by RJ Young
OUTSIDE THE RANGE—during those two years I spent shooting to get closer to Charles, shooting to exercise my Second Amendment right as a historically literate black man, but increasingly shooting to get better at it than any fucking asshole—the presence of guns never left me. I saw NO GUNS decals plastered on doors outside the movie theaters, restaurants, and grocery stores that I frequented, and even at my gym. I found myself staring at the middle-aged white man in jeans, New Balance tennis shoes, and a Sooner shirt while he paid for his coffee at 7-Eleven. The bulge beneath his shirt, right above his hip, looked cancerous, a malignant tumor aching to be cut away. When he reached forward to hand the cashier his money, I saw the flash of a pistol grip. I didn’t turn away quickly enough. The man caught me staring and aggressively pulled down his shirt to cover up what he must have known wasn’t a secret.
THE LOCKERS AT my gym are usually closed, usually locked. On this day, one wasn’t. I did not find it funny to discover that a short, small black pistol had been left there. Why had it been left for me to see? And what should I do? Should I tell the teenage girl at the front desk what I’d seen, only to frighten her, or worse, to find out she wasn’t frightened at all? Should I guard the open locker? Make sure the only person who got to it was the person who was supposed to?
He stepped in front of me. If I had been in line, it would’ve seemed as if he’d cut in. He was fully clothed and combing his hair. He dropped the comb in the locker, pulled out the pistol, and shoved it into a small holster, which sat just inside his waistband, two fingers to the right of the belt buckle. He flipped on his jacket, grabbed his gym bag, and walked away. For him, I don’t think I was ever there.
I NEEDED TO buy new tennis shoes. That’s why I was wandering around Academy Sports; wandering is what you do in a box store. That’s how I found myself in the part of the sporting-goods store for killing defenseless animals.
There were bows and arrows and knives and all manner of hunting accessories to purchase. There were rifles. And there were handguns. Also ammunition—a lot of ammunition. Towering several feet above me, the shelves made the place look more like an armory than a sportsman’s sanctuary. The number of different calibers, grains, casings, and brands was overwhelming—Hornady Critical Duty FlexLock .45 Auto +P 220-Grain Handgun, Winchester Super X 20-Gauge Game Loads 7.5 Shotshells . . . and what the hell was Fiocchi Pistol Shooting Dynamics 9 mm Jacketed Hollow-Point Centerfire Handgun Ammunition?
I took out my phone and Googled “jacketed hollow-point.” I learned quickly that a hollow-point bullet is, well, hollowed out, or pitted, at the tip. This so the bullet will expand, explode, and shatter once it hits its target. I learned that this bullet is favored by people who carry concealed weapons for self-defense because of the greater damage it can do.
Because, apparently, regular bullets fired from a gun aren’t lethal enough already.
I looked up from my phone to stare at the box of jacketed hollow-point rounds. What was I missing? Why was a bullet like this enough in demand to be sold at a sporting-goods store that also featured kids shoes? Then it dawned on me. Anyone who buys these bullets is someone who is willing to kill, who might want to kill. George Zimmerman used a small lightweight pistol made specifically for self-defense, a Kel-Tec 9 mm PF-9, to shoot through the heart and kill Trayvon Martin—an unarmed black child with twenty-two dollars, earbuds, and Skittles in his pocket—with a hollow-point round in a Sanford, Florida, townhouse complex at 7:17 p.m. on February 26, 2012. Zimmerman would later claim he was in fear for his life.
SIX OF THE nine people in my class at the Oklahoma City Gun Range, in Arcadia, were members of the Oklahoma City Police Department. Of the three of us who were not affiliated with OKC PD, one was an out-of-work information technology professional and the other was the instructor’s sixteen-year-old kid. The NRA has a program for girls and boys age thirteen and older who want to become “apprentice instructors,” at the bottom third of the three tiers in the NRA’s pyramid of instructors. The second tier, the one I was going for, is basic instructor. The third is NRA training counselor, who teaches the first and second tiers how to teach. Our counselor for the occasion was a former army sergeant, current OKC PD sergeant, and Boy Scout scoutmaster, with a face permanently fixed in what looked to me like a snarl.
In a small class, you might think it would be easy for me to get comfortable. But being surrounded by law enforcement made me feel as I do whenever I’m pulled over—anxious and severely marginalized. Only this time, the pull-over-license-and-registration-please-are-there-any-drugs-in-the-car would last sixteen hours, with no dash-cam footage. We went around the room, stating who we were and why we wanted to become instructors. When my turn approached, that feeling magnified.
I blurted out that I wanted to better understand why gun owners feel the need to carry a gun or keep a gun. The room didn’t go silent, like it does in the movies. Instead, the IT guy rather quickly asked me if I knew that this class was for those who wanted to teach proper firearm safety and use. I said I did, but I believed that part of effective teaching had to do with the curriculum. What biases might be reflected in the NRA course structure? Who was doing the teaching, and might they bring their own biases to the table? Where and to whom were most concealed-carry classes taught? I’d hoped to get to know a few of them and hear their stories as they became instructors themselves.
But Bertrand Russell taught us hope is born of misery.
During a break, one of the police officers—I’ll call him George Washington, to suggest a character reeking of machismo, white privilege, and tobacco—found me outside the classroom. We stood there for a while. I was checking my phone while he finished a cigarette. I’m sure it couldn’t have been longer than five minutes, but it felt longer. It felt surreally heavy. In fact, that’s mostly how my notes from that day read, like a deranged fever dream. But I managed to get this down because, well, it struck me as especially important.
As if the words burst forth out of some sincere need, George Washington said, “I know what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry?”
George Washington looked irritated now. “I know what you’re doing. You’re gonna teach them to shoot back.”
To which I said—nothing. I’d like to believe that my face was a potent concoction of contempt and disbelief, but only George Washington could tell you for sure. He stared back at me long enough to make me feel genuinely confused. Then he walked back inside.
AFTER SHOWING HOW to properly load and unload a single- and double-action revolver and semiautomatic pistol, clear a failure to fire and double feed, and then teach those skills, my classmates and I needed to show we could shoot worth a damn. For this NRA instructor certification, that meant putting eight out of ten shots into a grouping no wider than a dollar bill’s length and no narrower than a dollar bill’s width, from fifteen yards out—twice.
We took our positions on the range, put our ear-gear on, and waited for the command to fire. I took my time sighting in my target and letting the blast from the pistol surprise me. I treated each shot as its own and kept to my ritual.
Feet shoulder width apart.
Loose through the torso.
Arms comfortably extended.
Grip tight enough to feel in control.
Sight the target.
Align the sights.
Squeeze.
CHARLES WAS SITTING in his recliner in the living room. I marched in with my qualifying target in tow. It waved beside me as I walked through his house. I must have been smiling because my grin was the first thing Charles commented on.
“What for, though?” he asked.
I presented him my target. He stood, and took the target from me like it was his grandma’s china. He examined it thoughtfully, and told me how proud of me he was. Charles had been my father-in-law for two years.
“You done good,” he said.
This was the last time Charles would ever be proud of me. Wish I’d hugged him then. Wish I’
d told him how much I will always love his daughter. Wish I’d told him how much I love him.
I’M LOOKING AT my certificate now. Even a year after receiving it, it still shocks the shit out of me. The signature of the NRA’s secretary, John C. Frazier, appears in the bottom right corner, and a big NRA INSTRUCTOR insignia is at the bottom left. In the center, it says:
The National Rifle Association of America certifies that RJ YOUNG has successfully met the requirements set by the National Rifle Association of America and is hereby designated an NRA INSTRUCTOR and is authorized to teach the following basic courses: Certified Pistol.
So it’s there. This is the proof. This means that all the rounds I’ve shot, the skill as a marksman I’ve gained, and the experience of safely storing and transporting a pistol I’ve earned have made me an expert with a handgun.
If you’re an asshole, I shoot better than you.
If you’re an asshole, I will not shoot you.
Because you’re worth more to me, asshole.
11
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Self-Defense in Black and White
THE NRA’S HAND on the lucrative lever of reinforcing white contempt and fear of black men is at least well out in the open for anyone willing to look. But my descent into the rabbit hole of gun culture revealed the presence of a national industry I never had imagined, one with a mission I wish I could forget.
ON NOVEMBER 14, 2007, a Texas resident, Joe Horn, called the 911 dispatcher. The sixty-one-year-old made his intent clear.
“I’ve got a shotgun,” Horn said. “Do you want me to stop them?”
“Nope, don’t do that,” the dispatcher said. “No property worth shooting somebody over, OK?”
This upset Horn. He didn’t like the idea of having to sit by while his house was burgled, and he had a means to put an end to the situation. After all, he knew the law. “I have a right to protect myself,” Horn said. “I ain’t gonna let them get away with this shit. I’m sorry, this ain’t right, buddy . . . They got a bag of loot . . . Here it goes, buddy. You hear the shotgun clicking, and I’m going.”
He confronted the burglars. “Move, you’re dead.” Then he shot three times and killed both burglars.
Horn returned to the dispatcher. “I had no choice, they came in the front yard with me, man, I had no choice.”
A grand jury found Horn had not committed a crime, but not before legal fees took their toll on him. Gun enthusiasts took this as a warning. That a man could be defending his property, shoot two Colombian burglars who were in the country illegally, and still end up destitute did not seem right to them. U.S. Law Shield, an organization dedicated to providing legal representation for its members, if ever they are called upon to defend their lives, their family, or their property by using a firearm or any lawful weapon, was founded by two Texas lawyers, Darren Rice and T. Edwin Walker, in part as a response to the furor over the Horn case. No gun owner wants to end up broke for doing what he or she believes is right.
I FIRST LEARNED of U.S. Law Shield when a representative of the organization made a pitch to my concealed-carry class. Waldo had introduced the rep, a middle-aged white guy in a gray suit and button-down shirt, who asked what we were going to do when we had to “put a man down because he attacks you or your loved ones.” How were we going to navigate the legality of the situation from the moment we called 911 to the day we had to stand before the magistrate and answer for our actions? Turns out U.S. Law Shield provides a hotline, making civil and criminal attorneys available to all members of U.S. Law Shield, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. I learned that you don’t actually have to use a firearm to receive legal services under the program. You can simply brandish your gun—to stop a threat, of course. A base package for a married couple would cost just $240.
U.S. Law Shield, with over 200,000 members, is not the only organization in the country that provides this kind of service. There are dozens, and they’re all perfectly fine with the idea of increasing the numbers of people inclined to pull out a gun to resolve a problem.
In 2017, the NRA announced it would form its own firearms legal service program, called NRA Carry Guard. Another organization under the NRA’s umbrella is Second Call Defense, which will, in addition to delivering legal services, retrieve or replace the gun you used to (we hope not) kill a person when it has been taken into custody by police; provide expert witness coordination; and make available a personal crisis manager. To complement its legal services programs, the NRA looks to fortify its place among those competing in the firearm self-defense market by offering a concealed-carry training component for the folks who think a lot about when and how they might need to shoot in self-defense. The NRA enlisted the help of the Navy SEALs’ George Severence and Eric Frohardt as well as the Green Berets’ James R. Jarrett and Jeff Houston to lead the association’s national instructor-certification team. An organization called the United States Concealed Carry Association performs many of the same services that U.S. Law Shield does, including providing an attorney, money for bail, and a wallet card with instructions for exactly what to do after you shoot and kill a person in self-defense. The USCCA’s most expensive package costs $30 a month and provides up to $125,000 for the cost of a criminal attorney and up to $1 million for civil damages incurred.
“This is basically preparing people: you’re going to kill someone, and you need to know what to do,” says Mary Anne Franks, a professor of law at the University of Miami.
When U.S. Law Shield pitched its services at my concealed-carry class, where everyone but me was white and barely knew how to shoot a gun, this was the presenter’s clincher: What if we were George Zimmerman? Just trying to be a good citizen and protect our neighborhood? This was two years after Zimmerman had shot and killed Trayvon Martin. I felt my legs clutch, a signal for me to please not lose my shit. The man broke from his speech for a moment, as his eyes settled on me. But he was quick to pick up with his practiced delivery. He knew he’d lost me. He knew he never had a chance to sell me. So why waste effort on me? Why indeed.
This apathy is the emotion I hate most. It makes me angriest and most fearful. If this man, intent on demonstrating to our class the importance of his services, chooses to make his case by citing an incident that half the country believes was a murder—if he doesn’t have the sensitivity to see me in the room and choose a different example, it shows that he doesn’t believe I’m worth the effort. So why would anyone else who believes what he believes try to engage with me in a positive way? How do I begin a dialogue with a person like that? How do I convince him that my fears are real, and that he directly contributes to them?
I ATTENDED A gun-law workshop put on by U.S. Law Shield of Oklahoma three miles from my apartment in Tulsa, soon after I earned my NRA instructor certification. There’s a difference I need to point out here: taking a U.S. Law Shield class as an NRA certified expert is not the same as taking the class as a budding intermediate shooter learning his way around a gun. Suffice it to say: I attended the class to call bullshit.
This being Tulsa, I was not surprised to find that I and one other person, a woman, were the only black people in a room of thirty. When I first arrived, I overheard an older man ask how much the workshop would cost. He was pleased to find out it was free. All we needed to do was sign in with our name and email address, enjoy the cookies and Cokes set out for us, and listen. I took a seat at the front of the room, facing a table that displayed a large U.S. Law Shield poster. I listened to chatter about the gun raffle advertised as part of the workshop itself. Turns out this was the reason many had come—the hope of getting a free handgun.
On its website, U.S. Law
Shield advertises many events across the country just like the one I was attending. The legal-defense program was so enthusiastically received in Texas that its founding lawyers decided to take the program national, setting up organizations in Florida, Oklahoma, Colorado, Pennsylvania, Missouri, Georgia, Virginia, New Jersey, Ohio, Arkansas, and Kansas.
As I waited, I picked up a brochure. It featured a white man in a suit and tie, holding the kind of placard you’ve seen in mug shots. Where a name usually appears, there was the legend LEGAL GUN OWNER. Above the picture was written “Criminal or victim? If you own a gun, it can happen to you.”
Inside, the brochure listed ten categories of scenarios that U.S. Law Shield has encountered in its role as a “firearms defense legal defense program.”
Member shot robbers at family business.
Member shot late-night intruder. Civil lawsuit followed.
Member brought to grand jury after using gun to stop intruder in own home.
Member arrested for legally carrying a gun on own property.
Thief attempted to run over member with stolen truck. Member shoots and kills.
Member shot rabid dog on own property—wrongfully issued criminal citation.
Member victim of off-duty police officer’s misunderstanding of law—arrested for legal gun.
Member forced to shoot carjacker. Member victim of road-rage incident—arrested for defending self.
I am not aware of any cases involving U.S. Law Shield members who are black.
The voice of Kirk Evans, a Houston-area attorney who has been a member of the Texas Bar since 1993 and is currently president of the organization, is the one I heard on the membership services hotline, encouraging me to become a member. U.S. Law Shield employs “independent program attorneys” in every state. The organization’s model has not, however, stood unchallenged.