Through My Window

June 1, 2020

My window squirrel has no formal name, but it probably thinks that I call it by "hhhuuup," the audible sound of shock that escapes me when it slams against my window.

I didn't ask for my window squirrel, just like how I didn't ask to be forced back home to do schooling online. But, when there's a global pandemic, I suppose I have no other choice. So, I set up my laptop on the desk built into the wall of my childhood bedroom. I open the overlooking window wide because I hate when people have terrible lighting in their screens. Sometimes I take the thirty minutes to look presentable to attend Zoom University. Most of the time, though, I throw myself out of bed three minutes before class starts, counting down until I can jump back in. I try to angle my camera so that my classmates won't see the unmade bed that's right behind me, but then I think, Fuck it, they'll understand.

One morning, I looked out the window above my computer screen. As I kept getting distracted by the wildlife that scurried past my view, I wondered why the people who had built this house had made it so that the downstairs level was only halfway underground, meaning that all windows were just above the dirt. They didn't think it could be an easy escape for teenagers trying to sneak out or an easy entryway for bugs trying to get in. They didn't consider the desert sandstorms, and I'm sure that the possibility of a window squirrel was far from their concerns.

When it first threw itself against my window, I was paying attention in class for once. The resounding thud caused me to jump, and as I clutched my chest, I looked from the brown squirrel peering at me to my laptop. If anyone was paying attention to my camera, then they saw my terrified reaction. My thoughts began to race. Had anyone seen me? If they did, what did they think? There's no way they knew that a squirrel had just jettisoned into my window because I was on mute, as is courtesy. But, for a moment, I wished that they had heard it. I could explain what happened, and then we could all laugh. However, that was not reality, and I was scared that I looked like a crazy person as I began to catch my breath.

Maybe, if the squirrel had only visited me once, I would joke about it and move on. However, it has become a routine visitor to my window, almost always greeting me in the same way. I wish that I didn't always flinch in response.

Nobody pointed it out or asked me what was wrong, but as often as it happened, I was sure that somebody saw it. Maybe they brushed it off. After all, cats and dogs hopped into others' laps all the time, obstructing our view and temporarily stealing the show. I've witnessed family members walk in to discuss something or go across the screen. Other people have had these moments, but because they couldn't see the source, my window squirrel became my personal secret and demon.

I didn't know that the window squirrel was the least of my problems.

Growing up in a small town like Barstow is weird. I often thought of myself as being closed off from the rest of the world. When big things happened, I only ever saw them on the news, not down the street. Coming back to Barstow, I assumed it would be the same, even with all the COVID-19 stuff. And I was right. It didn't feel much different. Most people wore masks, and our three main stores did run out of toilet paper. But we had only ten cases of the Corona Virus. As the weeks into quarantine ran on, things seemed more regular, and people took it less and less seriously. The only thing that seemed different was my anxiety as I watched the news, which showed realities that could become my own.

Then, the Veterans Home, one of eight in all of California, was threatened to be shut down because the very real economic costs of this pandemic that some people here consider to be "a fake disease" meant real cuts to the budget. Barstownians took to Facebook and other social media to show their dissent. A government official backed them up, promising to prevent the shutdown. Someone made signs that were displayed all over the town: "You fought for our country, now we fight for you." Another had started an online petition that showed up on my Facebook feed in every other post. One person thought it was a good idea to organize an in-person protest, but due to social distancing restraints, they planned a car-rally-parade that would go up Barstow road and pass by the Home. It was meant to show the town's support for our veterans.

Memorial Day conveniently came the next Monday, and so it was the obvious day to hold this protest. I didn't go because I feared the repercussions of a crowd, but my best friend, who swears that she and her boyfriend had the virus in February, did. She later revealed to me that it was everything I worried about. Thousands of people showed up in their cars and on their motorcycles. Rumor has it that people came from all over California, including Sacramento and Los Angeles, and a handful was even from Nevada. An event that was only supposed to last an hour went on for almost five as these vehicles drove the two-mile route at a five-mile per hour rate. Worse, the waiting cars had gathered at the starting point: a park and the community center that were right across the street from each other. Both parking lots were packed, and instead of staying in their vehicles, people got out to socialize with neighbors, friends, and even strangers. I saw videos on Snapchat; it was one big party, and no one was wearing masks or standing six feet apart.

It put Barstow on the news, something that has only happened two or three times in my almost twenty years of life. I wanted someone from my classes to ask me about it, hoping that they, too, had seen the short news video that was blowing up in my town. No one said anything.

That was last Monday. While I haven't heard of any increase in COVID cases, I fear that an outbreak is right around the corner. This disease blew up too fast to not punish those who carelessly gather, even with good intentions. But this disastrous disease is also the least of our problems.

Today, reality crashed into our small town. The protests that took place all over the country during the weekend began oozing into the high desert. Since we are located directly between Los Angeles and Las Vegas, a curfew was placed from 6 PM today to 6 AM tomorrow in fear of drifting protesters and riots. Wal-Mart closed early, and my sister, who was there right before they shut down unannounced, walked out of the store as the workers began to board up all the windows. My dad, who was out slightly past curfew started and luckily wasn't caught, drove down a different Main Street than usual as all the stores and restaurants were boarded up. My boyfriend, whose parents run a local locksmith company, revealed to me that his dad was running guns over to their shop at the last minute. Before curfew hit, Barstow prepared to be hit in the worst places, and the truth and severity of the situation hit me as it has never done before.

I can’t help but feel as if it isn’t real. The craziness of the world is leaking into my world, and yet I am the squirrel looking through the window into a familiar place that suddenly became unfamiliar. As uncertainty and possible disasters fill my room, I must ignore it all to attend one last round of classes and begin working on my finals to finish my third quarter at UCLA as if nothing has happened. I will sit down at that desk and pray that my window squirrel rears its ugly head because, for once, I will welcome it.