Growing up with Guns
Last month, a media outlet asked me if I would be willing to share my views on gun control, in the wake of the horrific shooting in Connecticut. My answer was swift: I said no. I’ve never been the victim of a mass shooting, nor do I know anyone who has. It felt too soon, and my heart was broken for the families who lost their children. And I felt under qualified, from my own personal experience, to have anything useful to add to the conversation.
But if I’m really honest, I said no partially because my views on gun control are conflicted and I wasn’t sure I could put them into any productive thoughts or answers. Gun violence tore apart my Dad’s body and our lives along with it. But then again, in the wake of that violent act, guns kept us safe from those who meant to do us harm. Guns are bad. And guns are good.
So I chose to stay quiet.
The first time I fired a gun, I was nine years old. I was taken to the firing range by Dad’s friends, his fellow police officers. My two older brothers were also there. They were being trained how to use guns in case they ever needed to use one to protect themselves or our family. They were 11 and 13 years old. I was there because I had complained of being left out when my brothers went to the range, and because one of the officers thought it might be a good idea to teach me firearms safety since there were so many guns in our house.
And there were a lot of guns.
We had gone from a family where Mom didn’t allow Dad to bring home his police issue revolver (he had to store it in his locker at work because she didn’t want it in the house or around us kids) to a family with no less than 20 guns in our little Cape Cod house at any time. A long-range rifleman sitting on the roof, armed officers in the driveway, and several police officers inside the house. My parents both carried concealed weapons (Dad had a double-shoulder holster and usually one at his waist; Mom had her pearl-handled .22 in a leather shoulder holster that she wore over her nursing uniform but under her cardigan when she left the house).
Armed officers took me to and from school, and there was a police officer stationed outside my classroom all day. An officer with a visible revolver at his hip followed my class to the lunchroom and the playground, keeping watch. Everyone knew why he was there, and why he had a gun. Officers were stationed outside our house at night, they took us to the store, to my gymnastics class. Everywhere. There was always a gun within a few feet of me. Always.
You would think having all those guns would make me feel safe, make all of us feel like we were protected from “the bad guys.” But you would be wrong. Instead, having a gun around is a constant reminder: Someone wants to hurt you. Someone means to do you harm. And once you do that two-step dance in your mind (someone wants to hurt me, I need a gun to protect myself) you can never go back.
Instead of feeling safe, I was terrified. I slept with a steak knife under my mattress for longer than I’m willing to admit. By my thinking, if the bad guys came with their own guns (and surely they would) I pictured all the guns-good and bad--canceling each other out, bodies everywhere. All the officers who were supposed to protect us with their guns would be dead, but I would be ready. At night, with armed officers sitting in our driveway, my hand would go to that place, between the mattress and box spring, and I would wrap my fingers around the wooden handle. Only then could I sleep.
Some would argue that even though the guns scared me, they also kept me safe, kept my family safe. And they would be right; I’m not denying that. I’m here today, my family survived, after being guarded 24-hours a day for a year, then living in hiding for another 5 years. Guns may have played a part in that, I can’t say for sure. But what I can tell you, with certainty, is that all those guns never gave me a feeling of safety. Only fear.
I have thanked, and will always hold dear the officers who protected my family, especially the guards who stayed with my Dad during his long hospital stays, sitting outside his room and making sure no one could come back to finish the job that began with a sawed-off shotgun on a hot August night. Though their presence terrified me, they were doing their jobs-and they did their jobs well.
And this is what leads me to such conflicted feelings. Yes, I am thankful for the protection those guns gave my family. I am thankful for the feeling of safety and security they provided my Dad. I will never be able to say anything but that. But now, as an adult with a child of my own, I also support gun control. I support President Obama and Vice President Biden as they move forward with legislation that will make buying and owning guns, like the ones my parents had, much harder. I am fully aware that this makes me sounds like the worst kind of hypocrite. It was okay to have lots of guns when they were protecting my family. It was okay for my brothers to be at the gun range, handling firearms as children, but it’s not okay for anyone else-in fact, it should be against the law.
Yes, I know exactly what I sound like, but I’m saying it anyhow, in the hopes that a shooting like my Dad’s never happens again. In the hopes that a childhood like mine never happens again. Having lived through years filled with gun violence and weapons-both legal and illegal-and the damage they bring, physically and emotionally, has shaped my opinion. And my opinion is to get rid of all the guns we can (with bans on semi-automatic and automatic weapons), strongly control guns in circulation and make sure everyone who obtains or owns a gun does so legally. If you feel the same way, it might be a good time to contact your local representatives and let them know--they will need your support when Congress votes on President Obama’s upcoming legislation