(This post was written on December 16th, 2012)
First:
I used to be moved by what seemed to be a constitutional guarantee of firearms to the citizenry so that they could wage guerrilla warfare against a repressive state. (Not so unlike the way that this country came into being.) But it has become clear: the salient consequence of having combat firearms with extended clips available to the general public is the multiplication of the devastation that nutjobs can wreak.
Recent reports indicate that the offending weapon was an AR-15. This is more or less the same gun that was used in Colorado recently. This gun can fire at least 20 to 40 rounds without being reloaded. The devastation in Colorado seems to have been actually limited by the gunman's using a 90 round drum magazine that jammed, as it is prone to.
I don't think that civilians have any need for guns that can get off more than three rounds without reloading. I don't think they have a need for handguns, either - and *certainly* not for a 30 round clip to go with a Glock 9mm. Not just because these characteristics reflect that they are designed to kill people, but also because nobody outside of a combat situation (shooting to give cover etc.) needs that for any reason. When do you get more than two shots at a target outside of Hollywood? Who's going to hit *anything* with a pistol beyond point-blank range that doesn't practice regularly (and even that won't account for the adrenaline and poor lighting and moving target in an actual home invasion)? In short, I don't want to be around someone carrying a gun who doesn't have the kind of experience that one needs with one to effectively and safely - yes, safely - use it in self defense.
Second:
I grew up with guns (shotguns) and my experience with them was a really important part of growing up for me. The privilege of having a gun came with a lengthy list of rules about its use. About the angle at which the barrel points when it's held (regardless of whether it's loaded). About the angle it points when it's being loaded (in case of a firing pin sticking out, for instance, causing a discharge). And so on. And then the rules that are harder to codify, about when it's ok to shoot (wounding a bird that's out of range: not OK). I was what most of you might consider horrifically young when this started. Any time I broke a rule the gun would be taken away. It would be humiliating. Fair or not, I refuse to be within shooting range of someone whom I don't know to have been hunting with supervision since they were a pre-teen. And I admittedly think twice about someone who doesn't feel the same way.
I still hunt. I use a double-barrelled gun that can get off two shots before reloading. I don't think I have a sacred right to do it (although it does appear that I have some sort of right that is protected by the Second Amendment.) But it's a part of who I am and I'm not alone (as this excerpt from Robert Ruark's Old Man and the Boy indicates):
“Can I really shoot it now?, I said.
“Load her up,” the Old Man said. “Then walk in, and when the birds get up pick out one and shoot him.”
I loaded and walked up to the dogs and slipped off the safety. It made a click that you could hardly hear. But the Old Man heard it.
“Whoa,” he said. “Give me the gun.”
I was mystified and my feelings hurt, because it was my gun. The Old Man had given it to me, and now he was taking it away from me. He switched his pipe to the outboard corner of his moustache and walked in behind the dogs. He wasn’t looking at the ground where the birds were. He was looking straight ahead of him, with the gun held across his body at a 45-degree angle. The birds got up and the Old Man jumped the gun up. As it came up his thumb flicked the safety off and the gun came smooth up under his chin and he seemed to fire the second it got there. About 25 yards out a bird dropped in a shower of feathers.
“Fetch,” the Old Man said, unloading the other shell.
“Why’d you take the gun away from me?” I yelled. I was mad as a wet hen. “Dammit, it’s my gun. It ain’t your gun.”
“You ain’t old enough to cuss yet,” the Old Man said. “Cussing is a prerogative for adults. You got to earn the right to cuss, like you got to earn the right to do most things. Cussing is for emphasis. When every other word is a swear word it just gets to be dull and don’t mean anything anymore. I’ll tell you why I took the gun away from you, You’ll never forget it, will you?”
“You bet I won’t forget it, I said, still mad and about to cry . . . . “I don’t even know why you took it. What I’d do wrong then?”
“Safety catch,” he said. “No reason in the world for a man to go blundering around with the catch off his gun. You don’t know the birds are going to get up where the dog says they are. Maybe they’re running on you. So the dog breaks point and you stumble along behind him and fall in a hole or trip over a rock and the gun goes off—blooey.”
“You got to take it off some time if you’re planning to shoot something,” I said.
“Habit is a wonderful thing,” the Old Man said. “It’s just as easy to form good ones as it is to make bad ones. Once they’re made, they stick There’s no earthly use of slipping off a gun intil you’re figuring to shoot it. There’s plenty of time to slip it off while she’s coming to your shoulder after the birds are up. Shooting a shotgun is all reflexes, anyhow.”
