Your Earliest Experience With Guns

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Readers from across the U.S. share what they remember about their introduction to firearms. To tell your story, please send us a note: hello@theatlantic.com.

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Catherine Green

6:30 PM / January 22, 2016

A First Gun Encounter, With Lifelong Consequences

It’s not often we can cross-reference a personal anecdote from a reader with Google News archives reaching back 40 years. John Poirier’s first experience with guns—the theme of our new reader thread—was noted in the newspaper of his hometown of Lewiston, Maine, following his interview with the Boston Globe. Here’s John’s story in his own words:

I was 23 years old, a newly minted pharmacist living in the South End of Boston, which was beginning the process of gentrification in 1976. I was an idealistic young white gay man, who having witnessed the racially charged effects of forced busing, believed that it was better to integrate the neighborhoods instead of the schools. So I had just moved into a refurbished old brick building on Pembroke Street.

One dreary winter afternoon 40 years ago this January, I returned to my apartment to find the door jimmied open by a crowbar. Not thinking that the burglar might still be inside, I entered and went to the phone to call 911. Within a few seconds of picking up the receiver an armed black man appeared behind me and demanded all my money.

Catherine Green

10:55 AM / January 22, 2016

Summers at Camp Sharpshooter

Summer camp carries with it a particular kind of nostalgia. In memories, conditions were perfect: You were away from your parents, away from school, away from your regular ol’ friends—and hey, there was a whole new batch to bond with.

Much of that bonding takes place over shared activities, a brilliant effort by camp directors and counselors-in-training everywhere to further hone a developing person’s dependence on schedules. For some of us, “activities” meant sessions on the loom or crowded around a table making God’s eyes from rainbow yarn (it was the ‘90s and no one had thought to tell us about cultural appropriation yet).

For others, like these readers, it meant guns:

My first experience with guns was at an all-boys summer camp in 1984. I was 11 years old. It was the first time I was away from home.

We shot .22s, single-bolt action. I remember being very careful handling and carrying the rifle. Even at that age, I knew this was the real deal and not the toy guns I played Army with my friends at home.

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.

Catherine Green

3:25 PM / January 21, 2016

Bonding Over Bullets

Similar to what I’ve heard from my extended family in the Midwest, a good number of readers wrote about positive first experiences with guns, which led to a lifelong respect and passion for firearms. Our first reader:

When I was about age seven and living in semi-rural Illinois outside of Chicago, I remember my Aunt Marge inviting me to go outdoors with her and watch her fire a .22 rifle at a target hung from the apple tree. She was wearing a suede jacket, which seemed unusual to me, since she was a businesswoman and an accountant for a string of movie theaters.

I remember her giving me safety instructions, including where to stand and how to remain alert around a shooter to avoid mishaps. It was very cold and windy. And I remember, most of all, the sweet smell of gunsmoke—which I enjoyed.

Then, we went inside, and I watched her carefully unload the gun and put it away in a long, cardboard box—with the ammunition put up high in a safe place separate from the gun. She gave me repeated warnings about “not playing” with any firearms.

So my earliest memory of guns is that Aunt Marge really knew how to use them. They were dangerous but useful, and you needed to respect them and be very grown-up before you could be trusted to use one for target practice. I like guns, and I have a healthy respect for them because of early exposure to good training about their purpose and use.

Another reader:

I was four years old when I announced that I wanted a BB gun.

“What would you do with a BB gun?” Pappy asked. “They’re no good for anything but making noise. A real man uses a real gun.”

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.

Catherine Green

6:00 PM / January 20, 2016

'Short Enough to Run Beneath the Bullets'

We’ve heard from many of you about your first experience with guns, so thanks to everyone who’s emailed so far. The details of this reader’s account jumped out among the dozens in our inbox:

When I was maybe four years old, my father brought my older brother and me along with him to the shooting range. He and a friend brought a variety of shotguns and pistols, as well as a supply of cotton balls to stuff into our ears.

Now, this range was an outdoor range, and it was just a bit windy. In the course of watching the others shoot, one of the cotton balls fell out of my ear and went blowing down the shooting range. I—of course—chased it.

Catherine Green

1:19 PM / January 15, 2016

What's Your Earliest Experience With Guns?

Having grown up in Indiana, and with family in rural Illinois (where the itinerary for a family reunion in 2014 included a trick shooting show and a two-hour block of time for “introduction to firearms”), I know more than a few people for whom owning guns is a significant part of their lives. When I’ve asked an ex’s father or a second cousin why they hunt or maintain a collection of firearms, they’ve typically said something about growing up with them in the house, or that they were the focal accessory in bonding time with a mentor.

That’s also the gist of several comments in this discussion thread I found. This passage in particular shows a striking dichotomy of early exposure to guns:

I have an extremely negative memory for my first experience with a gun. My older cousin (who was about 16 or 18 at the time) tried to shoot me. I was about five years old.