I walk into the Hyatt Regency Embarcadero, voices chattering from all directions bouncing through my brain like a rubber pinky ball. I feel the vibrations of hundreds of footsteps press up through the floor into each cell of my legs.
Walking into the Associated Collegiate Press National Media Conference in San Francisco is my initiation into the world of student journalism conferences. The cacophony takes my breath away. Shoulders hunched up past my ears, I take little steps in the crowd, trailing Buck, my communication partner. Colors swirl before me, blending with the voices; my synesthesia is in full bloom. It has a huge impact on my ability to discern between myself and others. My body loses its contours as I feel myself shape-shifting. Now I am formless.
I worry I will fail at my first college journalism conference.
I am scared and lost. I am not like them. My autism prevents my speech from matching my intention. Will I keep my cool, or will I run with my hands over my ears? Will I look weird, inducing stares from cute girls? Maybe my mouth will spew some accidental words; Please, God, don’t let me sound dumb!
Suddenly, I am aware of a woman talking to Buck, who is carrying the letterboard I use to spell out my thoughts. She is with a young man with a smaller letterboard strapped to his waist and carrying an iPad. It’s Alfonso, a speller friend from Southern California whom I barely remember, and the woman (his mom) knows my mom. I am no longer alone in this chaotic place. Standing in the hallways feels hellish, and smiling rarely manages to ease my angst. The small space and the hordes of people close in on me. I want to disappear.
Sometimes I need to actually hide so my nerves can reset. I chase my imaginary scared self into the corners of my mind by hiding behind pillars. It’s a trick I learned as a child to think I was invisible and mask my nervousness. Mastering any new social skill is an intense effort for my autistic brain and body. I must come out, show my face and try to look normal. My mind needs more time to hide. No one notices me and I’m glad. I step out and make myself slowly blend into the scene before me.
With Buck to help me and now another speller journalist in tow, I should be solid. Yet despite the supports in place, my sensory system is shaky. It isn’t until partway through the first presentation on “Restorative Practices in the Newsroom” that my body begins to settle. The speaker’s message is a warm blanket of cognitive comfort. From then on, things feel manageable. I have allowed myself to acclimate to the environment. It is more than that. Is it the best I can do? Will it be enough? I let it in. I deserve to be here.
In the “Disability Reporting” session, I feel I’m part of the group because of our shared interest. I unlock a scared part of myself that feels separate and invite my peers to embrace that part.
Hanging out in the lobby with my fellow Oak Leaf staff members — such good people — relaxes me. My senses are integrated and calm now. Going to dinner with my class tests my patience. Restaurants mean long lines, wait times, noise and tons of talking faces. My hunger, however, trumps my anxiety. I’m glad to be there with them, listening to their banter in my silence. With Buck by my side, I stay grounded.
Waking in the hotel is disorienting. Moving through my usual morning routine, my nerves give way to my growling stomach. The hunt for breakfast leads us to a buffet, where we eat our fill and mentally prepare for day two.
Joining the conference in full swing, I move in a blur of presentations and loud award ceremonies. The expression of celebration at max volume makes joy a chaotic experience to share. My muscles feel tense with the loud, happy screeches as the winners are announced. The room is crowded and hot. Noise reverberates off the walls and rises to the ceiling.
The snacks provided force me back into my body. Masking to the best of my ability, I force my practiced smile and try not to stand out.
My parents’ attendance on the second day surprises me in a way that is uplifting and not encumbering in the way I suspect they thought it might be. I join the ranks of award-winning college journalists yet again, delighting at the fact that when the announcer calls my name, it will fall upon their proud ears.
The experience is one I’ll take in bits and pieces through my journey in college writing. To say I enjoyed the conference would be underselling it. I endured my points of success. I stayed present amidst sensory duress and overstimulation. In my mind, that’s the best outcome I could hope for.
