A week ago tonight I was robbed at gunpoint near my home.  I was walking home around 9:00 p.m., when a man approached me from behind and shouted, “Give it up, bitch!”. When I turned, I saw a young, black man with his t-shirt covering half of his face, his arm extended, and a black automatic pistol about three feet from my face.

I remember saying, “Okay,” in the calmest voice I could manage, “here is my cell phone, and here is my wallet. That’s everything”.  Strangely, I remember thinking about getting shot, particularly how it would feel should he shoot me in my head, which was where the gun was pointed. In my mind I saw my skull separating into two pieces.

I said it was strange. At the time, though, it seemed dispassionate, stoic, numb. When he turned and ran away, I turned too and walked calmly the rest of the way to my house. I turned around once, only to see him drop and pick-up my cell phone. I remember being aware at that point that my hair felt like it was literally standing on end, like my scalp was being shocked with electricity.

I called 911 immediately from my house phone. The police showed up in a few minutes, and though I described the events to them in detail, I found I couldn’t give much of a description of the attacker.  In retrospect, I wish I’d looked more closely at him. But the untrained victim who has a gun in his face tends to focus almost entirely on the gun. So I’ve learned.

Since that night I’ve been just trying to notice how this affects me.  It’s made me feel vulnerable and paranoid. Unless distracted, I think almost constantly about what happened, what I could have done to better protect myself, and what steps I have to take to prevent it happening again.

For example, I shouldn’t have been out walking alone on a dead Sunday night on a dark street. This city is known for its high crime rate, and I live a few blocks from a sketchy part of town. And what was I doing while walking? Tuned out and staring at my smart phone. I was easy prey, and I was announcing it to anyone who was looking for prey.

I’m also considering buying a handgun for personal protection and a shotgun for home protection. My grandfather always had both, and I grew up hunting, so I’m not a complete stranger to guns. But I also never thought I’d feel the need actually to carry a gun. Because carrying a gun means being prepared to use a gun to kill an attacker.

Add to my constant thoughts the fact that I generally consider myself a pacifist. I say I grew up hunting, but more accurately I grew up around hunting and hunters. My grandfather was a hunter, and he would take me whenever I was willing to accompany him. I enjoyed the woods and shooting the guns, but I hated to see the limp quails, doves and rabbits he’d stuff in the pockets of his hunting jacket. Eventually I did what many kids do who feel that conflict–I stopped going hunting, even stop shooting. In my case, I also tried to eschew all violence. It’s complicated, so the easiest explanation is to say I’m a pacifist.

However, I know that if I had to choose between being killed the other night or my attacker being killed, I would not have made Christ’s choice. That bothers me. Yet what would bother me even more is if I were to stand by while an attacker killed someone I love. I believe I have a high moral duty to protect those I love from physical violence.

While thinking (constantly) about all of this, yesterday I rode my bike to a used bookstore for some distraction. There I found the following poem by George Mendoza entitled The Hunter I Might Have Been that has helped clarify my thoughts.

When I was a boy,

barely tall,

I shot a sparrow from a tree.

I held its limp body in my hands

and buried it still warm in the soft earth.

Then I fled.

I never touched a gun again.

But years came later when I was a man

I wondered,

oh, the hunter I might have been

had I but met a lion that first day

and not stilled that gentle sparrow’s call.

The man who robbed me at gunpoint was a kind of lion–a predator preying on the vulnerable.  My grandfather should have taught me how to use guns for home and self-defense first, not for killing doves and rabbits. It’s the predator killing prey that bothers me.

I hope I’m never attacked again, and more so I hope no one I love is ever attacked. But if we are, I want to be able to choose not to be a victim.