The first gun I shot was a .22 long rifle outside a friend’s cabin in Copemish, Michigan. A beginner’s gun. Terrified by the thought that I was holding in my hand a machine that was designed to kill people, I repeated my friend’s instructions over and over in my head — lean my right shoulder blade into the butt of the rifle, position my left foot in front of my right foot, squint my left eye, focus my right eye on the target, rest my right index finger on the trigger.
Bang! Once the bullet left the barrel, my fear was suddenly replaced by elation. It didn’t matter that I was way off target — I had just shot a rifle.
Ever since that day a few years ago, I’ve been hooked. While I’m far from being a sharp shooter, I’m addicted to the feeling I get when my finger pulls the trigger, unleashing a torpedoing bullet along with a deafening noise that makes my heart skip a beat.
Photo courtesy of Tobie Openshaw
While recreational shooting — whether it’s practicing for competitions, game hunting or simply firing at targets for the sake of it — is commonplace in the US, such is not the case in Taiwan because of stricter gun control laws. So you can imagine my excitement when I found out that the Taipei Zhongzheng Sports Center (台北市中正運動中心) near Chiang Kai-shek Memorial Hall had a 10m shooting range on the sixth floor.
FUN WITH (AIR) GUNS
The first letdown came when I was told beforehand that the shooting range used air guns, not real guns. Convincing myself that it would still be cool, I went anyways. The second letdown was when I stepped inside the shooting range. Nearly everyone was below the age of 18. The air rifles resembled water guns more than they did real guns. The pellets looked more like pins than bullets. A toddler wedged herself between my legs and the wooden ledge where the air guns were poised and scampered across a row of teenagers aiming their air pistols at paper targets.
Photo courtesy of Luo Hsiao-fang
Firing an air rifle felt nothing like firing a real rifle. There’s no loud noise, hence no need for earmuffs, and no recoil, which means no sense of bewilderment that you just fired a gun. A middle-aged man who appeared to be a coach approached me and complimented my stance. Trying to hide my disappointment, I told him I’ve shot real guns before. I learned that the students are part of the Taipei Shooting Sports Association (台北市體育總會射擊協會) and the man, Hsieh Chien-hua (謝建華), is the head coach.
The Taipei City government opened the indoor shooting range as a target practice venue for air gun shooting competitions. Due to Taiwan’s strict gun control laws, there are very few places where civilians can fire real guns. The outdoor clay shooting ranges in Linkou (林口) and Kenting (墾丁) are two popular ones.
“Taiwan’s gun control laws are put in place for good measure,” Hsieh says, adding that even air guns could seriously injure people if they are not handled properly.
Photo courtesy of Tobie Openshaw
He adds that “it’s important to cultivate a culture where children learn about safety.”
I glance around and notice that the students are scribbling in their workbooks in between shots. Their textbooks look heavier than the air guns.
“Air gun shooting is all about concentration,” Hsieh tells me. “It’s a skill which will benefit the children in other areas of life too.”
Photo courtesy of Tobie Openshaw
SHARP-SHOOTING KIDS
His students, who all hail from different high schools and have been shooting for at least three years, are extremely dedicated. One of them, Chen Shi-heng (陳士亨) says he’s at the shooting range six times a week, from Tuesday to Sunday (the sports center is closed on Mondays).
Although they joke around and peer at each other’s workbooks during their breaks, when it’s time to shoot, the students are dead serious. Donning blinders to block out peripheral distractions, they hold their air pistols steady with their right hands, while their left hands rest snugly in their pockets. Looking dead straight at their targets, they release their triggers almost simultaneously.
Photo courtesy of Luo Hsiao-fang
Unable to contain myself any longer, I ask the students if they think firing a real gun will be cooler than an air gun. They stare at me blankly, unable to fathom my excitement when I recount my experience shooting an M-16 in Vietnam.
“I don’t see a difference with using a real gun and an air gun,” Chen says. “The techniques are similar and I think the feeling that I would get from firing a real gun wouldn’t be too different.”
Another student, Su Pin-chia (蘇品嘉) chimes in. “It’ll be cool if I could use a real gun for target practice one day, but it’s not a big deal if I don’t have one right now.”
Haven’t they ever watched Rambo, Lethal Weapon or just about any cowboy or action movie, I ask.
“We didn’t really grow up watching those kinds of movies,” Chen says, half-laughing at me, as if to say that a pop culture that glamorizes the use of guns was silly.
Apparently, it’s about putting a pellet through a sheet of paper, not blowing up bad guys. Such a sport requires precision and concentration, leaving no room for rash behavior.
Lee Yu-cheng (李祐呈), an older student who’s competed in air gun competitions overseas, agrees with the other two. Yet despite his love for the sport, Li adds that “for now, air gun shooting is somewhat of a hobby.”
He says that the plan is to have a “real job” when he grows up, but to still come to the shooting range for regular target practice.
Kudos to them, but I’m planning for my next rendezvous to be with a real rifle in Linkou or Kenting.
Growing up in a rural, religious community in western Canada, Kyle McCarthy loved hockey, but once he came out at 19, he quit, convinced being openly gay and an active player was untenable. So the 32-year-old says he is “very surprised” by the runaway success of Heated Rivalry, a Canadian-made series about the romance between two closeted gay players in a sport that has historically made gay men feel unwelcome. Ben Baby, the 43-year-old commissioner of the Toronto Gay Hockey Association (TGHA), calls the success of the show — which has catapulted its young lead actors to stardom -- “shocking,” and says
The 2018 nine-in-one local elections were a wild ride that no one saw coming. Entering that year, the Chinese Nationalist Party (KMT) was demoralized and in disarray — and fearing an existential crisis. By the end of the year, the party was riding high and swept most of the country in a landslide, including toppling the Democratic Progressive Party (DPP) in their Kaohsiung stronghold. Could something like that happen again on the DPP side in this year’s nine-in-one elections? The short answer is not exactly; the conditions were very specific. However, it does illustrate how swiftly every assumption early in an
Inside an ordinary-looking townhouse on a narrow road in central Kaohsiung, Tsai A-li (蔡阿李) raised her three children alone for 15 years. As far as the children knew, their father was away working in the US. They were kept in the dark for as long as possible by their mother, for the truth was perhaps too sad and unjust for their young minds to bear. The family home of White Terror victim Ko Chi-hua (柯旗化) is now open to the public. Admission is free and it is just a short walk from the Kaohsiung train station. Walk two blocks south along Jhongshan
Francis William White, an Englishman who late in the 1860s served as Commissioner of the Imperial Customs Service in Tainan, published the tale of a jaunt he took one winter in 1868: A visit to the interior of south Formosa (1870). White’s journey took him into the mountains, where he mused on the difficult terrain and the ease with which his little group could be ambushed in the crags and dense vegetation. At one point he stays at the house of a local near a stream on the border of indigenous territory: “Their matchlocks, which were kept in excellent order,