The Way Out
Last week, there was a squirrel stuck in the courtyard outside my classroom. This is not the first time a squirrel has become stuck in the courtyard. It sounds cute, but it’s not. At first, yes, the squirrel was charming. He bounded from classroom to classroom, standing on his hind legs, wiggling his nose when I would peak my head out to talk to him. Then last Wednesday, during my third-period class, I looked over to find him clinging to the outside of my window, pressing his nose against the glass. The kids were startled. I was startled. The squirrel was startled.
My seniors came in for their fourth-period class, and I told them about the squirrel. I explained that this was not the first time I had met with such an interloper and, as high school students do, they asked to name the squirrel. Of course, I said. Children after my own heart, they decided on Rodya – a diminutive of Rodion, and the nickname of Rodion Romanovich Raskolnikov, the ax-murdering anti-hero in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. They made adorable literary jokes, asking the squirrel if he was counting his steps (as Raskolnikov obsessively does) or if he had buried his treasure (after he murders his money lender, you guessed it, Rodion buries his stolen treasure).
We giggled, made a few more nerdy jokes, and then got down to the business of discussing Russian literature. Against my better judgment but motivated by the rising indoor temperatures, I opened my classroom windows. What was the worst that could happen? This particular courtyard is closed, and roughly ten classrooms have windows that open onto it. Heavy paned, clunky, and original to the sixty-year-old building – the top windows swing out while the bottom ones open inward, creating a perfect squirrel ramp.
At the end of fourth period, I left my room to go to a meeting, completely forgetting about the squirrel and my open windows. The meeting was scheduled to take forty-five minutes, so I had a substitute scheduled to cover my homeroom class. As I raced into my classroom after the meeting to begin my fifth-period class, you can guess what the sub told me. There had been a squirrel breach. My homeroom students had entered the classroom to find the sub sitting unsuspectingly at my desk as Rodya skittered frantically back and forth along the length of the window ledge. They yelled. She yelled. The squirrel flew out the window.
I think I speak for most teachers when I say that a wild rodent loose in their classroom would fall on the list of “worst nightmare” scenarios. I vowed to keep my windows locked up tightly and finished up my day, casually walking down to the main office to share the story with the office staff. Everyone was horrified, but no one seemed keen to do anything about it.
I came in Thursday morning, and within twenty minutes of the start first period, Rodya was scratching at the glass. I poked my head out, and he stood up on his hind legs. I swear he was looking me straight in the eye, his little paws perched in front of him, tail twitching. If I’d started singing, I half believe a whole fleet of forest animals would have joined him to circle around me and clean my classroom. “You’re a bold little man,” I told him. “No. You can’t come in here.” He looked dismayed, dropped to all fours, and scampered back to the tree in the center of the courtyard.
As the day went on, Rodya became increasingly frantic. I watched him approach classroom after classroom and stand up to look in. During my sixth period prep, he climbed all the way up the outside of my window only to be blocked by the overhang of the roof. When he lost his grip and fell twelve feet to the ground, I couldn’t take it anymore. It turns out Rodya was not a fan of deep literary discussion, as I had joked with my students. He didn’t want to get in my classroom – he wanted to get out of the courtyard. He wasn’t cute; he was desperate.
Two years ago, when another squirrel was caught in the courtyard, my heart broke for him (or her), and my dad built me a “squirrel ladder” out of old lumber nailed together. The “ladder” was still lying outside in the shrubbery and I knew what I had to do. Ignoring the classes that were going on, I walked out into the courtyard. Teachers called out their windows: “Watch out for the squirrel!” “Are you going to help the squirrel?” Unable to see in their shade darkened windows, I yelled: “I’m trying to save him!” I picked up the rickety boards and swung them skyward to lean against the building. Then I walked back into my classroom and waited. I watched Rodya take a flying leap off the tree in the center of the courtyard – only to miss the roof and land in the bush outside my window. It was awful. It was like watching American Ninja Warrior, but there were no padded landings for my little squirrel buddy. I talked out loud to him. “Come on Rodya. Find the ladder.” Another teacher came in and we watched together.
Suddenly I glanced out, and he was halfway up the makeshift escape route. “He found it!” I yelled. “Shhhh. Don’t move,” the other teacher said. We held our breath. Rodya inched his way up. When he didn’t fall or climb back down, I cheered. I felt like I had saved the world – or at least a teeny-tiny part of it. Obviously, little Rodya got me thinking. At first, I thought his antics were cute, and other teachers and students commented on how adorable the squirrel was. Only time revealed that his behavior was a cry for help. He needed out, and he needed help to get there.
How often do we misjudge or misunderstand the actions of others as attention seeking, funny, or irritating when they are, in fact, not in need of our laughter or our scorn, but of our help? On the flip side, how often are we Rodya – frantic in what we need or want, but uncertain of how to get there – so desperate that we throw ourselves over and over again off the same tree, leaping for the same roof just beyond our reach, unable to see the ladder someone has set up to save us? We are all me, and we are all Rodya. I believe, though, that with a little compassion and little perspective, we can reach out to one another and glimpse the hands outstretched to save us.
Until next time…