Column The lure of a guns shallow power
By JEANNETTE BATZ
I am trying to write a story about
guns, about their power.
I have talked to more than a dozen people who are passionate about
this power. They collect it, they depend upon it, they draw energy from it.
But when I look at the blued metal barrel of a Smith & Wesson
.38 or the molded black rhombus of a Glocks grip -- all I feel is
fear.
Desperate for a way to begin writing, I ask the photographer, who
is a good friend and who is coping with the visual side of this story, what her
impressions are. She admits that she, too, feels the recoil of a knee-jerk
liberal who was raised to associate guns only with violence.
Then she looks at me sidelong. The other part of it is
Im afraid that if I shot one, Id enjoy it. She tells me about
an essay she wrote in college for a womens studies course. The professor
asked the students to describe a time when they felt empowered. My
friend wrote about a road trip: being behind the wheel, driving fast, out in
the middle of nowhere, unbound by anyones expectations.
But now, as she composes still-life photos of semi-automatic
pistols, black powder rifles and pump shotguns, shes guessing that firing
one of them might give her the same sensation of power. Pure physical power.
The adrenaline rush of commanding a potentially lethal force.
We laugh about how rarely weve felt such power. Neither of
us is exactly a born athlete, nimble on a judo mat or easy in the saddle of a
horse. Only by the joining of our soft, unruly bodies to a mechanized object
can we transform them.
Later this conversation haunts me. Already bored by the guns, I
pry apart the borders weve set, expand the definition of power beyond the
physical. When have I felt any kind of power in my life?
Sex flies first into my mind. Not the physical aspects, but the
psychology beneath them. I do not want to admit this. The power to arouse
someone beyond rational constraints is the stuff of Eve and Satan. As a young
woman chastened by Catholicism, I came fresh and eager to the lures of
seduction, and I did not withstand them for 40 days in the desert. Arousing,
then denying permission was a marvelous game.
It was followed, in short order, by the game of making someone
fall in love with me. Granted, I succeeded only rarely, but when I did, I felt
a cool rush of power.
Then I felt miserable. Because to win the game, I had to remain
unmoved. And that meant guilt, one-sidedness and messy extrication.
Mean-spirited and fleeting, those early powers left an acrid,
slightly chemical taste in my mouth. As though someone had added a drop of
formaldehyde to a vat of cherry soda.
I outgrew them. And in the nine years since I met my husband, I
have never once thought of our love in such terms. Only when we hear of
someones spouse, lost young to cancer, and we turn to seek each
others eyes for a promise neither can give -- only then do I realize how
much power we wield over each others souls.
The rest of the time, loves power is a quiet one, a joy
resting deep in my bones.
I try to think of other powers in my middle years. My mind takes a
while even to retrieve them, because by any usual definition of power, they are
odd. Yet they surface with a sureness I cant deny. I feel powerful when I
can still my mind and keep it clear, wide open and receptive for 10 minutes.
When I hold out my hand and an elephant slaps her trunk into my palm in a
high-five. When I search for and find the right word, one thats sturdy
enough to carry understanding across a distance. When I lose my old shyness and
say what I think, realizing that honesty, used without malice, is a form of
respect. When I take the dog to a friends house and she sees their dogs,
tenses and shoots me a look, like, Is this OK? and I say,
Youre fine, go play, and her jaw drops open in a happy smile
and she lopes forward, loose-limbed and relaxed, because shes
communicated her concern and Ive reassured her.
In retrospect, these are all occasions of power for me, these
times of clarity and mutual honoring. I laugh, knowing how ludicrous they would
sound to someone caught by the rush of firing a fully automatic submachine
gun.
That is a form of power. Id be lying if I didnt
admit the small secret thrill that ran down my spine and jumped into my pocket
when my editor told me to burn some powder. He wanted me to be able
to explain how it felt to fire various guns. I wanted to know why it captured
so many peoples imagination.
Experiential journalism is yet another form of power, because it
allows you to be anyone, anywhere, and know you can return to your own life an
hour later.
But both vicarious experience and guns are shallow powers. Akin to
my early forays in false seduction, they offer eros and ego gratification
without permanence.
The rush of firing a gun comes from the power youre
unleashing, and the attendant risk. A gun is lethal. Firing balloons or
streamers from the same chamber would feel inane, even to me. Yet my intent
doesnt match. I dont want to kill, any more than I want to really
live all those alternate lives I use for fodder and grist.
Theres no commitment, no mutuality. And therefore, no
joy.
Jeannette Batz is a staff writer for The Riverfront
Times, an alternative newspaper in St. Louis. Her e-mail address is
jeannette.batz@rftstl.com
National Catholic Reporter, April 12,
2002
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