What I wore to the Gunshop

For Christmas my teenage son gave me a unique gift. On an appointed day I would go to the local gun store, learn how to load a gun, and shoot at a target down in their gun range. He thought it was the coolest gift he could give me. I thought I was cool to not refuse the gift. I deliberately planned my clothing to include a strand of pearls. A kind of June Cleaver nod as I step into modern motherhood. Showing my teenage son that I'm not too scared for bullets while maintaining my feminine edge. A checkered shirt shouts "outdoorsman" while satin bow screams "JCrew cool". I left the house, tongue firmly in my cheek, to show my men how man I am.

John wants to own a gun. He spent his teenage years shooting trap with his father and squirrels with his buddies. They feel natural to him, and he wants to enjoy the same 'fun' he had when he was a kid.

Guns were not a part of my family culture. The only gun story in my growing up years was told by my dad. It involved him-as a teenager growing up in Australia-and a poor kangaroo who got the bullet my dad shot from his 'little 22'. The height of the kangaroo's jump, the sound of its scream, the way that it died after a second bullet was employed, the hot tears running down my teenage father's face are all part of that story. We never had guns in our house.

But I want to be open minded. So I went to shoot a gun at the gun shop.

The culture of a gun shop is very interesting. I walk inside to see ammunition and firearms from floor to ceiling, and several proud shop workers greet me with smiles all around. I feel shy and stupid, naive and ill prepared. After others who have come for their shooting debut have gathered in the belly of the store we all ascend to an upper room. A single classroom with some folding chairs and bright white painted walls awaits us. Tupperware boxes of firearms sit beside the instructor. He passes around papers that ask 'have you taken illicit drugs in the past 24 hours?' and 'are you mentally sound?' and asks us to answer honestly. The hair underneath my satin bow begins to stand on end. At this moment I realize that I am playing with something that can kill me. The smirk I've been wearing since I dressed this morning leaves my face for good.

We are shown how to hold a gun, how to load a gun, how to unlock the safety of a gun, how to aim a gun, and how to shoot the gun all in a matter of 15 minutes. The rest of the instruction time is taken up with questions asked by all the other students. The instructor, who actually teaches 'guns' at the University, fields these queries with ease. I had no idea the others in the class actually came because they had an interest in guns. I just had an interest in looking cool for my kid and impressing my husband.

We descend from the upper room, down a narrow staircase, and are outfitted with eye protection (science class eye shields) and ear phones (1980's head phones for your boom box) and are shown the 'pieces' we will shoot. Wisely, GunMaster Teacher has laid out the guns we will use to shoot targets in different stalls of the shop's gun range. Instead of standing still at a shooting stall and passing the guns around, we will rotate from one stall to another-so no one is carrying a gun. I guess he'd had some experience with shooters who've had 15-20 minutes of gun toting instruction.

As we enter the range our teacher hands us a bag of bullets. Shells, he calls them. This is the second time I realize I am playing with something that can kill me. I begin to look around at the other people I am with. My observation makes the hair on my arms stand on end.

To my right, my left, behind me and in front of me are all standing people with firearms. They are not part of the class-they have come as they do every Saturday. To shoot their guns at targets. Some are obviously policemen or military men. Others look more like the guns they have shot release pixels and not bullets, and their time aside from Saturday morning gun practice is spent in front of a video game. I realize that others are playing with something that can kill me. My eyebrows raise, and are stuck, high up on my forehead, until I leave the gun shop.

These others go eagerly into the gun range, and set up their targets and guns. I watch as paper photos of Osama or Military looking madmen are clipped to a moving wire, then scrolled back to the back of the gun range. Bullets are loaded, safeties released and guns are raised to the shoulders of several men and women. I look in front of me. A small pistol with pink camouflage all over it is staring me in the face. Its barrel is empty and opened, for me to load and close. My fingers become jello. I move in slow motion.

And then the shooting begins.

The others, the ones who knew how to load their weapons, have begun pelting their human form targets. The sound causes me to jump. My hands shake a little, and I realize that I am in a place where I could definitely become DEAD. There is no more hair to stand up anywhere. My option is to leave, or to shoot the bullets given me and then go.

I decide to man up. I load the bullets. I ask for help to unlock the safety (15 minutes was not enough instruction for me) and I try to hit my target. The sound of my gun releasing its ammunition makes me jump at myself. My bullets go high, they hit but not dead on. The instructor comes over to calm me.

"You don't need to fear the gun. You just need to respect it".

I look at the others. I think I understand what my teacher has said to me, but, I'm pretty sure I'm the only one.

After what seemed like eternity, I had used up all my bullets. In that length of time I shot 3 hand guns and 2 rifles. The rifles felt most comfortable. Something about them being the size of the guns that shot animals for food and kept people safe "out on the prairie" seemed most legitimate for me to be shooting. The handguns felt illegal. Their purpose seems only to inflict pain on other humans. That's not 'authentic Katie' for sure.

I shook the hand of my instructor, and left the gun range before my fellow classmates. They were taking photos of themselves with the guns and the targets and the eye protection and the ear phones. I wanted to leave. I felt glad I followed through, and I asked for a target to keep. I wanted my men to see that I had done what they sent me to do. I'm not exactly sure that I could do it again.

As I drove home I passed the the Sweet Tooth Fairy, and stopped without even knowing it. Chocolate or vanilla, sprinkles or frosting seemed to so much better suit me over rifle or handgun. How many cakes to take home to my kids a much more adequate question than whether I preferred semi automatic or full. My satin ribbon in place, my pearls and my checkered shirt-

what I wore to the gun shop looked a lot more fitting for the bakery.