Drizzt
Member
Daily Advertiser (Lafayette, LA)
March 9, 2003 Sunday
SECTION: NEWS; Pg. 1A
LENGTH: 716 words
HEADLINE: A decision to shoot; For a vegetarian pacifist, firing a gun was a changing experience
BYLINE: Bethany White, [email protected]
BODY:
Editor's Note: Bethany White is the features designer at The Daily Advertiser. Her first experience with a gun was Feb. 12 at Barney's Firearms and Indoor Range in Lafayette. Here is her first-person account of the experience:
Bethany White
The target looks at me, and I look back. This could be any stranger trying to harm me.
There is a bright, orange blast and a noise so loud it feels as if someone is punching my rib cage. I can't tell which comes first.
A second later, the shell casing brushes against my hip.
It feels like a dance with mortality.
The gun -- a 9 mm semi-automatic -- smokes a thin, circling trail.
I shoot again. And again.
At 4 feet, I hit the bullseye -- dead square in the middle of the chest.
I shoot as fast as I can this time, and all in the clip land within the silhouette figure on the paper. Seven feet away.
An hour before I was supposed to shoot a gun for the first time, I was sick to my stomach, and wanted to find a way out. What had seemed like a good idea a week ago, now, well -- didn't.
The reason I was even there? Self-defense had been in the news for quite a while because of the serial killer. I volunteered to share my first-time gun experience.
Strength, confidence. Power. I wanted to get close to it, to know that if ever fear became reality, that I knew the force it took to defend.
"See ya, shooter," a co-worker called out before I left the office.
Shooter?
I have been, for the most part, a vegetarian pacifist since I was in high school. Chicken, only on occasion, fish is meat, guns are bad and don't ask me to kill. And never, ever, ask me to kill for pleasure.
Ten years ago, I argued with a boyfriend who insisted on owning a gun. Guns only provide the means to kill; they're evil, I told him. No house of mine would ever shelter any object constructed to kill, I thought. The possibilities of danger were simply too frightening.
Five years ago, I moved to Louisiana from Tennessee, by way of graduate school in Missouri. I started to eat chicken, occasionally. I started to watch the dark corners for predators when I was out at night, just in case.
And lately, the idea had started to cross my mind: Learn to shoot a gun.
You don't have to own one, I'd tell myself. Just learn, for now.
Experience it. Touch one. Learn, so if you ever have to use one, you can.
Somehow, over the past 10 years, guns had ceased to be evil. So, here I stand, hunting strength, confidence and power.
Required are both eye and hearing protection. Standard eyeglasses pass for eye protection; hearing protection consists of bright blue ear muffs that block out enough sound so that even my footsteps echo inside my head.
There's a small room between the shop and the firing range. A small room to adjust your ear protection, to get ready. I go through another door, and then another.
The paper target hangs on clips attached to a wire, which can be moved with a switch to the distance desired. Four feet.
Shell casings dot the floor like golden snow all around the carpet-lined room. The room is a long cavern, with eight stalls for target practice. I feel the shells under my feet, and a metallic smell finds its way to my nose. It smells like aluminum, even though I know it's gunpowder. I taste it, even though I am remotely sure it can't be tasted.
The room is totally enclosed, a world of its own.
The gun is heavier than I thought it'd be. The metal is rough. I know how loud it will be, yet I am not prepared for the blast. Or the recoil. Or the size of the hole the bullet will leave.
Or the words out of my mouth, which can't be printed here.
Or the thrill.
Seven feet. Then, 10 feet.
At 10 feet, my aim is the worst.
An hour with a trigger at my command, with metal that responded to my touch.
Strength? I learned I'm not strong enough -- yet -- to adjust for the recoil.
I learned that even a former vegetarian pacifist can successfully shoot a gun, and feel stronger for it.
Confidence? Facing fears always instills confidence.
Power? Oh yes. I don't plan on buying a gun. Yet, I do plan on remembering the power it took, the force it took, to send something ripping through flesh.
That will stay with me, and give me more power if ever I am forced to kick -- or, perhaps, bury a key in an eye socket.
March 9, 2003 Sunday
SECTION: NEWS; Pg. 1A
LENGTH: 716 words
HEADLINE: A decision to shoot; For a vegetarian pacifist, firing a gun was a changing experience
BYLINE: Bethany White, [email protected]
BODY:
Editor's Note: Bethany White is the features designer at The Daily Advertiser. Her first experience with a gun was Feb. 12 at Barney's Firearms and Indoor Range in Lafayette. Here is her first-person account of the experience:
Bethany White
The target looks at me, and I look back. This could be any stranger trying to harm me.
There is a bright, orange blast and a noise so loud it feels as if someone is punching my rib cage. I can't tell which comes first.
A second later, the shell casing brushes against my hip.
It feels like a dance with mortality.
The gun -- a 9 mm semi-automatic -- smokes a thin, circling trail.
I shoot again. And again.
At 4 feet, I hit the bullseye -- dead square in the middle of the chest.
I shoot as fast as I can this time, and all in the clip land within the silhouette figure on the paper. Seven feet away.
An hour before I was supposed to shoot a gun for the first time, I was sick to my stomach, and wanted to find a way out. What had seemed like a good idea a week ago, now, well -- didn't.
The reason I was even there? Self-defense had been in the news for quite a while because of the serial killer. I volunteered to share my first-time gun experience.
Strength, confidence. Power. I wanted to get close to it, to know that if ever fear became reality, that I knew the force it took to defend.
"See ya, shooter," a co-worker called out before I left the office.
Shooter?
I have been, for the most part, a vegetarian pacifist since I was in high school. Chicken, only on occasion, fish is meat, guns are bad and don't ask me to kill. And never, ever, ask me to kill for pleasure.
Ten years ago, I argued with a boyfriend who insisted on owning a gun. Guns only provide the means to kill; they're evil, I told him. No house of mine would ever shelter any object constructed to kill, I thought. The possibilities of danger were simply too frightening.
Five years ago, I moved to Louisiana from Tennessee, by way of graduate school in Missouri. I started to eat chicken, occasionally. I started to watch the dark corners for predators when I was out at night, just in case.
And lately, the idea had started to cross my mind: Learn to shoot a gun.
You don't have to own one, I'd tell myself. Just learn, for now.
Experience it. Touch one. Learn, so if you ever have to use one, you can.
Somehow, over the past 10 years, guns had ceased to be evil. So, here I stand, hunting strength, confidence and power.
Required are both eye and hearing protection. Standard eyeglasses pass for eye protection; hearing protection consists of bright blue ear muffs that block out enough sound so that even my footsteps echo inside my head.
There's a small room between the shop and the firing range. A small room to adjust your ear protection, to get ready. I go through another door, and then another.
The paper target hangs on clips attached to a wire, which can be moved with a switch to the distance desired. Four feet.
Shell casings dot the floor like golden snow all around the carpet-lined room. The room is a long cavern, with eight stalls for target practice. I feel the shells under my feet, and a metallic smell finds its way to my nose. It smells like aluminum, even though I know it's gunpowder. I taste it, even though I am remotely sure it can't be tasted.
The room is totally enclosed, a world of its own.
The gun is heavier than I thought it'd be. The metal is rough. I know how loud it will be, yet I am not prepared for the blast. Or the recoil. Or the size of the hole the bullet will leave.
Or the words out of my mouth, which can't be printed here.
Or the thrill.
Seven feet. Then, 10 feet.
At 10 feet, my aim is the worst.
An hour with a trigger at my command, with metal that responded to my touch.
Strength? I learned I'm not strong enough -- yet -- to adjust for the recoil.
I learned that even a former vegetarian pacifist can successfully shoot a gun, and feel stronger for it.
Confidence? Facing fears always instills confidence.
Power? Oh yes. I don't plan on buying a gun. Yet, I do plan on remembering the power it took, the force it took, to send something ripping through flesh.
That will stay with me, and give me more power if ever I am forced to kick -- or, perhaps, bury a key in an eye socket.
That's mean.
