Knowing Guns: The Ins and Outs of Firearms and Firearm Politics for the Uninitiated

Knowing Guns:

The Ins and Outs of Firearms and Firearm Politics for the Uninitiated

Stu Chisholm

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Knowing Guns: The Ins and Outs of Firearms and Firearm Politics for the Uninitiated

by Stu Chisholm

Copyright © 2013 Stu Chisholm

Smashwords edition

(Also available in paperback!)

ISBN: 978-1301037063

ALSO BY STU CHISHOLM:

The Complete Disc Jockey: A Comprehensive Manual for the Professional DJ (ProDJ Publishing, 2008)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Book cover/photography by Oleg Volk (www.OlegVolk.net)

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DEDICATION

To my mother, Gloria Chisholm-Hedding, who along with so much more, gave me the guidance to use firearms safely that I rely upon to this day.

DISCLAIMER: Absolutely nothing in this book should be construed as legal advice! When making legal decisions, consult a lawyer. The content herein contains the opinions, research and perspective of the author and is presented here for informational purposes only. While rigorous attempts were made to ensure the accuracy of the information presented in this book, the author and publisher do not warrant the information herein in any way. All URL references were checked and verified as active as of the date of publication.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

DEDICATION

PREFACE

CHAPTER ONE: WHY GUNS?

CHAPTER TWO: THE SECOND AMENDMENT

CHAPTER THREE: GUNS AND CRIME/FIREARMS OVERVIEW

CHAPTER FOUR: GUN POLITICS

CHAPTER FIVE: LIES MY MEDIA TOLD ME

CHAPTER SIX: WHAT ABOUT GUN VIOLENCE?

CHAPTER SEVEN: SO YOU’RE THINKING OF OWNING A GUN?

GLOSSARY

SUGGESTED READING

SPECIAL THANKS to everyone who has contributed to my own knowledge (and therefore this book) whether they knew it or not (in somewhat alphabetical order): Pat Alzady, Massad Ayoob, Michael Bane, the brilliant M. Carol Bambery, Tony Banfield, Gregg Bazzani (TNUSA.com), Brad & Pam Benzing, James Binder (SAS Group), Monty Boleyn, Todd Caraher, my favorite academic J. C., Ray Champine, my best proofreader, critic and right hand, Janette Chisholm, Rod Collins, Ken Cooper, Skip Coryell, David Coy, Steven A. Defrain, the great staff at Double Action in Madison Heights, MI, Rick Ector (Instructor, Legally Armed In Detroit), David Felbeck, Brad Ferguson, the gang at GlockTalk.com, GOA, gifted shooter and author Julie Golob, Brian Goodman, Bryant Goodreau, Alan Gottlieb and his SAF group, Dr. Suzanna Gratia-Hupp, John Hurd, John Jordan, Shyla June, Don B. Kates, Mike Kelley, Jeanne Kidle, Gary Kleck, Chris & Neal Knox, Bill Kucyk/Action Impact Indoor Range in Southfield, MI, Neva Li, John R. Lott, Jr., Charlie Marracco, Scott Mazey, MCRGO, the outstanding staff at Michi-Gun in St. Clair Shores, MI, Kerry Miller, Il Ling New, NRA/ILA, the NSSF, Ted Nugent, Kathryn O’Connor, my friends at Peter’s Indoor Gun Range in Roseville, MI, Larry Potterfield/Midway USA, Bryan Reynard, Rob Reed, Peter Rogan, Randi Rogers, Roger Roney, Michael Savela, Tim Schmidt & his USCCA, Jim Scoutten and his crew at Shooting USA, lawyer extraordinaire James Simmons, Gail Steeves, Barbara Stockford and her SAFR group, John Stossel, Phil Strader, Mitch Swoboda, Paul Taylor, Mike Thiede, Alex Vitek, Photographer extraordinaire Oleg Volk, Len Zanger. Also all of the lively (and patient) debaters on the GLHS chat list (especially Beck, Diane Garlick, Dan Hall, John Scalise, Norma Jean Wade, Mark Weaver and Joel Welty), the GOFER group, my friends at CFI (thanks for the challenging questions), Michigan Atheists and all of the members of the DAM e-list and Godless Gunnies who helped me to learn as they learned.

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FROM THE AUTHOR (A PREFACE)

By way of an introduction, I’d like to tell you what this book is not. It is not a scholarly treatise by a lettered academic, nor is it a political, historical or factual revision with some partisan agenda in mind. Instead, what you’re reading is one man’s attempt to combat the pervasive misunderstandings, massive amounts of disinformation, lies, deceit, trickery and outright ignorance on the topic of firearms and, along the way, explain why some of this happens. I’m not any sort of authority beyond simply being a well-informed member of that mythical breed commonly referred to as gun culture. I’m not the stereotypical Christian, Republican, conservative type usually associated with said culture. My name is Stu Chisholm, a political independent, rationalist, atheist and a native Detroiter.

Born in 1957, I’m a single child of JFK Democrats. My parents having divorced, I was raised by my mother and my grandparents. Not too long before my tenth birthday, the infamous Detroit riots would erupt as racial tensions boiled over in the city of my birth. By then we had moved to the relative safely of the suburbs, part of the phenomenon known as white flight, and although I didn’t quite understand everything that was going on at the time, I saw a few things that made a very big impression on me.

One memory that remains vivid is of a drive down Eight Mile Road, the northern border of Detroit, right at the height of the riots. Eight Mile is a very wide boulevard, with three or four lanes on each side and a wide median in the middle. As my mother drove along, I remember seeing the thick smoke and flames of the burning buildings raging on the Detroit side. On the other side I saw a man sitting high up in a tree with a rifle on his lap. Seeing my wide-eyed face in the window, he simply smiled and nodded. I asked my mother what he was doing there and she said, He’ll make sure that there won’t be any fires on this side of the street. I’m sure he’s got a whole lot of friends around. She was right. There would be no fires or rioting of any significance north of Eight Mile.

Before the move and civil unrest, my mother had been a nurse at Henry Ford Hospital. One night she came home a few minutes later than normal. My grandparents and I didn’t think anything of it until she related a story over dinner. She said it in such a matter-of-fact way that, at first, we thought she was joking. She matter-of-factly told us that she and a co-worker had punched out and were getting ready to leave work, walking to their cars in the hospital’s parking structure. As they chatted and laughed with one another, a man appeared out of the shadows with a large knife. Hand over the bags, ladies, he said. My mother could only gape in stunned indecision. Her friend, however, did not. She reached into her purse and pulled out a .38 caliber snub-nosed revolver. Get lost before I hurt you, she said to the man. The would-be robber couldn’t leave fast enough!

My mother concluded the story by saying, Thank God she had that gun. I remember thinking the same thing.

MYSTERY TRIP

Flash forward to my 12th birthday and what my mother called a mystery trip. These would sometimes end up at one of the many fishing holes we frequented, or our favorite ice cream shop, or maybe even visiting one of the toy stores she knew I liked. It was always a good time. This time we went a bit farther than usual until we got to a friend’s farm just north of Lansing. When we got there, my mother opened the car trunk and began unpacking a bunch of old bleach jugs, garbage-picked couch cushions and cans. This could only mean one thing: shooting! We started setting them up on sawhorses, propping the cushions up in front of bales of old newspaper and hanging the jugs from tree branches. What I didn’t know is that mom had also gotten me a gift. She held it out proudly: a small velvet-lined rosewood box. Inside was a small eight-shot .22 revolver.

I could tell it wasn’t new, but to me it was the most exciting gift ever! I was elated. She carefully explained how the pistol functioned and went on reacquaint me with the basic rules of basic firearm safety that every firearm user is familiar with:

1. Treat the gun as if it is loaded at all times, even when you know it is not.

2. Never point a gun at anything you are not willing to destroy.

3. Keep your finger off of the trigger until your sights are on the target and you’ve made the decision to shoot, and,

4. Be certain of your target and what is beyond.

Over the years these rules, in various iterations, would be repeated incessantly. Any infraction, no matter how minor, would bring about a stern lecture if not an end to that day’s fun. But on this birthday my mother made sure that I understood not only the fun and challenges, but also the tremendous responsibility that goes along with firearm use and ownership. She did it in her own unique way.

We took turns plinking away at the various cans and bottles, laughing at our misses and cheering our hits. Mom kept up a running instructional narrative: Watch your grip! Be careful not to jerk your trigger! Focus on your front sight! And, all too frequently, WATCH YOUR MUZZLE! Near the end of the day with the sun hanging low in the sky, my mother took one of the couch cushions she’d rescued from a curb, set it up against a sawhorse leg and said, Why don’t you try this one? I remember thinking ‘this is too easy.’ Lining up my sights on the center of the big cushion, I took aim at a button, and fired.

I could see a glint of orange sunshine coming through the tiny hole made by the little .22 bullet. After the spectacular splat of the water balloons and the bleach jugs bleeding water that my mom had tinted with food coloring, the cushion was a bit anti-climactic. That would change when she said, Come with me. I want to show you something. After making the gun safe, she led me to the cushion. When she turned it over, I could instantly see that the tiny hole I’d made on the one side had become a large, fist-sized gouge on the other, with old, yellow foam chunks from inside dropping everywhere. My mother looked me in the eye and, in a serious voice said, Imagine if that had been a person. That was the first time I knew what it meant to have one’s mind boggled. These .22’s are about the least powerful ammunition you’ll ever use, she added. This is why we need to take so much care when we handle our guns, and why we can’t go horsing around with them. I could only nod in silent agreement.

This was one of many demonstrations would make up the instruction that has stuck with me over the years. Even though I would be severely bullied in school, being the big kid because I’d grown a bit faster than my classmates, it would never occur to me to bring my gun to school. It was not an option I’d ever consider. When the guns came out at my house, it always meant one thing: FUN! It was no different than bringing out a Frisbee to toss around or playing lawn darts (remember those?), croquet or badminton.

In the interest of full disclosure, my revolver actually did make one trip to school, as a show and tell item. It was unloaded (of course) and was passed around the classroom while the teacher talked about guns and my fellow students asked me questions. There was no panic, no police were called, no TV news crews arrived and nobody was hurt. It was just another show-and-tell item in a bygone day and age.

A GRADESCHOOL ASSEMBLY

Lee O. Clark Elementary School, a part of the Hazel Park, Michigan school district, was where I attended classes in 4th through 6th grade. One day all of the classrooms were called down to the school gym for a special surprise assembly: a visit by the Hazel Park Police Department! They were there to presumably put a friendly face on police work. One cop had a police dog with him (before they started calling them K-9 officers) and another did most the speaking. On the stage area there were two big displays called flats – trays maybe six inches deep – and they were jam-packed with guns of every type imaginable.

On the left side were a lot of guns that looked old, cheap, beat up and even homemade. I recall a couple of them having electrical tape holding their grips on. Another didn’t have grips at all. The serial numbers on several had been crudely filed off. In contrast, the flat on the right contained guns that were obviously much higher quality weapons. We were told that this second flat held guns used by law enforcement, whereas the left side held the guns taken from criminals by police. These included homemade zip guns that the officer referred to as Saturday Night Specials. This was the first time I’d ever heard that phrase. I asked what it meant and, through a knowing smirk, the cop said, They make one of these in their garage during the week so they can go rob a liquor store on Saturday night.

When my eyes again moved over to the law enforcement flat, they immediately fell on one gun in particular: a Thompson submachine gun, also known as a Tommy gun. The Thompson is practically a co-star in an untold number of gangster movies and, to this day, is one of the most recognizable, iconic firearms if its day. Hearing my gleeful remarks, the officer asked, Would you like to hold it? I nodded. I clearly remember how it felt when the officer placed the gun in my arms and how I instinctively cradled it almost like a baby. Pretty heavy, eh son? I also recall the officer’s amused grin. I again nodded, telling him that it felt good. It’s like it was made for me! The word wasn’t in popular use at the time and beyond my vocabulary if it had been, but what I was experiencing was the legendary ergonomics of the Thompson. I have lusted after that particular firearm ever since.

For someone reading this in 21st Century post-Columbine America, such a story seems like a fable! Imagine: a policeman handing a fully automatic submachine gun to a 5th grader on school grounds! But again, it was just one more moment from a very different time in America’s, and my personal, history.

As I grew up, I managed to pick up a pistol here and there over the years until, around 1978 or so, I had a good little collection of revolvers. Carrying one around was something I rejected at that time for three main reasons:

1. I understood that misusing guns make it very easy to end up in jail, and I’m quite allergic to jail!

2. I still thought of my guns as sporting equipment.

3. My temperament wasn’t as mellow in my teenage years as I later became; I knew that a temper and instant access to a firearm would be a bad thing. (Refer to reason #1.)

Aside from playing a little softball in Boy Scouts and a brief stint on my Jr. High school swim team, I was a bit of a washout when it came to sports. The only area where I exhibited any kind of real skill was when it came to shooting, specifically handguns. Putting six shots in the ten ring with a friend’s pistol that I’d never shot before wasn’t unusual. Up to that point, my mother had been my only shooting instructor.

Shooting was (and is) a challenge; a release; a mind-sharpener forcing one to focus; a catharsis; a discipline and a lifestyle all rolled-up into one. Even the simple act of handling a gun is not so simple, since one must take great care as to where the muzzle is pointed, avoid putting a finger in the trigger guard when not shooting, making sure any safeties are properly engaged and so on. Like every responsible shooter, I worked hard to become habituated to these motions until they became second nature.

THE BIG CHILL

Flash-forward to the late ‘70s and early ‘80s when a national economic recession was underway and my own situation had changed drastically. I was living with my girlfriend and her pre-teen boy, laid-off from my job at GM and was running out of unemployment benefits. The cost of a box of .44 magnum cartridges now topped out over ten dollars, with .38 and .357 not far behind. This made frequent trips to the range out of the question. Even though I kept my guns under lock and key, and stored my ammunition in a completely different area, also locked up, the presence of a child in the home combined with the need for quick cash brought me to one conclusion: it was time to sell my collection.

From an economic standpoint that decision was a good one. It also allowed me to start what would become a thriving business as a mobile disc jockey. As the bad economy began to turn around, a solid customer base began to grow and the business took off. (It is still in operation today.)

My situation would change once again when my girlfriend and I broke up and we parted ways. It was now the mid-80s and shortly after the breakup, I met, and this time ultimately married, my wife Janette. My business consumed a lot of my time and I would often complain to her about it, saying that I really needed a hobby. Naturally I thought of shooting and how much I missed it. When I mentioned it to Janette, she seemed somewhat cool to the idea. I didn’t press her on it because we were newlyweds and had many other more pressing things to think about.

It wasn’t long before something new would come into play. Apart from the recreational aspects, I soon had to consider the idea of self-defense. Being a DJ is a very high-profile job, and I was now working bars and nightclubs as well as doing weddings and mobile events. This brought out a handful of crazies. There were anonymous death threats over the phone and I was once followed home from my nightclub job by a disturbed woman. Driving a marked commercial vehicle doing a job that put me on the road late at night, sometimes carrying a fair amount of cash and