It started as a tradition at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner – I think so. I’ve never been to an event before, but based on other events I’ve attended at Hilton, including the HRC Gala, everything seemed pretty normal.
There was a lot of traffic. Police had cordoned off much of Adams Morgan, especially the streets, including the area around the hotel. It was the president’s first appearance since boycotting the event during his first term, and there was a sense of anticipation. It took me about 45 minutes to take an Uber from my apartment to the hotel, a distance of just under a mile. It was raining and I was wearing a green tuxedo, so I waited until the last minute to get out of the car, which was about to be late at 6:30.
I walked up to a group of people checking tickets at the foot of the hotel. It seemed like they were just looking at small index card sized tickets instead of doing a full security check outside. As we walked from the first checkpoint to the drive-around drop-off area, we essentially joined a long line on the red carpet. In the end, people were divided into those who wanted to take pictures and those who didn’t, but there was no need to show anything more than the small ticket upon entry, and even that was not strictly checked.
A light went out in my head. Given the speed at which the security guards checked tickets, I had a feeling that the foil logo and small table numbers might not be completely visible from that distance. I remember thinking that if I had a piece of paper the same size, I could have gotten through that.
I also noticed that unlike what I had seen at the HRC Gala the previous year, there was no actual security checkpoint or metal detector when I first entered the hotel grounds.
I waited about 35 minutes in line for the car drop-off area, but there were no cars as it had been repurposed to corral the press and their guests before entering the building and heading to the red carpet. I took a photo and went up the escalator to meet my date, Jacob Bernard of Democracy Forward. They wouldn’t let him on the red carpet without a ticket, so I gave him the ticket I had. Even though he didn’t have a ticket, he had already entered the venue and attended one of the pre-parties.
I also found it strange that you could access the pre-dinner party without having a ticket and without going through visible security.
After spotting him, we took a photo together at the step-and-repeat past the main red carpet area around 7:45. Oddly enough, a group of my friends (gay men often seen on the dance floors of gay bars in Washington, D.C., who work in various fields adjacent to government and media) spotted me and took a picture with me. None of them were White House correspondents, and none had a “hard pass” to the White House, a security credential that grants entry to the White House complex.
Another light went off in my head, indicating that party crashers probably shouldn’t be allowed into an event that was supposed to be one of the safest rooms in the country.
After the photos, groups of people could be seen being moved from pre-party spaces in various conference rooms on other floors and led to the main floor, where a red carpet had been rolled out.
My guest and I returned to the main floor and passed through a small security checkpoint with only a few metal detectors. From there, I walked down the stairs from the lobby into the International Ballroom and was seated at table 200. I talked to some people I know. A traditional chat before an event. The vibes felt good. It was my first time participating, and I was really looking forward to it.
At approximately 8:15 a.m., the Marine Corps Band performed and the “Commander’s Four” color guard presented flags. We were then asked to take our seats.
They introduced the head table: the president, first lady, vice president, and members of the White House Correspondents Association Board of Directors. Weijia Jiang, CBS News’ senior White House correspondent and WHCA president, gave a short speech that basically consisted of eating first and then moving on to the main program, which was supposed to feature The Mentalist’s Oz Perlman.
At this point, all 200 people at my table, including members of the Wall Street Journal, Blade, and European outlets, began eating. After about 15 minutes, the Washington Hilton staff began clearing the plates and preparing to serve the next course.
I heard four loud bangs as they cleared the dishes.
I saw hotel employees immediately start hunkering down. They seemed to understand the gravity of the situation much faster than most of the attendees, including myself. At first I thought maybe the tray had fallen over (but later I found out that wasn’t the case).
After about 30 seconds of watching people squat, look around in confusion, and continue eating and drinking, I got off. I knelt down, using the chair in front of me as a kind of barrier. I was at table 200 and felt a bit far away from where the actual incident occurred.
I then watched the President, along with the First Lady and others who were at the top table, be quickly removed by the Secret Service.
My reporter instincts kicked in and I grabbed my phone and started filming. SWAT team members could be seen storming the ballroom, running onto the stage and clearing the area. I took videos of people looking around confused as to what was happening.
A few minutes later, the audience was told by the WHCA President to please wait for a moment as he provided further information and guidance on what would happen next. There were indications that they might try to continue the event despite what happened.
Everyone started frantically checking X to see if any major news outlets were reporting it. I received text messages from family, friends, and colleagues about the rapidly evolving situation.
I walked to the bathroom. Twice to be exact. I couldn’t find it at first because it was hidden behind a black curtain. (The curtains were then removed, giving a clear view of the men’s restroom.)
First, on my way to the bathroom, I called my editor and told her what was going on. He instructed me to send a copy to another editor and have him make it available online. It was tough because the ballroom was in the basement of a 12-story hotel and there were very few services. I used SMS fallback to send updates (because iMessage wasn’t working).
When I returned to the table, people were still lingering calling, scrolling, texting, and sending photos and copy to the editor. I had already drafted the story and sent it in parts, adding details as I gathered more information.
I walked my guest towards the bathroom again. It was on the opposite side of the ballroom from our table. So we had to traverse a sea of ​​journalists, publicists, guests, and others talking and scrolling on their phones. My guest pointed out that the press conference was not being held in the ballroom where other people were, but in an alcove away from the ballroom doors and escalator exits.
The Bee Gees’ “Alive” was playing from the bathroom speakers, which was a bit on the nose.
On the way back, I heard someone talking on a microphone and hurried to the entrance of the banquet hall. WHCA Chairman Jiang Weijia gave a speech. She announced that the event was over and the space would be vacated.
He also said President Trump will hold a press conference at the White House in about 25 minutes.
At that moment, I realized that this was a race against time.
I called the editor again to give him an update and asked if I should go to the information session (I knew the answer was yes). he confirmed.
Then the crowd began to move. People grabbed wallets and bottles, some leaving behind their belongings. No one actively tried to force us out, even though it was technically becoming a crime scene. It felt more like a collective understanding. It means, “It’s time to leave.”
I texted my guest, “Okay, I have to go to the White House. I’m really sorry to have to say goodbye.”
I moved through the crowd toward the one exit I was allowed to use, weaving my way between women in fancy gowns and men dressed like penguins.
I put on my hardpress pass, opened the Capital Bikeshare app, reserved the nearest e-bike, and off I went.
I walked down Columbia Road to 20th and Wyoming, grabbed my bike and rode down Wyoming, then took 18th, crossed to U Street, and went straight on 16th to the White House. The ride was exhilarating. I also shot an Instagram Reel where I updated my followers on what was going on. I could see tourists and DC residents alike looking at me from cars and sidewalks, confused as to why a man in a tuxedo had jumped on a bicycle.
I got off my bike at the intersection of 16th Street and Lafayette Square and hurried toward the first security checkpoint at the White House, where press credentials were being checked. Luckily I had my own. After that, it was a mad dash. Everyone who passed began to move quickly.
I remember the sound of heels on what I thought were cobblestones or bricks. My own shoes rattled as I ran toward the White House alongside other journalists in heels and dress shoes.
At the Secret Service checkpoint, there was a separate line for hard pass holders. Having a hard pass allowed me to skip most of the lines of impeccably dressed journalists who didn’t think to bring their hard passes.
They were probably the most extravagantly dressed press I’ve ever seen, in tuxedos, gowns, and full makeup. It felt like “The Hunger Games.”
I went through security, passed my belongings through a metal detector, entered my PIN, grabbed my belongings, and ran to the briefing room.
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