The NRA is a Fetish Club That Eats Kids

A college buddy who grew up in the outer boroughs of New York City and had a mild fascination with guns invited me to a shooting range, on a beautiful sunny day in early September of 2007.

It was the weekend, and the range he had in mind was holding a friends-and-family open recruitment event.

We drove roughly 40 miles due west of the city to a place called Highland Lakes in New Jersey. The country gradually turned to rolling hills. Pickup trucks started to outnumber SUVs. Country stations crowded out R&B on the FM dial.

By the time we arrived, a decent crowd had gathered, folks young and old, including families with children. Coffee and pastries were served, compliments of the house. After brief introductions, the group guide gave us a safety refresher. He started by asking how many of us had fired a weapon before. I looked around — a good two-thirds of those present raised their hands. Next question: who knows the three basic rules of gun safety? The crowd grew shy and quiet.

A ten-year-old boy finally ventured a guess: “Always point your gun down?” “Almost, but not exactly,” replied our guide. “After all, what if you are in your upstairs bedroom, and your mom and dad are in the living room below,” he said, injecting some much-needed levity into the discussion.

I felt my stomach turn, and I suspected that it wasn’t the danish.

He went on to clarify the three rules (I paraphrase from memory):

• Always point your gun in the safest direction, given the circumstances. At the shooting range, this will typically be in the direction of the target.
• Keep ammunition away from the gun until you’re ready to shoot.
• Keep your fingers off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot.

It was now time to head out to the range. As I walked around the grounds from station to station, mingling with the folks who appeared more at home in this setting than me, many wearing 2nd Amendment t-shirts, many discussing their own gun collections, I started to form a clearer impression of what fuels American gun culture. These folks were not here to make political statements; they weren’t here to exercise constitutional rights; they weren’t here to form “well regulated militias” to guard against government overreach. They came to act out fantasies — of being soldiers, hunters, law men or perhaps outlaws. They came to transport themselves into the mythical worlds of Call of Duty, or Duck Hunt, or Grand Theft Auto. They came to satisfy a fetish.

I did alright with the long rifles and the skeet shooting, but when we got to the handgun shooting range and I held a 9mm pistol in my hands, I suddenly got queasy. I imagined how quick and easy it would be for someone to snap and turn the gun on himself, or to spray this crowd of jovial yet responsible gun enthusiasts with bullets.