Why I Hate Guns

I think that most people don't believe I could possibly be well-informed when they find out how much I dislike guns. "Oh, you'd feel differently if (insert any number of reasons here), believe you me!" In their estimation, I've had a liberal, left-wing, East Coast (Military/Missouri--really?) upbringing where men wear pink and drink lattes. Au contraire, my ultra-conservative, right-wing, FOX News-watching compadres--nothing could be further from the truth. I come by my opinions honestly, and with a surprising amount of real-world, first-hand experience.

Awhile back, I wrote a post about my memories of living with terrorism in 1970s Europe. This shaped my views to a large extent, but apart from the armed guards at the airport, most of the damage was done by large amounts of explosives. So why my hatred of weapons? I know that guns don't do any harm by themselves, only in the hands of psycho nut-jobs. But who decides who the psychos are? Certainly not the neighborhood guy who takes his six year-old out hunting with him, right? After all, what could possibly go wrong when you get a bunch of guys up in the mountains with a few coolers of beer and firearms? I'm sure that many people do have lovely memories of hunting with their families and blowing away animals. Not only do they eat the meat (which let's face it, with ammunition costing what it does these days is hardly cost-effective), but they get an attractive animal head to mount on their wall. But let's leave the hunters out of this. I live in "Gun Land" where elementary school kids really do get .22's for Christmas. I teach any number of these kids, and I like them just fine, as long as we're not talking firearms, which they seem to be obsessed with.

No, the reason I hate firearms is that I have been the victim of gun violence, and even after all of that, the last thing on earth I would want is a gun.

In April of 1979 when I was nearly 16, my family was living in San Antonio, Texas. My dad, four year-old sister Emily, and I went downtown to watch the annual Battle of Flowers parade, a local Fiesta tradition commemorating the Battles of the Alamo and San Jacinto in 1836. A psycho nut-job who hated the police set up shop in an RV parked in a lot right where the parade was to start. We walked right past it, and stood kitty-corner and blissfully unawares in front of Fox Photo. Just before the parade began, Psycho Man opened the door to his RV and fired much of his 3,000 rounds of ammunition into the crowd, felling a motorcycle cop immediately in front of us. There was screaming and outright pandemonium everywhere, as the fallen officer's blood slowly pooled in the street. We were surrounded by men from Fort Sam Houston where my dad was stationed, most of whom were Viet Nam vets. I pulled Emily out of her stroller and collapsed it as Dad threw me and my sister to the ground and covered us with his body. The glass of the store windows shattered behind us, but we stayed calm because Dad told us to. We started to crawl towards the alley that ran perpendicular to the end of the block, reaching it just as the SWAT team arrived. One of us grabbed Emily and we ran as fast as we could to our car a few blocks away. We had to cross the street this guy was on a few blocks up from where he was shooting, but Dad assured me his bullets wouldn't reach that far. I had no idea if that was true or not, but I wasn't about to argue with him for once.

When we got home, I was so shocked that I just lay down on my bed with the blinds drawn. My mom and older sister were out shopping for wedding things, and had no idea until they arrived home what had happened. My dad came in a bit later and awarded me his Combat Infantry Badge (CIB) for witnessing my first enemy fire. I still have it, and I do believe that I earned it. We talked about that day often over the next 31 years, even soon before he died. It had a huge effect on both of us.

I had no idea at that time what an impact that morning would have on me. I had recurring nightmares for a good 8-10 years after that, developed irrational phobias, and a massive fear of guns. The dreams and panic attacks eventually worked their way out of my head, but the revulsion of firearms is still alive and well in me.

I was in the most well-armed state in the country (sorry Utah, but you've got nothing on Texas), surrounded by active military, and this guy blew his own brains out. Being armed wouldn't have changed things for us one single bit. In fact, if someone had tried to be a hero and rushed the trailer, it would have been even more disastrous than it was. This was better left to the professionals, and they did a splendid job.

So there you have it, a little blast from the past to brighten your day. You'll never convince me that owning guns is a good idea, but I know I'm a lone voice in the wilderness on that one. Sweetie wants a gun in the worst way, but his mean wife won't give in. Who will prevail? All I know is, if he does get one, I'm not touching it.

For a great first-hand account of the above incident, check out Gary DeLaune's blog post.