Ira Glass has a gun!
The This American Life episode from this week is about guns, and is maybe my favorite episode from the year so far (granted, that’s only 4 episodes so far). The first story, in particular is awesome. Sarah Vowell’s story, “NRA vs. NEA” is about reconciling the culture gap between the pro-gun people and the anti-guns. If you listen to just part of the episode, check that one out. It’s the first act.
It reminds me a little bit of a column I wrote in 2006 for a Progress Indiana, a local LGBT magazine a friend of mine created. I had a regular column called “Confessions of a Metrosexual”. Below is that column.
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I’ve always considered myself to be a pacifist. When I was young, I would defer arguments to the more aggressive kids, even though I knew I was right. It was easier that way—not as much conflict. Even today, I am primarily non-confrontational. I’m a lover, not a fighter.
Sunday, December 11, I did something I’ve never done before, and never thought I would do. My fearless editor Dave, fellow staff writer Tom and I trekked to the far land of Wabash, Indiana to shoot guns. Tom wanted to experience firing a gun for his story (in this issue!) and I thought it would be interesting to tag along.
(Click through to read the rest)
Our first stop was to pick up a friend of Dave’s who owns several guns. He was to be our advisor. “So you don’t have to go to those crazy NRA guys,” explained Miles, our guru.
Next, we went to the local Wal-Mart to buy some ammo from Betty. Betty is a sweet little old lady who looks like she should work in the cat food aisle, not sell guns to four twenty-somethings in dark coats. We bought $114 worth of bullets. “Ammo goes fast,” Miles said.
We went to a farm that Miles’ family owns, and were joined by Chad, a friend of Miles’. They showed us how to stand, how to grip the handle and how to brace for impact. After much nodding-of-heads, Chad handed me his 12-gauge shotgun.
“You wanna try?”
“Sure,” I said, putting in the bright-orange earplugs that my father-in-law gave me.
I held it, cocked it, and pointed it at the ground thirty feet in front of me. Bracing for a shoulder-dislocating discharge, I squeezed the trigger, and BLAM! Dirt flew.
I tried out the semi-automatic pistol, the hunting rifle, the .356, the .22, among others. My favorite was the .38 detective special, a cute little thing that packs five notable shots. I envisioned myself in a pinstriped suit and a fedora, packing that little piece of steel in a shoulder holster, interrogating someone Sam Spade-style.
“I wonder if I can get this with an ivory handle,” I mused aloud.
The weapon that drew me in was the “thirty-ought-six,” as Miles explained it. It was a high-powered hunting rifle with a scope. Chad had set up some orange clay targets about 100 yards away, for the purpose of working on sharp-shooting skills.
I crouched down, bracing myself against a tractor-plow to steady my aim, and drew the target in my crosshairs. I held my breath, lightly squeezed the trigger, and a shot rang out, echoing across the farmland. After recoiling from the kick of the rifle, I saw that my target was shattered!
Suddenly, a change came over me. No longer was I a passive, metrosexual dandy. I was a flannel-shirted man, with the power to take a life with a squeeze of a trigger. That target could just have easily been a person, unwittingly shoveling snow, or enjoying a hike in the cold. I was powerful, and I had the equipment to prove it!
Then I realized that guns do kill people. But it takes a person to make that judgment call. My day of shooting was exhilarating, yes—but it would be totally different if I had something alive in my sights. Shooting clay targets and muskmelons doesn’t fill you with guilt that you have to live with for the rest of your life.
Guns really are remarkable. We see them a thousand times a week, in cop shows and spy movies and video games. They’re sexy, powerful, and sleek. But until you actually hold one in your hand and shoot it, you can’t respect them. They are just an accessory.
I know that guns are not for me. It’s fun to go out with the guys, fire a few shots at a target, and then go drink coffee inside. That was a blast (pun intended). But if I actually had to use a revolver to defend my wife or cat or home, or wield a rifle to defend my country—that’s a serious matter.
I know know that in the black-and-white world of life and death by gray steel objects, I’ll be using my words—and maybe my hair mousse—to work out the conflicts.
