Test Case: I Hate Guns. I Joined A Gun Club And Learned How To Shoot Handguns.

I grew up in Eastern Washington, where gun safes and taxidermy animal heads are not uncommon features of family-room décor. Still, I have always felt about guns the way I feel about incurable cancer and TV commercials: They should be eradicated. If it was up to me, we would take all the guns in the world and melt them down to make a big statue of cuddling baby kittens visible from space. (I could maybe make an exception for hunting rifles, though I will never understand the fun of a hobby involving shooting one of Mother Earth’s creatures and watching the life drain from its eyes.) As the gun violence in our country only seems to escalate, my conviction just grows stronger.

Guns also just really freak me out. Handguns in particular were created for the sole purpose of maiming and killing other human beings. I was always taught that it was bad to maim.

In line with my position on firearms, I had never shot a gun. I don’t think I had even touched one before. That was all about to change. Could I “make friends” with guns by getting to know them better?

I signed up for a handgun class called “Right on Target” at my local gun club, which came with a club membership. In an apparent nod to weeding out potential terrorists and students with sexy foreign accents, participants had to answer ahead of time whether we were U.S. citizens or green card holders, and could speak English fluently without translator assistance. Attending the class required walking through the club’s gun shop, which was packed to the rafters with firearms and people who I swear could read my liberal voting record just by looking at me. All the employees were carrying guns in holsters, which made the hair on the back of my Democrat neck stand on end. I noted that for two dollars you could buy a paper target of a zombie attacking a well-endowed blonde.

I was ushered into a room that smelled vaguely of cigarettes and reminded me of my driver’s ed class, with that same mixture of anxiety and anticipation. Fittingly, our instructor was a guy who sounded exactly like Ron Swanson. He talked a lot about gun laws and storing your gun, and how you should make sure there is reciprocity for your concealed pistol license when you take your gun on an out-of-state road trip. (Guns apparently also enjoy vacations.) Like an experienced litigator, he raised and dismissed the ongoing concerns about lead exposure in shooting ranges very convincingly. It was presumed that most of us were in the market for a gun for what the gun people call “personal protection,” which made me think of condoms and chuckle like a teenage boy. Another instructor taught us all about types of guns and ammo, which was all a blur that made me thankful no quiz was involved. Next we were given fake handguns and plastic bullets (which still somehow looked menacing) that we used to learn how to load and grip the gun.

And then it was time to shoot. They gave us eye and ear protection, and we nervously filed down the hall toward the sound of gunfire. We entered a bunker-like room outfitted with paper targets and three tables spread with a buffet of handguns. I was given a gun with a silver barrel that looked like something an evil person in a movie would have. I forgot everything I was taught minutes earlier about gun safety and how to hold a gun, and silently screamed inside. My glasses kept fogging up from fear sweat. Robbed of two critical senses, I was instructed to aim and shoot.

Pop.

I immediately thought: That’s it? Taking my own gun virginity was sort of… anticlimactic.

And then I thought: That’s it? That’s all it takes to shoot another person, one split-second pull of a trigger? At that moment, I realized both how non-threatening and how dangerous a gun can be.

After five more shots—each punctuated by an annoyingly girly squeal that I hoped nobody could hear through their ear protection—my magazine was empty and my group stood back to let another group shoot. Another thought crept in: That was fun. I want to go again.

It was sort of like bowling with a government-regulated weapon. During my next two turns, I tried a couple of higher-caliber guns and figured out more about proper sight alignment and stance. I left the range buzzing with leftover adrenaline and suppressing a smile just in case Hillary was watching.

A few days later, Brenna, my best friend—who I have known since second grade, and who votes very differently than I do—attended “Ladies’ Night” at the range with me. At the front desk, they helped us pick out a 9 mm to rent (we could swap out guns throughout the night), and guided us to a lane in the shooting bay. A guy named Eddie very patiently helped make sure we didn’t kill ourselves or anyone else. We mutilated with glee a paper target that looked like a dude’s head and torso, and I found myself uttering new and unusual phrases, such as: “We need more bullets!” We favored the Glock 34 and some gun called a 1911 that we agreed had Old West flair. We made plans to come back again, and mused over whether we could save a buck by buying ammo in bulk.

The Verdict: While I am not going to go out and join the NRA anytime soon (or ever), going to a gun range and learning about shooting did teach me to look at guns and the people who own them differently. I felt like I was walking into the lion’s den when I went into that gun shop, but I was treated with friendliness and patience. I never felt unsafe—although I am not sure if the sound of gunshots will ever stop giving me heart palpitations—and I had a lot of fun. I felt the thrill of a recreational activity that involves an element of danger, and could appreciate the sense of community felt by the gun enthusiasts. By God, they seemed like completely normal people, which was perhaps the biggest surprise of all.

Still, I will continue to support as many gun restrictions as our trigger-happy nation will allow, though losing the right to keep shooting might cause a tear to roll down my lead-exposed face. Maybe I should be more paranoid, but for now, the only personal protection I will have in my house will have four sets of claws and respond to the name “Kitty.”

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Allison Peryea is a shareholder attorney at Leahy Fjelstad Peryea, a boutique law firm in downtown Seattle that primarily serves community association clients. Her practice focuses on covenant enforcement and dispute resolution. She is a longtime humor writer with a background in journalism and cat ownership. You can reach her by email at [email protected].