Docudrama by Sarah Tuft
Performed by members of the Geneseo community
By Elizabeth Hulsbrink
Tuesday, September 11, 2001 is a day carved into our memory. Not sketched. Brutally carved. And anyone over the age of about 10 on that day could tell you exactly where they were, what they were doing, and how the world changed when the news of the attacks hit the public.
Fast-forward to Sunday, September 14, 2025, twenty-four years later, to a local production honoring the victims and giving homage for the survivors.
From the first crash at the Twin Towers to the final goodbye at Ground Zero, 110 Stories, written by Sarah Tuft, offers a raw and moving portrayal of 9/11—told not through news footage or political speeches, but through the real voices of those who lived it. This docudrama, built from actual interviews, weaves together first-person accounts that bring the unimaginable into deeply personal focus.
The cast of characters isn’t made up of officials or celebrities, but of everyday people whose stories are often overlooked: a mother, a photojournalist, an ironworker, a chiropractor, a dog handler, and a homeless man who became an unlikely hero. Each one brought something unique and deeply human to the stage.
One particular character who stood out to me most was the father whose son, of Pakistani descent, was missing. His quiet desperation and restrained emotion were deeply moving. He didn’t need to raise his voice—every word reflected the heavy weight of uncertainty and fear. His story stayed with me, a reminder of the personal pain and quiet strength carried by so many, including families who also faced the burden of cultural bias in the aftermath.
Another story that resonated with me personally was the mother who couldn’t find her child. Her panic was palpable, and as a parent, I felt her fear deep in my chest. The rawness of her desperation—searching, hoping, not knowing—was heartbreaking. Her story captured the chaos of that day through a deeply personal lens that stayed with me long after the scene ended.
The ironworker’s account particularly stood out to me. It reminded me of the stories my husband often brings home from his own work—tales of courage, hard labor, some laughter (like finding a 40-year-old beer can in a steel beam!) and resilience in difficult conditions. Hearing the ironworker’s experience gave me a new appreciation for the everyday bravery of those who faced unimaginable danger that day.
The dog handler’s story touched me deeply, bringing tears to my eyes as I listened to the incredible tenacity and seemingly impossible endurance of the dog. Through the handler’s words, I could feel the bond between them—the unwavering loyalty and courage that carried them both through unimaginable challenges. It was a powerful reminder of the silent heroes in that tragedy, whose strength and determination often went unnoticed but made a profound difference.
What struck me most was how the play didn’t shy away from the chaos and confusion of that day—many accounts were unfiltered, panicked, even darkly humorous in moments. That balance of emotional weight and raw honesty made it all feel incredibly real.
Each actor spoke from different areas of the stage, creating a tennis-match viewing experience that initially left me feeling annoyed and frustrated—until I realized it was intentional. Kudos to director Jackie Patterson of Geneseo for her creative vision in staging the actors across different areas of the stage, because what first felt disorienting soon revealed itself to be an intentional, powerful choice—mirroring the confusion and chaos of that day. It was a bold move that deepened the emotional impact and pulled me further into the experience.
Perhaps the most powerful aspect of 110 Stories is its refusal to lean into politics. Instead, it honors the human experience—highlighting the compassion, fear, courage, and resilience that united New Yorkers in the face of unthinkable tragedy.
When the program ended, I felt a quiet reserve settle over me—as if speaking aloud would somehow disturb the weight of what we had just witnessed. It felt appropriate to leave in silence, out of respect for the real people whose stories had been shared. That silence became a final act of reverence for the survivors and the lost alike.
In the end, 110 Stories doesn’t just memorialize a tragic day—it breathes life into it, reminding us not just of what was lost, but of the strength that rose from the ashes