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如今，我是枪械制造商所瞄准的销售目标的典型女人，也是已经铤而走险成为拥有枪支的几百万女人之一。
他被指控的罪行是如此的残忍、他施加痛苦于人的欲望是如此的强烈，使我开始质疑在任何情况下都不该夺取别人性命的观念。
我意识到以前我强烈主张的片面和平主义可能会对我带来反效果，更糟的是我儿子也可能遭殃。我只好勉强地总结，为了我们的生存，我必须确保采取最佳的选择。
我把手指勾住扳机，并最终扣动它，同时接受是我亲手杀死侵入者的事实，而且很欣慰自已不是一个受害者。
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今天我成为了枪支生产商眼中的典型顾客，以及百万分之一的真正冒这个险的人。
他所犯下的罪行如此残忍，他想要加痛苦于他人的意愿如此之强，以至于我开始质疑我任何情况下都不能杀人的信条了。
我意识到我曾经笃信不疑的偏执的和平主义能够对我，甚至更糟，对我的儿子产生不利影响；因此我不情愿地得出结论：我还是得保险地选择那个最利于生存的选项。
我将我的手指扣上扳机并最终拉动了它，与此同时我就选择了将自己的手染上入侵者的鲜血，而为自己不会成为牺牲品而如释重负。
原文：
Why I Bought a Gun
Gail Buchalter
I was raised in one of Manhattan's more desirable neighborhoods. My upper-middle-class background never involved guns. If my parents felt threatened, they simply put another lock on the door.
By high school, I had traded in my cashmere sweaters for a black arm band. I marched for Civil Rights, shunned Civil Defense drills and protested the Vietnam War. It was easy being 18 and a peacenik. I wasn't raising an 11-year-old child then.
Today, I am typical of the women whom gun manufacturers have been aiming at as potential buyers—and one of the millions who have taken the plunge.
I began questioning my pacifist beliefs one Halloween night in Phoenix, where I had moved when I married. I was almost home when another car nearly hit mine head-on. With the speed of a New York cabbie, I rolled down my window and screamed curses as the driver passed. He instantly made a U-turn, almost climbing on my back bumper. By now, he and his two friends were hanging out of the car windows, yelling that they were going to rape, cut and kill me.
I already had turned into our driveway when I realized my husband wasn't home. I was trapped. The car had pulled in behind me. I drove up to the back porch and got into the kitchen, where our dogs stood waiting for me. The three men spilled out of their car and into our yard.
My heart was pumping. I grabbed the collars of Jack, our 200-pound Irish wolfhound, and his 140-pound malamute buddy, Slush. Then I kicked open the back door—I was so scared that I became aggressive—and actually dared the three creeps to keep coming. With the dogs, the odds had changed in my favor, and the men ran back to the safety of their car, yelling that they'd be back the next day to blow me away. Fortunately, they never returned.
A few years and one divorce later, I headed for Los Angeles with my 3-year-old son, Jordan (the dogs had since departed). When I put him in preschool a few weeks later, the headmistress noted that I was a single parent and immediately warned me that there was a rapist in my new neighborhood.
I called the police, who confirmed this fact. The rapist followed no particular pattern. Sometimes he would be waiting in his victim's house; other times he would break in while the person was asleep. Although it was summer, I would carefully lock my windows at night and then lie there and sweat in fear. Thankfully, the rapist was caught, but not before he had attacked two more women.
Soon the papers were telling yet another tale of senseless horror. Richard Bamirez, who became known as "The Walk-In Killer," spent months crippling and killing before he was caught. His alleged crimes were so brutal, his desire to inflict pain so intense, that I began to question my beliefs about not taking human life under any circumstances. The thought of taking a human life disgusts me, but the idea of being someone's victim is worse. And how, I began to ask myself, do you talk pacifism to a murderer or a rapist?
Finally, I decided that I would defend myself, even if it meant killing another person. I realized that the one-sided pacifism I once so strongly had advocated could backfire on me and worse, on my son. Reluctantly. I concluded that I had to insure the best option for our survival. My choices: to count on a cop or to own a pistol.
I called a man I had met a while ago who, I remembered, owned several guns. He told me he had a Smith & Wesson 38 Special for sale and recommended it, since it was small enough for me to handle yet had the necessary stopping power.
I bought the gun. That same day, I got six rounds of special ammunition with plastic tips that explode on impact. These are not for target practice; these are for protection.
For about $50, I also picked up a metal safety box. Its push-button lock opens with a touch if you know the proper combination, possibly taking only a second or two longer than it does to reach into a night-table drawer. Now I knew that my son, Jordan, couldn't get his hands on it while I still could.
When I brought the gun home, Jordan was fascinated by it. He kept picking it up, while I nervously watched. But knowledge, I believe, is still our greatest defense. And since I'm in favor of education for sex, AIDS and learning to drive, I couldn't draw the line at teaching my son about guns.
Next, I took the pistol and my son to the target range. I rented a 22-caliber pistol for Jordan. (A.38 was too much gun for him to handle.) I was relieved when he put it down after 10 minutes—he didn't like the feel of it.
But that didn't prevent him from asking me if he should use the gun if someone broke into our house while I wasn't home. I shouted "no!" so loud, we both jumped. I explained that, if someone ever broke in, he's young and agile enough to leap out the window and run for his life.
Today he couldn't care less about the gun. Every so often, when we're watching television in my room, I practice opening the safety box, and Jordan times me. I'm down to three seconds. I'll ask him what's the first thing you do when you handle a gun, and he looks at me like I'm stupid, saying: "Make sure it's unloaded. But I'm not to touch it or tell my friends about it." Jordan's already bored with it all.
I, on the other hand, look forward to Mondays—"Ladies' Night" at the target range—when I get to shoot for free. I buy a box of bullets and some targets from the guy behind the counter, put on the protective eye and ear coverings and walk through the double doors to the firing lines.
Once there, I load my gun, look down the sights of the barrel and adjust my aim. I fire six rounds into the chest of a life-sized target hanging 25 feet away. As each bullet rips a hole through the figure drawn there, I realize I'm getting used to owning a gun and no longer feeling faint when I pick it up. The weight of it has become comfortable in my hand. And I am keeping my promise to practice. Too many people are killed by their own guns because they don't know how to use them.
It took me years to decide to buy a gun, and then weeks before I could load it. It gave me nightmares.
One night I dreamed I woke up when someone broke into our house. I grabbed my gun and sat waiting at the foot of my bed. Finally, I saw him turn the corner as he headed toward me. He was big and filled the hallway—an impossible target to miss. I didn't want to shoot, but I knew my survival was on the line. I wrapped my finger around the trigger and finally squeezed it. simultaneously accepting the intruder's death at my own hand and the relief of not being a victim. I woke up as soon as I decided to shoot.
I was tearfully relieved that it had only been a dream.
I never have weighed the consequences of an act as strongly as I have that of buying a gun—but, then again, I never have done anything with such deadly consequences. Most of my friends refuse even to discuss it with me. They believe that violence leads to violence.
They're probably right.
他所犯下的罪行如此残忍，他想要加痛苦于他人的意愿如此之强，以至于我开始质疑我任何情况下都不能杀人的信条了。
我意识到我曾经笃信不疑的偏执的和平主义能够对我，甚至更糟，对我的儿子产生不利影响；因此我不情愿地得出结论：我还是得保险地选择那个最利于生存的选项。
我将我的手指扣上扳机并最终拉动了它，与此同时我就选择了将自己的手染上入侵者的鲜血，而为自己不会成为牺牲品而如释重负。
原文：
Why I Bought a Gun
Gail Buchalter
I was raised in one of Manhattan's more desirable neighborhoods. My upper-middle-class background never involved guns. If my parents felt threatened, they simply put another lock on the door.
By high school, I had traded in my cashmere sweaters for a black arm band. I marched for Civil Rights, shunned Civil Defense drills and protested the Vietnam War. It was easy being 18 and a peacenik. I wasn't raising an 11-year-old child then.
Today, I am typical of the women whom gun manufacturers have been aiming at as potential buyers—and one of the millions who have taken the plunge.
I began questioning my pacifist beliefs one Halloween night in Phoenix, where I had moved when I married. I was almost home when another car nearly hit mine head-on. With the speed of a New York cabbie, I rolled down my window and screamed curses as the driver passed. He instantly made a U-turn, almost climbing on my back bumper. By now, he and his two friends were hanging out of the car windows, yelling that they were going to rape, cut and kill me.
I already had turned into our driveway when I realized my husband wasn't home. I was trapped. The car had pulled in behind me. I drove up to the back porch and got into the kitchen, where our dogs stood waiting for me. The three men spilled out of their car and into our yard.
My heart was pumping. I grabbed the collars of Jack, our 200-pound Irish wolfhound, and his 140-pound malamute buddy, Slush. Then I kicked open the back door—I was so scared that I became aggressive—and actually dared the three creeps to keep coming. With the dogs, the odds had changed in my favor, and the men ran back to the safety of their car, yelling that they'd be back the next day to blow me away. Fortunately, they never returned.
A few years and one divorce later, I headed for Los Angeles with my 3-year-old son, Jordan (the dogs had since departed). When I put him in preschool a few weeks later, the headmistress noted that I was a single parent and immediately warned me that there was a rapist in my new neighborhood.
I called the police, who confirmed this fact. The rapist followed no particular pattern. Sometimes he would be waiting in his victim's house; other times he would break in while the person was asleep. Although it was summer, I would carefully lock my windows at night and then lie there and sweat in fear. Thankfully, the rapist was caught, but not before he had attacked two more women.
Soon the papers were telling yet another tale of senseless horror. Richard Bamirez, who became known as "The Walk-In Killer," spent months crippling and killing before he was caught. His alleged crimes were so brutal, his desire to inflict pain so intense, that I began to question my beliefs about not taking human life under any circumstances. The thought of taking a human life disgusts me, but the idea of being someone's victim is worse. And how, I began to ask myself, do you talk pacifism to a murderer or a rapist?
Finally, I decided that I would defend myself, even if it meant killing another person. I realized that the one-sided pacifism I once so strongly had advocated could backfire on me and worse, on my son. Reluctantly. I concluded that I had to insure the best option for our survival. My choices: to count on a cop or to own a pistol.
I called a man I had met a while ago who, I remembered, owned several guns. He told me he had a Smith & Wesson 38 Special for sale and recommended it, since it was small enough for me to handle yet had the necessary stopping power.
I bought the gun. That same day, I got six rounds of special ammunition with plastic tips that explode on impact. These are not for target practice; these are for protection.
For about $50, I also picked up a metal safety box. Its push-button lock opens with a touch if you know the proper combination, possibly taking only a second or two longer than it does to reach into a night-table drawer. Now I knew that my son, Jordan, couldn't get his hands on it while I still could.
When I brought the gun home, Jordan was fascinated by it. He kept picking it up, while I nervously watched. But knowledge, I believe, is still our greatest defense. And since I'm in favor of education for sex, AIDS and learning to drive, I couldn't draw the line at teaching my son about guns.
Next, I took the pistol and my son to the target range. I rented a 22-caliber pistol for Jordan. (A.38 was too much gun for him to handle.) I was relieved when he put it down after 10 minutes—he didn't like the feel of it.
But that didn't prevent him from asking me if he should use the gun if someone broke into our house while I wasn't home. I shouted "no!" so loud, we both jumped. I explained that, if someone ever broke in, he's young and agile enough to leap out the window and run for his life.
Today he couldn't care less about the gun. Every so often, when we're watching television in my room, I practice opening the safety box, and Jordan times me. I'm down to three seconds. I'll ask him what's the first thing you do when you handle a gun, and he looks at me like I'm stupid, saying: "Make sure it's unloaded. But I'm not to touch it or tell my friends about it." Jordan's already bored with it all.
I, on the other hand, look forward to Mondays—"Ladies' Night" at the target range—when I get to shoot for free. I buy a box of bullets and some targets from the guy behind the counter, put on the protective eye and ear coverings and walk through the double doors to the firing lines.
Once there, I load my gun, look down the sights of the barrel and adjust my aim. I fire six rounds into the chest of a life-sized target hanging 25 feet away. As each bullet rips a hole through the figure drawn there, I realize I'm getting used to owning a gun and no longer feeling faint when I pick it up. The weight of it has become comfortable in my hand. And I am keeping my promise to practice. Too many people are killed by their own guns because they don't know how to use them.
It took me years to decide to buy a gun, and then weeks before I could load it. It gave me nightmares.
One night I dreamed I woke up when someone broke into our house. I grabbed my gun and sat waiting at the foot of my bed. Finally, I saw him turn the corner as he headed toward me. He was big and filled the hallway—an impossible target to miss. I didn't want to shoot, but I knew my survival was on the line. I wrapped my finger around the trigger and finally squeezed it. simultaneously accepting the intruder's death at my own hand and the relief of not being a victim. I woke up as soon as I decided to shoot.
I was tearfully relieved that it had only been a dream.
I never have weighed the consequences of an act as strongly as I have that of buying a gun—but, then again, I never have done anything with such deadly consequences. Most of my friends refuse even to discuss it with me. They believe that violence leads to violence.
They're probably right.
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枪械制造商所瞄准的销售目标的典型女人，也是已经铤而走险成为拥有
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