I Don’t Tell People I Like Guns Anymore

I like guns. I have for as long as I can remember. I grew up hunting and sport shooting. I’m not sure how many guns we had in my childhood home. Lots. My dad and I even hand-loaded our own ammo sometimes. I can’t take a guess at the number of rounds I’ve fired.

We used to have parties for the 4th of July. A bunch of people would bring RVs and camp in our big backyard. We’d have a skeet-shooting contest. There were countless guns at those parties. And kids. I have some serious nostalgia about slinking through snowy pastures with a 20 gauge shotgun while our yellow lab ran around rousting rabbits during cold Ohio winters. One of my fondest Christmas memories is opening my first rifle, a .22 passed down from my grandfather. I suppose I was around ten when I got it. I can still see the gun-shaped wrapping paper leaning on the wall beside the tree.

I don’t tell anybody about any of that anymore. I don’t tell people that I still like guns. I don’t tell people that I have a concealed-carry license.

Guns used to be fun and happy things for me. But now they just make me tired. I get tired of the raised eyebrows, of people wanting to know if I’m an NRA member (I’m not), of the parents asking if I think my kids are safe when I tell them I have several guns in my home.