Talking about the Gun

I shot a gun for the first time a week or two ago. In many ways, it was exactly what I expected it to be. Holding a tiny explosion in your hand and blowing up little clay disks from a distance is a rush that I can only describe through vague comparisons to loud tube amplifiers or the thrill of revving a muscle car engine. The gun itself is heavier than you expect, regardless of what you’re expecting. The noise is louder than you think it’s going to be, regardless of how loud you think it will be.

But the experience also put in an interesting perspective the debate I've heard raging for years about the other side of guns, the more sinister side that comes about when orange clay targets are no longer on the business end, and the person with his finger on the trigger is less interested in having a good time, and more interested in making a point.

I don't like to get into the gun rights debate with people. Most people who want to get into discussion are the ones who are never going to meet you half way. Folks that can see either end generally don't want to talk about it.

James has been an avid shooter all his life. I've known this as long as I've known him. He is highly trained, has a concealed carry permit and has a firearm with him most of the time. That last part, though, I had no idea about until I asked him to take me out shooting one day.

You see, James doesn't feel the need to tell you he has a gun, because he doesn't intend to ever have to take it out. He has it with him for the same reason that I carry a lighter: You never know when you're going to need one, and chances are that if you do, you'll really wish you had one. But his attitude is bluntly expressed when I ask him about the bizarre people he surely must meet when he goes out to the shooting range. His reply is, "I don't talk to any of them. I don't shoot near them. I don't want anything to do with them." The kind of people who talk about their gun—or, worse yet, carry it openly—are more likely to be the kind of people who put themselves in a situation where they will need to use it (or think they need to). It's like the guy who takes a bunch of martial arts classes and then goes looking for a fight. The problem is the guy, not the martial art.

You go anywhere in the world and ask them to describe an American, and the two words they use are "fat" and "loud." The third one is usually "rude" or "violent." These stereotypes grew out of the values we hold dearest to our national identity. We've established much of what it means to be a citizen of this country on a model of often standoffish individualism that, over the last few decades, has spiraled completely out of control. The way we're perceived around the world is based directly on this reactionary megalomania, this need to assert our individuality and supremacy in whatever way is handiest.

So when I see goons open-carrying AR-15s, or guys on the news talking about protecting their families or their freedom from some imagined government (or terrorist) threat, that's what really worries me.

The guns are not the problem. It's us and our belief that it is our right to stand our ground whenever we feel challenged. And maybe if we worked on the source of that belief—our national obsession with showing everyone how "big" and tough we are—the senseless acts of violence and terrorism we visit on one another would become less frequent.

The point is often the least interesting part of the conversation. Have one with the author: miljen@sfreporter.com

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