\/sup> century news reports.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The key organizing principle is embedded in the word \u201ceyewitness.\u201d The events described were witnessed \u2014 or claimed to have been witnessed \u2014 by human beings (from civilians to famous authors) who were on the scene.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The standards for such narratives have evolved over centuries. There are countless cases of fabrication and fictionalization, more discouraged and detectable in the age of digital journalism.  John Hersey, the author of \u201cHiroshima\u201d<\/a> and an eyewitness to the aftermath of the atomic bombing, argued that the legend on the license, at least for those who claimed to practice journalism, was that \u201cnone of this was made up.\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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That means personal accounts of those who lived or witnessed a story \u2014 whether memoir, autobiography, or oral history \u2014 often require the guiding help of a professional author to ensure necessary accuracy and clear writing. I am thinking of all those celebrities, politicians, and sports figures who turn to \u201cghost writers\u201d to fact-check and shape their narratives for them. I have always thought \u201cghost writer\u201d was an impolite name for such a scribe. I prefer the \u201cas told to\u201d explainer, especially when the helping writer is named and the methodology is made transparent.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Of course, much of our more standard narrative journalism relies on accounts from people who were on the scene of newsworthy events. We are, in essence, the transparent ghost-writers of history.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The standards and practices for \u201cas told to\u201d narratives are less fully formed than other kinds of journalism and nonfiction. But the form has expanded with online and self-publishing. Working with eyewitnesses who want to tell their own stories also expands options for journalists in a challenging news economy.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Some of my best lessons came from listening to my cousin Theresa, who was at work in the North Tower of the World Trade Center when it was hit by the first jet on the morning of Sept. 11. Twenty years after first working with Theresa to write \u201cRosary Beads and Sensible Shoes,\u201d those lessons remain as relevant as ever. I offer them here, followed by the original piece and an epilog from Theresa.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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It helps to interview the source (eyewitness) when the memory is fresh, but only if that source, traumatized by the event, finds the sharing of her story helpful to recovery.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Use a recording device to best capture the words, cadence, syntax, and emotional level of the eyewitness.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Some publishing houses, newsrooms and sites ban the sharing of drafts with sources. In this case, the source is more of a collaborator, sacrificing her privacy for a public good. When I write in this form, I share key drafts with the source, at times, reading the draft aloud. My key questions: \u201cDo I have this right?\u201d and \u201cDoes it sound like you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The flavor of speech can be captured without over-dependence upon verbal punctuation, dialect, accent, or needless repetition.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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When it comes to stories as big as 9\/11, I cling to the advice of the late, great Jim Dwyer<\/a>, who wrote two books about attacks on the World Trade Center. He preached \u201cthe bigger, the smaller.\u201d Jim put that into practice by writing focused narratives about objects that had stories hiding inside of them: a squeegee of a window washer used by a group stuck in an elevator to escape; a family photo that fluttered down into the rubble, unscathed; the plastic water cup given to my cousin Theresa during her long walk home. Theresa is mentioned in the book Dwyer wrote with Kevin Flynn: \u201c102 Minutes: The Unforgettable Story of the fight to Survive Inside the Twin Towers.\u201d<\/a><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Not all sources will notice or remember the telling detail, but Theresa certainly did, and the reporter must ask. Her sacred objects include her rosary beads, comfortable shoes, Handi Wipes, and a water cup. But there is also the booze offered to her by her father, the delicious chicken cutlet that had been prepared by her mother, and, the one I best remember: the grapefruit rolling back and forth in the cart after the plane hit the tower.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The quest for such details has endured for centuries, as any historical anthology of reportage will reveal. In the introduction to \u201cEyewitness to History,\u201d Carey writes:<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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This book is\u2026full of unusual or indecorous or incidental images that imprint themselves scaldingly on the mind\u2019s eye: the ambassador peering down the front of Queen Elizabeth I\u2019s dress and noting the wrinkles; \u2026the Tamil looter at the fall of Kuala Lumpur upending a carton of snowy Slazenger tennis balls; \u2026.Pliny watching people with cushions on their heads against the ash from the volcano; Mary, Queen of Scots, suddenly aged in death, with her pet dog cowering among her skirts and her head held on by one recalcitrant piece of gristle; the starving Irish with their mouths green from their diet of grass.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Carey uses the word \u201cindecorous\u201d to describes those historical details. That should not dismiss the importance of decorum in choosing certain details. Theresa is shocked by the encounter with burn victims being aided by first responders. But I am struck and grateful that journalists and photojournalists shielded us from unthinkably gruesome encounters with what was left of the bodies of the dead.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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There are always surprises in revisiting an old narrative, whether it is a Shakespeare play, a news story, or a text that you wrote yourself many years ago. If you are old enough and have written enough, I promise there will come a day when you will find a story with your name on it that you have no memory of having written. Each reader brings an autobiography to the reading of any story. But, over 20 years, the text may look the same, but our transaction with that text will change. Since 9\/11 we have suffered a paralyzing recession, a president who was impeached twice, not to mention the current pandemic. We should not dismiss narratives from the past as \u201cold news.\u201d Better to think of them as little time machines we now experience with the benefit of new knowledge. Reports may point us there, but it is the story that puts us there.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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There is an old, misunderstood saying that speaks to the value of \u201cgiving voice to the voiceless.\u201d But people don\u2019t need journalists to have their say, especially in the age of social media. That said, I feel a special power when a journalist asks a person to share a story, and supports the source, whether it is in a telling quote or in a more fully developed narrative. My sense is that we need more of this in journalism or other public writing<\/a>. This does not limit the need for checking, double-checking, fact-checking with reference to other sources of information (such as photos and public records). Over two decades and multiple publications of Theresa\u2019s story, no reader or expert has come forward to contradict it.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Finally, there arises with the passage of time \u201cWhat ever happened to\u2026.?\u201d<\/em> Theresa was 40 on 9\/11 and now is 60, fully capable of looking back and reflecting upon what she still remembers and what it has meant to her over time. My friend, St. Petersburg artistic director, Bob Devin-Jones<\/a>, reflecting upon the collective experiences and losses imposed by the pandemic, put it this way: \u201cThere are no periods. There are only commas. It\u2019s all life.\u201d Experienced and remembered.<\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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\"Theresa
Theresa Marino on Governors Island, New York City, with the twin towers of the World Trade Center in the background. Circa 1990.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/div> \n
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A Story from 9\/11<\/h2>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
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When I learned that a jet had hit one of the twin towers \u2014 even before we knew it was the first volley in that morning\u2019s terrorist attack \u2014 I thought of my cousin Theresa, who worked on the 57th<\/sup> Floor of the North Tower. It took some time to learn that she had escaped.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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The next day, or it may have been the day after that, I got Theresa on the phone and she told me her story. It was unimaginable that any person \u2014 especially my dear younger cousin, my mother\u2019s goddaughter \u2014 should experience such a thing. But at least she had escaped, when so many others would be lost.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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I shared her story 20 years ago, with her permission. I have done so many times since, and again this year, as we brace for this weekend\u2019s anniversary. My hope is that such a story will help us remember, not just that earth-shattering event, not just the litany of the dead, but also the incredible toll 9\/11 continues to take on those who were left behind. ~ Roy Peter Clark<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Rosary Beads and Sensible Shoes<\/h3>\n By Theresa Marino Leone<\/em>
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\n As told to her first cousin, Roy Peter Clark, in the days after Sept. 11, 2001<\/em>
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\nI got to work about 20 minutes to 9. I told my boss I like to get to work a half hour early. But that\u2019ll never happen again. I work in Building One, or what used to be Building One. I work for Lawyers\u2019 Travel, and I\u2019m attached to a law firm with offices on the 57th Floor.<\/em>
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\n I hadn\u2019t had breakfast yet, just a cup of coffee, so I went to the cafeteria on the 57th Floor, saw my friends, said hello to everyone, and was just about to eat my English muffin.
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\n We heard a loud explosion, and the whole building started to sway. We knew something had happened and it wasn\u2019t good. I remember these grapefruits from a stand that were rolling back and forth, back and forth.
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\n For years we\u2019d had these fire drills, but at a moment like this, no one was sure what to do. I ran about 30 feet to my office and grabbed my purse. My cell phone, my rosary beads, my life is in that purse. I looked in the corridor and saw about eight people. We knew each other and headed for the staircase.
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\n Now this is a big building with so many floors that when you take the elevator up, you go to the 44th Floor and then change elevators and take the local up to the 57th.
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\n In the stairwell there was room for two people, so you could go down side by side. There was no smoke on the 57th, but there was a smell that I now realize was gasoline. Our staircase went down only as far as the 44th. We walked past two banks of elevators. I looked to the right and could see smoke coming out of one of them.
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\n We went down the next staircase, and thank God, the lights were on, we could see, and talk to each other. Amazingly there was no pushing or panic or people getting trampled. Thank God, too, that He made me tall, five foot nine, because I can\u2019t wear heels, only a pair of black, very sensible shoes.
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\n Then above us, we heard these firefighters say, \u201cMove to the right. Injured coming down.\u201d This meant we had to get in single file and along the way I lost track of all the people I started out with.
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\n When the injured walked down past us, you couldn\u2019t tell if they were black or they were white. They were all charred with skin just hanging off their bodies. And the look on their faces, they looked like the walking dead. Remember, we didn\u2019t know what had happened. Our cell phones didn\u2019t work, but some beepers flashed and word spread that a plane had hit our building, and that a jet plane had crashed into the other building. It was such a beautiful day. At first, I thought maybe it was an accident with a helicopter, but two commercial jets?
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\n I didn\u2019t know what we were going to face as we made our way down, a fireball in the stairwell, or what. I\u2019m a 40-year-old Italian-American girl, so I took out my rosary beads, the ones I got at St. Francis of Assisi Church when my mother was sick, and said to God, \u201cI don\u2019t want to die in this building.\u201d The lights were still on. But alarms were going off everywhere.
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\n I hadn\u2019t had breakfast, so my stomach was empty, and at one point I felt my knees buckle. I said to myself, \u201cIf I faint, I\u2019m gonna die.\u201d So I held on to my rosary beads, and I tried to turn to the girls behind me to make a little joke. At one platform there were five or six firefighters. \u201cHere, take a drink of water,\u201d said one of them, and I took a sip. \u201cGod bless you,\u201d I told him. I now realize that those guys are probably dead.
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\n When we got down to the 10th Floor, water began seeping down the walls and under the doors. As we moved down to the 8th and 7th Floors it was getting deeper and deeper, until we were walking through maybe six inches of water.
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\n Finally, when we got down to the Concourse Level, the cops were pointing us down toward the stairs near the escalator. \u201cDon\u2019t look outside,\u201d they said. The Concourse is surrounded by glass walls, maybe 50 feet high, and of course when he said, \u201cDon\u2019t look,\u201d I looked. What I saw was something out of Beirut. Glass, debris, pockets of fire everywhere.
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\n As we made our way down the steps to the ground level, we were soaking wet. We were walking in water up past our ankles, and water was pouring down on us — like walking in a soaking rainstorm, but inside. Firefighters had to lift some women who had taken their shoes off over the broken glass. Thank God I had on my sensible shoes.
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\n I saw my friend Indra, the cashier in the cafeteria. I grabbed her. We ran toward World Trade Five across Church Street toward Broadway. We were now physically outside. \u201cKeep going. Keep going,\u201d said a cop, \u201cthere may be another plane on the way.\u201d
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\n A couple of blocks away we finally stopped to catch our breath and looked up and saw that the building was on fire. We didn\u2019t see any bodies, but we were starting to see people who were bleeding. I saw two ladies who are housekeepers in the building, Miranda and Teresa. My cell phone didn\u2019t work. From the time we felt the crash, it had probably taken us 45 minutes to get out of the building. In 15 minutes it would fall to the ground.
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\n We decided to walk another six blocks to my father\u2019s apartment on the East River, at the Manhattan side of the Brooklyn Bridge. We were buzzed in and took the elevator to the 23rd Floor. My father was standing in the hallway on the phone with my husband, Gary, who was frantic, up in the Bronx.
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\n At least Gary knew I was safe. All the girls called home. \u201cCome on,\u201d my father said, \u201chave a drink.\u201d At that moment, anyway, we preferred his coffee to liquor.
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\n The girls lived in Brooklyn and decided to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. I had to go and see my mother, who lived about 10 minutes away in the apartment complex where I grew up, Knickerbocker Village. I knew she would be going crazy. When I got to Madison and St. James, I looked up and realized I couldn\u2019t see the Twin Towers. All I saw was smoke. I didn\u2019t know that they didn\u2019t exist anymore. I remember years ago looking out the window and watching as they were being built.
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\n My mother wanted me to eat something. So what\u2019s new. She\u2019d make me cereal or an egg, but I settled on cold chicken cutlets from the night before. I had just lost 30 pounds and was on a diet, but who cares. You know, it was the best chicken cutlet I ever had.
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\n I know it\u2019s crazy, but I just wanted to go home, from the Lower East Side to the Bronx where Gary was waiting for me. I still had my sensible shoes, so I decided to start walking. I figured I could catch the train or the bus as I headed north. I walked to 23rd Street and then to 59th. Along the way there were nice people on the streets, nobody was trying to gouge you. They gave you a cup of water. Or a Handi Wipe. I stopped once and bought a pretzel, but I thought if I stopped walking, I\u2019d never be able to move again. I was just so happy to be alive.
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\n It\u2019s not my usual part of town, but I walked all the way to 125th Street. I figured that, all in all, I may have walked eight miles. I was ready to walk over the Triboro Bridge to the Bronx if I had to.
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\n Thank God, the trains were running from 125th Street. I decided to get on the #6 train. A lady moved over for me. \u201cI\u2019m sorry for the way I smell,\u201d I told her. \u201cI walked from the World Trade Center.\u201d
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\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry about it,\u201d she said. \u201cI walked from 19th Street.\u201d
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\n When I got out of the station, I thought I couldn\u2019t take another step. Just then, Gary turned the corner in our silver Chevy.
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\n This is like a bad dream. When I see people, I start to cry. I realize that my favorite picture of Gary and me that I kept at my desk is gone. When I see the news and understand what happened, I realize that I was 15 minutes from that building falling down on me. Today on the subway, I looked over the shoulder of a lady reading the newspaper, and when I saw the pictures, I started to cry.
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\n My legs are pretty sore. But I\u2019m a walker and will be OK. Gary and I went to Union Square Park where people are creating a memorial, leaving flowers and notes. One note said, \u201cNow is the time when we should be so proud to be American.\u201d And I thought, \u201cYou know that\u2019s true.\u201d
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\n I know I\u2019ll remember this day for the rest of my life. I\u2019m going to save three things from my experience: My cup from a guy who gave me water. A used Handi Wipe. And what\u2019s left of my sensible shoes.\n<\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
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Postscript, 2021<\/h2>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
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\"Theresa
Theresa Marino Leone in 2021, 20 years after she escaped One World Trade Center the morning of the Sept. 11 terrorist attacks.<\/figcaption><\/figure>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n<\/div> \n
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Anniversaries, we know, are tough on survivors. Just about every September since 2001, I\u2019ve checked on my cousin Theresa to see how she was doing. Over the years, living and working in New York City became harder and harder. The day would come when she and her husband Gary would move upstate to Saratoga Springs.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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Back in the city a new tower would reach toward the heavens. A memorial would be constructed.<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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When I messaged Theresa about the possibility of publishing her story once again, she replied quickly.  Her own words will serve here as an epilogue. ~ Roy Peter Clark<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n

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\u201cI blinked, and 20 years have passed\u201d<\/h3>\nBy Theresa Marino Leone, September 2021<\/em>\n
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\n20 years. I blinked, and 20 years have passed.\n
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\nI was 40. Now I\u2019m 60. I remember when my parents were in their 50s and I thought they were old. At this point in my life, I\u2019m older than how I remember them as relatively young adults.\n
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\n20 years. I\u2019ve lost so many people in my life in 20 years. I\u2019ve gained so many people in my life in 20 years.\n
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\nI remember 9\/11\/01 like it was yesterday. I remember what I was wearing that day. I remember what I ate that day. I remember thinking I wasn\u2019t ready to die. I remember wanting to live to tell the tale. I remember feeling guilty that I lived to tell the tale. I still do. I remember realizing I personally lost six friends. Benito, Bridgette, Vito, Rosemary, John, and Jimmy. Colleagues and friends from my childhood. I remember realizing we all lost about 3,000 people.\n
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\nI remember walking down 57 flights of stairs to escape 1WTC. I remember smelling jet fuel. I remember seeing flames. I remember running away from the buildings. I remember getting to my father\u2019s apartment six blocks away and getting the best hug from him I ever got. I remember going to my childhood parish, St. Joseph\u2019s, to pray before I got to my mother\u2019s apartment so she could see me, and I could see her. My parents and my childhood parish are all gone now.\n
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\nI remember people giving me water. I remember to always keep my rosary beads with me. I remember walking about seven miles north so I could catch a subway to the Bronx to get home to my husband, Gary, who was waiting for me.\n
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\nIt starts to come back to me every late August and early September and comes to a head every September 11th. I grieve that day like everyone else, then I put it away for a year before it consumes me. I remember how the greatest country on the face of the planet was in complete unison. For a while, it didn\u2019t matter what side of the aisle you were on. My hope is that we, as a country, can feel that unison once again, no matter what side of the aisle you are on.\n
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\nI hope it does not take 20 years.\n<\/div>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n \n
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Roy Peter Clark<\/strong> has taught writing at the Poynter Institute since 1977, and is the author or editor of 19 books on journalism and the writing craft including \u201cWriting Tools\u201d and his most recent \u201cMurder Your Darlings: And Other Gentle Writing Advice from Aristotle to Zinsser.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n <\/div>\n <\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Writing scholar Roy Peter Clark reprises a cousin’s escape story, and finds lessons for writers who help people recount personal stories<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":8900,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[12],"tags":[],"topics":[],"authors":[38],"issue":[],"class_list":["post-2186","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-essays-on-craft","authors-roy-peter-clark"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nA 9\/11 survival story: Honoring accuracy and voice in eyewitness accounts - Nieman Storyboard<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/niemanstoryboard.org\/2021\/09\/09\/a-9-11-survival-story-honoring-accuracy-and-voice-in-eyewitness-accounts\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" 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