Dancing with the Second Amendment

It was a regular Thursday. I had two journalism classes, got some homework done and enjoyed the sunny, breezy, cool-but-not-cold weather. When my last class of the day ended, I hurried out the door at the first moment I could. Not two hours later, I found myself holding a Hatfield SGL .20-Gauge Break-Open Shotgun.

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***

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I’ve seen the same headlines many people have: the same number of children dead, the same number of mass shootings and the same number of proposed bills in any given state to combat or promote gun ownership.

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But, like most of those who have spent their entire life on the left side of the political spectrum and in disagreement with the common interpretation of the Second Amendment, I had never held a gun before. I’d only ever seen one, strapped to the waist of a cop or in between the front seats of a police car.

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After many years of understanding politics and spending time in New York and Ohio, my stance on gun laws was neither set in stone nor comprehensive. I certainly think gun usage is out of hand and that there are far too many guns in this country, but I can’t say I know exactly what should be done about it.

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What I do know is that I'd be talking out of my ass until I found out more about it. I had to admit I was curious, even though I didn't want to own a gun, load one, or shoot one. But I did start wondering: What exactly is it like to go out and buy one? Is it really as easy as I’d heard? Is there some higher power, some hidden enlightenment, that comes from the possession of a firearm?

I yearned to know what it was about these conglomerates of plastic, wood and metal that drew people in, that made them so passionate about being legally allowed to possess either one or 30. It’d always felt like an “Us vs. Them,” an anti-gun vs. pro-gun culture, but I wondered if it had to be that way. So, I embarked on a journey to understand gun owners.

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Maybe it was the snowflake in me, or maybe it was the fact that I’m only 20 years old, but it terrified me: To go into a gun store, point, and say, “that one, please!” was a painful thought. It felt like a complete bastardization of the self in one fell swoop.

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I couldn’t shake the memory of learning about Sandy Hook, Parkland or Las Vegas.

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***

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I didn’t know where to look for a gun. I figured most people started out the same way: by looking up “guns” and checking out the nearest places. So I did the same. I was scared of setting foot in what I imagined in my head as the temple of doom.

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With that in mind, I knew I had to dangle my feet in the water first. I needed to know the type of places I was dealing with before actually picking the one where I would make my ultimate purchase. 

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I started with a pawn shop in Richmond, Indiana. Thought I’d give it a shot. It’s 45 minutes down the road anyway.

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I pulled up to what looked like it used to be a corner 7/11 in the small, poor city.

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“‘If you voted for and continue to support and stand behind the worthless, inept and 

corrupt administration currently inhabiting the White House that is complicit in the death of our service men and women in Afghanistan, please take your business elsewhere.’

blunt notice”

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The sign outside made me twitchy. By no means am I a fan of “He Who Steers the Ship at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue,” nor can I say I’ve been a fan of any of the fine gentlemen in office before him. I did, however, vote for the guy they were referencing in the window, and I needed to try to be inconspicuous and fit in.

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A younger woman with dark hair and various piercings, along with a salesperson's attitude, greeted me as I walked in.

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I let out a meager “Hi,” like a small cat in a Disney film, before wandering around the store and looking at the video games like a dork to make up for it.

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After a minute or so, I made my way back to the wide, glass-case counter filled with every weapon of which someone could dream. I started with the knives and switches, easing myself in. But then I turned and looked at the dozens of dark, metal weaponry placed on the wall behind the counter, trying to make out the prices to see what I could afford.

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I asked the saleswoman to see a couple.

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“New York! You wouldn’t be able to buy this anyway,” she said after checking my I.D.

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I might as well have been wearing a shirt that read: “First-Time Buyer, Lifetime Moron.” I guess the first shop is going to go down in my personal history as a learning experience.

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***

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It’d been a week since I first tried to buy a gun, and I couldn’t shake the thought of it. I kept thinking about holding one of those deadly masterpieces in my hands, about knowing what it was like despite the intense fear the image brought to mind.

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I gathered my personal documents, ran out of my class that ended at 4:10 p.m. and bounded southeast to the Hamilton BMV in my silver Subaru hatchback, which is decorated in West Wing, Human Rights Campaign and Save Our VA bumper stickers. I had to get there with enough time to get my Ohio license before they closed at 5 p.m.

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I was out by 4:58 p.m., temporary license in-hand. Success. 

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A few miles further west, I headed down the heavily-trafficked Route 177 until I saw the small, tree-covered front of the shop and its large overhead sign: “GUNS.” It was only 25 minutes from “the most beautiful campus ever there was.”

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I learned later that what I knew as “GUNS” was actually the Southern Ohio Gold & Silver Exchange, a title hidden by a tree. I like GUNS better. 

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I turned into the parking lot, my heart beating fast like I’d ran there.

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After a minute, I took a deep breath, stepped out of my car and made my way to the front door. There was an intimidating warning in the window that the store is not responsible for customers’ safety once inside.

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Upon entry, I was confronted with the dense air that only comes from decades of smoking indoors and a room with an intensely saturated, maroon carpet. I was instantly reminded of my grandparents' house where it felt like sucking on a straw to breathe in their dank living room. 

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The familiar jingle of the unfamiliar door rang as I let it swing behind me. 

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“How ya doin?” 

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I was greeted by only the distant voice of a middle-aged man whom I couldn’t see. 

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The voice came from an office behind the checkout counter, where I presumed the shopkeeper planted himself when the shop was empty.

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I took a few more steps in, seeing a line of guitars, bass guitars and amps along the wall to my right, and various piles and racks of power tools to my left. Inside the glass counter by the checkout were various jewelry items one would find at any pawn shop in the country.

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Ahead and to the left were what seemed to me like hundreds of guns. Long guns on the left, vests and other equipment dead ahead, and handguns to my right. 

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As I looked around the corner, trying to see where he was, I told the well-hidden man I wanted to take a look at the long guns. He reminded me to prompt him with any questions I might have.

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Because I was only 20 years, I couldn’t buy a handgun in Ohio. Only the long guns: rifles.

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I walked over to this part of the counter, where I saw a bright yellow sign shaped like “POW!” in a ’50s Batman flick, letting customers know it’s perfectly OK to walk behind the counter to look at the assortment of weaponry.

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I made my way around the counter. I was once someone who never wanted to see a gun in their life, but I was now standing not two feet from dozens and dozens of rifles and shotguns.

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After a few moments of browsing like it was a J. Crew store, I asked —who I had now assumed to be a hermit —to show me a few.

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The 60-something man walked out wearing casual attire: navy shirt, cargo pants and a small handgun strapped to his cargo shorts, pulling them down to a sag a few inches below his waist.

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“I’ll start by saying I’m coming from a point of … little knowledge coming into it,” I mentioned.

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I asked about a hefty, expensive, black plastic monster and a less expensive walnut and metal single-shot shotgun. I’d never held a gun, so I wanted to try one from either end of the spectrum. I had made it that far without knowing what would “feel right.”

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“Either one of those two would be a great first gun,” he told me. “That’s what most — don’t get offended — children start with.”

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I wasn’t so much offended to be compared to a child as I was shocked to hear the word “children” come out of his mouth when talking about first-time shooters. He had meant it as  reassurance with a healthy dose of salesmanship, and he described his grandchildren’s similarly calibrated first rifles.

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I asked about Ohio laws and gun purchases, despite already knowing what they were. I wanted to know what he thought, though I realized quickly I didn’t actually care. He began by saying the age gap for handguns doesn’t make any sense, then moved on to Indiana’s laws where he said felons couldn’t even carry a box cutter. Later on, he tried to explain that there’s another part to the Second Amendment that — from reading my copy of the Constitution and several Google searches — doesn’t actually exist.

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Nevertheless, he handed me the gun, which he called an “AR.” I wasn’t sure how the term applied, or if it did at all, but I didn’t question it, and I later learned it was actually a Mossberg 715T rifle. Despite him telling me it was plastic, I felt it sink with my hands a few inches before it settled. This all-black, Call-of-Duty-looking beast cost all of $329. 

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For the first time ever, I held a gun. It was heavier than I expected. The brazen power of death in my hands was unlike anything I’d ever felt. I didn’t know whether I was terrified or if I felt powerful — or if I was terrified that I felt powerful. I just knew I didn’t want to hold onto it for much longer.

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“You ever held a gun before?” he asked with eyebrows raised.

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I hadn’t.

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“I’d go with that one,” he advised, motioning to the terrifying one.

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I handed it back to him. I hated it.

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Even if it was a kid’s gun made of mostly plastic, it looked like something you would find in an army barracks, and I didn’t want any part of it. 

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I didn't know if I hated the first gun because it looked like a weapon for terror or because I didn't like holding guns. It was my first time with one, and I didn’t yet know whether the feeling was positive or negative. So, I tried the next one.

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This one, a single-shot 22-gauge, was lighter and simpler, and it had a walnut hilt and steel barrel. It felt like something you’d take to a field and use to shoot at targets with some buddies. That wasn’t really my thing, but it didn’t drop into my hands as though it were a scythe. 

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It didn’t feel normal, but it didn’t quite feel evil either. There was something about the simple nature of it. Pull the hammer. Pull the trigger. Walnut hilt. No gadgets. No gizmos. It was just a gun. In my hands. I was reminded of what I imagined a gun to be before I’d ever seen one, back when I was just a kid learning about the Revolutionary War.

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I had him put it back, and he reminded me that there are always lessons and rental guns for newbies before he wandered back into his cave of an office. 

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I was restless. I felt out of place. This wasn’t where someone like me belonged. This experience didn’t quite consume me like déjà vu of some past cowboy life in the Old West, but rather, I felt like I was in costume, playing the part of someone very different from who I really was.

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I let five minutes pass as I paced back and forth, eyeing the options with which I’d become entranced. Maybe splurging on a big, pretty, camo hunting rifle would fill all the gaps I’ve been trying to fill. Maybe going back to the scary Mossberg would give me a chance to live the video games I used to play. After those several moments of reflection, I asked myself: Was I excited to leave the store with a gun?

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Deep breaths. In. Out.

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I asked to see the cheapest gun. The tag said $150, which was far less than the last one I asked about; it was the same model as the previous gun, but stronger — a higher gauge. Not quite a kiddie gun, but maybe a blue belt.

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This experience may have felt like several lifetimes, and, hell, maybe it actually was several lifetimes worth of new experiences, but 15 minutes hadn’t even passed before I told the man this was the one.

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“It’s a Hatfield?” I asked, bewildered, after separating the name into two words rather than one.

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“Yeah, Hatfield-McCoy’s, you know,” he responded.

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He returned to the checkout counter with some paperwork he’d gathered from his office. I had to fill out a little over one page of information, which was less than what I filled out at the BMV earlier that day to get my driver’s license.

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I noticed the gender section. The standard male and female options were presented alongside a non-binary marker. The BMV only had two.

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I selected male rather than my identity, unsure if the Southern Ohio Gold & Silver Exchange was a safe haven for the “different.”

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Back into the office he went. I took this moment to wander the store a bit more. I noticed the album “Cold Sweat” by James Brown on the wall. I returned to the guitars and noticed an Epiphone bass guitar stylized like the Hofner basses that Paul McCartney made famous. 

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I chuckled to myself. I had just realized I liked it in here.

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He returned not more than a couple of minutes later, and we exchanged quips about Sir Paul and Ringo Starr’s recently canceled tour. 

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“I’ve actually had a couple of the older ones from like the ’60s,” he said, referring to McCartney’s signature viola bass.

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“Oh really?”

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“Yeah, they were badass,” he replied casually.

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I handed him my credit card in the middle of this bonding moment. He took it to a table behind the counter, ran it and returned it as my hands began to tremble yet again.

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He ran quickly through a spiel about the receipt and my new weapon’s folding capabilities, but I wasn’t listening. It was done.

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He handed it to me.

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For the first time in my life, I owned a fucking gun.

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After hardly twenty minutes in the store that had previously terrified me, I was now the proud owner of a Hatfield SGL .20-Gauge Single-Shot. Damn.

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He wished me luck with my “next one,” and I awkwardly replied, “You too!” before walking out of the store. 

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I didn’t know how to transport my new toy from the store to the car, but I didn’t allow myself enough time or nerve to figure it out; I just speed walked, rifle in my right hand, in plain view and got to the back of my car. 

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Two grungy under-30 men watched me in the adjacent convenience store parking lot as I stashed the gun under a blanket in the trunk of my car before sitting down for the first time in what felt like hours.

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***

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As I was driving home, I began to think I might vomit. There was traffic everywhere and a cop behind me, who then pulled to my left, then ahead. 

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“It isn’t right,” “I’m doing something wrong,” “This has to be illegal,” and “I’m just a kid,” were all running through my head at the same time.

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I was still trembling, both with fear and newfound strength, but I made the drive home. The familiar ride up and down the long and rolling hills of southwest Ohio felt longer than any time I’d ever made it before, yet I couldn’t even remember the drive I had just made when I pulled up to my apartment.

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My heart was racing, and I didn’t feel normal. I wanted it to stop, but I knew I couldn’t do anything about it just yet.

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It was terrifying. It was fantastic.

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I realized at this moment that the walk to the car from the pawn shop was very different than the walk from the car to my apartment complex filled with college-aged students. A surge of fear and urgency swept my heart.

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I tossed my long leather duster I mistakenly left in the car over the back seat and into the trunk so I could wrap up the shotgun before walking into my apartment where I lived alone. I didn’t want to be seen as “the one with the gun.”

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My heart was pounding so hard I could nearly hear it out loud. A squirrel ran in front of me, scaring the living daylights out of me as I walked up to my door. It’s just a squirrel…

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Despite a dimly glimmering fascination with the gun, I didn’t want to paint myself as a caricature of someone upon whom others would either look down or look at with fear.

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I made it inside and pulled the gun out, this time being the first without anybody around. I pulled back the hammer and aimed it at the mirror staring right back at me. 

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Now it settled more firmly into my mind and my soul. It felt like I had something I wasn’t supposed to have, but that made it powerful. It was powerful in a bad way, like giving a small child nuclear codes, but it was powerful in a good way, like test-driving a Ferrari or trying out a ’67 Les Paul in the store. I owned this thing.

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I felt it was too damn easy to get the gun, yet I couldn’t help myself from holding it like it was precious — like it was more important than anything else I owned. 

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Is it like a gateway drug? Am I going to turn 21, head back to the shop, get a heavy hand cannon, and carry it wherever I go? Is this who I am now? 

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There’s no denying the trance my gun put me in. I couldn’t stop holding it and learning the exact pressure I needed to pull the trigger.

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Like a drug, I kept dropping whatever I was doing to go look at it, touch it until I got my fix and moved on. Something clearly changed from the moment I first held a gun to the moment I held my gun in my home.

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The first moment I held that rifle, I didn’t know what to feel besides terror. Now, holding it created an overwhelming but false sense of control over my surroundings. I held the weight of life and death in my hands for 22 minutes of my time and 160 bucks.

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I finally started to understand one reason why so many people care deeply about their right to bear arms; It really does provide a sense of safety over your domain. That safety might be at the expense of others, but if you love and care for your family, wouldn’t you want to stop anything that threatened them?

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I don’t know exactly where I land after buying the gun. I want to try it out and take it to the range, but I fear what that will do to my attachment to it. I want to take it back to the store and never see it again, but I fear what losing this sense of control — even if it’s false — will do to me. 

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Do I want to keep it? 

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Yes. 

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Should I have it? 

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Absolutely not. 

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Either way, I think I finally understand why so many millions of Americans insist that owning a gun is a birthright. But I still believe it may be far too much power for one mortal soul to possess.

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Part of me hates it. Part of me likes it. The one thing I can say is that I hate that I might like it.

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