apocalypse when?

I don't think I had ever seen it rain so hard in Richmond. The window leaked a little after it was fixed, but that night rivulets of rain water were pooling on the sill before sliding down the duct tape and trashbag surface I had rigged and into the giant plastic storage container below.

I looked at my handiwork and felt an odd mixture of pride blended with shame. On one hand, my rain catcher worked really well. On the other hand, this is what crazy people do. I could imagine someone walking through my door, seeing the enormous hodgepodge of duct tape and plastic, and inquiring as to the number of cats I have stashed in my house.

When people use the term "War", as in "the education War" or "the War in urban cities",  I immediately roll the eyes in the back of my head (all teachers have them). Certainly, with the exception of perhaps one or two neighborhoods in the United States, teaching and living in the same neighborhoods as the populations we serve cannot be likened to war. Indeed, even if it were a bullet that smashed my window a few months earlier, I would still be hesitant to make the comparison. I will say, though, that the psychological side effects of this life and this work have been staggering.

Sometimes, I involuntarily remember a scene from Apocalypse Now. You know the one I'm talking about. Martin Sheen's character is stuck in a hotel room in Saigon and alternates between hallucination, drunken fury, and mirror-smashing feats of strength and insanity.

If there were a hidden camera in my house, viewers would be treated to a similar display of crazy. Though I will admit, significantly less alcohol, hallucinations, and bad-luck-inducing mirror breakings are involved. (Side note: Really? Breaking a mirror? You think you need seven years of bad luck in Vietnam?)

The most common example of this is the psychotic rigging I create around the house in order to exert some control over my surroundings. I spent a good hour outside a few weeks ago lugging around a board with the intent to somehow attach it to the front of my window. Ideally, this would magically make the scoundrels think that rock throwing is futile and they should go volunteer at a soup kitchen somewhere. In reality, I couldn't even get the board to stay in front of the window. This would involve me exposing my ankles to the Realm of the Spiders, which is what I'm sure the area of wall near the ground would be called by anyone else too. There are literally hundreds of spiders down there. My list of enemies grows.

In the picture above, you'll notice a few things. First, the board is still there as a constant reminder of my failure to effectively balance it on the table you see under the window. Second, the chair and rake combination should be familiar to anyone who has ever yelled, "get off my lawn" at a group of kids. Finally, the "beware of dog" sign is there in case a crazy-eyed 24 year old holding a rake doesn't scare everyone off.

No matter how staunchly I rig my house against rain and vandalism, however, the inevitable darkness of night removes any confidence I had during the day. If I listen to music, it's barely audible so I can hear if another attack is taking place. If I'm in the living room, I take periodic peeks outside my door just in case. After my car window was smashed in with a rock, I parked it down the street from my house and sprinted from my car to my front door.

All this had led me to one conclusion: in my head, rocks are being thrown at my window every single night. They might as well be; any bump I hear outside unleashes a flood of adrenaline that makes my heart pound against my ribcage. This happens even when I'm not home. Over Winter Break, in the safety of my parents' house, any unidentified noise in the middle of the night left my palms sweating and my mouth dry. My knees were constantly bruised from being banged against the wall next to my bed during a mid-sleep hypnic jerk. I returned to Richmond better rested, but still on edge.

The culmination of this neurosis led to a very dark night alone in my house. I was straightening my hair in the bathroom on a Friday night, about to go watch my boyfriend play music with his classical guitar orchestra in Davis. The outfit I was planning to wear was hanging on the door; I was wearing makeup for the first time in weeks.

Then I heard the rocks.

They started out as quiet tappings as the rocks hit the stucco next to the window. Then, as their aim improved, it seemed like the whole living room shook with the impact. I sprinted out the front door, screaming as loud as I could.
"HEY! KNOCK IT OFF! STOP IT!"
My voice grew raspy with the impending flood of tears, but still I yelled. It was the only thing I felt I could do.
I checked the window. It was scuffed, but miraculously in one piece. A brief search on the ground next to the window revealed their weapon of choice.

Not a small rock.

I pulled a chair outside, held my golf club awkwardly as I extracted my phone from my pocket, and called the non-emergency line for the Richmond Police. I explained that someone was throwing rocks at my window, and the dispatcher said she'd send someone by. I settled myself down in my chair, clutched my weapon, and waited.

Against my better judgement, I called my parents while I waited once more. They were still worried from the last incident, and I hesitated to worry them again. My dad answered. They were out in downtown Ventura about to sit down to dinner. In an unsteady, rambling way, I described what had just happened and assured them that I was okay. As I said the words "I'm okay", though, something strange occurred. My voice was already shaking with the frigid temperature outside, the freezing cold golf club I held with no intention of putting it to use, and now the onslaught of tears. I imagined my parents sitting in our favorite restaurant downtown. I imagined it was warm and smelled like curry. The lights outside the restaurant twinkle and the hum of human voices waft through the air.

I collapsed into silent, wracking sobs. I felt so stupid for not being there with my family who loves me. I felt so stupid for being so afraid of rocks. I felt stupid for sitting on my porch with a golf club like I was actually going to do anything with it. I felt stupid for calling the police. I realized in that moment that the police were never going to come. I was right.

I don't remember what the rest of the conversation was with my parents, but I do remember that later that night, blinded with non-waterproof mascara and rage, I nailed a quilt to the inside of my window. I'm not totally sure what my logic was behind that move, but I think it was as follows: I can't stop them from throwing rocks and bricks at my window, but I sure as hell wasn't going to sit there as glass exploded all over my living room again.

At the time, I thought what I was doing by nailing a quilt to the wall was protecting myself and my dog against shattered glass. In retrospect, what I was doing was something much more dramatic. I was creating a bunker.

As I blocked out the last bit of natural light that shone into my house, I also set the tone for the next month or so that the quilt remained on my window. Unless the lights in my house were on, I would sit in pitch darkness in my living room, even if it were sunny outside.

The quilt finally came down about a week ago. I wanted to celebrate what I thought marked the end of the attacks on my house. Even after I realized that the attacks were far from over, however, I didn't put the quilt back up.

I didn't move here to build more walls. I moved here to tear them down.