The View From Gun Country

One Alabama woman’s experience— as an observer and as a shooting victim—underscores how hungry Americans are to reach consensus.

- Elaina Plott

I was shot on a Sunday. It was late and it was hot and I was 21, on my way home from dinner during summer break. I’d rolled the windows down because the breeze felt good. I pulled up to a red light, about half a mile from my home in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. “Yeah!” by Usher was playing on the radio. A silver Toyota Tacoma turned the corner. As it passed me, I heard a pop. Then my left arm was on fire.

It never occurred to me to call 911, only to want my dad. I pulled into the Circle K across the street to call him. I looked at the blood blooming across my blue dress. It was new, and I wondered whether the stain would come out. Then I looked over at a girl standing in the parking lot, talking with two boys. Her wavy blond hair shimmered beneath the fluorescent streetlights. I thought about how I wished I had wavy blond hair like hers.

My dad said to stay put, that he’d come get me. I insisted on driving home. On the way, I apologized to God for the things I’d done wrong in life. When I pulled into the driveway, my parents were standing outside.

My mother cried as she drove me to the hospital. The surgeon said the bullet was small, maybe a .22 caliber, and too deep in the muscle to take out, so it’s still in my arm. They never caught the shooter or came up with a motive.

WHERE I’M FROM, we like guns. They are as much a part of our story as Jesus, “Roll Tide,” and monograms. Even if you’ve never shot one, you appreciate the romance.

That appreciation begins when you’re young. Here is what I remember: November air, stadium lights, cut grass. We cheerleaders would stay after school to practice our halftime routine. On Friday nights, we’d crowd in front of the small bathroom mirrors to touch up our makeup—glitter eyeshadow if it was a big game—and emerge in a fog of hair spray.