On Wednesday, after we were given the assignment, I really didn’t know how to take it. A gun store? We were going on a college field trip to a gun store? In the same week as the Virginia Tech shooting? Well, I guess as they say, “The best way to tackle fear is by the horns.”
I hate guns. They have always scared me. There’s a twenty-two in my hall closet. It came with the acquisition of my husband. I think it was a gift from his father. It rests next to my vacuum cleaner. And although I’m not sure if it is loaded, I’m always afraid that it will spontaneously engage when I slide the vacuum in next to it.
I used to go shooting with my ex-boyfriend. He had a 9mm handgun. It was a Ruger he had bought at a pawn shop in Opelika. Thinking back on it, I honestly have no idea why he even bought a gun. Jimmy was never physically aggressive; he was more of the bartending, long-haired, hippie type. On lonely weekends, we’d go to Wal-Mart, buy a box of bullets and a bag of plastic army figurines, and head down to the Tuskegee National Forest Shooting Range. The shooting range was nothing more than an open field with tables set up for you to rest your arms on. We’d set up a war scene with the army men and open fire the frozen G.I.’s.
Even that gun scared me. I never got used to the feel of it – always cold with sharp angles and uninviting textures. In my mind, holding the gun brought nauseating discomfort. There was something unnatural about wrapping my hands around an object that could instantly extinguish the life from a man.
Friday afternoon came. The gravel made popping sounds as I pulled my car off the pavement and into the parking area. I found a vacant spot at the corner of the eggshell colored, cinderblock building. The sun was bright and my windows were cracked. You could hear crickets calling from the thick goldenrod and goosegrass growing along the building’s side. “Steve’s Gun Shop and Indoor Pistol Range.” I put my car in park to wait for my classmates.
I slid my notebook out of my backpack and began taking a few notes on the exterior of the place. Next to the door was a sign that read: “Do not enter with loaded guns, all guns must be holstered or cased.” It was at that moment I truly realized I was about to be confined to a cinderblock building with heavily armed civilians. What good was the holster or the case going to do if some crazy-ass fool wanted to shoot the place up? And dear God, what a shootout would happen if someone actually did try to rob the place. The O.K. Corral would be a mild cat fight compared to the explosion that could possibly take place in Steve’s Gun Shop.
A haggard looking young man walked through the door and out onto the concrete sidewalk that ran parallel to the store front. He had a scruffy face with heavy sideburns. He walked over to the front of my car, and through eyes tightened by the blaring sun, he stared through my windshield at me. The young man continued to stare longer than a glance – too long for comfort. I immediately looked down into my lap, but I could still feel his gaze. I reached over to my window switches and pulled the levers tight, closing myself up in the cab of my car. As another car pulled into the parking lot, the man turned and walked back into the store.
Thank God, the new arrival was Jennifer. At first I tried to act cool, like everything was fine – no guts, no glory. I gave Jennifer a wave, and then flipped a few notebook pages, acting like I was working on something inside my car. After a couple of minutes, the eeriness of the place became too much for me, so I cracked my window to talk to Jennifer.
“This place freaks me out,” I said. “Me too,” said Jennifer. “There was a strange man who just walked out and stared at me in my car. One of those freaky stares, you know what I mean?” I hoped Jennifer had seen the guy, in case I came up missing shortly after the field trip to the gun store.
Our conversation was cut short by a forest green Chevy pickup pulling up beside my car. It was one of those 1985 special editions, made like a Sherman tank, complete with four reinforced steel doors. Its brakes squealed, and I’m not sure how many people piled out. What I did see was the shaved head and acne encrusted face of teenage boy holding a non-holstered, un-cased handgun. That was enough for me. I was not about to go hang out for the next hour with a sideburned gawker and a neo-Nazi looking kid. I had to go.
I peeked out my window at Jennifer again. She was afraid of the truckload of potential killers too. I waved good-bye, threw the car in reverse, and made haste back to land of the living. Although I never made it through the doors, I had experienced enough gun shopping for one day.
The gun store. Hmm. Nice. I have to admit this is completely out of my comfort zone. I know a lot about guns from hearing stories from friends, and reading about different styles of combat and so forth, but I never really got into the whole “gun power” thing. There are many "powerful" models hanging on the wall of this place: automatic shotguns, ar15 assault rifles, 22s, a twelve-gauge, blah, blah. I’ve heard about the different models and bullets; how some rifles are made to shoot at a velocity that pierces protective armor and some aren’t. Some bullets are designed to enter and exit and some to bounce around. They’re all a bit frightening to me.
When I was growing up, I never had guns, other than maybe a bb or pellet gun, and I never shot anything other than a couple of cans. I used to go out to a dirt pit near a t-ball field and fire my bb gun. It had a scope. I would line cans up on the far side of a dirt mound and take my time looking through the scope like a sniper. The scope was actually bigger than the gun itself. One by one I would claim my victims: Coca-Cola, Sprite, and an occasional Barqs. We usually didn’t have many Barqs cans. My dad believed Barqs were best from a glass bottle, and glass ricocheted and scared me.
My dad always had guns while I was growing up, but we never fired them. We never went hunting. They were more like ancient artifacts with histories I couldn’t understand. I still don’t have a clear understanding of the feelings behind them, even though I know the stories, but that’s only because I’ve never had anyone trying to shoot me. I’ve never had to kill someone to save my own life. My dad did, but when he came back from Vietnam, he vowed that he would never shoot another living creature for the rest of his entire life.
Dad’s entire time in Vietnam was filled with kill or be killed situations. He was part of a team that dealt with everything pertaining to helicopters. First, he was a door gunner, firing extremely heavy artillery into whatever parts of the jungle fired back. Then, he was sent out into the jungle alone to find hidden supplies and ammunition. He would have to locate these secret stockpiles and pull them to abandoned runways to refuel helicopters fresh from battle. He was engaged in countless firefights, in groups and alone. Many times, his will to live was the only thing that gave him the confidence to fire back.
It’s hard for me to imagine pulling a gun in a life-threatening situation. The situation in which to pull a gun, as far as the employee of the gun store is concerned, sounds a lot like Dad’s war to me. “Don’t pull a gun on someone unless you’re going to shoot them.” “Don’t shoot someone, unless you have to kill them to save your own life.” How often have I ever been in these situations? Never. When will I ever feel like I need to shoot someone? Never. My daily life and activities are nothing like Dad’s war. After reviewing my entire life for a moment when I might have benefited from a gun, the only time that comes to mind is when I was randomly jumped by six guys. Even then, I never saw them coming, and if I had a gun, they probably would have just taken it and killed me with it. I’m actually glad there was no gun involved.
So what do we do about guns and gun safety or gun control? We could let the government have more power. I’ve thought about it and even if banning guns opened a whole new black market for arms, how many people would actually risk being arrested to shoot targets? How many people would risk being arrested to feel THAT protected? Why don’t we just get rid of all the guns? This might crack down on the bad apples that ruin guns for the rest of the gun bearing nation, but how much power should we give our national government in this situation, in any situation?
The American government has a reputation for being big brother to most of the other nations of the world, but where do we, as American citizens, draw the line at home. When do we say, “Hey, you said by the people for the people, not for these stupid little people’s own good”? To me, most of the large-scale arguments shouldn’t really matter to the national government. They should stick to foreign affairs and the other business-like aspects of running the country. Gun control, drugs, abortion: Why should the national government care about these issues? Why make people pick a side as a nation when the country is so diverse and widespread? Just give all of that power (instead of just some) to the states, and let them divide it among the counties and cities. If Jackson County, MS votes to let people carry shotguns in their car, let them. They are voting for what they want as a majority, and to them, it shouldn’t matter what representatives from Maine think. If people start getting killed because of small traffic incidents that turn into shootouts, the locals will probably change their opinions on gun control. That’s their right. It’s a human right to have an opinion and to keep revising it to fit the current circumstances. For every different place or “colony” of people in our country, there is a different level of need and different needs for control.
Some people might say that completely distributing the power down to the lowest levels might make things too diverse, and that such diversity of opinion and policy might make travel more difficult, but even now, if one crosses a state or county line, they should have a broad idea of what the laws are on the other side. For example, if you like to drink alcohol, but you enter George County, MS straight from Jackson County with a backseat full of booze, you get a ticket for possession. George County is a dry county. They voted and the majority chose to outlaw alcohol. So why can’t we leave all of the American issues on a small level?
I never really thought about the matter of national power, or the delegation of that power until the shooting incident at Virginia Tech. As far as gun control, one side is saying, “If the teachers or other students had guns, the incident would have been squashed with fewer casualties.” The other side says, “But if we enforced a tighter national gun control law, people like him would never get guns in the first place.” Fortunatly, the incident that brings these comments into the spotlight isn't an aspect of daily life in America. Too many people are holding their hands up to the national government, wanting them to step in and make a decision for everyone; everyone in the entire nation. How many times will this reaction happen before the national government starts making all decisions national decisions, without ever being asked?
Once again, I was not so much entertained (referring to the McDonald’s trip). The fact that the owner of the gun store was actually named Larry, I have to admit, I thought was rather humorous. Other than that, there’s not much humor to be found in a gun store. There isn’t anything funny about threatening a life or feeling that yours is so threatened that you need to own a weapon. Being uncomfortable actually never crossed my mind. I’m a jittery person anyway and sudden or loud noises are going to scare me, no matter what, even if I know they’re coming. Hence, though I was not uncomfortable in the gun store, I was nervous the whole time because there were shots being fired about ten feet away from me in a shooting range. Every time I heard, “POP,” I thought, “AH!” I tried to make it fun for a minute by giving the guns different personalities. I pointed through the glass case and tried to get creative. I told Cleshonda that this one was an old fogie, that one was ugly, this one reminded me of popcorn shrimp, he wasn’t very friendly, these two should be friends, and him – he’s just hangin’ out ‘cause he don’t have a clue. I’m really just not all into the drama about gun control and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I think there should be regulations, of course. However, I am not naïve enough to believe that regulations will stop criminals and people with the right connections from getting a gun anyway. I don’t remember who made the analogy, but whoever it was agreed with me and said that it’s just like drugs. They’re illegal, but if you really want them, you can find them anytime you want.
As I was driving down the road last Friday to our assigned destination, I began to feel a nervous twinge in my stomach as I quickly approached Steve's Gun Shop. I made the decision upon pulling in that I was not getting out of the car until everyone from my class was here. I parked the car and noticed Elizabeth sitting in the car next to me. After a few minutes, we both cautiously rolled our windows down to talk to each other.
Right about this time, a very large truck pulls in next to Elizabeth, and four very unfriendly looking men jump out.
There was a panicked look in Elizabeth's face as she turned back to me and said, "That's it, I'm leaving."
I waved good-bye and watched her pull away, and tried to stay calm as I quickly rolled my window back up and made sure the doors were locked. I was now the only one that was there. Where is everyone else I thought to myself as I checked the clock. Finally, the eeriness of this place was just too much to take. The white cinder block walls. The giant pistol painted on the outside under the words "Steve's Gun Shop", and the weeds growing everywhere. I waited five more minutes, and then made the decision to leave myself. As I pulled out of the out of the parking lot, I looked in my rearview mirror and cast one last look. This is surely a place I don't think I will ever feel the need to return to.
“See this one, it don’t look friendly. He looks mean.” Eric said to me as we both looked through the glass at several guns that varied in sizes. I pointed to an all black gun, admiring its look in the cased and quickly stated “I can’t tell the difference in these guns, but I like this one. I wonder what this one is called.”
Eric relied, “That one is a .22 and this one is a .9.” I was amazed at the fact that he was able to call each gun just by looking at it, so I asked “How can you tell the difference?”
He replied “The name is right here on the tag.” We both laughed as he pointed to the white tab hanging from the gun. We continued to browse the gun cases and as we came across a gun that looked kind of old, Eric said, “This one is the granddaddy.” We both laughed at how he characterized each gun giving it a personality.
While standing in Steve’s Gun Shop I wasn’t fearful of the loud bangs coming from the next room. I wasn’t worried about the next bullet that would exit the chamber of the gun and land on the target a few feet in foot of the shooter, like I was a many years ago, before I became accustomed to the noise.
Growing up in the hood I became familiar with the outcome of an exiting bullet meeting its target. I became familiar with the cries for help and the shedding of blood; however in this small gun shop there wasn’t any screams or any blood…. Only bangs that brought back memories.
It was Easter Sunday of 1993. My cousin took my sister and me to play at Municipal Park. We stayed there for what seems like hours playing in the sand, on the swings, in the water and feeding the ducks. As we began to leave the park shots were fired. My cousin screamed, “Run” So we did. We weren’t sure were to run to but we ran in the direction that the crowd was running. I was scared, so ran because my life depended on it.
Two more shots fired. She collapsed. One of my cousins hit the ground. She was only a feet beside me. I continued to run.
It was 1999 shots sounded as we played in the front yard. My mama yelled, “Get ya’ll ass in this house.” We took our time because hearing gun shots was a nightly occurrence. Someone yelled, “JR, shot him.” We paused as JR ran around the corner headed straight for his mama’s house. JR was my friend. The man whose blood tainted the side walk was a stranger that will forever be embedded within my thought. He was the first dead man I was able to see up close. He laid there 3 hours before help arrived. He died as we watch he blood fertilized our hood.
As time progressed there were three more dead bodies that tainted my memories and our sidewalks before I found a new hood to move too. Many more lives were claimed by the fleeing bullets, as we flee our village to find new homes
6 comments:
On Wednesday, after we were given the assignment, I really didn’t know how to take it. A gun store? We were going on a college field trip to a gun store? In the same week as the Virginia Tech shooting? Well, I guess as they say, “The best way to tackle fear is by the horns.”
I hate guns. They have always scared me. There’s a twenty-two in my hall closet. It came with the acquisition of my husband. I think it was a gift from his father. It rests next to my vacuum cleaner. And although I’m not sure if it is loaded, I’m always afraid that it will spontaneously engage when I slide the vacuum in next to it.
I used to go shooting with my ex-boyfriend. He had a 9mm handgun. It was a Ruger he had bought at a pawn shop in Opelika. Thinking back on it, I honestly have no idea why he even bought a gun. Jimmy was never physically aggressive; he was more of the bartending, long-haired, hippie type. On lonely weekends, we’d go to Wal-Mart, buy a box of bullets and a bag of plastic army figurines, and head down to the Tuskegee National Forest Shooting Range. The shooting range was nothing more than an open field with tables set up for you to rest your arms on. We’d set up a war scene with the army men and open fire the frozen G.I.’s.
Even that gun scared me. I never got used to the feel of it – always cold with sharp angles and uninviting textures. In my mind, holding the gun brought nauseating discomfort. There was something unnatural about wrapping my hands around an object that could instantly extinguish the life from a man.
Friday afternoon came. The gravel made popping sounds as I pulled my car off the pavement and into the parking area. I found a vacant spot at the corner of the eggshell colored, cinderblock building. The sun was bright and my windows were cracked. You could hear crickets calling from the thick goldenrod and goosegrass growing along the building’s side. “Steve’s Gun Shop and Indoor Pistol Range.” I put my car in park to wait for my classmates.
I slid my notebook out of my backpack and began taking a few notes on the exterior of the place. Next to the door was a sign that read: “Do not enter with loaded guns, all guns must be holstered or cased.” It was at that moment I truly realized I was about to be confined to a cinderblock building with heavily armed civilians. What good was the holster or the case going to do if some crazy-ass fool wanted to shoot the place up? And dear God, what a shootout would happen if someone actually did try to rob the place. The O.K. Corral would be a mild cat fight compared to the explosion that could possibly take place in Steve’s Gun Shop.
A haggard looking young man walked through the door and out onto the concrete sidewalk that ran parallel to the store front. He had a scruffy face with heavy sideburns. He walked over to the front of my car, and through eyes tightened by the blaring sun, he stared through my windshield at me. The young man continued to stare longer than a glance – too long for comfort. I immediately looked down into my lap, but I could still feel his gaze. I reached over to my window switches and pulled the levers tight, closing myself up in the cab of my car. As another car pulled into the parking lot, the man turned and walked back into the store.
Thank God, the new arrival was Jennifer. At first I tried to act cool, like everything was fine – no guts, no glory. I gave Jennifer a wave, and then flipped a few notebook pages, acting like I was working on something inside my car. After a couple of minutes, the eeriness of the place became too much for me, so I cracked my window to talk to Jennifer.
“This place freaks me out,” I said.
“Me too,” said Jennifer.
“There was a strange man who just walked out and stared at me in my car. One of those freaky stares, you know what I mean?” I hoped Jennifer had seen the guy, in case I came up missing shortly after the field trip to the gun store.
Our conversation was cut short by a forest green Chevy pickup pulling up beside my car. It was one of those 1985 special editions, made like a Sherman tank, complete with four reinforced steel doors. Its brakes squealed, and I’m not sure how many people piled out. What I did see was the shaved head and acne encrusted face of teenage boy holding a non-holstered, un-cased handgun. That was enough for me. I was not about to go hang out for the next hour with a sideburned gawker and a neo-Nazi looking kid. I had to go.
I peeked out my window at Jennifer again. She was afraid of the truckload of potential killers too. I waved good-bye, threw the car in reverse, and made haste back to land of the living. Although I never made it through the doors, I had experienced enough gun shopping for one day.
The gun store. Hmm. Nice. I have to admit this is completely out of my comfort zone. I know a lot about guns from hearing stories from friends, and reading about different styles of combat and so forth, but I never really got into the whole “gun power” thing. There are many "powerful" models hanging on the wall of this place: automatic shotguns, ar15 assault rifles, 22s, a twelve-gauge, blah, blah. I’ve heard about the different models and bullets; how some rifles are made to shoot at a velocity that pierces protective armor and some aren’t. Some bullets are designed to enter and exit and some to bounce around. They’re all a bit frightening to me.
When I was growing up, I never had guns, other than maybe a bb or pellet gun, and I never shot anything other than a couple of cans. I used to go out to a dirt pit near a t-ball field and fire my bb gun. It had a scope. I would line cans up on the far side of a dirt mound and take my time looking through the scope like a sniper. The scope was actually bigger than the gun itself. One by one I would claim my victims: Coca-Cola, Sprite, and an occasional Barqs. We usually didn’t have many Barqs cans. My dad believed Barqs were best from a glass bottle, and glass ricocheted and scared me.
My dad always had guns while I was growing up, but we never fired them. We never went hunting. They were more like ancient artifacts with histories I couldn’t understand. I still don’t have a clear understanding of the feelings behind them, even though I know the stories, but that’s only because I’ve never had anyone trying to shoot me. I’ve never had to kill someone to save my own life. My dad did, but when he came back from Vietnam, he vowed that he would never shoot another living creature for the rest of his entire life.
Dad’s entire time in Vietnam was filled with kill or be killed situations. He was part of a team that dealt with everything pertaining to helicopters. First, he was a door gunner, firing extremely heavy artillery into whatever parts of the jungle fired back. Then, he was sent out into the jungle alone to find hidden supplies and ammunition. He would have to locate these secret stockpiles and pull them to abandoned runways to refuel helicopters fresh from battle. He was engaged in countless firefights, in groups and alone. Many times, his will to live was the only thing that gave him the confidence to fire back.
It’s hard for me to imagine pulling a gun in a life-threatening situation. The situation in which to pull a gun, as far as the employee of the gun store is concerned, sounds a lot like Dad’s war to me.
“Don’t pull a gun on someone unless you’re going to shoot them.”
“Don’t shoot someone, unless you have to kill them to save your own life.”
How often have I ever been in these situations? Never. When will I ever feel like I need to shoot someone? Never. My daily life and activities are nothing like Dad’s war. After reviewing my entire life for a moment when I might have benefited from a gun, the only time that comes to mind is when I was randomly jumped by six guys. Even then, I never saw them coming, and if I had a gun, they probably would have just taken it and killed me with it. I’m actually glad there was no gun involved.
So what do we do about guns and gun safety or gun control? We could let the government have more power. I’ve thought about it and even if banning guns opened a whole new black market for arms, how many people would actually risk being arrested to shoot targets? How many people would risk being arrested to feel THAT protected? Why don’t we just get rid of all the guns? This might crack down on the bad apples that ruin guns for the rest of the gun bearing nation, but how much power should we give our national government in this situation, in any situation?
The American government has a reputation for being big brother to most of the other nations of the world, but where do we, as American citizens, draw the line at home. When do we say, “Hey, you said by the people for the people, not for these stupid little people’s own good”? To me, most of the large-scale arguments shouldn’t really matter to the national government. They should stick to foreign affairs and the other business-like aspects of running the country. Gun control, drugs, abortion: Why should the national government care about these issues? Why make people pick a side as a nation when the country is so diverse and widespread? Just give all of that power (instead of just some) to the states, and let them divide it among the counties and cities. If Jackson County, MS votes to let people carry shotguns in their car, let them. They are voting for what they want as a majority, and to them, it shouldn’t matter what representatives from Maine think. If people start getting killed because of small traffic incidents that turn into shootouts, the locals will probably change their opinions on gun control. That’s their right. It’s a human right to have an opinion and to keep revising it to fit the current circumstances. For every different place or “colony” of people in our country, there is a different level of need and different needs for control.
Some people might say that completely distributing the power down to the lowest levels might make things too diverse, and that such diversity of opinion and policy might make travel more difficult, but even now, if one crosses a state or county line, they should have a broad idea of what the laws are on the other side. For example, if you like to drink alcohol, but you enter George County, MS straight from Jackson County with a backseat full of booze, you get a ticket for possession. George County is a dry county. They voted and the majority chose to outlaw alcohol. So why can’t we leave all of the American issues on a small level?
I never really thought about the matter of national power, or the delegation of that power until the shooting incident at Virginia Tech. As far as gun control, one side is saying, “If the teachers or other students had guns, the incident would have been squashed with fewer casualties.” The other side says, “But if we enforced a tighter national gun control law, people like him would never get guns in the first place.” Fortunatly, the incident that brings these comments into the spotlight isn't an aspect of daily life in America. Too many people are holding their hands up to the national government, wanting them to step in and make a decision for everyone; everyone in the entire nation. How many times will this reaction happen before the national government starts making all decisions national decisions, without ever being asked?
Once again, I was not so much entertained (referring to the McDonald’s trip). The fact that the owner of the gun store was actually named Larry, I have to admit, I thought was rather humorous. Other than that, there’s not much humor to be found in a gun store. There isn’t anything funny about threatening a life or feeling that yours is so threatened that you need to own a weapon.
Being uncomfortable actually never crossed my mind. I’m a jittery person anyway and sudden or loud noises are going to scare me, no matter what, even if I know they’re coming. Hence, though I was not uncomfortable in the gun store, I was nervous the whole time because there were shots being fired about ten feet away from me in a shooting range. Every time I heard, “POP,” I thought, “AH!”
I tried to make it fun for a minute by giving the guns different personalities. I pointed through the glass case and tried to get creative. I told Cleshonda that this one was an old fogie, that one was ugly, this one reminded me of popcorn shrimp, he wasn’t very friendly, these two should be friends, and him – he’s just hangin’ out ‘cause he don’t have a clue.
I’m really just not all into the drama about gun control and blah, blah, blah. Yes, I think there should be regulations, of course. However, I am not naïve enough to believe that regulations will stop criminals and people with the right connections from getting a gun anyway. I don’t remember who made the analogy, but whoever it was agreed with me and said that it’s just like drugs. They’re illegal, but if you really want them, you can find them anytime you want.
As I was driving down the road last Friday to our assigned destination, I began to feel a nervous twinge in my stomach as I quickly approached Steve's Gun Shop. I made the decision upon pulling in that I was not getting out of the car until everyone from my class was here. I parked the car and noticed Elizabeth sitting in the car next to me. After a few minutes, we both cautiously rolled our windows down to talk to each other.
Right about this time, a very large truck pulls in next to Elizabeth, and four very unfriendly looking men jump out.
There was a panicked look in Elizabeth's face as she turned back to me and said, "That's it, I'm leaving."
I waved good-bye and watched her pull away, and tried to stay calm as I quickly rolled my window back up and made sure the doors were locked. I was now the only one that was there. Where is everyone else I thought to myself as I checked the clock. Finally, the eeriness of this place was just too much to take. The white cinder block walls. The giant pistol painted on the outside under the words "Steve's Gun Shop", and the weeds growing everywhere. I waited five more minutes, and then made the decision to leave myself. As I pulled out of the out of the parking lot, I looked in my rearview mirror and cast one last look. This is surely a place I don't think I will ever feel the need to return to.
“See this one, it don’t look friendly. He looks mean.” Eric said to me as we both looked through the glass at several guns that varied in sizes. I pointed to an all black gun, admiring its look in the cased and quickly stated “I can’t tell the difference in these guns, but I like this one. I wonder what this one is called.”
Eric relied, “That one is a .22 and this one is a .9.” I was amazed at the fact that he was able to call each gun just by looking at it, so I asked “How can you tell the difference?”
He replied “The name is right here on the tag.” We both laughed as he pointed to the white tab hanging from the gun. We continued to browse the gun cases and as we came across a gun that looked kind of old, Eric said, “This one is the granddaddy.” We both laughed at how he characterized each gun giving it a personality.
While standing in Steve’s Gun Shop I wasn’t fearful of the loud bangs coming from the next room. I wasn’t worried about the next bullet that would exit the chamber of the gun and land on the target a few feet in foot of the shooter, like I was a many years ago, before I became accustomed to the noise.
Growing up in the hood I became familiar with the outcome of an exiting bullet meeting its target. I became familiar with the cries for help and the shedding of blood; however in this small gun shop there wasn’t any screams or any blood…. Only bangs that brought back memories.
It was Easter Sunday of 1993. My cousin took my sister and me to play at Municipal Park. We stayed there for what seems like hours playing in the sand, on the swings, in the water and feeding the ducks. As we began to leave the park shots were fired. My cousin screamed, “Run” So we did. We weren’t sure were to run to but we ran in the direction that the crowd was running. I was scared, so ran because my life depended on it.
Two more shots fired. She collapsed. One of my cousins hit the ground. She was only a feet beside me. I continued to run.
It was 1999 shots sounded as we played in the front yard. My mama yelled, “Get ya’ll ass in this house.” We took our time because hearing gun shots was a nightly occurrence.
Someone yelled, “JR, shot him.” We paused as JR ran around the corner headed straight for his mama’s house. JR was my friend. The man whose blood tainted the side walk was a stranger that will forever be embedded within my thought. He was the first dead man I was able to see up close. He laid there 3 hours before help arrived. He died as we watch he blood fertilized our hood.
As time progressed there were three more dead bodies that tainted my memories and our sidewalks before I found a new hood to move too. Many more lives were claimed by the fleeing bullets, as we flee our village to find new homes
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