By Alexandra DePalma, Contributor, Emerson College
I’ve shot a gun. Actually, I’ve shot a few guns. Actually I’m great at shooting.
My first time shooting, I shot a Ruger pistol—22 mm and used by Mossad, Israeli Secret Services, for assassinations. I stood at the top of our porch steps with my dad and fired, the shot echoing around our field and against the mountains around us. After, we walked twenty yards out to the target—an empty Poland Springs water bottle and my dad whistled slowly as he saw the tiny perforation in the bottle’s green label—evidence that my bullet had pierced the center of the discarded water vessel.
Some of my earliest memories involved target shooting. When I was younger, my dad would take my mom, my sisters, and I out to his friend Charlie’s house in Stoughton. Charlie owned a lot of land for someone living in the South Shore of Massachusetts, including a pond that froze quickly. My sisters and I would skate with my mom— Toni wearing a pair of double runners— while my dad and Charlie went target shooting.
It was no big deal.
My dad has all of the necessary registrations and permits for his guns—he even has a concealed carry permit in New Hampshire. He’s participated in numerous firearm safety courses over the years and has worked as a prison guard, a policeman at Boston University and St. Mary’s Hospital, and as a member of the sheriff’s department in Weston, Massachusetts. Safe doesn’t even begin to describe the way he handles his firearms. I’ve never once felt as if I were in any danger.
My earliest memory of realizing that not everyone had over thirty guns of various calibers locked away in their home came when I was around seven or eight years old. My neighbor was over my house and we were all playing hide and seek. As we were going through the whole, “bubble gum bubble gum in a dish” process to decide who was the seeker, my neighbor looked at my sister and I and shouted what was undoubtedly a mantra his parents had made him memorize earlier: “WHAT DO YOU DO IF YOU SEE A GUN? RUN AND TELL AND ADULT!”
The firearms in our house have always been kept under lock and key—or combination—in various safes around the house. The ammunition is always locked away in a separate place from the firearms. The gun cabinet in our living room has a glass front, so I have walked by firearms essentially every day of my life. I’m a nineteen-year-old middle class female who’s never faced violence, yet I can tell the difference between a Beretta, a Ruger, and a Sig Sauer on sight. I can hold a conversation about the laser optics on the 45mm Glock, or the sights on the Swiss assault rifle in the safe down the hall. I never thought this was weird or even unusual.
I remember my parent being upset by my neighbor saying something like that—my mom more so than my dad. To a kind woman who prided herself in the way she ran her household in an effective, fun, and safe manner, having the very safety of her home called into question was the ultimate slap to the face. It wasn't that they were upset because my neighbor’s wanted to ensure their child’s safety; rather, because they doubted my parents’ ability to keep their child safe from firearm related harm. The WHAT-DO-YOU-DO-IF-YOU-SEE-A-GUN incident showed me that A) not everyone lived in a house that was armed enough to be flippantly referred to as a “mini Israel” and B) guns are polarizing.
I never wanted to shoot—I was afraid to. I’m not sure why I was. My father has never hunted so it was not the fear of killing an animal. I would tell my dad that, yes, this time I will go target shooting with you, and then I would falter at the actual doing of the shooting. I was never able to put a name to my fear until I actually shot a gun and felt it’s incredible power—the force of the shot slamming the gun back against the palm of my hand hard as the bullet soared out to hit the target. It’s power. That’s what I was afraid of.
Target shooting is an Olympic sport and my dad sees it as a necessary life skill. That probably sounds crazy to some people. I take comfort in knowing for a fact that if it ever comes down to it, I could hit a target with a gun. If it meant protecting myself, my family, my peers, I know how to shoot.
I’ve been taught not to fear firearms—rather, the person holding the firearm. That’s what my dad’s entire gun safety code relies on.
Dad handles firearms with what can only be described as precision. If anyone in the house has had so much as a drop of alcohol, the gun case cannot be opened. This rule has been tested by his friends at parties. Their semi-drunk glassy stare looks through the glass of the case and sees power—and wants to hold that power. Their attempts have been to no avail. When handing someone a firearm, you must open the chamber to show the receiver that there are not bullets inside. Even after you’ve demonstrated to the receiver that the gun is empty, unloaded, essentially ineffective, the handler of the gun must never aim it towards anything that he or she would not want to shoot were the gun loaded.
What’s the point? The point is, I know firearms. The point is, that it is a safe bet in any argument that I am the one more educated on guns. The point is that, despite this, I have no idea where I stand on the issue of gun control. None. Despite my knowledge, despite my experience, despite my seemingly ingrained, inherited acceptance of guns being a necessary part of life, I have no solid ground on which to stake my claim.
So how does anyone form a claim?
My first time shooting, I shot a Ruger pistol—22 mm and used by Mossad, Israeli Secret Services, for assassinations. I stood at the top of our porch steps with my dad and fired, the shot echoing around our field and against the mountains around us. After, we walked twenty yards out to the target—an empty Poland Springs water bottle and my dad whistled slowly as he saw the tiny perforation in the bottle’s green label—evidence that my bullet had pierced the center of the discarded water vessel.
Some of my earliest memories involved target shooting. When I was younger, my dad would take my mom, my sisters, and I out to his friend Charlie’s house in Stoughton. Charlie owned a lot of land for someone living in the South Shore of Massachusetts, including a pond that froze quickly. My sisters and I would skate with my mom— Toni wearing a pair of double runners— while my dad and Charlie went target shooting.
It was no big deal.
My dad has all of the necessary registrations and permits for his guns—he even has a concealed carry permit in New Hampshire. He’s participated in numerous firearm safety courses over the years and has worked as a prison guard, a policeman at Boston University and St. Mary’s Hospital, and as a member of the sheriff’s department in Weston, Massachusetts. Safe doesn’t even begin to describe the way he handles his firearms. I’ve never once felt as if I were in any danger.
My earliest memory of realizing that not everyone had over thirty guns of various calibers locked away in their home came when I was around seven or eight years old. My neighbor was over my house and we were all playing hide and seek. As we were going through the whole, “bubble gum bubble gum in a dish” process to decide who was the seeker, my neighbor looked at my sister and I and shouted what was undoubtedly a mantra his parents had made him memorize earlier: “WHAT DO YOU DO IF YOU SEE A GUN? RUN AND TELL AND ADULT!”
The firearms in our house have always been kept under lock and key—or combination—in various safes around the house. The ammunition is always locked away in a separate place from the firearms. The gun cabinet in our living room has a glass front, so I have walked by firearms essentially every day of my life. I’m a nineteen-year-old middle class female who’s never faced violence, yet I can tell the difference between a Beretta, a Ruger, and a Sig Sauer on sight. I can hold a conversation about the laser optics on the 45mm Glock, or the sights on the Swiss assault rifle in the safe down the hall. I never thought this was weird or even unusual.
I remember my parent being upset by my neighbor saying something like that—my mom more so than my dad. To a kind woman who prided herself in the way she ran her household in an effective, fun, and safe manner, having the very safety of her home called into question was the ultimate slap to the face. It wasn't that they were upset because my neighbor’s wanted to ensure their child’s safety; rather, because they doubted my parents’ ability to keep their child safe from firearm related harm. The WHAT-DO-YOU-DO-IF-YOU-SEE-A-GUN incident showed me that A) not everyone lived in a house that was armed enough to be flippantly referred to as a “mini Israel” and B) guns are polarizing.
I never wanted to shoot—I was afraid to. I’m not sure why I was. My father has never hunted so it was not the fear of killing an animal. I would tell my dad that, yes, this time I will go target shooting with you, and then I would falter at the actual doing of the shooting. I was never able to put a name to my fear until I actually shot a gun and felt it’s incredible power—the force of the shot slamming the gun back against the palm of my hand hard as the bullet soared out to hit the target. It’s power. That’s what I was afraid of.
Target shooting is an Olympic sport and my dad sees it as a necessary life skill. That probably sounds crazy to some people. I take comfort in knowing for a fact that if it ever comes down to it, I could hit a target with a gun. If it meant protecting myself, my family, my peers, I know how to shoot.
I’ve been taught not to fear firearms—rather, the person holding the firearm. That’s what my dad’s entire gun safety code relies on.
Dad handles firearms with what can only be described as precision. If anyone in the house has had so much as a drop of alcohol, the gun case cannot be opened. This rule has been tested by his friends at parties. Their semi-drunk glassy stare looks through the glass of the case and sees power—and wants to hold that power. Their attempts have been to no avail. When handing someone a firearm, you must open the chamber to show the receiver that there are not bullets inside. Even after you’ve demonstrated to the receiver that the gun is empty, unloaded, essentially ineffective, the handler of the gun must never aim it towards anything that he or she would not want to shoot were the gun loaded.
What’s the point? The point is, I know firearms. The point is, that it is a safe bet in any argument that I am the one more educated on guns. The point is that, despite this, I have no idea where I stand on the issue of gun control. None. Despite my knowledge, despite my experience, despite my seemingly ingrained, inherited acceptance of guns being a necessary part of life, I have no solid ground on which to stake my claim.
So how does anyone form a claim?