An Imperfect Journey

Most mornings since turkey season began on May 1, the boys are up and out the door by 5. It has now been three years since they got their first gun; they have completed (and aced) their hunter safety certification and also attended a more advanced NRA-sponsored youth firearm course. If you’d have told me five years ago that my sons would be attending NRA-sponsored firearms courses, I would’ve laughed you out of the room. Out of the state, probably. How little I knew then about what would be now. How little I probably know now about what will be later.

This is the first year the boys have been allowed to hunt alone, so long as they stick to prearranged boundaries. They have a couple of likely spots scouted over on Melvin’s land, places they’ve seen turkeys or turkey sign. Thus far, these locations have borne no fruit, but they don’t seem to mind. I sort of thought they’d be discouraged by now, but they still set the alarm for 4:40 so they have time to don thrift store camo and blacken one another’s faces with a charred cork before taking up their shotguns and heading down the field.

Having been raised in gun-free families, Fin’s and Rye’s passion for hunting has taken a little adjusting for Penny and me. Ok, so maybe more than “a little.” I remember the first time I shot with them, with the little youth .22 we’d bought specifically for the purpose. At the time the notion of my children shooting or even holding that gun, so insubstantial it looked less like a real weapon than the majority of toy guns I’ve seen, made me nervous as all get out. And for good reason, I suppose. As guns go, the .22 isn’t a terribly powerful firearm, but a well placed shot can kill.

There is unquestionably a certain amount of risk inherent to guns, just as there is unquestionably a certain amount of risk inherent to driving a car or crossing the street. Still, over the past few years, I’ve come to understand that of all the tools we employ on a regular basis, a properly handled firearm is one of the safest. The chances of suffering grievous injury by chainsaw (the boys don’t use this yet) or tractor or falling off a ladder are far, far higher than the chance of accidental death or injury by firearm, simply because the lattermost has numerous safety checks engineered into its design. First, it must be loaded. Second, a round must be in the chamber. Third, the safety must be off. And finally, the trigger must be pulled. But despite all these checks, there’s still something about guns. I know this because I feel it, and also because of the responses I get from other parents when they learn that our boys shoot.

I’m intrigued by how parents (including Penny and myself) perceive risk. I’ve even more intrigued by our culture’s increasing acceptance of what I call “abstract risk.” To me, abstract risk is the risk that comes of not exposing our children (and ourselves) to tangible risk. It’s the risk that by sheltering our youth from the tools and tasks our society has come to perceive as being dangerous, we deprive them of responsibility, trust and the capability essential to developing sound judgment and confidence.

It’s understandable that we do this. After all, we don’t actually need our children to assume much physical risk anymore; the information economy has done a right fine job of expunging physicality from our day-to-day lives. Nowadays, most people spend pretty much their entire lives shuffling from one cocoon to the other: Home to car to office to gym to car to home. Or home to school bus to classroom to home to Playstation to homework to bedroom. It’s a risky way to live, no doubt, but not in a way that feels risky.

We’re not always sure where to draw the line. If the boys had had their way, they would’ve been hunting alone last year. But Penny and I were not comfortable with that and did not allow it. We are constantly refining our sense of what is acceptable and what is not, trying to strike a balance between (relatively) peaceful existence with our own fears and assumptions and providing our sons opportunities to assume the responsibilities we believe are so crucial to their development.

It’s an imperfect, sometimes uncomfortable journey and frankly, it’d be easier to just abandon it. But that’s way more risk than we can handle.