Throwdown at TIPA

ASHLEY SMITH
The Signal

My hands tremble as I slowly exhale, trying to settle the nerves that are vibrating through my body. The heart in my chest pounds faster and faster, threatening to escape with every beat. I clench the script, holding on to it like a lifeline, reading the words for the tenth time in a 5-minute time span. I wrestle with the urge to bolt when I finally hear the words I’ve been waiting for. My cue has come. I pull out my phone, and the fight begins.

The annual Texas Intercollegiate Press Association conference has always been a solace to me. It gives journalists a place to network and mingle with other journalists from colleges all around Texas. I am able to fully be myself, because everyone there shares my passion.

This is my third year going to the conference, my first as a representative of UHCL. The road trip there was an adventure in itself. Our lovely pilot behind the wheel had my cohorts popping anxiety pills, praying and generally burying their heads into whatever they could find. We did eventually make it to Fort Worth in one piece, all of us just a little more grateful for life. As soon as I stepped foot into the hotel, my anxiety began.

Let me rewind a minute.

The conference consists of a full day of on-site contests, followed by a day of workshops hosted by professors and professionals in the field. The last day of the conference is the awards ceremony where we finally see if our hard work has paid off. Our group was in charge of the news on-site event. The scenario we decided on consisted of a news conference being interrupted when one student accused another of cheating. The fight then escalates rapidly. I volunteered to play the part of the cheater.

I have never had any desire to be a big star. I never craved the spotlight, so me volunteering for such a role is completely out of character. This explanation brings me back to the anxiety I felt walking into the hotel. I knew the moment was getting closer and I knew I wasn’t ready.

We finally checked in, made our way to our designated rooms, refreshed and headed off to dinner. After a lovely, and bank-breaking, dinner we decided to practice our fight. My anxiety grew in the pit of my stomach, feeling like some kind of alien entity biding its time waiting for the opportune moment to burst through my gut. We blocked out our moves and headed to bed.

That night was spent tossing and turning as different scenarios and questions raced through my head. What if someone intervenes? What if real cops come? I can’t handle being tased!

Light filtered into the room and a digital rooster roused us from a not-so-deep slumber. It was a beautiful morning and I felt like throwing up. Why did I agree to do this? I’m not an actor; I can’t handle this pressure. The morning went by in a blur, but somehow I came out of my room showered, dressed and my hair and make-up fixed.

I made my way down to the conference room, shaking and sweating as if I was making my way to my execution. With my faculty adviser in the role of the accuser, we ran through the movements that we blocked out the night before. Feeling less confident in my acting skills than ever before, I made my way to my competition. I tried to put the whole situation out of my head and focus on the task at hand. My concentration was completely gone and time ran out before I could finish. The feeling of regret I felt for not finishing couldn’t overpower the rush of anxiety that vibrated through every inch of my body. The moment was minutes away and I had to fight the overwhelming feeling of fleeing and never looking back.

Before I had a chance to escape, my cohort spotted me and escorted me to the conference room. This was it. No more practicing or blocking, it was time for the real thing. I fidgeted in my seat reading and re-reading the script praying that my inner Kate Winslet would take over.

On cue I pulled out my phone and heard as my partner in crime began to bad mouth me. Then everything became a blur of screaming and cussing. As soon as people heard the commotion, the rushing sounds of blood-thirsty journalists came toward us, pushing to find a prime spot for that winning photo or to hear any quote-worthy quips. The script went completely out of both of our heads and as the anger escalated, we each became more abusive. F-bombs littered the conference room as we shoved each other and tried to remember what was next.

The pinnacle of the fight came when my accuser invaded my space, coming nose to nose with me and screaming in my face. I screamed, telling her to get out of my face and shoving her in the process. She then came at me like a freight train. Eventually we made it to the ground and after what felt like an hour of tousling on the floor, the faux security guards rushed in to break us up.

I was yanked off my accuser and forcefully handcuffed. In the heat of the moment as we verbally assaulted each other while the guards tried desperately to get us out of the room, my cohort made the ultimate insult. During the script-writing process, we made limitations of what could be said to each other. The one stipulation I had was she could not call me the c-word, which I believe is the most horrific thing anyone could call a woman. That would be the word she said. As soon as the word left her lips, I felt as if the room froze in that moment as a unanimous gasp escaped the lips of every person in that conference room.

We finally made it out of the room, down the hall and into the next conference room as a horde of journalists chased after us. The doors closed and immediately my partner in crime began to apologize. By the scared, regret-filled look on her face, I knew she was scared that I would be angry with her. Apology after apology left her mouth until I finally told her that I wasn’t upset, it wasn’t that big a deal. Yes, I hate that word, but I understand that sometimes things come out without thinking. I never felt angry with her; I was more relieved that the event was finally over. I could finally breathe again.

The rest of the conference was tame compared to that first day. I laughed, I learned and I loved every minute of it. If my short acting career taught me anything it’s this: only friends can truly fight with each other and not get mad, violence is okay with journalists, but if you bust out with the c-word everyone panics, and I have gained so much respect for celebrities who have to deal with the paparazzi.

To read more about what happened at TIPA, click here.