Because I Can...

I'm not intimate with firearms, but I am not a stranger either.  A few years back, after the Waldo Canyon fire decimated the Mountain Shadows neighborhood in Colorado Springs, after midnight theater goers in Aurora didn't come home, after a mentally disturbed young man with easy access to a gun killed children in Sandy Hook, I got the idea that I needed to learn how to shoot.  For protection.  Self-preservation in a seemingly mad world.

I bought a Groupon to a local gun club, talked my friend Martha into attending a conceal carry class with me, and off we went.  This was a one-day gig.  It was about 2/3 classroom instruction and 1/3 at the range downstairs.  They had a variety of guns for us to choose from, and we paid for the bullets.

The classroom portion was easy. And what I mean by that is not in depth.  How to handle a firearm, how to check the chamber is empty before messing around with a gun.  Never put my finger on the trigger unless I intend to shoot.  I got a nifty little handbook, produced by the NRA, with a recap of what I had learned.  Most of it seemed very common sense, but I'll repeat; not deep.  Certainly not intellectual.

This was a female only class taught by a beautiful blond with a sidearm.  Open carry - a BIG gun -fully visible on her hip. She assured us how comfortable we would be in this class because 'men in gun classes can be intimidating.'  She talked about ways a woman can carry a weapon in nifty purses with a special pocket that we could shoot right through, never revealing our gun. Of course these purses were for sale downstairs alongside the gun we might tuck into it.  Even gun safety classes exit through the gift shop. There was no discussion of how it might feel if we ever actually had to employ firepower for our protection.  How we might be psychologically affected 'after the shoot'.  There was a bit of emphasis that a conceal carry permit is for our own, and our families protection.  Not vigilantism.  I was in awe of the instructor. She seemed very capable and bad ass.  Maybe it was that gun on her hip...

The range component was a bit trickier for me.  I learned that I am left eye dominant.  For a righty that means I can't shoot the side of a barn, let alone a paper target of a man's torso.  I'm told to turn a bit and try shooting cross body.  That doesn't help much.  Meanwhile Martha is a crack shot. She has successfully thwarted the dark paper torso target from approaching her and causing her bodily harm. My new plan for personal safety is this; no need to carry a gun, just hang out with Martha at all times. Apparently growing up on a farm in the mid-west is more life preparing than being raised in the bucolic suburbs of New York City.   I may have quasi street smarts, but Martha can shoot that weapon like there is no tomorrow.  

The instructor pulls me aside at the end of the class, my certificate of completion waving in her hand, and wisely tells me I need more practice before I even consider carrying a weapon.  This is not part of the class.  I have proficiently passed the requirement to apply for a conceal carry permit with this piece of paper.  This advice is her professional opinion, and I heed the admonishment.

I have a friend who is an avid shooter.  He has a membership to the upscale gun club where I took the class.  He agrees to teach me more about guns and safety and how to actually hit the target.  Several times I am his guest at the range.  He has an arsenal of guns, so no need to rent one from the club.  He evens treats me to the bullets.  I feel special.  He notes that I am a right handed shooter with a stronger left eye.  He takes a small amount of Vaseline and smears the left lens of my glasses.  Now I am forced to use only my right eye.  I improve my skills with this seemingly easy technique.  On another visit, he has me shooting with my left hand.  This is a bit tougher.  Anyone who has tried using a pen with their other hand knows our brains resist this.  

Finally I feel like I am a responsible enough person to own and carry a gun.  I plop down about $150.00 at the El Paso County Sheriff's office and wait for this permission to arrive in the mail.  About six weeks later it is official.  I can discreetly take a weapon with me wherever I go.  I don't own a gun, but I can if I want to.  I've been background checked.  I have a plastic card the same size as the one that allows me to drive a car.  It has my photo, my height and my weight.  It also has my hair color which I adamantly refused to be notated as red.  Even though my hair color at the time was kind of orangy-brown.  Crazy people have red hair.  Please put brown.  This is what I asked the clerk who was in charge of recording my info and fingerprinting me.

I moved several times around the state in the ensuing years.  Each time I dutifully notified the sheriff of my new address.  The permit is good for five years, and I don't need to reapply in another county until then.  Each time they sent me a new card with the same photo and info, just an update on where to find me if need be.  When the time came to renew in the county where I now reside, all it took was an appointment and a check for $30.00.  That's it.  That was all.  I did have to reapply, affirming I wasn't arrested for domestic violence or any other felony in the past few years.  But other than a new photo, taken by the deputies office, no extra charge, and a reapplication fee, that was it.

In all of this, no one ever asked me if I suffered from mental illness or depression.  Not one human being looked me in the eyes to see if I was all there.  The most responsible participant in this journey was my female first steps instructor.  The gal who said I needed more training.  And she was right.  I respect her for telling me because it might have meant a missed sale at their gun counter.

Five years have passed.  Do I feel any safer in a theater or church?  Not really.  Do I have visions of driving by a school, seeing police and commotion and rushing in to save the day.  Never.  Has my behavior changed because of fear?  Yes.  I don't like big crowds.  I won't march in the Israeli Day parade in Denver because I don't want to be a target in a cordoned chute.  Like my son, who is a police officer, I try to always sit facing a door.  I want to see what is coming my way.  I often choose a seat in a restaurant that is near the back exit.  I've learned to continually assess my surroundings and make adjustments that make me feel safer.  This is all in my head, but it is my head.  I give myself permission to indulge some of this new found paranoia.

Do I stay home and cower?  No.  I live my life to the best of my abilities.  I go hiking on trails, but myself, but I bring protection.  Because I can.  Protection isn't always a gun.  I'm not an advocate of pepper spray in overly windy Colorado.  Plus I don't want anyone to get that close to begin with.  Distance is protection.  My voice is my best weapon.  No one likes a crazy woman screaming at the top of her lungs.  Attitude plays a part.  Shoulders back, head held high.  I pray this works for a one on one confrontation.  All the aforementioned are moot in an active killing scenario.

Do I think the training I received in one long night at the gun club was adequate for the right to carry a pistol?  No.  I took it upon myself to seek further instruction when advised to.  A responsible gun owner goes to the range on a regular basis to keep skills sharp.  Reinforce that muscle memory, so that when needed our basic instinct of fight or flight kicks in to warrior mode.  Do I think Colorado is the wild west and I should just carry all the time?  I won't reveal that here.  I'll just say that it is very difficult to holster a gun into yoga pants.

Time to Write,

Jane