I was not what you’d call a social kid. I always got along better with adults than I did people my own age. This troubled my parents. Probably more than I will ever know. So you can imagine their reaction when I told them I wished to take Hunter’s Safety. (I also was not an outdoorsy kid.)
At any rate, I remember my mother looking away, and my father looking at the ground. “Hunter’s Safety Grantsy? Whatever for?” I can see the faded linoleum on the kitchen floor. I was sitting in my customary chair at the dinner table, waiting to be excused.
“I want to learn how to fire a gun,” I said. I had a particular kind of plea in my voice, which I knew played on my parent’s emotions. It was a tone that was both defiant and pathetic at the same time. I used it in lieu of saying “All the kids are doing it.” I knew that wouldn’t go over well, so I opted for the direct approach. And the tone. It never failed me.
“Why?” My mother was mystified.
I opened my mouth and started to speak. Nothing came out. There really wasn’t a reason. I just thought it would be a good thing to know how to do.
“You know how I feel about guns,” she said. I really didn’t. Guns weren’t something we discussed in our house. I knew my dad had an ancient, 12-guage shotgun that he kept in pieces in the garage. “I don’t allow guns in the house,” she said.
My father alternated between looking at the floor and looking at his empty plate.
“I say yes,” he finally said. My mother blanched. “I think gun safety would be good for him. But they aren’t going to teach him how to shoot anything. And I’m certainly no help. Hell, I couldn’t hit a broadside of a barn even if I tried. But if he’s interested, I’m sure we can figure something out.”
In less than a week I was learning how to load a .22-caliber rifle. Turns out, there was a shooting range set up in the basement of my grade school. The class was run by somebody’s dad and one of the local librarians. They briefly taught us how to hold the gun in several different positions. We all wore headset mufflers and every so often would stop firing, unload and do something they called “fleecing the brass,” which I came to understand as cleaning up the empty shell casings.
We learned how to shoot from a prone position, a kneeling position and finally a standing position. I sucked at kneeling. I was not a social kid, nor was I an outdoorsy kid, and I certainly wasn’t a skinny kid. Fact was, I simply couldn’t stay on a bended knee long enough to get a shot to even come close to the target. That poor librarian tried everything. In the end, she rolled up her coat and let me kneel on it.
I became quite advanced. We would turn in our targets at the end of every round of shooting, the instructors would evaluate them, and give us pointers. At the end of the session we’d get certificates. Marksman, Expert, Sharpshooter. They were suitable for framing. I kept them in my baby book, along with my piano certificates and various other awards. I would take them out and look at them occasionally.
Eventually, the course ended. I took Hunter’s Safety, passed the state test and received a hunting license.
I used it only once, on a hunting trip with my brother. I shot a large, white-tailed doe through the back of her head, just behind her ear. She fell in an instant. I never fired a rifle again.
I recently pulled out those certificates I earned almost 40 years ago. They were signed by officials from the NRA. In my desire to be a part of the gang I had unknowingly joined the NRA. And they were happy to have me. They encouraged me, even at a young age, to be a gun-toting individual.
But that was 40 years ago. Imagine … firing a gun in a grade school basement supervised by the town librarian!
Back then, I’m sure I didn’t know enough to look at the seething underbelly of an organization, and I’m fairly certian my parents—as smart as they were—didn’t either. But today as I glance at my awards, granted me by an organization so firmly rooted in twisted logic and backward rhetoric I can’t help feeling duped.
And ashamed.