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  CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  MY VINYL PHOTO FILE

  PART ONE: The Back Story

  Chapter 1: WHAT IS YOU?

  Chapter 2: MY FAMILY

  PART TWO: Going Live

  Chapter 3: THE TREK

  Chapter 4: TV NEWS

  Chapter 5: THE NETWORK

  Chapter 6: HOT ZONES

  Chapter 7: MS. GROVES

  Chapter 8: DATELINE

  Chapter 9: NEW ORLEANS

  Chapter 10: HURRICANE KATRINA

  Chapter 11: SUPER BOWL XLIV

  PART THREE: Shit Storms and Silver Linings

  Chapter 12: THE BAD YEAR

  Chapter 13: MAN ON THE PLANE

  Chapter 14: THE GAME CHANGER

  Chapter 15: GET IN THE GAME

  PART FOUR: Life Without Cue Cards

  Chapter 16: YOU CAN’T SCARE ME

  Chapter 17: THE FOURTH HOUR

  Chapter 18: KATHIE LEE

  Chapter 19: THE BIG TOP

  Chapter 20: GUEST HOSTS AND GUESTS

  Chapter 21: THE PEACOCK FAMILY

  Chapter 22: DATING

  Chapter 23: FORWARD

  WHERE ARE THEY NOW?

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To Jim Lorenzini

  For your endless inspiration

  “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

  This book is dedicated to anyone, like me,

  who’s made God bust a gut.

  INTRODUCTION

  Recently, I was walking through one of New York City’s terrific neighborhood street fairs teeming with colorful booths. Banners promised “Millions of Socks!” and vendors proudly displayed tie-dyed scarves and chocolate-covered marshmallows on skewers. The crowd had a Sunday pace and I happily relaxed into the mix of sun-soakers and serious shoppers. As I wandered, some who watch a bit of television offered their kind hellos as they passed by. A friendly guy selling piano lessons wanted to chat. He asked one of the two questions I most often hear.

  One is, “Where are you from?”

  He asked the other: “How did you get to where you are today?”

  It’s always that second question that makes me want to pull out a vinyl pocket photo file. It would flip-flop-flip all the way down to the ground, filled with pictures of the extraordinary people who guided me, who took a chance on me, who supported me. They are the answer. They are how I got to where I am today.

  Think of all the people who’d fill your pocket photo file. Or even the pages of your book. I never really considered writing a book, and wondered—when someone suggested the idea—whether I could. I can’t remember a damn thing! Big problem. A good friend of mine, aware of my recall issues, mailed me a package of dried blueberries when she heard about my book project. The enclosed card (I’m told) read, “Good for your memory. Start eating these by the bushel!” Well, the package never arrived. Classic. The berries got lost, just like my memories.

  Turns out, though, several hundred pages later, I did have a book in me. I do remember things once I dig around in the fuzzy matter a bit. (I wisely issued shovels to my siblings, too.) So, what’s my book about? It’s about where I’m from. My family. The hunt for my first television job. And the double whammy that took my breast and broke my heart at the same time. It’s about stories I’ve covered around the globe. Hurricanes Katrina and Kathie Lee. What I’ve learned so far in my life. It’s about how the dirt that gets kicked in our faces sometimes transforms into magic dust. Most important, though, these pages are a way to give credit and thanks to the people who boldly stepped up when no one else would, and who quietly sat down next to me without being asked. My book is about all that and a random guy on a plane who told me, “Don’t hog your journey.”

  Okay, I won’t. Here’s my journey. I’m so glad you’re here. Pass the blueberries.

  MY VINYL PHOTO FILE

  Dad: Born and raised in Cairo, my dad came to America with my mom for a better life and to have a family. He raised me and my siblings as American kids, but we traveled to Egypt each summer to visit relatives and run our hands over the exotic pyramids. My dad valued learning and excellence, and his approval still drives me today. He died suddenly when I was in college—the most significant loss in my life.

  Mom: Behind every strong woman is a stronger woman. That’s my mom. Who I am and who I want to be is based on what I see in my mother. She’s gutsy, game for everything, and is my inspiration to live life with a positive outlook. And she agreed to share her family recipe for baklava with you. Love her.

  Hala: To know her is to do what she says. Hala’s usually right and she’s my big sister. Funny, smart, and loyal, Hala is the girl I want by my side and on my side. She was my rock when my world was rocked in 2007. I could not have made it through two of the biggest challenges of my life without my sister.

  Adel: My brother is a husband and father now, but to me he’ll always be the little kid Hala and I ordered around. The poor guy has been dominated by estrogen for decades, and now he has a wife and daughter along with the three Kotb women he’s managed his entire life. Adel is perfect in the role—calm, patient, and hilarious. He is so many things I am not—and so much of what I look for in a good man.

  Hannah: She’s damn near perfect. What can I say? Hannah is Adel’s daughter, my niece, and when “Aunt Hodie” comes out of her sweet mouth, I melt. She’s the family’s first and only of the next generation and she makes our world more fun. When I see Hannah’s dark brown curls bobbing my way, I want kids even more.

  Karen: Karen is my dearest friend and we talk on the phone every day, several times a day. The 200 miles between us may as well be zero. She lives in Boston, where she works as a morning TV anchor, but we met in New Orleans at WWL-TV. Both of our hearts broke covering Hurricane Katrina in 2005. I share with Karen a mutual love for that city and all the things that matter in my life.

  Ex-Husband: I was divorced in 2008 after a two-year marriage. I won’t dwell on this in the book. Too many other people deserve the ink.

  Stan Sandroni: Who gave you your first real job? Stan gave me mine after I’d been rejected more than two dozen times. In 1987, I was driving around the Southeast in my mom’s car, video résumé tape in my hand. Stan saw something in me that was invisible to twenty-seven other news directors who ejected my tape and said “Good luck.” Stan hired me at WXVT-TV in Greenville, Mississippi, and gave me the start I needed in an industry that I love to this day.

  Man on the plane: In 2007, I met a man somewhere over Ireland. I know his name, but when I tell his story, I call him “the man on the plane” because our meeting was so random and brief. Opposite of that was his memorable message—so specific and enlightening. He’s an angel in my life whom I met soaring through the heavens, and who I initially thought was just a stranger sitting to my left.

  Dr. Freya Schnabel: When I was diagnosed with cancer in 2007, I sought out the best surgeon in New York to tackle my cancer. She turned out to be Dr. Freya Schnabel. I love her solid reputation, calm demeanor, and sense of humor. I am forever grateful to her. When Freya found out I was writing a book, she made me promise to make her sound “blond and willowy.” So, when you read about Dr. Schnabel, picture her as blond, willowy, and the best at what she does. I swear, it’s all true.

  Amy Rosenblum: Not everyone says things to your face that you may not want to hear, thank God. But in the case of Amy Rosenblum, you probably need to listen. She’s a master at se
eing people’s strengths and weaknesses and that makes her a game changer. When she worked as a producer for the Today show, Amy helped me not only stay in the game, but advance a few spaces on the board. All the way to the fourth hour of Today.

  Kathie Lee: Her name alone elicits a response—a smile or a groan. There’s not much middle ground when it comes to people’s reaction to Kathie Lee, but the middle is not where she hangs out. She’s at home on one side or the other, with solid opinions about everything and a willingness to share them. If she’s your good friend, she’ll share everything else with you, too. I’ve come to know Kathie Lee as generous, loyal, and skilled in the art of good TV. In my wildest dreams I never thought I’d be sharing my mornings and several cocktails with KLG.

  My hair: I make a big deal out of my hair in this book and you may think that’s weird. But my life story would be incomplete without explaining the pain in the ass that is my frizzy, coarse mop. I’ve had to tangle with this lid my whole life—and you’re gonna hear about it.

  PART ONE

  The Back Story

  1

  WHAT IS YOU?

  There was a day in Greenville, Mississippi, that didn’t really surprise me, but it did startle me. I was twenty-one, working as a television news reporter at the CBS affiliate, making a call on a pay phone. An older black woman walked up to me in the phone booth, cupped my face in her hands, looked into my eyes, and asked, “What is you?”

  There it was. The question. People have asked it in one form or another for most of my life. Always, the answer in my head is: I’m just me. But I don’t mind. I get that my name and my appearance require an explanation.

  So, here it is.

  I am Egyptian.

  So is my name, Hoda Kotb.

  What? Rhoda? Yoda Kotba? I’ve even had . . . Photo Copy?

  My name has always triggered a guessing game. Is it pronounced Kotbeeeeee? Isn’t there a vowel missing? NBC Nightly News anchor Brian Williams once told me that I was the land mine in his teleprompter. (Oh, Lord . . . here comes that name . . .)

  With NBC’s Brian Williams

  Both of my parents were born in Egypt. And believe it or not, Hoda Kotb is actually the Jane Smith of the Nile. If you walk down the streets of Cairo and yell “Hi, Hoda!” a dozen girls will turn. Over there, I am every girl. Here, I’m unique. And I like that.

  My parents, Sameha and Abdel Kotb, met at a law firm where they both worked after graduating from Cairo University in 1958. My dad, captain of a club crew team, invited a big group of female coworkers, including my mom, to watch him row in a race along the Nile River. He was already in a serious relationship with a girl from Germany, so his invitation was simply for fun.

  Well, my mom was the only girl to show up on the banks of the river that day to watch my dad row, row, row his boat. And, as fate would have it, his sole spectator would soon become his soul mate. He broke up with his girlfriend, the two families checked each other out, and in 1959, my mom and dad were married at an officers’ club in Cairo, with the ancient Egyptian pyramids as a dramatic backdrop.

  Egyptian weddings are a big deal. The hot-damn-I-think-I-see-a-sparkling-oasis-in-the-middle-of-the-Sahara kind of big. The goal is to dazzle, beginning with what’s known in the Middle East as the zaffa. Picture a shimmering procession of belly dancers, musicians, and men carrying flaming swords. They signify with great splendor that a wedding is about to begin. In America, the next step would be the ceremony and the vows. But in Egypt, weddings unfold in the reverse order. The actual signing of the marriage papers comes right before the wedding, so the couple is already officially married by the time the ceremony begins. My parents’ wedding did indeed follow the ancient tradition of zaffa, complete with a festive march of bagpipes, horns, and drums. Down came my mom from atop a long staircase, wearing a beautiful white gown hemmed at mid-calf, as was the Egyptian tradition during the time. My maternal grandfather was a Supreme Court judge in Egypt, so the guest list included quite a rock star—Egyptian president Gamal Abdel Nasser—and his cabinet members, too.

  Loud and lively, the wedding celebration included an amazing buffet of traditional Egyptian food. There were several kinds of savory salads and saffron rice. Meat dishes featured kufta, kebabs, and grilled chicken along with fish. For dessert, in addition to a Western-style wedding cake, guests also were served baklava and other layered, honey-soaked pastries. The celebration lasted into the wee hours of the morning. The now Mr. and Mrs. Kotb stayed in Cairo for their honeymoon and enjoyed a room at the Mena House, a luxury hotel.

  Only one week later, my parents departed for a new life in the United States. That fact alone proves that I come from strong, brave stock. If you could actually look at my family roots under a microscope, you’d see countless strands of rebar winding through the female side. So strong are the women before me, there are pioneers everywhere you look. My maternal grandmother, Tawhida, was a pistol. She became a doctor at a time when it was unheard of for women to assume such roles. And she was raising seven kids! My mom’s aunt, my great-aunt Moufida, was the first female lawyer in all of Egypt back in the 1930s. She also became a member of parliament during that time, another difficult feat for a woman. And she achieved it all while raising nine kids! There’s a story about how she bristled when a male lawyer barked at her, “You, get me some tea!” She refused, and said, “No. I’m a lawyer just like you.” (No surprise that my own mother raised three children while she pursued a second degree and worked.)

  My grandfather Mahmoud Abdel-Latif; my great-aunt Moufida; my aunt Safi; Mom; President Nasser; Dad; my uncle Abdel Hamid; and pictured in the back, my grandmother Tawhida

  At Cairo University, my father learned to speak four languages and walked away with bachelor’s and master’s degrees in petroleum engineering. My mom graduated first in her class and earned a law degree. So, why did they leave for the United States just a week after they were married?

  For a very cool opportunity.

  My father’s top grades, followed by his very first engineering job in Germany, landed him a scholarship to get his Ph.D. at the University of Oklahoma, a world-renowned petroleum engineering school. My mom’s law degree would not be recognized in the United States, but since she always loved books, she happily chose to study for a master’s in library science also at the University of Oklahoma. Yep, Okies from . . . Cairo. (Doesn’t quite have the same ring, does it?) There they were, in Norman, Oklahoma, both enrolled at OU, starting the family they’d always dreamed of and going to college. For extra money, my parents both interviewed for jobs at the state hospital. Whoops! Those two words—state hospital—didn’t click in their culture as a facility for people with psychiatric issues. Understandably, my dad didn’t last very long—none too happy about wrestling patients in the maximum security ward. My mom stayed for a year and a half, working as a nurse’s assistant. On a brighter note, the Kotbs took in their first-ever football game in Norman, cheering on the Oklahoma Sooners and absorbing every detail about this very American sport—one they would come to love for life.

  I recently watched home movies of my parents, living in Oklahoma and doing their thing. The films were made for the folks back home to show what ‘A Day in the Life of the Kotbs in America’ looked like. The reels show a classic scene—my dad in his hard hat at the Oklahoma oil rigs doing fieldwork for school. (Cue Leave It to Beaver.) He gets out of a shiny blue car, shuts the solid door, and walks off clutching his standard-issue lunch box. There are shots of him eating a sandwich, getting back into the car, then the film cuts to him and my mom holding hands and walking into the surf on Galveston Bay. What must all the relatives have thought of this young and brave couple!

  Sami and Abdel Kotb

  Over four years, from 1961 to 1965, my parents had three kids—my sister Hala (pronounced Hala like Hala-fornia), me, and my brother Adel (rhymes with rattle). My parents were so proud to be Americans citizens. They dressed in the current styles and demanded we speak English as our first
language. They wanted us to be red, white, and blue. We were United States citizens and were taught to never consider ourselves different. Imagine that! Me with my wild, frizzy hair, stop-sign glasses, and funny name. But still, we were reared as American kids. What a gift from my parents, raising us to never live in the shadow of “different.”

  Now, to be clear, I didn’t always feel all-American. My looks often left me feeling self-conscious. As much as my parents raised us to fit in, I couldn’t whitewash my name or this hair. God, this hair. (More about that later and often.) By the time I was old enough to go to kindergarten, we had moved from Oklahoma to Morgantown, West Virginia, for my dad’s work. And, argh! I hated roll call. Remember that in grammar school? You probably don’t. Because your name is normal. My first day in each grade always began like this:

  Me in my stop-sign glasses, sixth grade photo

  “Suzie Kalfer . . .”

  “Mike Kauffman . . .”

  No . . . Lord . . . no . . .

  “Chris Kennedy . . .”

  Oh . . . we’re just one away . . .

  Second grade photo

  “Hmm. Uh . . . is this . . . okay, we’ve got, uh . . . How do you say your name?”

  And all the heads would snap around to check out the weird kid. I wanted to disappear.

  Just skip me! Please skip me!

  I remember being encouraged by the teacher to use my “playground voice” because I would always whisper; I was so embarrassed. When you have a weird name and your hair and skin are different and you don’t blend in, it’s a long year. You have to work extra hard to make friends. And just when you do, it’s time for the next grade and a new roll call. Gulp. My saving grace came once a year when the class would tackle world geography and everyone chose a region to study. I always picked my ace in the hole, a country in the Middle East. Lebanon—yes! That’s for me. My mom would bake baklava, we’d play authentic Arabic music, and my parents would actually come in to class to answer questions. They told stories about the Great Sphinx and other wonders from our faraway land. They were rock stars. And for once, so was I!