Leave the Gun, Take the Cannolis...

My Husband took me to a local gun range yesterday.  He’s been around guns most of his life…he grew up in a rural/suburban area and one of his best childhood friends is a dairy farmer and has quite an arsenal.  As for me, I grew up in a very urban area which was exceptionally dangerous at times, and so my view of handguns is less curious and more, “No officer, I didn’t see a thing.”  It was pretty incredible to come here and listen to people talk openly about purchasing guns and to see the NO HANDGUNS ALLOWED stickers (right) on public buildings like the mall and restaurants.  Anyway, this was my first range visit and my first attempt at shooting a firearm.

The range is a one-floor building on the main road that leads to the main gate of My Husband’s army base.  The windows are decorated with different poster-size paper targets…some your classic silhouettes with numbers like a ski-ball machine, others on the more…creative side.  Like the Zombie Middle Eastern Terrorist, or the African-American Thug, or the Creepy Looking White Man Holding a Pregnant Woman Hostage with a Bowie Knife.  We chose the Silhouette.

After filling out some paperwork saying we would not sue the range should we shoot ourselves and putting on our protective goggles and earplugs, My Husband rented a weapon and a bearded double-denim buckaroo led us into one of those chutes like you see in the movies.  Except colder.  And smelling like singed metal.  I clicked our paper target to the rack and sent it swishing down the chute about 20 feet away.

We shot a 9 Millimeter Beretta, which is the sidearm My Husband uses in the army.  He showed me how to load the magazine, how to check the chamber, two ways of chambering a bullet and how to turn the safety on and off before I shot at the target.

It was...interesting.  And heavy.  It's strange having this extension to your body you can't seem to entirely control...like one of those horror movies where the donated limb of a serial killer makes some unlucky amputee into a murderer.  I can only equate it to when I was learning to drive and felt overly-cautious behind the wheel of a car.  Its one thing to walk around knowing you can use your hands if you must; it's another when you know you could really kill someone if you wanted to.

Still, I became completely comfortable driving (with a lot of practice) so I assume this will be a similar experience, should I choose to continue.  My Husband has a very reassuring respect for handguns (he told me the M4 machine guns they use as offensive weapons often jam, so a sidearm in clean and working order can save your life as long as you know how to use it properly).

I grew up in an area where guns are part of a lifestyle I wanted desperately to avoid.  I know people who’ve been shot and died.  I’ve seen riots where an officer’s gun flies out of its holster and hits the pavement while he wrestles with a delinquent.  I’ve experienced that moment of fear when I had no idea which person in a swelling, unruly crowd will pick up that weapon and what he will do with it.  To me, guns mean death and I've kept my distance.

But here, just like driving, learning to use a gun is an accepted and anticipated step into adulthood.  Maybe that’s a better way to look at it.  Maybe by teaching children to respect and operate a firearm prevents much of the fear and consequences of misuse.  I honestly don’t know.

We spent $10 on a package of 50 bullets.  My Husband shot a bunch and then I shot a bunch on the same target.  The "kick back" wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, but the shells come flying out of the chamber and go every which way.  With our last 10 shots, I got my own target to see how my marksmanship was.  I took a picture of it and highlighted my hits.  I missed once.  Where do those bullets go, I wonder? 

I'm currently trying not to think of how many couples are at said range right now on their Valentine's Day Dates :)