I grew up in the gun culture of Texas where I was groomed to love and have a healthy relationship with guns. However, a few childhood experiences changed that, and I became gun shy.
For the first 12 years of my life, I lived in a small, three-bedroom, pink brick house in Bedford, Texas, a suburb located between Dallas and Fort Worth. It was a new subdivision built in 1960 and that subdivision was my whole world. My elementary school, Bell Manor, built in 1969, features a unique design of four interconnecting hexagons divided into open-classroom pods. Two grades are housed in each hexagon, and because of the open-plan layout with no interior walls, everyone can see all the other classrooms in their grade at the same time. There was no hiding here! A mile from my house, I walked to school most days and as I got older I rode my bicycle.
I knew most of our neighbors well and played with other neighborhood kids in our backyard or on the street. I often hung out with Darlene Worsham, who lived three doors down. My first dog, a dachshund puppy named Shantay, came from the Worshams litter in 1970. I’m not sure why I put his name in peace; It was decades before the word really entered our cultural vernacular RuPaul’s Drag Race.
I think I heard someone say the French word “enchante” on TV and it stuck in my 5 year old brain. Impressed, you stay.
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Because my mother worked or took college classes studying for a graduate degree, I was occasionally seen by Mrs. Worsham. But the gunfire in our little community changed everything.
They broke the silence three doors down, in the Worshams’ living room, when Mrs. Worsham shot her husband in front of Darlene, their other children, and two neighbors. Mr. Worsham was killed, and a neighbor was wounded by ricocheting shrapnel. Miraculously, Darlene and her siblings were physically unharmed.
Why did he do this? It didn’t make sense. Gun violence is rare.
I remember her and her husband having an argument just before she pulled out the gun and started shooting. My young mind couldn’t understand what kind of disagreement there could be for killing your wife. But for all I knew, or had a strong sense of, if he hadn’t had the gun, Mr. Worsham might have lived, and Darlene might have been spared the trauma of witnessing her mother kill her father. Needless to say, Mrs. Worsham never babysat me again.
Owning a gun was, and still is, a staple — a rite of passage — in the lives of many Texans, my family included. My father, a hunter, owned rifles and kept them tucked away in the back of his and my mother’s bedroom closet. Dad and Uncle Frank would hunt deer in the woods of East Texas. When my brother grew up, he joined them hunting. Like many Texas kids, Wayne already owns a Daisy BB rifle. Finally, I inherited Daisy. Sometimes I would practice shooting at targets or coke cans, but I didn’t feel the thrill of pulling and pulling the trigger. Shooting a gun didn’t give me the rush of adrenaline that others seemed to give.
I was in Boy Scouts as a Webelo from 4th to 5th grade. Webelos means “we will be loyal scouts.” Important things for a 10 year old. Technically, the Webelos were part of the Cub Scouts, a division under the Boy Scouts that prepared boys to become Boy Scouts. For the most part, I enjoyed being on Weblog. Although I felt a little self-conscious wearing the uniform—a short-sleeved blue shirt and a yellow knotted bandana around my neck—to school on a Dane night, I have fond memories of working toward various ranks and achievement badges.
One of the badges was shooting sports, which required demonstrating the correct use of a BB gun and firing accurately at a target. I don’t remember how well I performed, but it was one of those badges I liked more than anything else, a more physical achievement.
A few months after the Worsham murder, another gunshot rocked our neighborhood, this time at the house at the end of our street, where the Martins lived. They had a son, Joey, who was about my age. Mrs. Martin saw me occasionally, as did Mrs. Worsham. I hated staying at their house. I can’t put my finger on why, but it doesn’t seem like a happy place. Joey and I had nothing in common, and something about him was off. Today, we would probably say he was on the autism spectrum. Still, I always felt uncomfortable and out of place there.
One afternoon, the story goes, Mrs. Martin asked Joey to go outside and play in the backyard because she had to be home alone. Once Joey was outside, he pulled out a gun and shot himself. Somehow he survived; His suicide attempt failed. Still, I don’t remember ever seeing Mrs. Martin again.
As a young child, I knew the shooting on my street was not normal. I didn’t know why they were happening, nor did I understand at the time the dark grip of frustration, deep dissatisfaction and despair that drives a person to internalize or externalize violence. However, I felt an awakening of things I hadn’t seen before, which would eventually lead me down the path of asking why – why do people do what they do? Not from a place of judgment, but from curiosity. I started asking myself why I am the way I am.
Was there a connection between our two neighbors? Why did my parents trust both mothers to watch over me, despite the odds — even though guns were available to unruly people? Did my parents ever experience their emotional turmoil? It just goes to show that you never know what goes on behind closed doors, until those doors are shot through with bullet holes.
I remember a few times when Wayne brought friends to hunt quail in our back pasture. Over 53 acres, there was plenty of room to shoot without worrying about others. I had zero interest in hunting, much like my lack of interest in girls—another thing that set me apart from other boys in rural Texas.
But I don’t fear girls the way I fear guns.
In an effort to deal with my fear, I once took a shotgun to the back of the property to hunt with Wayne. However, preceded by a loud noise and “kick” from the shotgun, I quit before I could shoot on target. To this day, I’m not easily startled by loud noises, but gunshots always startle me.
I was more comfortable with a small caliber gun and would occasionally practice target shooting with a .22 rifle and handgun by the pond in the back pasture. I compromised myself for not measuring up to the standard of being a “normal” boy.
Besides sports and physical coordination, hunting and gun skills are things I struggled with as a gay boy. They were connected in my mind then. Being a “normal” boy means excelling in and enjoying those activities. Back in the early 1980s when I could shoot my way through Duck Hunt, an arcade game and some Atari games, those experiences were far from the real thing! Actually, my marksmanship sucks.
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I’m sure my childhood experiences, especially two violent incidents in our neighborhood, shaped my view and fear of guns.
I grew up in a culture where guns were accepted and common, leading to a healthy appreciation and respect for their power and use. Even though I knew guns weren’t for me, I realized that many in my family and community held a responsible view of gun ownership. They were not gunmen who used firearms to intimidate or terrorize others.
It is quite interesting that as a society we take actions that serve the greater good and minimize harm. I remember when the mandatory use of seat belts became law. Evidence that seat belts save lives in crashes is enough to change national laws. This simple law unequivocally reduced car accident deaths by 45%.
Yet, despite evidence that stronger gun laws could reduce deaths by 36%, no national legislation has been enacted. It’s a matter of common sense and the greater the better to minimize harm.
I reflect on growing up as a gay boy before widespread acceptance, non-discrimination laws, and the legalization of same-sex marriage. While I faced some dark moments as a child, I did not live in fear of the gun violence that many young people today face in their schools, churches or communities.
I felt depressed as I came to terms with my sexual orientation, worried about the rejection I felt from others because of it. Although there has been progress and greater acceptance in recent years, there has been a backlash against that progress. The level of hatred and fear by those who deliberately other, scapegoat, and condemn those who are different has become a justification for using violence as a terrorist tactic against LGBT people. Fear and loathing are powerful motivating factors, but there are even stronger ones.
The antidote to this situation is quite simple: we must promote common sense and minimize harm to each other.
Evidence shows that building connections, building trust, and focusing on shared values and commonalities can help build psychological safety. Psychological safety is understood to be a basic human need for individuals to thrive in all areas of life. This can only be achieved by condemning the rhetoric, policies and tactics that incite fear and hatred and demanding better from the leaders and politicians who employ them.
Ultimately, compassion must be accepted and practiced to undo the damage and division caused by hate and fear. Compassion, along with love, is one of the greatest transformative emotions—not just for the recipients of love and compassion, but for those who practice it.
Practicing compassion is something I hold myself accountable for; It makes me a better person and gives me hope that others can change their hearts and minds.
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Previously published moderate
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Interior images courtesy of the author
