When my friend Lulu said she was writing a piece on masculinity and gun culture for her journalism class, I didn’t expect to end up holding a Glock in the middle of the New York woods. But journalism, like life, has a way of pulling you into the unexpected. So, another friend and I tagged along for some field research. We hit the Starbucks drive-thru (naturally) and set out to find a gun range, because why not, for the sake of a story?
We pulled into the gravel lot: two girls in shiny lip gloss and gold jewelry, and a gay boy clutching a pink drink. The moment we parked—bang bang bang—gunshots cracked through the air. We shrieked, then laughed nervously. This was clearly not our element.
Two men paused mid-shoot to stare at us approaching cautiously. Behind them, bullets lay scattered on folding tables like party favors, and an intimidating lineup of firearms, from compact handguns to massive, fully automatic rifles. There was a brief, collective moment where we all wondered: Should we turn around? But we introduced ourselves anyway, explaining that we hoped to ask a few questions. Much to my surprise, what started as a few awkward inquiries turned into a nearly two-hour-long conversation—open, honest, and far more personal than I ever expected.
One man had been shooting since he was five years old. His father, a military veteran, taught him that firearms were not just weapons, but tools of protection, control, and responsibility. The other had found guns later in life. As a first responder, he shared a story about feeling helpless and scared during an emergency, being left vulnerable, waiting on law enforcement that came too late. “When seconds matter,” he told us, “help is always minutes away.” For him, owning a gun was about reclaiming a sense of safety in a world where it often felt delayed or denied.
They spoke about family histories shaped by war, hunting, and the idea that safety is something you create for yourself. We asked questions about mass shootings, about background checks, about why anyone should own something so dangerous. I disagreed with a lot of what they had to say, but I also learned many things I didn’t know, stories I hadn’t heard, realities I hadn’t fully considered. And through that, I gained a more holistic understanding of why some people believe the things they do. The drive of having this conversation was never about changing minds. It was about opening them.
At their encouragement, and with some hesitation, we tried shooting a few guns ourselves. They handed us earmuffs and earplugs and explained the mechanics like patient teachers. The first gun I held was heavier than I expected. The cold metal was foreign in my hands. When I pulled the trigger, the recoil kicked back hard, a physical reminder of the power I held for that split second. It felt uncomfortable. Unnatural. Wrong, even. But that discomfort was important. Because here’s the truth: fear of the unfamiliar is a lousy foundation for an informed worldview. We can’t claim to understand a country if we’re only willing to see half of it. According to a 2024 study, 32% of Americans personally own a firearm. An additional 40% live in a household with one. That’s not a niche. That’s mainstream. And whether you agree or not, if you care about reducing gun violence, understanding gun culture isn’t optional, it’s essential.
Before we left, we thanked the men for their time, and they thanked us in return, for being open enough to come, to ask questions, and to listen. It struck me that if we had met under different circumstances, we likely would have never spoken at all. We would have clung to stereotypes, assuming the worst about each other.
I still believe in stronger gun control. Firmly. According to a 2024 Pew Research Center study, 58% of Americans support tightening gun laws. But that leaves over 40% who don’t. And reducing complex perspectives to stereotypes does little to advance the conversation, it entrenches polarization instead.
In today’s divided political climate, this is what we need more of: not necessarily agreement, but uncomfortable, human conversations across ideological lines. Because if we only ever talk to people who agree with us, we lose the ability to change anything or even understand why change is needed. Not everyone you disagree with is a bad person. And if we aren’t willing to sit down across a table, or even a shooting range, and actually talk, we’ll get nowhere. Understanding doesn’t mean surrendering your beliefs. It just means daring to see the full humanity of the people behind them.