Many of my friends here in the United States have stories about learning to use firearms that feature the entire cast of their extended family. For them, those generational lessons were imparted by parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, uncles, aunts, in-laws and so many people in addition that, by the time that it came time for them to teach their own children, they instinctively understood that they were part of a grand national tradition that went back into the mists of time.
My experience has been a little different. When, during the last year, I began to instruct my two young sons in how to use a gun, I was sharing lessons that I had learned almost entirely as an adult. This is because, as an immigrant from Britain who moved to the United States in 2011, all my knowledge is relatively new. I did not fire a handgun until I was 27 years old. I did not own a gun of any sort until I was 29. I did not carry a gun until I was 30. Back in England, I had fired air rifles, and—once or twice—I had used a SA80 rifle on a Royal Air Force base. For most of my life, though, firearms were remote, forbidden, alien items that one used only under the strict supervision of the authorities. Growing up, the idea of having guns in my home for which I—and I alone—was responsible remained entirely foreign to me.
Naturally, this has put me in an interesting position as a parent. Since they could first talk, my children have simply taken it for granted that there are firearms in our house because, where we live in the South, everyone has firearms in their house. But, for me, as their father, it is still somewhat novel. As a result, I have had to learn with them. What, I’ve found myself wondering, do dads do in this situation? I’ve picked up the answers along the way.
Obviously, I keep my guns out of their reach. But, understanding that not everyone will, I have drilled into them for years that if they ever see one lying around, they need to leave it alone and tell an adult. Now that they’re a little older, it’s become much more fun. Indeed, this year, I have begun to teach them the basics. First, using a toy gun from a cowboy costume my six-year-old wore last Halloween, I taught them the three golden rules of safety. Next, with a lever-action BB gun outside in the yard, I taught them some mechanics. And, finally, at the range with a .22, we applied what we had learned to a real firearm.
Throughout this process, I have tried to inoculate them against the proud ignorance that was bred into me in England—an ignorance that I only managed to shake off when, by chance, I developed an interest in gun policy in college. Movies, video games, politicians and our elite culture-at-large tend to provide a warped view of firearms that gives people a false impression of how they work, who owns them (and why) and what role they have played in American history. Part of my job has been to mitigate that.
As we progress in our lessons, my kids are becoming safer, more knowledgeable and more technically proficient, but, above all, they are discovering that, despite having a father who talks with a funny English accent, they are the heirs to a remarkable custom of empowered liberty that dates back hundreds of years before the American Revolution—and that, one day soon, will be carried into the future on their backs.
