Bearing Arms

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The Second Amendment to our Constitution allowed for a well-regulated militia to keep and bear arms to protect the State. In 2008, a court case ruled that individuals could keep guns at home for self protection. They were no longer just to be used for hunting or protection against an enemy of the government.

Of course, weapons have vastly changed and improved since our Founders wrote the Second Amendment. They never envisioned AR-15s, or any other assault weapon being used by civilians for sport, much less inside one’s home, or on a public street for “protection”.

On June 4, 2021, a judge in the California Southern District overturned a 30 year old law, banning the use of assault weapons in the state. In his decision, the judge likened the AR-15 to a Swiss Army knife. WHAT?  I am pleased to note his ruling was subsequently overturned by the whole court. Mass shootings are so commonplace in the U.S. right now that we are almost numb to them. It is revolting.

Almost exactly 10 years ago, the Supreme Court ruled that individuals had the right to carry weapons to protect themselves and their property. This opened the floodgate to today’s mess.

In my junior high school, all eighth graders went away for a camp experience for a few days. Among our many activities, we each had an opportunity to shoot a rifle, under strict supervision. The kickback was so strong, it nearly knocked me down. That was my only time firing a weapon. I was not interested in ever trying again. I have a great distaste for firearms of any sort.

On March 10, 1966, I had a personal encounter with a rifle. It was terrifying. 10pm was my bedtime, but I turned out my lights a bit late that night. My bedroom was at the front of the house, overlooking the street, so the lights going out were visible. My parents sat in the den on the ground floor below me. At the time, my father owned a Chrysler dealership, which was in turmoil. He had caught his general manager skimming funds from the business and fired him a week earlier.

Just after I turned out my lights, I heard four loud bangs. I turned on my light and ran to the window, which was stupid, because with the light on I couldn’t see out. I heard a car speed away. I turned the light off again and shouted downstairs, “Is everything OK?” I heard noise. My father called the police. Sirens screamed.

I put on my bathrobe and came down to inspect the scene. Four bullets had whizzed through the front window of our house, through the living room walls into the den, where my parents sat. My parents were unharmed. They couldn’t be seen through the large picture window, as they were in the room behind the living room, but the bullets had screamed through the room where they sat. One bounced off the fireplace hood. The dent had to be bumped out. One penetrated the back, outside wall. We never found that one. The paint on the walls of that room had a texture and if you looked closely, you could always see the repairs that were made to the holes in the walls where the bullets entered. The livingroom glass was replaced.

We were all shaken up. The police guarded our house for a few days. Huntington Woods is a small, quiet neighborhood, one mile square, adjacent to the Detroit Zoo. To this day, it remains lovely and desirable. Things like this just did not happen here.

My father always suspected his fired employee. He was questioned, but no gun was found, so no arrest was ever made. The shooting was never solved. I never forgot the feeling of being fired on, being terrified, thinking I might find my parents’ bloodied bodies when I came down those steps.

I see that scene repeated on the news night after night. It only grows worse.

 

March 14, 2015; 49 years later, visiting with cousins (photo by cousin Jane Akiba). My bedroom is the window on the upper right. The living room window, through which the bullets were fired, is on the ground floor, on the left.