A man walked across a desert wash. His black boots hit dry ground. His hand didn't hover near his holster. He let it match his stride, let it swing in a carefree arc that spoke of contentment, of a man fully present in his body. The sagebrush rustled, almost bowed in pleasure as he passed. I could smell it, the delicate oils it rubbed into his black pants. I could smell it, the purple sage, the gnarled mesquite he leaned against as his steady eyes scanned the horizon. I could smell it though the sage swayed years before I was born. He knew the Bad Guy hid behind an outcropping of granite. He knew, yet his hand didn't meet the black strap of leather around his waist. The Bad Guy cocked his rifle. The man shook his head no. My son, age 12, flinched.
"Watch out!"
He yelled into the past, into the flicker of screen that channeled our consciousness, collected it, dumped it on the plains of San Augustin, 1960, 1860. He yelled at the man with the silver paladin on his hip, at the man who carried business cards etched with a challenge: Have Gun Will Travel. He yelled, but the man didn't hear him. He didn't need to hear a young boy's warning, a boy who thought of himself as a man, a man with a black holster, a silver gun. The man moved like water, like the rush of spring rains down his desert wash, body and mind a symphony of sage and intellectual desire. The Bad Guy laid in the dust, clutching his arm.
I know my boy thought of this as we strode through the local flea market. I watched him move his hips like a hired gun through sage. It didn't help that Have Gun Will Travel looked like our rural New Mexico landscape, didn't help that our neighbors wore Stetsons, wore black boots coated in dry clay. 12 wore his black cowboy hat, his best dirty jeans. I wore mine, too. My youngest son, 10, raced to the end of the unpaved lot. The tail of his coonskin cap stuck straight out in the twenty-mile-per-hour winds. He sat next to a box of ducklings, fifty-cents apiece, and pulled out his wallet, open its frayed plastic cover. Empty. He looked at me. I shook my head no.
12 stood at a card table covered in New Mexicana. A basket filled with dried red chile. A doll made of cornhusks and love sat on the corner. She watched over the table, one stitched eye larger than the other. She watched 12 pick up a black leather gun belt. I watched it, too, from the west, from my position twelve yards closer to the mountains, my position high and mighty, my feet closer to God. I saw him reach for his wallet, knew he had what it took, knew he never spent money unless he meant it. I shook my hear no. He didn't see me.
Two decades ago I shook my head no. The Bad Guy didn't care. He tore my clothes from my body. He held a knife. He held a knife curved like an angel's wing. He held a knife to my throat. He tore my clothes. He raped me. One decade later I fought back. It wasn't too late; my mind could still escape. I bought a gun, a handgun forged of steel and hunger, bought a gun made for a man.
"We have smaller models. Perhaps something like this?"
The shop keeper steered me toward a shelf sporting three tiny pistols. I stared at them, at the one with a pearlesque handle engraved with symmetrical curliques. I shook my head no. I bought the Glock, the heavy gun, the weapon that made me feel invincible, three-dimensional-sharp. I fired rounds at a plywood target painted with fear, shot it good, plenty, shot it every sunny Saturday for two years until I killed that Bad Guy dead. I locked the gun in a case and slipped it under my bed.
The winds whipped through the flea market. The box of ducks tipped, and 10 ran this way and that, plucking one duckling into his chest, then another. I stood, frozen, the voice of God in my ear closest to the mountains. He whispered something, but I didn't catch it. The wind drowned His wish. 12 handed twenty dollars over the table. The corn doll flinched.
It's just a fancy tooled belt.
Thou shalt not kill.
My mind played tricks on me. My hat blew into the dust, blew twelve yards east until it landed at 12's feet. He dropped his gun belt on the table, bent to grab my hat. He picked it up, brushed as much dirt as he could from the brim, then handed me both the hat and holster with both hands.
"Mom, I got this for you. You like Paladin so much, I thought you should look like him."
I turned toward the mountains, toward God, so 12 couldn't see my tears. I buckled the belt low and easy around my hips and plunked my hat down close to my ears. I turned, God turned, and the wind blew me into my boy's arms.
The next morning I slid the box from beneath my bed, the box that held my magic bullet, my returned life. I piled the boys into the car and we headed for the firing range. My gun belt pressed into the seat behind me. The winds slowed that morning, slowed to a crawl. I know God pushed them back, held them as I taught my boys the same lessons Paladin taught all of us.
Thou shalt not kill. But watch your back.
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Author's Note: I wrote this story the day before the Virginia massacre. I was afraid to share it, to talk about guns and children and moms with gun belts, was terrified to tell my experience. But everyone here at Gather who spoke to me in my Philosophical Discussion thread helped me reason this out, and I am grateful to each and every one of you. I want to especially thank my dear blog buddies Shrexy, Jonah, Jedd, Cindy, Jojo, Miss T, Cheryl, Margaret, Will, Terri, and Melody for duking it out and making me realize that the coolest thing about our country is our ability to speak freely, without fear. Amen.
Birdie Jaworski, Health Correspondent:
Nature and Nurture tells the stories of Birdie's attempts to raise her two boys, 12 and 10, in a healthy, loving environment without going crazy herself!
Birdie blogs at Beauty Dish.
You can find all of Birdie's Nature and Nurture articles at www.gather.com/naturenurture
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Comments: 37
good for you.
That is my favorite line.
I grew up in a country where every male worth his salt owned a gun. We were a country of intermingled blood where the macho Spanish heat and pride clashed with the aboriginal morality of respect for nature and his fellowman. Guns were carried openly when I was growing up. It was often used to settle discussions ala old American West.
I hated to see fhe gun tucked behind my father's belt. He had a trigger-fast temper that usually meant he is not afraid to whip that gun out to intimidate anybody who disagreed with him. He never shot anyone but he did put fear in a lot of people. Including his children.
Based on my childhood experiences, I never let my children play with toy guns when they were little. My second daughter joined the Marines and became a top-notched sharpshooter who can still outshoot her husband, an ex Navyman and ex-Iraq volunteer. Parents of 3, they are now teaching their own kids, 15, 7 and 3 how to handle guns and how to hunt, as they get older. So, go figure.
With you for their mother, your sons will grow strong from the love and lessons you share with them. Salamat.
BUT on the best most positive note which always begins with you and your boys. I am so glad that you listen to the words that are not spoken. If more of us could do that and find a power in places where we cannot use guns.....this world will be a better place. (((hugs))))
Here, the weaving of myth, of ghosts, of law, of parenthood, of events, all of which gave you pause as to the appropriateness of this story.... all that told with skill from someone we know now from a thousand facets.... is very apt.
Thanks, BJ.
I have been aching with thoughts of how I failed my son. The school system failed him, law enforcement failed him, and he failed to become a worthy member of society. He is one who could go on a killing rampage.
Age 7 he would hide behind a wall and spring out pretending to shoot me, after an argument he would run down the sidewalk screaming, "I hope you die, get killed....". In his teen years he called from jail and threatened "You will be sorry if you don't get me out of here"
Teachers said, "He is so pooorly behaved and influences others in the class to misbehave". In the first grade he only got out of "the box" one time and promptly threw a book over the library shelf. Teachers marked his report card 'satisfactory' when he didn't know how to make cursive letters, didn't know the concept of a sentence. I suggested retaining him:"NO we don't want him anymore" He cheated at the educational games and learned only how to fool the system. He was transferred to 'Emotional disturbed' program and started going out with the teacher. The teacher's aide gave him money, more money and eventually a place to live. He announced on TV that he stole his cigarettes. Police came and said, "I didn't have problems with my kids because I made them behave". Drug rehab centers said ,"He disrupts our program" Arrested for carrying a weapon in junior high. Thousands of dollars later, Outward Bound says, "We just can't help some kids". He wrote $1000+ in checks out of our account. His father would not let me press charges. The counselor said, "I think he is just reacting to your relationship issues. When he was 18 we quit our jobs and moved away from him--paid his rent and gave him a truck. He told people we were dead and he was expecting a large inheritance. He opened skateboard shops with other people's money, drank all the profits and never repaid the investor--just left. He staged robberies to cover his thefts, He proposed marriage to unsuspecting girls to get their parents money then left owing thousands. One enabler was a physicists at Fermi Lab in Chicago, sould her condo and gave him the money for a shop. She and her children were left with nothing. He sold tickets to an event and kept all the money for himself. He showed back up at my Mother's place were we were living carrying a gun. He cut fences, destroyed my mother's home then started his art career and I gave him hours and hours of time and $12,000 MORE. He told me he had changed. He hasn't told the truth since he was three. When he talks it is all about how great he is. He doesn't have the capacity to care about anyone else. Yesterday I walked into his vacated 'studio' and looked closely at a large painting that is in all probability me. I had noticed it before but this time I looked closely. There is a gun with blood dripping from it pointed at the back of my skull and another gun at my mouth. The caption says, "I hope she is deep in thought"
Meanwhile I go on picking up the trash he left in the house and yard-piles and piles of filth everywhere.
I raised one and I am so so so sorry.
I know that you will do better.
Moral, yet practical all at the same time. The way we all should be. Excellent as always Birdie!
You plant a sapling, then put a fence around it so the cows won't eat it. As the sapling grows, make the fence bigger to give the young tree some room to grow, and when the tree is big enough that the cows can't bother it, you remove the fence.
Birdie, you seem to have that concept built in. I believe your sons will grow to be strong and independent. Thank you for giving your words to us. We'd have missed much not to have read them.
Some of my parenting decisions are born of our location in rural America. Life is much different here than in a big city, than in the suburbs. There is a gentleness here - it's almost like Mayberry, almost four decades behind some of the country in many ways.
I know, too, that my boys are kind at heart, that they are gentle beings. This, too, has much to do with the decisions I make. I can trust them, they are always open and honest with me, even when they know they will get into small trouble.
Gorgeous piece of writing. One of the best I've seen on Gather. Well done.
Madame Donna, big hugs to you! Thanks for letting me know you understand.
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