There was a part of me that felt like I had done something naughty. Maybe it was the basement where the shooting range is located. Maybe it was the indoctrination that guns are bad; they kill. And yet there I was, a straight-laced nerd wielding a weapon. It seemed like I was suddenly admitted to a dubious, underground secret society.

I got over it though. The "evil" mystique quickly faded. When I took hold of the gun, I did not suddenly harbor murderous thoughts. My demeanor did not change. I did not become enraged. If anything, I felt more responsible — more respectful of the power of a gun — than I had before, when I was afraid to go near one. I am trying to avoid the word "empowering," but it really felt that way.