Some time in my late-twenties after a series of
unfortunate events, it became apparent to me that I couldn’t rely on our city’s
police department for protection. That’s when I slowly changed from being a
knee-jerk gun control supporter to being a quiet but solid proponent of the
Second Amendment. Ever since, I’ve maintained a fairly pragmatic attitude about
guns. I fully realize that we have more guns than people in the U.S. and that
genie is never going back into the bottle. So my best hope is that all
gun owners be educated, informed and responsible, and keep their kids safe from potential gun accidents.
That having been said, I personally did not grow
up around guns, I’ve had little to no exposure to them, and I’ve always been
very afraid to bordering on phobic of them. Thinking back, I realized I’ve been
exposed repeatedly to massive negative media conditioning about the dangers of
guns, and because I never had any positive experiences to counterbalance that,
in my brain, guns simply equate to imminent critical injury, or death. I never considered
owning one myself, preferring to rely on pepper spray and a few tricks I
learned in a self-defense class I took way too long ago. But over the last few
years, Mr. Typist and I have been talking off and on about taking a beginner’s
class in firearm safety, just so that we could both feel more confident and I
could get over my fear. Last week, we finally headed out
to our local firing range for a beginner-level firearm safety course. And for
the first time in my life, I held a gun in my sweaty, trembling hands and
fired! Now, I know that many of you who have a certain level of comfort with
firearms are going fall out of your chairs laughing of at what I’m about to
describe. Fair enough--but just keep in mind my life-long fear of guns and my
total lack of exposure to them.
Other than getting a little frustrated at the
difficulty of racking some of the semi-automatics during the dry-fire runs, I
was managing to stay fairly calm during the first three hours of the course,
even while knowing that it was getting ever-closer to live fire time. When we
finally went down to the range for the live-fire portion, I felt my heart
pounding harder and harder and started to get dry mouth and tremors in my
hands. I didn’t know what to expect in terms of noise, but when the instructor
fired a demonstration shot, it was soul-shatteringly loud. Far, far louder than I was mentally or
emotionally prepared for. At that point, my anxiety kicked into overdrive and
it was on--I was full-body shaking. And lest you think I am the only wimp in
the class who was unprepared for the noise, another student immediately raised
his hand and asked if he could have ear plugs in addition to the hearing
protection they had issued us. (This request was promptly nixed by the
instructors for safety reasons.) As I waited to go up, I tried my best to stamp out the shakes
through deep breathing and mental reassurances that if the seventy-year-old
lady next to me who was half my size could do this, I could too.
When I stepped up to the table to pick up a
loaded gun for the first time, it was clear to the instructor that I was
struggling. He worked with me to correct my grip and adjust my stance, and when
he saw that I was truly terrified, he went so far as to put his warm, steady,
reassuring mitts under my hands and said, “I’m going to hold your hands for the
first one, okay?” I nodded gratefully. The command was made, and I fired! I was
stunned by the power in that little .22, and shocked that the gun didn’t go
flying out of my hands on the kickback. This did nothing to calm my tremors,
and the instructor held my hands again for the second shot. He told me I was on
my own for the third one, and that shot actually hit the target. I repeated
this nine more times with four different guns, my favorite being the Glock 17—a
big, solid, stable piece that fit my hands surprisingly well. Then it was over.
I washed the lead off my hands and headed home, no longer a total gun novice.
That should have been the end of the story—I
went to a firing range, shot a gun, and crossed that off my list of life
experiences to be had. But Mr. Typist found out that there’s another class this
weekend, and I agreed to sign up for it to keep the learning momentum going.
I’m still scared, but I am in face-down-my-fear mode instead my usual default
mode of avoidance. This experience has changed me in some way that I haven’t
quite put my finger on yet. And the reason I know that is that I did something
else this week that I had been avoiding for a long time—I initiated a difficult
conversation with someone who did something hurtful to me. I had been
avoiding this conversation for weeks because I am a champion non-confronter and
will protect even my less primary relationships at the expense of my own mental health. But I
thought of how badly I wanted to walk out of that range and not come back. I thought of myself wrapping my hands around
that Glock. I thought of how I overcame a lifetime of fear and avoidance and
managed to do a thing that to me had always seemed insurmountably scary. And
suddenly an awkward conversation didn’t feel like such a big deal anymore.
I’m gearing up to head back for Part Two tomorrow,
and I’m hoping to avoid the tremors this time. One thing that I am fully
reassured of is that the instructors are top-notch, so I know I'm in good hands. Almost
everyone in the class was a rank beginner, and half of us were as jumpy as
heck. The instructors were unfailingly patient and calm. They kept an eagle eye
on everyone while ensuring that we were executing proper form and following
their directions to the letter. They took us through numerous safety drills and
did everything in their power to ensure we ready for shooting live rounds. Hats
off to them for being consummate professionals.
Assuming nothing goes horribly
awry, I’ll post an update next week. In the meantime, here’s a little education
in gun safety for all you newbs out there.
--Kristen McHenry
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