One day in eighth grade I took a gun to school.
I don’t mean a toy gun or a replica. I mean I carried a fully operational .22-caliber rifle — specifically a single-shot, bolt-action model — into my public school in New York.
That morning, when the school bus arrived at my house, the driver eyed the gun and asked why I had it. I gave an explanation that apparently satisfied her, since she shrugged and said nothing more on the matter. I took my customary seat in the third row, leaning the gun’s barrel against the window.
Once we arrived at school, I carried the rifle in the building. It was in my hand, plain as day, not in any case. Two teachers passed me in the hallway and said hello. One raised an eyebrow and nodded toward the gun. “Wood shop,” I explained. She smiled
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