My First Rifle – The Story of a Nice Liberal Girl Crossing Over

My First Rifle – The Story of a Nice Liberal Girl Crossing Over

By Cybèle Elaine Werts
CybeleW@aol.com
www.supertechnogirl.com

When I was ten, there was a videogame that called to me every time I went to the mall. It had a "real" rifle that you used to shoot ducks flying over the trees, after which a hound would run out and retrieve them for you. For twenty-five cents I got to be Annie Oakley bringing dinner home to the family.

The thing is, I couldn’t tell my own family about this little mall moment because I grew up in a liberal, educated household. Guns were against everything we believed in, not to mention against everything all our intellectual friends believed in. Even today at 40, I hang with the same crowd, so you can probably understand why I’ve been hesitant to mention my interest in target shooting to any of my friends.

Ever since the video ducks and dogs, I’ve had this sense that rifles were somehow in my bones. I struggled with this feeling because the gun culture seems kinda redneck, a culture I don’t much fit into. This image was branded onto my mind when I visited a firearms shop the first time, and faced a gun enthusiast so rigid minded that I didn’t go back for a decade. That level of machismo is reflected in a story I read about riflemen who carry around paper targets that they’ve shot the center out of. That need to express superiority feels false to me, and reflects all the things about men that I most often avoid.

Another challenge was that I’ve always been dead set against killing animals for sport because I believe in the sanctity of life, all life. I even safely deliver spiders out to the back garden. (Seriously!). There is no possibility that I could ever kill Bambi, and yet I recognize that is totally hypocritical considering that I love meat as much as the next person. If I really was Annie Oakley and had to shoot my dinner, I’d be a vegetarian. So where does this leave me? Well, it leaves me with target shooting, and perhaps skeet, which would offer the additional wardobe advantage of those cool tweed blazers with the suede elbow patches.

With that in mind, I found myself in the quarry behind my friend Roger’s home where he showed me how to shoot a rifle for the first time. There I found a meditative quiet, a steady solitude that quieted my jangling mind. So it was that I got myself down to my local gun shop, hoping it wouldn't be a repeat of ten years ago. The Powderhorn here in Northern Vermont looks and feels like a medieval dungeon, with stone walls and a rough hewn cement floor. The air is thick with testosterone, but my gentleman salesman Sean protected me from all that, keeping me focused on the subject at hand. I went home that night with my first rifle, a Ruger 10/22, which now sits happily, and fully locked up, in my livingroom.

Aside from my joyful anticipation at finally following my new interest, I have noticed a strange and almost indefinable feeling from having a firearm at hand. It's not so much a safety thing; after all, sometimes I don't even lock my back door. I think it’s the knowledge of knowing that whatever comes, I’m ready for it. In the movies, supernatural villains keep coming at you even when bullet after bullet is a'flying. But in real life, Sean tells me, even a little 22 can stop a person, even if they are hell bent or drugged insensible. Although it’s unlikely I will face down either of those, it feels good to know that I could if I had to.

The truth is, I’ll never come any closer to shooting ducks than I did with that videogame. But it might just turn out that shooting targets might be just thrill enough. In the meantime, look for me at the grocery store picking up ingredients for duck l’orange, and I’ll see you at the range.

Woo Hoo! A target from my first trip to the range.
(yes, I'm shamelessly showing off!)