The flash fiction story posted below this short essay implies the false causality of learning how to responsibly use a firearm with that of suicide by firearm. Moreover, it implies people shouldn’t learn how to responsibly use a particularly dangerous tool when, at some point in one’s life, it may be necessary to use one, or properly handle one (such as while or after disarming a dangerous criminal).
When a parent, or peer organization like 4-H, is directly involved in teaching, my experience in both cases, and my strong intuition, are that responsible learning of dangerous tools, the gun being a primary example, with caring and responsible people is also a bonding experience that relates the experience to the tools learned – a kind of socio-materialist or interpersonal-materialist semiosis.
Also, myriad ways to commit suicide exist – perhaps an infinite number of means to suicide. The gun is an extremely lazy and messy method of suicide.
There is no learning curve in using a gun. Millions of movies, websites, videos, video games, and even extremely elementary trial and error can teach any fucker, young or old, to use a gun.
Once again, proper instruction includes understanding why the gun is dangerous and how to handle it safely, and the entailed bonding experience and social influence of proper instruction with knowledgeable and caring people. This human experience that forms the triad of trainer-student-tool, I believe, impresses upon the student a social standard in which guns are not used, as much as the limited range in which they are used.
“But, you have kids?”
Scott’s face scrunched up in confusion. “Yeah?”
“Doesn’t it worry you? With all the shootings and . . . everything?”
His jaw tightened. He held out the gun he’d been showing off. “Does it worry you?” Moving with practiced efficiency, he dropped the clip, showing it empty of bullets, opened the chamber, displaying the same. Finally, he pointed to the safety, which was engaged. “Trust me,” he said soberly, “I know what I’m doing. This gun isn’t in danger of killing anyone.”
“But . . . you have kids,” she repeated. “Aren’t you worried about—”
“Of course I am.” Scott spat. He holstered the gun, but kept his hand firmly on the grip. “Connor and Jamie know gun safety. I’ve taken them to the shooting range. They know what they’re doing.”
And they did.
Twelve days later, Connor deliberately unlocked the gun cabinet. He…
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Muddy Roads 