There have been several gun-centric topics in the news for the past two weeks: Movie-Moses and National Rifle Association President Charlton Heston died on April 5; the one-year anniversary of the Virginia Tech shooting was Wednesday; a UT student was arrested for carrying a gun on campus Tuesday.
I read reports about gun control and the right to bear arms. On one hand, I like the idea behind the Second Amendment, as it involves arming citizens to keep the government in check. On the other hand, I like really strict gun control so that morons (not a technical term) will not be allowed to carry guns.
In my home country of Singapore, owning a gun is illegal, but that didn't stop me from imagining an oddly-shaped twig in my hand was a Single Action Army Colt (yes, in my frenzied youth, I watched many a Western).
Because of the country's size and strategic geographical location, the Singaporean government thought it would be prudent to establish a military. Since the 1960s, fine lads were drafted into the army when they came of age. In 1999, I too was drafted, and I lived my life in green for two-and-a-half years.
When I started, I was a recruit - a grunt - the lowest in the army hierarchy. The first three months of basic military training were the worst, but in between brief periods of push-ups, screaming and weeping, I actually looked forward to carrying a gun.
The standard weapon in the Singapore army is the M16, and there was extensive weapon training before we were issued our arms. During an introduction lesson, Staff Sergeant Lim, a bastard of a man, explained to us the many intricacies of the weapon.
"Understand that the M16 is not a toy," he would say. "It should be respected. If I catch you handling the weapon with such blatant disregard, I'll kick your ass so hard that you'll taste the size number of my boot with your tongue."
His comment was a hyperbole, but we took note of his warning because of his abnormally large feet.
Staff Sergeant Lim told us that the M16 uses 5.56 mm ammo, and once discharged the little bullet could make a small entry into one's forehead and exit through what's left of the back of the skull.
He showed us several slides that illustrated his point. Someone in the classroom started gagging.
"Even if your weapon is not loaded, do not point it at anyone," he said.
From then on, safety was paramount. Before, the trainers didn't give a fig when we had to run obstacles during a lightning storm. But when we tired, disgruntled recruits were issued weapons, they became perturbed. Maybe it wasn't so much our safety in particular they were concerned about.
For the next few days, we were taught how to strip and assemble our rifles within two minutes, how to troubleshoot in the event of a dislodged bullet, how to clean the weapon.
We soon became bored with the sameness of the lessons and started throwing caution to the wind. There was an episode when, during our weapon drill, some jackass thought it would be hilarious to point his gun at another recruit. Staff Sergeant Lim appeared out of nowhere and, in one salient motion pinned him against the wall, his forearm pressed firmly against the guy's throat.
"What did we say about pointing weapons at other people?" he hissed. "Do you want me to make good on my promise? Did you forget my clown feet?"
Sigmund Freud put forth the idea that guns are phallic symbols, and that those who carry them do so because of some sort of penile substitution fantasy. Does our attachment to guns represent a primordial hearkening, some gene that prompts us to dominate so that we build bigger weapons? Is a war just a challenge to see who has the largest penis? Are we so self-conscious that we start to see firearms as twigs in our hands?
Everybody knows guns are bad, but we have no idea the dangers they pose until confronted with them. It was only during my stint in the army that I came to truly understand and respect the power of a gun - how awesome it can be in one moment and terrible the next. Pre-army, everything I knew about firearms came from the movies.
I don't think I'll ever falter in respect to guns - I almost always feel the creeping of a pair of size nines behind me.
Cheong is a screenwriting graduate student.
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