Concealed carry article in Harper's Magazine ...

CONCEALED CARRY: A MIDDLE-ROAD VIEW?

The current edition of Harper’s magazine carries a cover story on concealed carry, illustrated with an Andy Warhol portrait of a High Standard Sentinel .22 revolver…ironically, more of a Backwoods Home utility handgun than a concealed carry piece, but what the heck.

It is a very articulate story from a man who carried a Colt Detective Special .38 for some time, and understood the power and responsibility he carried with it. In the end, he decided not to carry every day. Some in the gun world see that as a cop-out. I noticed that the author reserved the option to carry it on long drives or in other situations where he felt less secure than usual. In the end, it’s his choice. Hell, I know a lot of determined, busy Second Amendment Rights activists who don’t carry a gun every day, either, and I’ve known some who don’t carry at all…and there are a few 2A supporters who don’t even own a gun. While I am one of those who does carry a gun daily wherever and whenever it is legal, I don’t think those who choose otherwise are Commies or anything.

Give it a read. You can find it here. The editors at Harper’s did something interesting. The glued-on flyleaf on the cover reads “My Concealed Weapon and You.” Turn it over, though, and the subtitle for the article on the actual cover says, “My Concealed Weapon and Me.”

I gotta admit, I like that. Our concealed weapon is initially about us, and those we have a responsibility to protect. But it’s also about others, who are present when we are armed and who may be present and even close to the line of fire if any of us every have to draw a defensive handgun for its intended purpose.

Kudos to Harper’s for “Fair And Balanced” factor.

Read the essay. I would link it for you here, but you have to be a subscriber to the magazine to log on. The magazine is on the stands as I write this, though, and should be at your local public library.
http://backwoodshome.com/blogs/MassadAyoob/2010/07/31/concealed-carry-a-middle-road-view/

Walking home about six-thirty at night, just off the corner of West Washington Boulevard and Westminster Avenue, I was confronted by five young, well-dressed uptown brothers. Black. Okay. Let's get that right out front. They could just as easily have been white. We were directly under a streetlight and less than fifty feet from an intersection thick with traffic.

I was not dressed as a high roller. I am not a high roller. I don't look like a robber baron or a rich dentist. I look like exactly what I am, a middle-aged guy who's seen a little more than he needs to see. I thought, what are these guys doing?

Their leader pulled a kitchen knife out of his two-hundred-dollar leather jacket. His mistake was that he wasn't close enough to me to use it, only to threaten me. He smiled at me and said, "Just the wallet, man. Won't be no trouble."

That was a very long moment for me. I remember it just as it happened. I remember thinking at the time that it was one of those moments that are supposed to be charged with electricity. It wasn't. It was hollow, silent, and chilly.

I looked at this guy and at his companions and at his knife, and I thought: Don't you see how you're misreading me? I am not a victim. I used to be a victim, but now I'm not. Can't you see the difference?

I pulled the automatic, leveled it at them and said very clearly, "You must be dreaming."

The guy smiled at me and said, "Sheeeit," and his buddies laughed, and he began to move toward me with the knife. I thought, this guy is willing to kill me for thirty-five dollars. I aimed the automatic at the outer edge of his left thigh and shot him.

He dropped like a high jumper hitting the bar and yelled "Goddamn!" three times, the first one from amazement, I guess, and the second two higher pitched and from pain.

He yelled at his buddies, "Ain't you gonna do nothing?" They did do nothing.

I backed off and walked away, right across busy West Washington Boulevard, with the gun still in my hand. I remember thinking, shouldn't I call a doctor? And then I thought, would he have called a doctor for me? And I kept right on walking.