by Hoda Kotb
And I still want to be a teacher.
8
DATELINE
On the fourth floor of 30 Rock sit some of the best writers and producers in the business. Before I worked there, I was a viewer of Dateline, caught up in the whodunit stories packed with intriguing characters. But when I began work as a correspondent in April of 1998, I started actually reading the scripts written by my colleagues. The prose is genius. And humbling. Practically every time I write a script, I wonder why the hell I’m there. The biggest genius of all, phrase for phrase, is Dateline correspondent Dennis Murphy. You can pull up any Murphy script and want to steal everything in it. You can’t believe what you’re reading.
I remember what came forth from his fingers in April of 1999. Dennis wrote a script for a story on an outdoor memorial service for victims of the Columbine High School shooting rampage. The video began with a shot of a large, tolling bell. His line was, “If a breaking heart could make a sound, it would probably sound like this.” Dennis delivers like that on every story he covers. In October of 2002, the so-called Beltway Snipers were arrested. John Allen Muhammad and his teenage accomplice, Lee Boyd Malvo, were caught sleeping in their blue 1990 Chevrolet Caprice at a rest stop off I-70 in Frederick County, Maryland (near the town of Myersville). In the course of twenty-three days, the snipers killed 10 and injured 13 people by firing shots from the trunk of their car through a small hole created for that purpose. Dateline had covered the story from the day the shootings began. Now, Dennis was covering the breaking follow-up arrests of the two snipers. The “perp walk” was featured off the top of the story, the middle recapped the three-week reign of terror, and the end showcased the “wrap-up.” During the middle part, Dennis explained how the snipers left a sinister note at one of the shooting locations that read, “Your children aren’t safe. Not anytime, not anywhere.” Police collected it as evidence. With deadline pressure looming, Dennis had to wrap up the story. He probably yawned when he tapped out this about the day’s arrests:
MURPHY:
Oh, and remember their note that read, “Your children aren’t safe. Not anytime, not anywhere.” (pause) Not anymore.
The guy is so good. I always ask how he does it, like I’m begging an Italian grandmother for her secret marinara recipe. He always says something like, “Ah. It’s just drivel.”
• • •
When I started as a Dateline correspondent, all the firsts were challenging. I’ll never forget the day I shot my first stand-up for a story. Already nervous, I drove myself to the location, only to find that the street I needed to be on was blocked. I panicked. Turned out, the street was blocked off for my stand-up! When I finally got through, the street was filled with equipment that crews had spent hours setting up: a jib, a dolly, floodlights—an entire house was lit up. Coming from local TV, I was completely unfamiliar with this kind of ta-da just for a stand-up. All I could think was, “I better not screw this up.”
During a Dateline shoot, the room can get pretty crowded—I didn’t anticipate that. Often, the Dateline subject has his or her attorney sitting in the adjacent chair. That was the case when I went to Rikers Island to interview a schoolteacher who was accused of murdering her husband, a Staten Island firefighter. She had her attorney sitting next to her, and they constantly got up and conferred in private after I asked a question. When we interview a company or corporation, the room can get really tight. There’s me, the interview subject, our two cameras, sound, lights, and then the subject’s crew of photographers and audio folks. They will sometimes videotape us videotaping them for legal reasons. I’m always amazed in those instances by how “intimate” the interview actually appears on TV.
A lesson I learned early on was to simply check my ego at the door of the Dateline offices. Once you get a glimpse into the minds and methods there, you realize why the program wins so many awards and how its people put out such a great product. Simply getting a script on the air is an impressive process. Here’s how it works: Once I finish covering a story, my producers and I get the first crack at writing a script. The next step is to head into a screening room with all the senior producers and the executive producer. We pop in the tape, everyone gets a copy of our script, and we screen the entire hour-long story. It can be agonizing to watch a room full of pens X-out sound bites and scratch through paragraphs. Um . . . you know that paragraph right there that you scratched through? That took us five months. More scratching, then the story comes to an end. The comments now begin from senior producers. “We’re not in love with the main character,” they’ll say. Or, “I felt like that stuff in act one belongs in act two.” Input comes in from around the room, tackling every line and every word. “I feel like we’re missing the back story on that guy—I don’t get him.” And the dreaded “I just don’t think we need that part.” You mean that part where we almost got shot? We get a chance to defend our choices, and then the executive producer makes the final decision on revisions. We then get back to work, revamping the story based on the first screening. Next, it’s time for the second screening. This one includes people from the Legal Department and the Standards and Practices Division. Gulp. These guys are like parents doing an inspection of their kid’s bedroom—nothing gets by them. During this screening, Legal may say, “I don’t think we should zoom in on that photo.” Standards may offer input in the name of fairness. “You seemed to be more aggressive with him than you were with her.” It’s a great checks-and-balances system. And fresh, objective eyes always win. The process is long and arduous, but in the end, we’re really proud of the story. Note that I didn’t say my story. As you can see, it’s in no way mine alone.
It’s an honor to work at Dateline. I’m grateful. And one of these days, I’ll get Dennis Murphy in the perfect head lock, and he’ll cough up all his secret writing tricks.
Eyes in the back of your head, Murphy. I’m comin’ for ya.
The Halls
Throughout the day, I see so many of my NBC colleagues in motion as we ride elevators and shuttle ourselves to various studios, offices, and conference rooms. One of my favorite people to pass in the halls of 30 Rock was always newsman Tim Russert.
Tim often came through New York from Washington, D.C., where he was the bureau chief and also the moderator of Meet the Press. Everyone loved Tim. He was incredibly smart and always made whomever he was talking to feel smarter. Humble and happy, Tim loved what he did. He would talk politics with anyone, anytime, anywhere—on and off the air. Professional but not polished, he’d run a comb through his hair and move on to the more important job of informing viewers. When he was in town and we had a live concert set up on the Plaza, Tim would come out and yell right along with everyone else, “Heeeeyyy, Bruuuuuuce!” waving his arms at the stage where Springsteen was rocking.
Tim was Everyman, and you wished every man was more like him.
• • •
In June of 2008, I was spending time at my friend Bronwyn’s house when a call came in from NBC. A news producer told me that Tim had died. I was utterly shocked. I thought, But isn’t he only in his fifties? Tim was indeed only fifty-eight years old. He was at the D.C. bureau recording voiceovers for Sunday’s Meet the Press broadcast when he collapsed, suffering a fatal heart attack. Five days later, his private funeral was held in Washington’s Holy Trinity Catholic Church. I was flying out of LaGuardia on a one o’clock US Airways flight to attend the four o’clock private memorial service at the Kennedy Center. As I stood in line to check in, an airline staff member walked over to me and said he was in charge of the US Airways counter.
“Hi, I’m Mario,” he said. “I’m so sorry about Tim. I loved him. When you travel to D.C. today, I want you to travel in Tim’s seat.”
I stood there as Mario took my hands in his. “Tim always sat in 1D,” Mario said. “Today you fly like Tim.”
I was so moved but not surprised that Tim had made an impression on Mario. He just had a way of letting everyone in—and everyone wanted to be ther
e. When I landed, I was picked up by an NBC car service for the trip to the church. I got into the back seat and noticed the driver was crying. He said he’d occasionally driven Tim around D.C. for work and was saddened by his death.
I knew the church would be filled with dignitaries and people everyone would recognize. But how telling that before I even arrived, I met two regular guys who were just as affected by losing Tim. I feel fortunate to have crossed paths with him, even if it was most often in the hallways of 30 Rock.
9
NEW ORLEANS
The road to the network is paved with the call letters of local television stations. For me, they were WXVT-TV, WQAD-TV, and WINK-TV. WINK was located in Fort Myers, Florida, a lovely city along the state’s southwest coast. In 1991, I was two-plus years into my work there, and it was time to move forward. I lined up two job interviews, one in Minneapolis and the other in New Orleans.
First was Minneapolis to KSTP-TV. I landed in the dead of winter—snow, ice, and freezing temperatures. The woman who picked me up at the airport assured me there were lots of underground tunnels that Minnesotans use to get around during the cold months. She was dressed in a blue business suit and was very efficient. She led me into the newsroom, which felt like a well-run bank—quiet, tidy, and safe. Hmm. I was certainly given a warm welcome, but any chemistry between me and the station was trapped in the deep freeze.
From there, I flew to New Orleans to WWL-TV. I’ll tell you right now—the chemistry there was instant. That’s the station where I fell in love. And like many love affairs, it began with a drink.
The love affair begins
When I got off the plane, a jazz band was playing in the airport, each musician smiling and dressed in bright colors. A heavyset woman with long, Crystal Gayle hair came running up to me. “Hoda, is that yeeeeeewwwwwww? Ahm Gail Guidry and ahm here to greet ya!” (Insert big bear hug here.) Full of fun and chat, Gail took me to the station and into the WWL newsroom. There was lots of noise. People were high-fiving each other after beating the competition on a story, and desks were piled high with papers. Had I boarded the Mother Ship? This was my kind of chaos. That night my news-director-to-be, Joe Duke, drove me to an area just off the lively French Quarter. After a few blocks, he pulled into the drive-through lane of a Popeyes Chicken and Biscuits. I laughed uncomfortably, and he said, “You’ll see. It’s a Super Popeyes.”
Joe into the speaker: “We’ll have two chicken dinners . . . and two margaritas . . .”
Joe to me: “Do you want salt or no salt?”
My jaw dropped. What? Drive-through margaritas? Wasn’t this an interview?
My new boss handed me a drink (in the car), without salt, and said, “Welcome to New Orleans.”
I was in love.
Moss Man
Not long after I arrived at WWL, it was time for “the Big One.” The story. Just one month into my job, Fat Tuesday graced the calendar in all its gaudy glory. Mardi Gras!
“You need to get an outfit,” producers told me.
An outfit? Okay.
“Like a clown or something. Just pick something.”
I picked a devil. The horns, the pitchfork, the red suit. I looked in the mirror, shrugged, and went to work as Beelzebub. That’s where they started pouring screwdrivers. (You’d think the Popeyes episode would’ve helped buffer some of the shock here, but it didn’t.) I was the devil, with a screwdriver in my hand. At work. About to go live on the air. As luck would have it, this is exactly how you cover Mardi Gras in New Orleans. My esteemed colleagues and I went live from the parade route in outrageous costumes, sipping drinks and letting the good times roll.
And then the wheels rolled right off.
During one of the morning live shots, I was chatting away when “something” came up behind me. It grabbed me and picked me up! Then it started spinning me, twirling me around. Live on the air! Little did I know, Moss Man had engulfed me in his mossness. All I kept thinking was I’m getting fired. One month in and I’m getting fired. We’re live, I’m drinking, and I’m twirling in the air. I’m getting fired.
When we finally got back to the station, I was ready to apologize immediately. But before I could, producers were yelling to me, “We ran that clip fifteen times! People cannot get enough of that!” Once again, I thought, Oh, Lord, I love this city! To this day, especially when I’m in New Orleans, people still ask me, “What did you think about that Moss Man pickin’ you up? Was it fun? Whad ya think?”
Another year, I was dressed up like a crawfish for a Mardi Gras parade. A photographer and I were headed to our location in a live truck when a call came over the two-way radio. “We’ve got a triple shooting,” crackled the assignment desk. “Divert and go cover it.” When we arrived at the murder scene, I took off as much of the craw-stume as I could. The photographer and I got out of the truck and began to cover the horrible story. The coroner was inspecting the bodies and we started interviewing shocked bystanders. After several minutes, we heard again from the radio. “Okay, feed back that tape,” the desk directed. “And go ahead to the parade.” So, I put my head back on, and the claw. And I thought, This is so weird.
Moss Man
Craw-stume
Crawfish and WWL’s Bill Capo
• • •
But that’s the way it is in New Orleans—an absurd mix of crazy fun and tragic crime. Looking back, that mix is one of the strongest cords in my connection to the city. Laughter and tears, caring and corruption, black and white—they all blend and boil like a warm, spicy bowl of shrimp creole. Not surprisingly, “What is you?” was never an issue for me there. People are used to faces created by a colorful multicultural heritage: Creole, Cajun, Caribbean, African. The French Quarter is exotic as well, with its mixture of French, Spanish, and native architectural styles. And my name? Child’s play. For God’s sake, there is a street in New Orleans named Tchoupitoulas. They’re gonna mess with “Hoda Kotb”? I don’t tchink so.
Living there has helped me understand myself better. It’s made me realize that imperfect is perfectly comfortable to me. Whether it’s a city or my apartment, I feel most at home when things are somewhat flawed. Now please don’t think I’m a slob—I’m not. I’m not dirty. Dirty is an old sandwich on your floor. I’m—messy. Messy is where you can’t find your other shoe. Often. What’s weird is that I don’t really notice that I’m a disorganized mess until someone comes into my space.
“Hmm, what the hell time is it? All your clocks are wrong,” a guest might point out.
And I think, What time is it? If you’d noticed all my old calendars, you wouldn’t even have bothered checking my clocks.
What’s the big deal? Life is an inexact science. I’ll admit that sometimes messiness can be a time suck. I’ve spent a good chunk of my recent life asking cabbies to turn around and go back to my place, because, “Dammit! I left my BlackBerry again!” Followed a few minutes later by “Whoops! Found it.” It was hiding in the Paleozoic layer of my cavernous bag, not to be confused with the Mesozoic where I thought it was buried. Someone actually thought they were doing me a favor a few years ago by giving me a purse with compartments. Thanks, but yuck.
Compartments, files, systems—not for me. Here’s how I like my purse (and I swear I showed someone the contents the other day, and this is what came out): loose dollar bills, jam-packed wallet, a winter hat, a hardback novel, a thank-you card with a dog on it, Advil, one glove, a travel zip bag with 3-ounce bottles, mints, my checkbook, cough suppressant pills, a bottle of perfume, deodorant, contact lenses, a comb, an apple, and a Christmas ornament.
Yeah. That’s my world.
When I take coats to the cleaners, I invariably score big. One coat I hadn’t worn in two years had a $20 bill, a few singles, and a business card in the pocket. I know some of you are relating to this. I know my sister and mom are for sure. I will watch them tear apart a living room looking for something.
“Where is that cranberry lipstick?” Hala will demand—with t
hat look.
Oh, Lord, I think to myself, everybody buckle up.
When I watch my mom work her kitchen, I see myself and Hala. Instead of shutting the upper or lower cabinet doors, she’ll bob and weave around them. Hala and I duck and dodge, too. You’re just going to open them again—why close them? But one woman’s kitchen is another person’s crime scene.
• • •
When I worked in New Orleans, I was sitting at a restaurant one morning eating breakfast with my dear friend Karen, when her phone rang.
“Hello?” Karen said. “Yeah, she’s sitting right here with me.” Karen handed me her cell and said that a colleague went to look for me at home because no one could reach me by phone.
“What’s going on?” I asked. My coworker proceeded to tell me that my apartment had been ransacked! I was shocked—until they began listing their evidence.
“Your purse was on the ground with its contents strewn about.”
Yeah . . .
“Your door was unlocked.”
Yeah . . .
“Your keys were lying out.”
Yeah . . .
“There was stuff everywhere.” (The cabinets were probably open, too.)
Okay. And then what? You connected the dots to what? What is the problem?
They thought I was dead. But they were simply witnessing the art of imperfection.