From Some Months Ago

9 mm

I went shooting with my boyfriend yesterday. It wasn’t one of those, “I’m going to be a cool girlfriend and go do something I hate just to make sure he still likes me”. It was more of a, “Will I always flinch when I hear anything above a 22? If I shoot a gun, will the recoil split open my hand like it did my mother’s? If I shoot something besides a 22 rifle, will the bullet explode in the barrel again, burning my face with gun powder and briefly deafen me?” You know, the usual.

I’ve never felt comfortable around guns. I have nothing to say here about the second amendment, nor am I saying that people who enjoy going to shooting ranges are bad. I’m only writing about me, I’m not worrying about you. I know some people grow up with hunters, and some people grow up going to shooting ranges, but some of us grew up with the unlucky task of typically being in a reactionary role around guns. And now I live in Baltimore, and periodically, there are problems…But, I’m big about confronting fears, especially when I know I am safe, and the fear is mostly mental.

22 caliber revolvers are nothing. They sincerely feel like you aren’t shooting anything at all, and that, in its own right, is kind of scary to think about…However, the worst part was the sound of the higher caliber weapons being unloaded right next to me. It’s like when a drum is hit at a concert and it’s so loud that you involuntarily blink every time.

We moved up to the 9 mm, the kind of gun my mom had a concealed permit for when we lived in our old neighborhood when I was young. I watched how Dave stood, how his muscles flexed back against the kick-back. I watched the explosion in the barrel, the shell flying out in unpredictable directions, and I smelled the powder as it hung in the air. When it was my turn, I couldn’t shoot while the man next to me was still firing bazookas (OK, exaggeration.), so I waited, as if it were a bowling alley and I was just being polite. I fired 15 shots total with the 9, and that isn’t a lot. I only fired that many because after the first five, I turned to Dave, holding back tears. I fired the next 10 to practice aim. To face the fear. To not cry about it.

I hated how it felt; heavy, leaving imprints on my hands.

I hated the recoil; my hands shook and I was paranoid that I’d miss the target to a tragic degree.

I hated the shell hitting me, like an immediate reminder.

I hate the idea that young men are told that this is cool, and masculine, and a way to “take care of things”. How we are divorced from the consequences of our actions, exemplified by the act of killing someone with a gun.

But mostly, I hated how I felt. I felt like someone was making me do it, like it was against my will. It wasn’t, but I felt like crying because I didn’t want to do it. I faced my fear but I didn’t kill it, because maybe I’m not the kind of person who can be entrusted to kill anything at all.

The Sonoran

So, I guess when I said that I had shallow roots, I meant like the roots of a cactus. Sparse, spread out and shallow, but present none-the-less. Adapted to the drought, willing to survive on so little; transplanted to a region too saturated to struggle through. A case of too much too soon, and on and on. I couldn’t possibly suck it up and store it all properly. Even if I could absorb it all, swelling to my fill, the roots!—My roots! Their clinging, oh their pitiful grasp, it’s never enough the keep a giant upright. Top-heavy and easily toppled, poached for my skeleton, to be bleached and sold to sit in a room. I am not an addition, I’m a piece contributing to a theme. Decorative, see? It’s not the meat they’re after, it’s the eyelets revealed after the kill.