I stand alone at the crowded Cabela's gun counter. I've
already spent hours researching what I want for my first handgun before I
arrived here and have mostly decided which gun is the gun, yet the selection remains
overwhelming. My boyfriend, having succumbed to the many manly wonders of
such a place as Cabela's, has already ditched me for fishing rods and bait
tackle. Good to know, I’m just below fish.
A quick scan of my fellow customers and I count only one
other woman among us, busily displaying disinterest at the expense of her cell
phone's battery. Another scan, this time of the employees, one of which
will be the one to help me on this momentous endeavor and once again, all
men--the only female is working the checkout register. Great. I'm
excited and intimidated. Confident yet flustered. I can feel the
curious looks from the other patrons brush over me and I suddenly feel
extremely out of place in my fur trimmed black puffy jacket. "Stop
it." I think to myself before I completely freak out. "I belong here
too."
I love my boyfriend, however much he doesn't understand about
being a woman and my sudden resentment of fish.
He’s forever asking me, “Why did you lock the door? I just went
into the garage for a minute." "Why can't we sleep with the windows
open at night?" "Why do you lock your car when it's IN the
garage?" "My gun is in the night stand. Just grab it if someone
breaks in." His fortunate childhood consisted of wide open ranches in
Fallon,NV and banjo playing boonies outside of Marysville, CA where he actually
did walk miles and miles to school,
uphill, both ways, in the rain. (The use of Kleenex-boxes for shoes is
still up for debate, however.) In sharp contrast, my childhood in the
Lettuce Capital of the World, Salinas, CA, consisted mainly of paved city
streets, fog, and a gang problem so bad drive-by shootings and fire-bombings
were child's play, literally.
Locking my doors and windows, even when my boyfriend is
outside rummaging through the garage, is so second nature I don't even realize
I'm doing it. Well maybe sometimes I do,
after all, he did ditch me for fish.
Anyway, It’s just what you do in my family. You learn what you live, I
guess. If you open it, you close
it. If you turn it on, you turn it
off. If you unlock it, you lock it. Simple enough.
My family to this day has a secret word that we, as
children, were to ask for if ever a stranger approached under the guise of an
emergency with a family member. As a child, I heeded the stranger danger
public service announcements with vigor.
Oh, you don’t know the secret word? No dice, dude!
In my child mind, the Boogeyman lurked everywhere. Some
people would say my family was paranoid raising me like that, my boyfriend
included. I say they did the right thing. The Boogeyman does lurk everywhere. I've
seen him with my own eyes--Fingerprinted him, even. I’ve sat face to face
with him with nothing but a desk between us while he tried to explain away his
Boogeyman deeds. The Boogeyman is why I lock out my boyfriend religiously
and without realizing. The Boogeyman is why I decided to take my
back-of-the-mind awareness of his existence to the forefront and learn how to
really protect myself. Protect myself in a way so that if the Boogeyman
ever does break in, I can do more than throw a plastic case with an unloaded
gun in it and hope it hits him in his fat head.
I'm fortunate though. I've been able to keep the
Boogeyman out of my 10 feet of recommended defensive space thus far, something
not so for many people, men and women. That's not to say he hasn't come around
just enough in my life lest I forget he's always there. He's shown up at
my childhood home as my best friend's ex-boyfriend toting a .357 revolver. I was 13 and hid in a back room gripping a
butcher knife with white knuckles. He appeared as a boyfriend years ago
when after a shouting match he placed his hands around my neck and squeezed.
A month before I got married to my future ex-husband, he befriended my
drunk fiancé at a bar and convinced him to let him stay the night at our house.
When I tried to send him on his merry way, he started an argument with
the drunk fiancé, leaving it to me to act. Me, all of 5 feet 7 inches 130 lbs.
against a Boogeyman of over 6 feet. To this day I remember the split second
decision to posture and assert myself, "YOU NEED TO GET THE HELL OUT OF
HERE!" I screamed with instant belief that I was going to win only
because I had to win.
And most recently, when I started to succumb to the idea that
maybe I really am just paranoid and got relaxed about assuring my own
security. The garage door stayed open
one night and allowed said Boogeyman and his sticky fingers to roam the inside
of it and my car and take what he pleased.
I slept with my dog alone and unknowingly just 40 feet away in my
bedroom next to my unarmed nightstand. To this day, I can't say for sure
if the door into my house was even locked. The ramifications of which hit
me like a wrecking ball.
"Never again." I told myself.
Until that moment I had never totally understood how many
times I had truly been a victim. Had I just suppressed these Boogeyman
moments because I'm a woman and that's what we like to do? Had I just
thought it was a normal part of life? I don't know but I refuse to
believe that there is even one woman alive today who has never come face to
face with evil, no matter how seemingly insignificant the encounter. I challenge every woman to evaluate their
life and acknowledge these events as well.
A year ago, a good friend told me about this awesome class
she took to learn about handguns. A women ONLY class. I was
immediately impressed. A search of the website and it’s true! The Women's Shooting Academy offered a
women-only Introduction to Handguns course taught by Vicki Kawelmacher, a bad
a** looking lady posed smiling with a large handgun. Heck yes! I
want to be her when I grow up! Where do
I sign?
I had only a "passive knowledge" of guns, i.e. male
handed me loaded gun, I shot loaded gun until unloaded, male took unloaded gun
from me. The determination to trade my “passive knowledge" of guns
for a true, working knowledge of guns possessed me completely. I made myself a promise. I would take an
active responsibility to ensure my own safety.
Finally, it was class day at The Women’s Shooting
Academy. Twelve of us ladies, all
different ages and I found myself overwhelmed with pride. We were there to learn and empower ourselves. I realized I’m not paranoid after all. I’m prepared.
The mystery of what a man does when he takes the unloaded gun from my
hands was revealed. I no longer need him
to walk me through the masculine world of firearms. I can walk on my own now thanks to Vicki and
her outstanding team. I belong here too.
That’s how I got here.
At the Cabela’s gun counter.
That’s how I end up with the gun,
a beautiful Sig Sauer P238 .380. Imagine
that. A gun that’s beautiful.
I love my gun. I love that it's MY gun. I love the
quiet weight of it in my hands. I love knowing how to USE my gun. I
love knowing how to use OTHER guns. I love knowing that I have a good
fighting chance of protecting myself if ever the occasion arises. I love
that The Women’s Shooting Academy exists so that other women, like me, can
empower themselves. And I imagine I will
also love the moment that Boogeyman dares show his face again and he says with
fear, “Oh my god, she’s got a gun.”
Because we belong here too.
-Cat
AKA: WSA Resident Word-Smith
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