Are You Thinking About Buying A Gun, Ma'am? Part 2

Read part 1 here.


It hurt.

The first time I pulled the trigger, my life was changed forever. My dad's Mossberg shotgun went off in my nine year old hands and the recoil really, really hurt.

Like I felt it for days after, y'all.

I say that my life was changed, though, because my curiosity was gone.

We were at the gun range with maybe 4 or 5 of my dad's guy friends, all of them bringing their own firearms, and not one of them accidentally discharged. No one got hurt. And my curiosity was wiped away because I felt how hard I had to pull to squeeze the trigger. It was not an easy feat for my small hands. Sure, it was probably easy for my dad, but for me, I had to really squeeze to get the gun to go off. And just like my dad said it should, it surprised me when it went off. I guess because, in my mind, I thought I only had to move the trigger back a few millimeters for it to fire. That was not the case. So as I was pulling it back, I thought, wow, you really have to want to shoot this gun to get it to discharge.

My curiosity, my timidness, my anxiety was gone. With one shot. Dad asked me if I wanted to shoot it again, and I politely told him, "No, thank you." I remember going back and climbing into the back of his pick-up, and sitting there for the rest of the day thinking about how my shoulder felt like it was dislocated.

It was my first crash course in recoil. One that I desperately needed and am so thankful I got.

I didn't fire another gun until I was maybe twelve. This time it was a little .22 pistol which went off with a little bit more ease than the shotgun did. The recoil was light, and it was a great gun to use while perfecting my sighting technique.

My parents built a gun range directly on their property, which was subject to different regulations since we lived outside city lines. We shot often. As an only child, I knew my parents room was loaded down like Fort Knox with firearms, and my dad often had me help him clean them.

Guns were just a part of my life. It wasn't uncommon for there to be one at the dinner table with us when I was in high school. 

I never worried about safety. My dad always carried a firearm for personal protection, so I never feared for my surroundings or worried about getting robbed when I was with him. When we watched the news at night, my dad would take his gun out of his holster and lay it on the coffee table. I remember hearing story after story of robberies, car-jackings, murders, and thinking to myself those things could happen to anyone, but I know my dad wouldn't go down without a fight. That was comforting.

As a latch-key kid, I was often home for 2 to 3 hours a day without my parents. I had to walk about three quarters of a mile down our dirt road from the bus stop to the house. My dad constantly questioned me about what would I do in certain scenarios, and how would I protect myself in certain situations.  What would you do if someone tried to take you? Punch them in the nose. What would you do if you were home alone and you heard someone breaking in? I would grab your gun and protect myself. My personal favorite, when we were out at a restaurant one night-identify all of the exits without looking around. Well there's the one we came in through, and there's a second in the back by the restrooms, and I'd imagine there's a shipping door in the back of the kitchen.  Always questioning, always mentoring, always guiding. That was my dad.

He instilled a sense of personal responsibility for my own safety in me from a very young age. My dad taught me that it wasn't a cop's responsibility to make sure that I was safe while walking down the street, but instead, my own. He taught me that by being aware of my surroundings, I can reduce the likelihood that I will become a victim of an assault or something far worse.

And naturally, when the time came that he could legally equip me with a firearm, he did just that. My dad gifted me a Beretta 92-FS and a box of ammo for my 18th birthday. And naturally, when I got my own apartment in a college town with considerable amount of crime, I never worried, because I knew that I was capable of protecting myself in my own home.

Owning a gun, to me, was no different than owning a drill. It was a tool I could use to accomplish a job. That job was protection.

Thankfully, I have never been put into a position where I have ever had to use it.

But I'm so thankful that I've always had the choice.

I obtained my concealed carry permit when I was 24, and my Beretta 9mm was just too big to carry for personal protection.

So for the first time ever, I went and purchased my own firearm.

Part 3 coming soon.