Some men (and women too) are hunters. They love to venture out in the early morning, feel the brisk autumn winds against their face and stomp through the woods in search of food for their family. It is a ritual that has been passed down, father to son, since long before the second amendment. From time of the hunter-gatherers to the days when the king owned all the land and only a desperate peasant would dare to take bow and arrow to feed a starving family, it has been the most elemental way for a man to provide for his family. We no longer hunt our food. We get some super-marketed, manufactured, drugged, wretched creature that is kept in animal concentration camps till the price is right. For some reason we seem to think this is civilized.
Those who confuse these men (and women) with the gangster in the street or the wild eyed terrorist have missed a vital truth about the American spirit. It’s more than food; it’s about self-reliance, a healthy respect for nature and instilling the values of self determination and responsibility. It is also about securing the people against the tyranny of the government. To reserve the right to own a firearm is not an obsolete quirk of the Bill of Rights. It is essential.
My first mother in law taught me all about guns. It’s not normally a subject women teach, but she had five sons and they had to learn. They were never given toy guns to play with. She said it was foolish to allow them to think that a weapon was a toy in any way. When they were old enough she took them out into the woods and taught them to shoot. She also taught them how to clean the gun, store it and maintain it safely. She taught me too. I was such a hit with tin cans and pop bottles that she called me “Hawkeye”. I don’t know if I could ever kill a living thing, but I know that because of what she taught me, I wound not do so by accident.
The NRA always says ‘Guns don’t kill people, people do.” That fact was made painfully clear recently. In Chicago a group of school kids used a board to beat another student to death. In California a young girl was raped over and over again for hours outside the homecoming dance. There were lots of cell phones (taking pictures) but not a single gun. Not a single gun. Getting rid of all the guns will not end violence. Nevertheless, I am a progressive and I worked enthusiastically on the Obama campaign.
I made calls to Kentucky while the NRA had their convention there. It was interesting. One fellow in particular, was actually civil and patient enough to discuss why he hates Obama. We talked a long, long time. He mentioned the second amendment a lot. I told him that I agreed with him about some of his concerns. Obama is the first Democrat in a long time to acknowledge that the second amendment means the “right to bear arms” not some nonsense about a “well regulated militia.” I said, “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have some restrictions on guns. That’s the well regulated part. You wouldn’t want school kids with guns.” Then he said, “Why not?” I had a vision of his grandson, a first grader, packin’ heat on the jungle gym. I had to stifle a giggle. Then I told him, “The first amendment says ‘free speech’ but it still has limits about slander and pornography. You’re free to speak your mind but you can’t go in a football stadium and yell “NUKE!” Then he said, “That may be true but freedom of speech was not as important as the Second Amendment!” So I said, “You suppose that’s why they made it the First Amendment?” He suddenly hung up. I hope a light bulb just went on.
Like I said, there are hunters and then there are predators. Do not confuse the two. Predators seldom use a firearm. Their weapons are dominance, charm and shame. There is a certain class of men who consider anything female – fair game. They prepare, groom, stalk, hunt, wound, capture and domesticate girls for pleasure only. Do not eat what they hunt. They only maim it.
I had a foster father who was an avid hunter. Later I came to understand that he was also a sexual predator. He stalked me, groomed me, wounded me and then kept me caged till I escaped.
When I was 15 my mother was institutionalized with what was called a nervous breakdown. My half-a-sister, Rayleen, had spread the rumor that I had “gone wild and driven my mother crazy”. Most of my family believed her and blamed me for my Mother’s breakdown. The truth was that the half-a-sister was feeding Mama Diet pills which led to the breakdown. Later when I came to understand the symptoms of a speed freak, I knew that the summer I was fifteen, my mother was a speed freak. She and my half-a-sister, Rayleen were doctor shopping for diet pills. My mother would go for days without sleep. She was obsessed with the idea of sewing all our school clothes. I started tenth grade with four copies of the exact same shift – same pattern, same fabric. I had no underwear, no bras, no shoes but I had a closet of clones of the same dress. Mama would also go on buying binges at the second hand store. She would come home with arms full of “treasure” she discovered. Most of it was junk. Some of it was pretty junk. None of it paid the light bill or bought shoes. Then Mama would crash and sleep for days till Rayleen showed up at the door again.
It all exploded one night when I came home from a date with my high school boyfriend. Mama had discovered my diary. Fueled by the half-a-sisters lurid imagination she read into it a life more exciting than I could have imagined. In truth, I was too scared to be anything but good. I wanted no drama. But thanks to Rayleen, I had a drugged out mother who let her imagination run wild. By the time the night was over, Mama had been stopped just short of killing me and was being dragged away in a straight jacket. “They’re coming to take me away” was playing on the AM radio as they left. I left and walked the three miles to the high school basketball game. I came home later to a dark house.
I spent a month alone in the house, maybe more. Then the school insisted that I “find parents.” Because of Rayleen, I had no place to go and no family willing to take me. A friend of a friend had a sister. It was then I met the hunter and his wife and they became my foster parents. I lived in a corner of their unfinished basement. The hunter had a padlocked room for his music and other toys that was finished with tile floor and wood paneling. The room with the washer and dryer was finished with a tile floor and wood paneling. I lived in a door-less concrete corner behind the furnace. I had no closet so I used the pipes on the ceiling to hang my clothes. I worked as an A&W car hop to pay my room and board and after school and on weekends I helped Mrs. Hunter take care of the kids. Although Hunter had a very good job, his family lived like paupers. The extra money I paid helped with the cost of feeding me. Both Mr. and Mrs. Hunter were very kind to me and I grew to love them and their daughters as though they were my family. I know now, that Mr. Hunter was not my friend, my protector. He was simply grooming me, as most sexual predators do. And Mrs. Hunter just looked the other way as most abused women do.
I spent a year and a half in that basement. I finished high school and was ready to move on. Hunter called me back for one last visit. How could I say no? When I arrived there was a case of beer and a bet as to how much I could drink. I was no drinker, it was no real bet. But I played along and we drank beer and chatted and joked. Mrs. Hunter went off to bed and I fell asleep on the living room sofa.
I woke up with Hunters hand over my mouth telling me not to wake his sleeping daughters. He raped me. Then he got up said, “Thank you” and went to bed. For years after that he dominated my life with threats. If I tried to get away he said he would tell his wife or his daughters that I was some kind of Lolita who had seduced him. I tried to leave many times but ended back in his basement again and again. He controlled my friends, my work and even my car. If I got too close to anyone, he would call them and say that he was acting as foster father and looking out for me. Then he would cross examine them and question their fitness to influence me. No one ever passed his test and he would send them away. Again I would find myself in his debt and in his basement. It has taken a lifetime to realize that this “respectable church going man” was a villain and I was no Lolita. I was his prey.
I’ve never really told this story. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to give my tormentor the satisfaction of knowing the damage he did. I know that he will enjoy my pain. I know that he keeps pieces of my youth like a serial rapist keeps the underwear. I wanted to deny him that pleasure.
I hadn’t been around avid hunters for decades when my friend Loren asked me to help her with her housekeeping business. She paid cash and it was only a few hours on the weekend and I really needed the money. So Monday through Friday I would carry my briefcase into meetings with the local business people and on the weekend I would be the invisible person cleaning their toilet. I admit it felt a bit like espionage. All of the houses were so different. Some were filled with antiques, some were ultra modern and some had an Indian theme. One in particular I remember great detail even today.
Loren and I entered the back door into a pink kitchen. The walls were pink, the table and chairs were pink and even the appliances were pink. There were pink gingham checked curtains and tablecloth and a pink tile floor. It was like a step back into the fifties. Loren gave the instructions and I followed behind as we headed into the main part of the house. We entered the living room and I stopped dead in my tracks. Every square inch of the walls were covered with animal heads. There were typical moose, deer, bear and then exotic lion, tiger and cheetah. I was overcome by the death in the room and was backing out when I bumped into a table. I looked behind me and saw an upright baby kangaroo, its front paws being used as an ashtray. Without thinking I said, “I’m sorry.” Then the legs of an elephant were used as the base for a coffee table, the rugs were bears, the chandelier had monkeys hanging off the sides, Everywhere, everywhere were dead animals. I just kept saying, “I’m sorry, I’ m sorry.” The spiritual stench was nauseating.
The man who owned this house was a “recreational hunter”. His wife was stuck in the fifties. Their trophies were no different than the soiled underwear a rapist keeps. It’s evidence of a flawed spirit, one that thrives on the suffering of others and keeps trophies of the kill.
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