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Gun Nut
What happens when an avowed anti-gun crusader picks up a revolver?
Louise Rafkin Sunday, July 20, 2003
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Up front you need to know that I have always been an avid anti-gun crusader. I cringe when reading headlines about accidental shootings and curse politicians who block gun control laws. I consider "Guns don't kill people, people kill people" the most cleverly concocted slogan in the history of spin.
You need to know this, but this is not what I tell the gun safety instructor at a local rifle range who is set to lead me through a basic handgun lesson, which will conclude with me shooting real weapons stocked with live ammo. Though I don't share my political convictions with the gracious instructor, I do admit I've always wondered what it's like to handle a gun. The idea of shooting seems both interesting, terrifying - and slightly naughty.
Good lefty girls don't shoot guns.
My instructor, an ex-policewoman, is a trim, 45-year-old powerhouse who has been shooting guns for more than 20 years. From beneath her well-ordered desk, she produces two gleaming specimens: a shining silver revolver and a matte black semiautomatic. I'm a little scared, but also mesmerized. "They're quite beautiful," I blurt out before I realize what I've said.
"People fall in love with guns," she says, obviously infatuated herself.
Over the next hour, I learn more than I thought I'd ever want to know about guns. I'm not mechanically minded, and I've never understood how a gun actually works. I still don't, even after I'm shown in exacting detail. "Think about how a champagne cork pops," she tells me.
I even look down the barrel of the revolver, which is, oddly, spiraled inside. "That's the rifle," I'm told. "Rifling helps the ammo fly straighter, longer." I also learn that "full metal jacket" is not just the title of a movie, but the name given by the U.S. military to the copper casing on a lead bullet. At some point, it was discovered that a full "jacket" was more lethal to humans than a half-clothed slug. "It was when they realized it was more efficient to clean up dead bodies than treat the wounded," my instructor says gravely.
My growing pro-gun mentality momentarily wanes.
I'm shown levers and buttons and triggers, and I'm soon handling both pieces without much fear. Loading the revolver is easy; slipping the "rounds" into the channels of steel feels reminiscent of playing with children's blocks.
But loading the semiautomatic is difficult: Stacking the cone-shaped slugs on top of one another in their removable magazine somehow underscores how lethal this weapon is.
Eventually, we're off to the shooting range. The lanes, arranged like a bowling alley, are polka-dotted with bullet holes - evidence of really poor shooting. Next to me are a pair of off-duty police officers; one fires. Tense as a fence, I jump completely off the ground. My heart is working overtime and I feel slightly claustrophobic inside safety glasses and ear protectors.
I set my feet apart, extend my arms, and focus down the barrel to a paper target run out on a taut wire. With my left thumb, I cock the trigger. And then, after only a slight hesitation, I flex. The noise is loud and jarring, but the recoil isn't bad. A surge of adrenaline jolts through my chest and a slight tingling floods the back of my neck. Though it wasn't all that easy to pull the trigger back - I had to put some real pressure on it - I feel like I've broken through some kind of invisible barrier: I'm no longer a gun virgin.
And, wonder of wonders, peering out past my still-extended arms, I see I have hit the target. Not the bull's-eye, but one of the inner rings. Suddenly, I feel a little like I'm playing a carnival game and I'm driven to win the big stuffed bear. I take time setting up the next shots, gloating only a little when my hand-eye coordination is lauded.
After a few rounds, I trade the now-warm revolver and pick up the semiautomatic. The feel of this more powerful weapon is different. I have a creepy split-second insight: I could - if I wanted to - turn, pull the trigger and shoot dead everyone in sight. Suddenly I think of those crimes of passion I've read about: people who "go off" at their boss or the kid at the Kmart who can't work the register. Guns are so clearly about quick, non-intimate power. Anyone with access to a few hundred dollars can buy a final say. Uneasy, I return my concentration to shooting. By the time the target is reeled in, a ring of half-inch holes clusters within inches of the center dot.
Driving home, I'm exhausted, as if I've worked out. But I'm also a little exhilarated. Have I changed? If I absolutely had to - for self-defense; in defense of others - would I use a gun?
I don't know. But I might go shooting again, especially if there were a place to shoot that didn't feel so odd. Perhaps a combination shooting range, bookstore and coffee shop with colorful targets designed by fabulous artists?
Later, I phone an anti-gun friend. "I know how to unload a gun," I say, trying to convince her of the merits of my adventure. "Target shooting seems fun. Going for the bull's-eye and all."
"Try darts," she says flatly.
Aside from writing, Louise Rafkin is a lifelong martial artist and teaches self-defense and Indonesian karate in North Oakland.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2003/07/20/CM141915.DTL
What happens when an avowed anti-gun crusader picks up a revolver?
Louise Rafkin Sunday, July 20, 2003
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Up front you need to know that I have always been an avid anti-gun crusader. I cringe when reading headlines about accidental shootings and curse politicians who block gun control laws. I consider "Guns don't kill people, people kill people" the most cleverly concocted slogan in the history of spin.
You need to know this, but this is not what I tell the gun safety instructor at a local rifle range who is set to lead me through a basic handgun lesson, which will conclude with me shooting real weapons stocked with live ammo. Though I don't share my political convictions with the gracious instructor, I do admit I've always wondered what it's like to handle a gun. The idea of shooting seems both interesting, terrifying - and slightly naughty.
Good lefty girls don't shoot guns.
My instructor, an ex-policewoman, is a trim, 45-year-old powerhouse who has been shooting guns for more than 20 years. From beneath her well-ordered desk, she produces two gleaming specimens: a shining silver revolver and a matte black semiautomatic. I'm a little scared, but also mesmerized. "They're quite beautiful," I blurt out before I realize what I've said.
"People fall in love with guns," she says, obviously infatuated herself.
Over the next hour, I learn more than I thought I'd ever want to know about guns. I'm not mechanically minded, and I've never understood how a gun actually works. I still don't, even after I'm shown in exacting detail. "Think about how a champagne cork pops," she tells me.
I even look down the barrel of the revolver, which is, oddly, spiraled inside. "That's the rifle," I'm told. "Rifling helps the ammo fly straighter, longer." I also learn that "full metal jacket" is not just the title of a movie, but the name given by the U.S. military to the copper casing on a lead bullet. At some point, it was discovered that a full "jacket" was more lethal to humans than a half-clothed slug. "It was when they realized it was more efficient to clean up dead bodies than treat the wounded," my instructor says gravely.
My growing pro-gun mentality momentarily wanes.
I'm shown levers and buttons and triggers, and I'm soon handling both pieces without much fear. Loading the revolver is easy; slipping the "rounds" into the channels of steel feels reminiscent of playing with children's blocks.
But loading the semiautomatic is difficult: Stacking the cone-shaped slugs on top of one another in their removable magazine somehow underscores how lethal this weapon is.
Eventually, we're off to the shooting range. The lanes, arranged like a bowling alley, are polka-dotted with bullet holes - evidence of really poor shooting. Next to me are a pair of off-duty police officers; one fires. Tense as a fence, I jump completely off the ground. My heart is working overtime and I feel slightly claustrophobic inside safety glasses and ear protectors.
I set my feet apart, extend my arms, and focus down the barrel to a paper target run out on a taut wire. With my left thumb, I cock the trigger. And then, after only a slight hesitation, I flex. The noise is loud and jarring, but the recoil isn't bad. A surge of adrenaline jolts through my chest and a slight tingling floods the back of my neck. Though it wasn't all that easy to pull the trigger back - I had to put some real pressure on it - I feel like I've broken through some kind of invisible barrier: I'm no longer a gun virgin.
And, wonder of wonders, peering out past my still-extended arms, I see I have hit the target. Not the bull's-eye, but one of the inner rings. Suddenly, I feel a little like I'm playing a carnival game and I'm driven to win the big stuffed bear. I take time setting up the next shots, gloating only a little when my hand-eye coordination is lauded.
After a few rounds, I trade the now-warm revolver and pick up the semiautomatic. The feel of this more powerful weapon is different. I have a creepy split-second insight: I could - if I wanted to - turn, pull the trigger and shoot dead everyone in sight. Suddenly I think of those crimes of passion I've read about: people who "go off" at their boss or the kid at the Kmart who can't work the register. Guns are so clearly about quick, non-intimate power. Anyone with access to a few hundred dollars can buy a final say. Uneasy, I return my concentration to shooting. By the time the target is reeled in, a ring of half-inch holes clusters within inches of the center dot.
Driving home, I'm exhausted, as if I've worked out. But I'm also a little exhilarated. Have I changed? If I absolutely had to - for self-defense; in defense of others - would I use a gun?
I don't know. But I might go shooting again, especially if there were a place to shoot that didn't feel so odd. Perhaps a combination shooting range, bookstore and coffee shop with colorful targets designed by fabulous artists?
Later, I phone an anti-gun friend. "I know how to unload a gun," I say, trying to convince her of the merits of my adventure. "Target shooting seems fun. Going for the bull's-eye and all."
"Try darts," she says flatly.
Aside from writing, Louise Rafkin is a lifelong martial artist and teaches self-defense and Indonesian karate in North Oakland.
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2003/07/20/CM141915.DTL
