From BB’s to Words

When I was young, I loved to play airsoft, or at least I liked to shoot airsoft guns. Getting hit by them wasn’t so enjoyable, but it was worth the price. I was a pretty good shot, and when I did get hit, it rarely hurt too badly. There were times it did hurt, like the time I surrendered, but got shot point blank anyway. The BB stuck in my skin. In a way, that was my first pimple. Push the sides and “pop!” blood running down my back.

When I got older, the game evolved. “Put on this coat and helmet and pretend you’re a dear.” I’d tell my younger brother. He loved animals and never objected. I’d sit up on the balcony and try to shoot him as he crawled along the length of our yard. When the time inevitably came for us to switch positions, I always found a way out of it. It’s more fun to shoot the bb’s when nothing’s shooting back. Or is it?

Years later, in the full glory of my teenage years, I turned up the danger dial. BB’s weren’t enough, at least not the plastic ones. I had a friend with a bigger yard. Horses usually took up the space, but sometimes they left. We had a BB gun and a balcony, so our game began. This time, we didn’t dress anyone up as an animal. Instead, we took turns attempting to get from one end of the yard to the other without getting shot. Oddly, I enjoyed being shot at more than shooting. Something about the risk felt thrilling. We rarely got hit, but when we did, there were injuries. Once, I hit my friend in the leg, and it hurt him bad enough that we never played that game again. I haven’t spoken to him in over a decade now.

Now I’m older. I’m still shooting and dodging BB’s but in a less physical way. My words are my BB’s, my thoughts, my gun. Sometimes, I get hit, and I have to adapt my strategy. Sometimes, I hit and feel shame. I do not mean to hurt. I do not wish to be hurt. But the game continues. It’s kind of fun.