THE DAY I TAUGHT MY DAUGHTER TO SHOOT
It is not just a happenstance that I was obliged to teach my kid to use the gun, shoot anyone at will and be a conqueror one day. No, that was never in my agenda. I never even entertained any idea to persuade my kids to be proficient in defending others although that is the principal requirement if one intends to become a hero one day. I was merely cleaning my firearms, tools incumbent in my profession in the prison service, when I received a call that my daughter wants to try our firing range just for the kick of it, nothing grand, nothing exceptional, nothing to prepare, just the hype of handling the real one like some kind of a protagonist aiming at the villain in some action flicks.
I pulled out my favorites, a caliber 380, a caliber 45 and a high profile rifle caliber M16. As soon my daughter arrived in my place, I ushered her to our target range area. The firearms trainer was there to accommodate us, dote my daughter with instructions on the safety measures and guided her on the vicissitudes of aiming at the board. And for a beginner, she was quite above average. Of the 50 rounds she used, both on the short and long firearm, she punched at the correct sight almost with a few miss.
I could see nervousness though creeping on the arms and palms of my daughter. If memory serves right, that was her first time to handle a weapon of instant destruction. She never even bothered to ogle at the firearms tucked under my belt whenever I change clothes at home. She has no interest in anything destructive in the first place even if for a while she was always reminded of how violent the streets have become.
But on that humid and dusty day of February, along with a friend, she traversed a place reserved only for the gutsy, for the daring, for the intrepid, the prison reservation. She was with her father who for a time has left home to be with the convicts as counselor, succor and administrator. She knew for a fact that her father, like Senator Miriam in her prime, eats breakfast along with threats and sleep using rifles as pillows.
The daughter obliges to handle the grip, use the sight sparingly, takes a deep breath and pulls the trigger. The first burst of gun powder was an experience she would never forget. To a certain extent it could even be traumatic. She would never use any weapon unless it is only the target board or some metallic contraptions that should be felled. She wanted to get over the familiarity on a deadly gadget. Contentment is written on her face. She has undergone something she might never wish at all but she went through it with excitement.
The trauma is gone. Adventure has embraced her fragile body and as we are about to wrap up, she wanted another round of fire. The warrior in my daughter has awakened!