Shoot If You Love America

There must be something wrong with me. In most respects I seem normal. I’m a six-foot, strapping 42-year-old heterosexual male who is an involved father of a teenage girl, drives a late-model Ford and likes a beer with the game on TV. But delve a little deeper and you might suspect something amiss, perhaps a lack of appreciation for what it means to be a man or just a misunderstanding of what it is to be an American.

You see, I have never in my life fired a gun.

I could claim events conspired against me, since I grew up fatherless and had no one to introduce me to hunting or sport shooting. I lived in a small beach town and no one was dealing “Saturday night specials” from under the lifeguard stand. I couldn’t afford bullets. But those excuses simply will not do in a society where guns are readily available to everyone. I could have gotten my hands on one and blown the living hell out of a soda can by now. Or kept one lovingly cleaned and shiny on display in my den. At the very least, there is a space in the back of my closet where a rifle would lean nicely.

But I have never felt the need, the desire or the inclination to own a gun.

The straight shooters reading this are wondering now: What happened to this kid? Was he oxygen-deprived at birth? Where did he go wrong? But in fact, I was a terrorizing and ruthless All-City defensive end on my high school football team. I slammed three straight left hooks into the jaw of then-bully Buster Mathers in eighth grade, sending him down for the count. And I had four brothers as big as me, each who spent at least some small portion of their lives in one of my headlocks. The tools were all there. I should have had an arsenal by now. So what’s really wrong?

It’s not because the place I dwell is inhabited only by flowers and retirees. I’m in Los Angeles, where flying bullets are reported as if part of the weather. I sympathize with gunshot victims and understand the fear that drives so many in this city to buy a weapon. I’m lucky to never have been attacked with deadly force. I worry about my daughter’s safety. What should I do to protect her, arm myself? Keep a loaded gun in the house?

No, I’ve made my choice. And that’s what it is, a choice. I’ve chosen not to have anything to do with guns. I’ve wondered at times, probably after some news report of another heinous assault of a law-abiding citizen by some crazy with a semi-automatic pistol, just what I’d do if confronted like that. My only resort would be to grab one of those other oft-maligned “lethal” weapons we all keep around the house--a hammer or a baseball bat or a knife. Oh, yes, I’ve used all of these, but only to put nails in to hang a picture, knock a softball to the kid or to butter bread. That’s because all of these items, and other deadly ones like my Ford, have a legitimate, daily or occasional primary use, other than to maim or hurt. I would surely keep a Colt .45 in the silverware drawer if it, too, layered peanut butter nicely, but it’s not useful that way.

So, having made my choice, I now must live with it. I wonder if anyone can tell. I appear to be a typical American man to the rest of the world, likely as the next American guy to be in possession of, if not packing a piece. And as long as I keep quiet, the image stays intact, what with the insane proliferation of firearms in American cities, towns and homes. But I guess now the secret is out.

I’m a man. I’m an American. And, God help me, I’m unarmed.