my first gun
I was the closest I’ve ever been to a bullet; my heart made easy prey of my rib cage. Sitting across from three white women, only a tray of 22 caliber bullets on the table between us, I noted the way the air began to pull away from my ears. My arms were floating, but my body stayed put. I realized my world became fantastical when suddenly I was inside, seated in a different, more plush chair, staring at the darkness of my hands. I thought my dog might be a comfort, but she seemed a bit frenetic in her movements. My big-hearted, black pup held my energy in her bones, rattled in my eyes.
I’ve never shared space with a gun, visible to my eyes, yet was wildly discomforted by the sight of casualty around such destruction. I never have understood the fascination with guns, guns for sport, for play. Guns are weapons, hotly debated because of this playful attitude many carry inside these steel traps. Guns have stood between life and death, ushering black bodies to another realm, sometimes briskly, sometimes through quicksand. Guns have been punishers, painfully inserting power through the foot of a runaway, hopeful for the escape to freedom. Some say guns are not the killers, not the ones to be blamed, but how can one not feel destroyed in the face of such a weapon. A weapon that holds history in its armor, a terrible history. A history I feel inside my body as I hear the pops echo outside the door. A door that’s far too thin to be a true barrier. A door that ushers in happy faces after pointing and shooting proves successful. Exhilaration attempts to enter the room. It is not welcomed.
I do not understand the fascination with guns. Sure, it makes the killing of food animals swift, but I don’t even eat meat. And if I did, when I did, I still held no understanding. Humans ate meat long before guns were created. Long before guns destroyed lives. Long before the battle between weapon and warrior. I sit inside this room I have entered, striving to breath, to notice that I am breathing, to release the furious palpitations my heart beats out in an attempt to express fear. To express a determination to live. I sit inside this room and daydream about death, about black bodies, about ancestry and destruction. I sit inside this room and wait for it all to end. Faster.
I’ve never shared space with a gun, visible to my eyes, yet was wildly discomforted by the sight of casualty around such destruction. I never have understood the fascination with guns, guns for sport, for play. Guns are weapons, hotly debated because of this playful attitude many carry inside these steel traps. Guns have stood between life and death, ushering black bodies to another realm, sometimes briskly, sometimes through quicksand. Guns have been punishers, painfully inserting power through the foot of a runaway, hopeful for the escape to freedom. Some say guns are not the killers, not the ones to be blamed, but how can one not feel destroyed in the face of such a weapon. A weapon that holds history in its armor, a terrible history. A history I feel inside my body as I hear the pops echo outside the door. A door that’s far too thin to be a true barrier. A door that ushers in happy faces after pointing and shooting proves successful. Exhilaration attempts to enter the room. It is not welcomed.
I do not understand the fascination with guns. Sure, it makes the killing of food animals swift, but I don’t even eat meat. And if I did, when I did, I still held no understanding. Humans ate meat long before guns were created. Long before guns destroyed lives. Long before the battle between weapon and warrior. I sit inside this room I have entered, striving to breath, to notice that I am breathing, to release the furious palpitations my heart beats out in an attempt to express fear. To express a determination to live. I sit inside this room and daydream about death, about black bodies, about ancestry and destruction. I sit inside this room and wait for it all to end. Faster.
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