The weapon was light in my hands, not at all how I imagined a 9mm Glock would feel.
I had never fired a gun in my life. My instructor put both my hands around the frame and then signaled for me to squeeze the trigger.
Blam.
The bullet pierced my target, an 8.5-by-11-inch sheet of copy paper, near the center.
Then it hit me. This is how it is done. This is how you take a life. My target was fictional, but in my mind he was still a threat. I felt no sadness.
That's why soon I'll be the first person in my immediate family and circle of friends to get a concealed weapons permit.
I wanted training before purchasing a gun, so I enrolled in class at Shooting Sports of Tampa. When I arrived, my nerves calmed. Half of my class of 15 was female. And a quarter of us were black.
It's not just me, I thought to myself. Everyone is afraid these days.
At Shooting Sports, the building smelled as if it were on fire, and all 15 people in my class were herded into a tiny room off in the corner where our instructor put the fear of God in us before we even got into the gun range.
"Just because you have a gun does not mean you are capable of fighting with a gun," he cautioned. "No sane person in the world would ever want to be in a gunfight."
Though I was never around them, guns were a part of life where I grew up, Washington, D.C. But because of a handgun ban, the only folks who had them were cops and criminals, until the rule was reversed by the Supreme Court earlier this year.
Still, I never felt unsafe. Not until I moved to Florida alone. Now I'll take my chances on fighting for myself. I haven't had much luck with the kindness of strangers.
Since living on my own in Florida, I have not been able to name the person next door to me at any point. No one has come to introduce themselves. And the one time I tried to be cordial, the neighbor peered through the blinds and never opened the door. I am not confident that woman would have called the police if she ever heard me scream inside my apartment.
In my junior year of college at Florida A&M University in Tallahassee, I had a roommate who never spoke to me. Only by looking at her mail did I know her name. We never interacted.
I spent a lot of time in my room with the door locked. When I went home for Christmas break, I bought a storage unit for my valuables because I was afraid she'd rob me. When I returned, she was gone, and I was living alone for the first time ever. The summer before I moved in, the house next door was invaded, and a girl was killed.
I was terrified.
That was the first time getting a gun ever entered my mind. But I'd never even seen one in person and was sure that 20 was not old enough to buy a gun. Twenty-year-olds aren't even allowed to drink beer, they couldn't possibly get hold of a firearm, right?
But in Florida, you can buy a handgun from a private person or a rifle or shotgun from a licensed dealer at 18. You have to be 21 to get a concealed weapons permit, and gun safety training is mandatory. "Permit holders are held to a different standard," my instructor said.
I had to buy 50 rounds in class to get through my target practice. Protective ear covers muffled the sounds of the controlled explosions at the end of my arm. Protective eyewear kept the little metal shavings from the side walls from flying into my eyes. A couple of hot shell casings flew out and landed on my hands, temporarily searing knuckles and making me wince with my finger still on the trigger.
I'd fired the gun — in class. But if my paper assailant was flesh and blood could I do the same thing? Could I defend my own life?
Then I thought about Nefertiti Williams.
A 20-year-old public relations student, she had leaned on me for help developing her story ideas because I was the editor of the school magazine at the time. She was bright, perceptive, had good instincts and asked the right questions. She called me Momma Robbyn at times, a nickname I didn't embrace well at 21. The Wednesday before Thanksgiving 2006, I got a call from my roommate and close friend telling me Nefertiti hadn't made it back to Bradenton. She had been murdered in her own home by a roommate after everyone else had left for the holiday.
He had shot her in the face — just under her cheekbone before shooting himself. Police later said he'd been experiencing depression because he was no longer enrolled in school and that it was unclear why he had shot her. It could have been a crime of passion or just a mistake that he felt he couldn't live with.
When we returned to school, there were candles and vigils and crying and sorrow. But there were no answers. Would this have been different if she had a gun in her bedroom or in one of many designer purses? I don't know. But the odds wouldn't have been so stacked against her.
Getting my footing was a challenge at the range. When my feet were far enough apart, my shoulders were too far back. When my shoulders were above my toes, my thumbs were behind the hammer. When my thumbs were crisscrossed, my feet were too close together. I was comfortable firing this gun, but not with following the instructions. What was wrong with me?
I do understand the power of guns.
My father was gunned down while he was leaving a convenience store. I was 2. He wasn't a criminal, and he had never owned a gun. He was in the Air Force. He knew how to use a gun. He learned it in basic training. He could have had one easily, but the law wasn't on his side.
Probably not coincidentally, Washington, D.C., was known as the murder capital for much of my childhood. The law is on my side here, and I intend to take advantage of the opportunity.
So I started researching the process of obtaining a concealed weapons permit and purchasing a gun. It's not hard, but it takes time. You have to really want it.
First you have to submit a form to get the application mailed to you, which can take two weeks. Then comes certification class. Four hours of safety training. Proving competency with firing a weapon was difficult since it was first gun I had ever touched.
But I earned the certificate necessary for my application. Then I got a $15 passport photo and my fingerprints taken digitally and put in the state database at the Tampa police station. That service was $49. Then I took everything to a notary and had them seal my application, got a money order for $75, paid postage and sent the application to Tallahassee. If I qualify, the Florida Department of Agriculture and Consumer Services will promptly issue me my permit — next year. I've been without a gun for 23 years, so I'll just wait a little longer now.
Is my mother supportive? No. She jokes about it with my brother and calls me little (Sarah) Palin but something tells me she's not sold on the idea.
"Why would you want a gun?" she said. "What if someone uses it on you?" "What if it goes off by accident?" "Do you even know how to use a gun?" "What if the other person has a gun too?"
Nothing I said could convince her that there may be an upside to being able to defend yourself. But she understands that I am an adult and my decisions are my own. Her nervousness was making me a bit uneasy with my decision. What if I really can't handle a gun? What if I'm forgetful with it like my wallet and someone uses it to commit a crime? What if someone steals my car? Or snatches the purse I picked out to carry it in?
In the end, I fight one type of paranoia and embrace the other. At least with a gun, I can level the playing field. I've picked out my Glock G19 at Shooting Sports and I plan to make my purchase the day after Thanksgiving. I'm planning to start by carrying my gun everywhere I'm allowed to on the weekend while attending ladies' night at the range on Mondays. After that, who knows? Maybe I'll carry every day. You can't know. And that's the point.
Read the comments at the linkhttp://www.tampabay.com/news/perspective/article883277.ece
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