Shooting straight with heavy notion

The gun, a .22, was loaded. All I had to do was pull the trigger. Simple.

It was after one of the mass shootings (I forget which. It might have been the one at a movie theater. Or possibly the one at the elementary school. Maybe it was the one at the mall? They all sort of blend together, like a spotty recollection of blockbuster action films) briefly interrupted our lives that I decided I wanted to shoot a gun.

Rationally I knew they were just machines that people used for hunting and protection but emotionally they were devices that could kill at any moment, without warning. It wasn’t a respect for guns I had. It was fear. Near breathtaking fear. So, as the saying goes, what better way to overcome one’s fear than by facing it head on?
Seemingly every sort of handgun or rifle was on display at the gun store and range. If you are not familiar with guns or their culture, walking into a gun store can induce the same kind of anxiety a drug dealer has when he realizes he has walked into a cop bar — one wrong move and you are in big trouble.

My friend who brought me to shoot targets and had at one time been in law enforcement, was more at ease, like a cop walking into a convenience store for a cup of coffee and a bottle of water.

Getting cleared to shoot on the range required nothing more than a signature indicating I knew the restrictions and responsibilities of using the premises. I think. After skimming the first few paragraphs I signed where the cashier had indicated. Suddenly I wanted  the entire experience over with as soon as possible.

The night before was spent contemplating the gravity of what I was going to do. For 30 minutes or more I would hold in my hands the power to kill. I would have the means to end a life by simply pulling a trigger.
Ending a life. The words carried more weight than the gun in my hand.

While others seemed to enjoy the explosions of firing high caliber weapons or the pinpoint accuracy with which they obliterated a target, I could not get past the idea that if, in a different scenario — say a home invasion or robbery — someone was on the other side of the gun I could end them. Kill someone’s child with no more than a finger motion.

The act of firing a gun was simple. Just a slight pull on the trigger released a bullet that sped toward a target 15 feet away. Had it been a person they would have doubled over, laughing. My shots were all high or wide.

But the idea of being able to end a life so easily made the act of shooting weighty. I do not know if I could handle that responsibility. I do not welcome it.

I experienced firsthand what I rationally knew: A gun treated properly will not suddenly kill or injure some one or thing. So, to a degree, I no longer fear them.

My fear now, as perhaps it has always been, is of those who have access to guns and the power they have over me.