The Shooting Impulse

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I think a psychopath lives inside me. When Kathryn and I watch a murder mystery, I choose the most annoying character and say, “I hope he/she gets killed.” Usually, it’s because the character is a loud talker or a bossy-pants. Even darker still, I sometimes ruminate over the fantasy that a political figure I detest will be assassinated. I wouldn’t do it myself, of course, but I can imagine the setup, the fallout, and the momentary relief I would feel. Momentary, because only a fool or a true psychopath would fail to realize that such a breach could start a terrible chain reaction of violence.

 

From the moment I developed fine motor skills, I have had the impulse to shoot somebody. What fun it was to learn how to pick the weed with the tough, thin stalk and the firm, green torpedo at the end, loop the stalk around the torpedo, and pull. The torpedo pops off and flies about five feet—far enough to hit the person you’re aiming at.

 

Sticks were always handy for pretend shooting. I would crouch behind rocks or pull back around the corner of the house and take guarded peeks to see if the enemy was in range. If I caught my Indian or Nazi or black-hatted cowboy enemy by surprise, I would jump out and mow him down with a pew-pew-pew or a rat-a-tat-tat.

 

For our first Christmas together, Kathryn and I decided we needed to purchase at least one fun toy for each other. I had a genius idea. On Christmas morning, she unwrapped my gift of “his and hers” dart guns. I was grinning, and my tail was wagging. What could be better for the couple just starting out than the weapons of war I had enjoyed so as a boy? She was not amused, and I was baffled by her lack of enthusiasm.

 

One summer at Boy Scout Camp, I was the Field Sports Director, which meant I was in charge of the rifle, shotgun, and archery ranges. I was required to join the National Rifle Association so I could go through a day of gun safety training. I got the NRA magazine as part of the deal and, with a young man's blood lust, always turned to the back page first when the new issue arrived. The back page had the regular column, “The Armed Citizen,” which usually featured an account of a frail grandmother menaced by a lowlife thug creeping into her bedroom at night. What good luck it was that Granny was armed with her 9mm Glock and could blow the creep away.

 

My NRA membership expired after a year, but the impulse to shoot is strong. So is the tendency to graduate in firepower from a weed to a stick to a dart gun to the .22 caliber single-shot, bolt-action rifle we used at camp. I don’t own a firearm, but I still have what for me is a very natural impulse to shoot. Being a grown-up, however, means I have learned I don't have to act on impulse. I don't have to give my inner psychopath free reign or tempt him with instruments built intentionally for efficient murder.

 

As I write, the news is coming out about a high school graduation celebration in Richmond, VA interrupted by someone whose impulse to shoot, coupled with his access to firearms, resulted in two deaths and five people wounded. Tragic as it is, I’m relieved that the shooter didn’t have an assault rife at hand.


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