How I learned to love firearms.

"Happiness is a warm gun," I replied, aware that John Lennon, who wrote those lyrics, was gunned down by a madman. Dianna shot well.

My lessons were over, and Ricardo walked me to the parking lot to say goodbye. He handed me a piece of paper. It was from the NRA, a certificate saying I had successfully completed its basic pistol course. I got in my car and turned the key. The sounds of NPR came through the speaker. I felt confused. NPR or NRA? NPR or NRA? Then I thought of a line from another movie, Chinatown: "She's my sister! She's my daughter! My sister, my daughter. She's my sister and my daughter."

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