When disaster strikes
Just keep calling in search of that local angle

By Edgar Sandoval
Minority-Affairs Reporter
The Morning Call, Allentown, Pa.

Posted: Aug. 9, 2002

It took an entire day to enter the island of Manhattan, crossing barricade after barricade to reach Ground Zero. You see smashed NYPD cars. You see dust everywhere. You see people walking like zombies. You see firefighters covered in debris. You see police officers who keep telling you to stand behind the yellow tape.

Yes, you got into the city, but your editor tells you on a dying cell phone that you need a local angle for your readers in Allentown, Pa., 90 miles away.

The first thing you do is panic.

That, of course, is not the first thing you should do, but the thing you will do, trust me. After you are done non-stop sweating and feeling you are losing your breath, you slap yourself in the face and tell yourself to get your act together.

You then close your eyes and try to remember the phone numbers of the people back in Allentown who may have connections in New York. Some numbers may be off a digit or two, but you ask the person on the other line anyway if they know anybody in New York.

Some may hang up, thinking you are rude. But you look at your watch and it is getting late. Your editor sent you all the way to New York, and you better give her a local story or else.

You keep calling person after person, until you remember that your neighbor had moved to Allentown from New York. You call, and the neighbor calls back in a few hours.

His brother is a construction worker and he was working in one of the towers when the planes collided with the buildings. You are told he lives in the Bronx and you get there as quick as you can.

You bring your subway map, but there is of no use for it, because all of the subway lines have been changed for security reasons. You try to listen to the voice in the speaker, but you are so focused on your deadline that you miss all of the words. So, after you once again do the sweating, losing breath and slapping in the face-thing, you ask people which line you should take to get to the Bronx.

You get to the Bronx and find the address your neighbor gave you. His brother is not home. So you rush to the streets nearby, asking for anyone who may know where your source might be.

As it is getting dark, you find him chatting with friends. Your source tells you that he is glad he is alive but does not feel like talking about how he survived.

Your cell phone keeps ringing because your editor wants to know what story you found and when it is coming in. You ignore the call for now. You put your notebook away and instead of asking nagging questions, you simply talk to him about how awful it must have been to know you could have died.

You tell him you were in a bad car accident once and that you almost killed your two sisters and that you will never forgive yourself for that. You tell the truth and are honest about what you say.

Your source can see that in your eyes and nods and he tells his experience. You grab your notebook from the back pocket of your pants and slowly take notes. Your source is talking and hardly even notices you are taking notes.

You thank your source and shake his hand and rush back to the subway. You call your newspaper and update the new editor on duty. You write the story in your notebook on the way to the hotel in downtown Manhattan. You get to the hotel and your editor tells you he wants the story in 30 minutes or it will be too late. You type as fast as you can and send the story via email. Your editor gets it and reads it.

He says good job, but please try to have stories done a little earlier. Oh, yes, stay there four more days, and we want local angles. You say OK and do it all over again, for five days instead of four. And that is how you cover a tragedy.

Edgar Sandoval was a 1999 Scholar at The Tennessean in Nashville. At the time he wrote this essay, he was the minority-affairs reporter for The Morning Call in Allentown, Pa. He since has joined the South Florida Sun-Sentinel in Fort Lauderdale.

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