It’s a dog-day August afternoon in Marriottsville, Md., and I’m holding a loaded .22-caliber semiautomatic in my hands. I have two thoughts: one, that something this lethal should weigh more; and two, that someone this nervous should not be holding a firearm.
The situation would be paralyzing were it not for the fact that my every move (and hesitation) is being carefully monitored by Tom Willats, an engineer from North Potomac with the aura of an eternal Boy Scout. For probably the sixth time, he gently reminds me to keep my finger off the trigger until I’m ready to fire.
Willats is a volunteer instructor at the Associated Gun Clubs of Baltimore’s women’s pistol clinic, a daylong, $20 workshop sponsored by the National Rifle Association’s Women on Target program, an initiative encouraging women to get more involved in firearm sports and safety. The twice-yearly course is run by Roxanne Byczkowski of Owings Mills, an officer at Associated and a recent NRA honoree for “dedication to the protection of the Second Amendment.” She says my response to holding a gun for the first time is typical: “Women come in here scared to death. They’ve seen ‘Dirty Harry,’ with the huge guns that have a big recoil. But we start with low-caliber firearms.”
Actually, my most vivid pistol-wielding image is of Diana Rigg, not Clint Eastwood. In the opening credits of the ’60s British TV spy spoof “The Avengers,” Rigg, as Emma Peel, shoots the cork off a champagne bottle held by John Steed, her partner in espionage and irony— neatly targeting my pre-teen dreams of sexual sophistication and gender play. Ms. Peel looked foxy in her cat suit, but what I actually envied was her élan. She had a way with that gun that I wanted to have with my entire life. And while I recognize this early fantasy for what it is, my curiosity about guns and their power— both real and symbolic— has remained. That’s why, 25 years later, I’m here at the firing range, trying to steady my arm as I squeeze my right eye shut and take aim at a bull’s-eye
The day begins at 9 A.M., women nearly 40 women gather in the clubhouse for an orientation. Most of us are between 35 and 50, though a couple of women have brought their 20-something daughters. Some people wear shorts; others seem dressed for a day at the office. A few have shot firearms with their boyfriends or husbands; others, like me, admit to having absolutely no experience. Almost everyone is here because guns make them nervous and they want to change that. Byczkowski, an engagingly wry blonde, starts with the good news: women are consistently better shots than men. “Unlike guys, we don’t have preconceived notions that we’ll be good,” she says. “We listen to directions. We’re patient. And having hips helps with balance.” (Finally, I think: a sport that’s about my ass as is, not as it should be.)
In the next 60 minutes, Byczkowski teaches us the three key safety rules: always keep the gun pointed in a safe direction; always keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to fire; and always keep the gun unloaded until you’re ready to fire. She details the parts of a pistol and offers tips on aiming and firing (in short: it’s all about breathing). Then, very quickly, school is out. People who seem to know what they’re doing think it’s now safe to put loaded weapons into our hands.
As we troop over to the club’s lower range, a spacious rectangular clearing in the woods, my stomach tightens. What if I accidentally shoot someone? Or what if I don’t, and just make a complete fool of myself? Is there any way I might actually be good at this?
On the firing range, the rules are as strict as a well-run kindergarten. A guy on a loudspeaker calls out when it’s safe to commence firing (“The range is hot! The range is hot!”) and when it’s time to secure your firearm and step behind a safety line (“Cease fire! Cease fire! Make all firearms safe. Actions open, magazines removed, insert open action indicator. Step behind the white line for further instructions”). The ritualistic atmosphere feels like a cross between military protocol and the arcane rules of a kid’s treehouse— pretty far from my “Avengers” fantasy.
The first gun I try is a .22 revolver, your basic Butch Cassidy model. It feels flimsy, almost like a prop, and consequently lacks an intimidation factor. Loading the cartridges into the revolving chamber isn’t too difficult, but firing requires pulling the hammer back for each shot, which is awkward. My hand doesn’t seem big or strong enough. Raising the gun, my arms held out straight, I look down the revolver’s barrel, trying to line up the sight with the bull’s-eye. In my wobbly grip, the target flits around. I finally squeeze the trigger just to do something. The recoil is almost imperceptible, but I don’t even hit the target attached to a large cardboard square 25 feet away. It’s roughly the broad side of a small barn, but never mind. None of the other women laugh me off the range— they’re all too busy shooting. It sounds like the finale of a fireworks show. I try again. And again. On the third round, I nick the corner of the cardboard square.
As the morning wears on, the volunteers offer us a variety of pistols to try. This part of the clinic makes sense to me. It’s like shopping— there’s a familiar power in being able to prefer certain models and reject others. The .22 semiautomatics, which don’t require you to manually cock the hammer before firing, feel elegantly at home in my grip. But the new challenge becomes pushing the cartridges down into the semi’s magazine, essentially a hard-core Pez dispenser. Already greasy with lubricant— to help keep the gun clean— the bullets slip around in my shaking fingers. I think of trying to do this during a life-threatening situation. No way. Game over.
At one point, Willats wagers a quarter if I can hit a small balloon tied to the target. It pops during my first few shots. I’m elated. A cheap high, sure, but for a library nerd, this is heady stuff. Not quite “sexy,” but certainly exciting. I pocket the coin, my estrogen surging: Anything you can do, I can do better…
Meanwhile, a woman next to me is squeezing off rounds with a .45-caliber semi. Every shot sounds like a bomb exploding, each casing falling around her as thick as a roll of nickels. I can’t get used to the noise, even when I anticipate it, and I wish she’d put that damn thing down. But then I look over at her. She’s in her own Annie Oakley zone. Focused, confident. I realize that shooting may be a physical act, but it ultimately takes place in the mind. Where your bullet ends up is just a record of where your head was when you fired.
During the lunch break, another woman and I sit with a bunch of the male volunteers. They’re an affable, low-key bunch: a little shy, but eager to share their firearm affections. One man traces his love of guns to hunting alongside his father; another collects antique black-powder rifles; a third jokes about Wild West role-playing shooting, in which guys wear cowboy get-ups and shoot targets while riding horses. If this is the face of the NRA, it’s a lot more idiosyncratic than I ever imagined.
But when lunch conversation turns to what should be an innocuous topic— where people live— something shifts. It turns out that none of these volunteers lives in Baltimore and most have bought into the city’s image as a blighted landscape of gun-wielding drug dealers. The “danger” of the city supports their rationale that guns are necessary for self-protection— yet they don’t live in, or even come into, Baltimore.
After lunch, I head back onto the range and shoot what turns out to be my favorite pistol, a .22 semiautomatic with a red laser light. The red dot is much easier to line up against the bull’s-eye than the old-fashioned sight, and I achieve a “good cluster,” a series of bullet holes so close together that they signal my ability to sustain consistent, decent aim. Like any self-effacing woman, I attribute my cluster to the gun, not to me, although, when the allclear sounds, I decide to keep the paper target as a trophy. Along with the quarter I won earlier.
Will I go back to a range? Probably, if only to explore that strange sense of calm you get from concentrating on a target. Although there are the downsides: the incredible noise, and the pile of shell casings spilling from every round that makes shooting feel like a profligate hobby. Then there’s the eventual issue of whether to buy a pistol, which I’d have to do to develop any genuine proficiency. I’m not at all ready to entertain that thought. Wouldn’t, say, archery demand the same kind of internal focus, and be a lot less dangerous (not to mention quieter)? Yes, maybe. But archery is off the cultural map. Let’s face it: Knowing your way around a gun is like opening the hood of a car and being able to spot obvious trouble. It’s a notch on the belt of modern life.
Even so, I’m struck by the disconnect between the Associated Gun Clubs’ well-run range and what happens with guns beyond it: school shootings, spousal rampages (almost always against women), suicides, hurricane looting hysteria. Guns as sport may impart a sense of mastery and calm— the élan I’d imagined in my “Avengers” fantasy— but the fact that guns are weapons wields an irrational power stronger than any range ritual can ultimately contain.
After a day of shooting, the pistol as physical object has become decidedly more real for me— less taboo, more about discipline than excitement. But the cultural issue feels even more complicated. My experience with a firearm took place on my terms: in a safe, supportive environment with a group of law-abiding peers. I can’t help feeling like that very opportunity is a privilege that comes at some larger civic price. It’s a luxury, after all, to take my paper bull’s-eye with the “good cluster” home to a neighborhood, a house, in which I myself am unlikely to be a target.
Where Women Can Learn to Shoot
Associated Gun Clubs of Baltimore (11518 Marriottsville Road, 410-875-0664, http://www.associatedgunclubs.org) offers a range of Women on Target events annually, including pistol and shotgun clinics and duck hunts. Contact Roxanne Byczkowski at to be alerted when new events are scheduled.
Continental Arms (9603 Deereco Road, Timonium, 410-560-3609, http://www.continentalarms.net. net) offers an introductory instruction course for men and women once a week for a month, starting on the first Wednesday. For one-on-one instruction, contact Jeanie Grant at .
