I had never seen a real gun before in my life, and the Saturday night special he was pointing at me looked too small to be real. I threw a five dollar bill at him and while he was distracted I ran out of my second-floor apartment and down the stairs. The burglar shot me in the back, leaving a .38 bullet between my second and third vertebrae of my spine, paralyzing me from the chest down for the rest of my life.

I was in the ICU of Boston City Hospital a couple of days after the bullet had been surgically removed when two reporters from the Boston Globe came to interview me. Still on a high dose of morphine, I spoke openly about the incident, without thinking of the consequences of what I said. A day later the Boston Globe published a long interview with me on page three, including quotes about being gay. Since most of my family did not know this, I was outed to the world by the newspaper. Ten years later, J. Anthony Lukas would write about this burglary and hate-crime in his Pulitzer-winning book Common Ground.

It is now almost 40 years to the day since that fateful encounter with a gun, and I am profoundly disappointed that gun violence has greatly increased since then [CG note: Research indicates the rates of non-fatal firearm crime and firearm homicides have in fact fallen since 1993], and that no progress in mitigating this epidemic seems possible. While most media focus on the lives lost to gun violence in America, little attention is paid to the thousands of survivors.

I am now 63, retired in Davis, California, alone as usual, and in much neuropathic pain, among other complications of having lived this long as a paraplegic.

We shot in the prone position, on our bellies. We aimed at paper bulls-eye targets about 25 yards away. The counselor taught us how to load, aim, and “fire at will.”

“Remember,” one of them said. “Exhale, then squeeze the trigger. Don’t jerk it.”

I was an OK shot. I got better with practice. I used to mail my targets home to my folks along with letters about camp. I never forgot the first time the rifle kicked back after I pulled (squeezed) the trigger. The loud pop. The smell of gunpowder. The clink of the shell casings. And the feeling that I just grew up a bit.

I went back to that camp every summer and shot those rifles until I was 17. I haven’t picked up a rifle since.

But, because of that positive experience, I’m not as quick to support gun bans as some of my more liberal friends. Target practice, marksmanship, gun safety. Under proper supervision, these are good skills—and can be fun. The NRA used to stand for that before it went nuts.

Another reader found his shooting stride even earlier:

My earliest memory was eight years old. As a kid, I was privileged to spend some glorious two-week summer stints at Camp St. Michael near Hancock, Wisconsin. The Salvatorian Brothers taught me how to swim, ride a horse, shoot an arrow with a bow, and safe, accurate, firearm handling.

.22 caliber range rifles were used, and we campers drilled and practiced the manual of arms shooting prone, seated, and standing. If you put your shot in the center of the bullseye you earned “double canteen” (soda pop and an ice cream bar) that evening. I earned a couple of NRA qualifications—pro-marksman and marksman.

I committed to memory the five cardinal rules: ALWAYS keep the muzzle pointed in a safe direction; keep the gun unloaded until ready to use; keep your finger off the trigger until ready to shoot; treat every firearm as if was loaded; and be aware of your target and what’s beyond.

Here’s one more, though this reader got his first taste of guns thanks to his brother’s camp stay:

My first experience was shooting a little .22 caliber rifle at my brother’s Scout jamboree during his summer camp family day. We lived in a rural area, and some of our neighbors hunted, though we did not. My parents were Army veterans and emphasized that guns were weapons which were intended for use in killing. No beating around the bush about “self defense” or sport.

My next experience with guns was Army basic training.

Shooting is enjoyable. I definitely see the attraction in it. I’d rather not have guns around my house, though, knowing the statistics about accidental shooting of family members.

Ten minutes later, we were in the backyard near the barn. I listened
attentively as he explained how to aim the .22 rifle he had in his hand.
“And the most important rule of all,” he said, “is to NEVER, EVER point a gun at a person. Not even if it’s unloaded. Not even by accident. Guns are not toys.”

Lecture over, he set a pop can on top of a fence post, carefully measured off ten paces, then had me lie on my belly, rest the barrel of the gun on a crate, look down the sight, and squeeze the trigger. “Squeeze it, don’t pull it,” he said.

The gun cracked. The pop can flew off the fence post.

It was a triumphant introduction to guns. I don’t remember anything else about that day. The fact is, that one little window in time is one of just a handful of memories I have of Pappy. I love him still with the fierce love of a small child because a year later he was dead of a brain tumor, far too young.

Was he crazy to teach a four year old about guns? Maybe.

But years later, as my father and I taught my (considerably older than
four-year-old) daughters how to shoot safely, my mind went back to that day long ago when my grandfather made a real human connection with a four year old over a gun.

I’m struck by the theme of comfort in these emails—not in the sense that they’re learning to protect themselves, but the simple relief of feeling safe spending time with the adults they look up to. Here’s another reader, from San Diego:

My first encounter with firearms involved a few cousins, uncles, my father, and I all driving out to rural deserts in east San Diego county. I was eight years old. We pulled off the road when we found a good place to set up targets. We had old fruit, water jugs, paper targets, and other odds and ends we would all shoot.

I don’t remember much of the day, but I remember my dad’s firm stance behind me when I shot his .22 rifle for the first time, lest the kick of the gun knock me off my feet.

I remember the strangely comforting smell of gun powder, oil, and dry heat all through the afternoon. It was a good day. We stopped for Mexican food afterward, on our way home, and I knew I’d found a hobby that I’d always enjoy. I still do.

Picture it, if you will: five or six people shooting downrange and a four-year-old running out in the middle of the range. Looking back at this, I do wonder what my father was thinking. (Unfortunately I never thought to ask him about the experience, and now he has Alzheimer’s, so I doubt he'd recall it.)

Fortunately all I got was a spanking and a yelling at, rather than a bullet. And at some point I got to shoot a 12-gauge shotgun, which knocked me down. (How many four-year-olds know to pull the shotgun tight to their shoulder?) I don’t remember whether I got to shoot before or after I nearly got myself shot.

Forty years later, I can still remember the cotton ball rolling along the ground, me stooped over running after it, being short enough to run beneath the bullets.

My four-year-old cousin saw him aim the gun at where I was swinging. She jumped off of her swing and pulled me back. I was really mad at her until I heard the crack of the rifle. I froze while realizing what happened. The bullet missed me but went through the window of our trailer. He walked away, angry.  I still have no idea why he tried to shoot me. I can’t ask him because his younger brother killed him about seven years ago.

Luckily a short while after this incident, my father gave me a positive memory with a firearm. He taught me how to shoot. It was a great bonding experience. He taught me how to aim and care for a gun, mentioning that the most important things were to treat guns and people with respect and to properly clean guns. We spend most of the afternoon shooting the target in the yard.  I think it was a mock-up of a deer.

“Guns brought my father and I closer together,” the commenter says in a later post. “It was something he knew well that he was able to teach me. I will pass on the same values to my little one.”

As part of our special project on police, crime, and guns in America, we’d like to hear from you about your earliest memories of guns. Was it a positive or negative experience? To share your story, email hello@theatlantic.com.