by Evan Booker
I’ll be honest from the start: guns make me nervous. I don’t like being around them, I don’t want one in my house, and I believe we’d all be a little safer if they weren’t so easy to get.
This isn’t a political rant. If you’re a gun owner, that’s your choice – just don’t point one at me or my family, and we’ll be just fine. My decision not to own a gun simply means there’s one more available for someone else.
Still, whenever I see an armed police officer ahead of me at a coffee shop, that sidearm on his hip feels like an unspoken threat. That tiny device could end lives in a heartbeat. I’ve often wondered what it would feel like to grab it and cause absolute chaos—not that I ever would. But it’s a sobering reminder of how much power is carried around every day.
I have fired guns before – at a shooting range, once. It was right before a major life event, and it seemed like something people did for fun. It didn’t leave me feeling any safer or stronger. If anything, it reinforced how uncomfortable I feel around firearms.
But if we’re talking about gun stories from my youth, there’s one incident that still makes me shake my head.
When I was about nine years old, my friend Ricky and I snuck into his father’s unlocked gun cabinet one lazy summer afternoon. Without permission – and without a shred of common sense – we took a small revolver and a handful of bullets, then wandered into the woods near our neighborhood.
Naturally, our brilliant third-grade brains decided we should shoot at the bee hives we found hanging from trees. After a few missed shots, Ricky fired again – and the bullet hit the dirt just inches from my foot.
The noise startled a massive swarm of bees from their hive. What followed was pure chaos: Ricky and I tore through the woods, screaming and flailing, chased by a furious cloud of bees. We got stung, we got hurt, and we very nearly got ourselves into real, serious trouble – either by bullets or by nature’s revenge.
Looking back, it was a miracle we didn’t end up as tragic headlines. But it was also a painful early lesson: guns aren’t toys, and stupidity has consequences.
Even now, I believe guns are dangerous tools that should be handled with caution and deep respect. It’s not just about rights—it’s about responsibility. In the wrong hands, a gun is the difference between a close call and a catastrophe.
Somewhere deep down, I know the world would be better with fewer guns on the streets. And I know my life would have been very different if that one childhood afternoon had gone just a little bit worse.