"Don’t take your guns to" ...California?

“A young cowgirl named Megan Marie
grew restless on the Gulf
A girl filled with wonderlust
who really meant no harm
She changed her clothes and shined her boots
and combed her dark hair down
And her mother (should have) cried as she walked out
Don't take your guns to town, daughter
leave your guns at home, Meg
don't take your guns to town”

Johnny Cash’s Billy Joe ended up getting shot in a shoot out in the Big City. Things clearly went better for me in California, which is almost a four letter word in my head, but left a bitter taste in my mouth.

My first rendezvous with California was in 2007, when I flew to L.A. and reunited with fellow teen missionaries I had met in China the summer before. They were wonderful, but I saw firsthand how nasty Hollywood was. It took me a couple years to figure it out, but I left the state in a funk due to unrealistic expectations of the place and its people.

I went again a year later, after my only college boyfriend broke up with me on the phone, before Christmas. I decided to test out my first car (bought 10 days beforehand), and take advantage of a month without work and college courses, on a restless cross country road trip meant to distract my heart. 3,500 miles later, I learned my friends in California weren’t friends anymore.

These were forgivable So Cal offense. But on the next two trips, it went too far: California stripped me of my gun (and my perceived gun).

Before my last semester of college, in the summer of 2010, I applied for internships across the world. I prayed God would only open one door, to guide me where he wanted me and when. Lo and behold, puzzling Providence sent me to L.A. for a couple months. Maybe it would be good for mine and California’s fragile relationship: I hoped against intuition that living as a local and touring So Cal would mend our fragile bond.

Not so much. I wound up feeling more homesick than when I lived in France. I line danced to Lady Gaga with gay urban cowboys at aptly named Oil Can Harry’s. I experienced infamous standstill highway traffic, at 3am, on a weeknight. To be fair, I camped in the Sequoias by myself (first time going solo, success!), developed a love for Santa Monica and Venice beaches, and spend some unforgettable days with even more unforgettable people.

It seems I trusted my employer and designated mentor a little too much, responding to their questions about my safety with confidence in the company of my grandpa’s revolver. I guess L.A.P.D. aren’t even allowed to carry firearms anymore, due to its controversial history, and only local S.W.A.T. are packing heat. Appalled at my gumption, they threatened to end our contract and send me back to Texas, or to take my gun away, which most gun-owners agree, is like taking a firstborn child away. Sunrise of the first morning I was eligible to move back, I drove Pas to Pas in 14 hours, straight: not looking back in the rearview at Pasadena, I sped on to El Paso.

I promised myself I’d avoid this wonderful state that, for many reasons, continues to represent a joy-sucking vacuum to me. Then my best friend moved to San Diego.

I spent several days with her north of the city, then several in the Gaslamp Quarter with another friend at a hostel, and flew back to Texas after a week. I arrived a bit late to the San Diego Airport and joined the masses waiting to inch through security. There was such a delay in getting people through that they were calling people to the front of the line based on departure times (mine was first, which heightened my awareness of how little time I had to get on the plane).

I already had the belt, jewelry, shoes and sweater off; laptop was out of its case in my hands; my liquids were separated in the permitted baggie before I got to the airport. This girl had it in the bag.

Which was exactly the problem. Chrissy gave me an early birthday present of an iron key holder, in the shape and scale of a revolver. My hand-me-down Samsonite was stopped on the conveyor belt as the TSA screening agent gasped. She called over an agent, and I instantly knew: good Lord above, they think it’s a real gun.

“Can I help you guys find something in my bag?,” I asked, hoping to speed things up.
They ignored me, and whispered back and forth. They called over an older supervisor, who stared at the screen for a minute.

My panic subsided when I thought he was using this opportunity as a teaching tool for novice and dense employees, as he said “You can tell it’s not real because you can see through it…”

But they kept staring at the screen. And then agent #3 got on a walkie talkie, requesting backup. Two people had made it through the x-ray scanner like me, and were waiting on my suitcase to clear so they could grab their things. A long, irritated line of other travelers threatened me with their eyes, still back on the other side.

Agent #4 came up, and he was even older than the ones before. He made a show of putting gloves on, and got on his cell phone. A passive aggressive lady behind me chuckled painfully, “So you’re the one holding up the line, huh?” I stuttered out an embarrassed apology.

Agent #3 had stepped away and back to his pay grade, but threw in his two cents.”It could be worse. It could be real.” After staring at him for a while I concurred, “Yes, you’re right. If it was real, this would be a real problem.”

But it wasn’t. And they knew it! But they treated it like a real firearm- not saying any buzz words to give away what it is, not touching the bag, not talking to me or listening to my description of the “item.”

Agent #5 responded to #4’s call from a flip phone. After repeating the same process, finally, someone touched my bag! He was the oldest of them all, and moved like it. He brought my bag over to the official “you’re in trouble” table.

Before even opening the zipper, he explained how my birthday present was liable to make me check my bag, get strip-searched, have the real police called, get arrested, have a date with a judge, pay a fine. Oh, and miss my flight, which was minutes from heading out. I hastily agreed to whatever he wanted, to move things along.

Fortunately, my “one and only option” transitioned into an agreeable option #4.
“Don’t show this to anyone in the airport or on the plane, so you won’t have to dispose of it, and can still make your flight.” Not having planned to show strangers my latest wall decoration anyways, I respectfully agreed and booked it over to my gate. I like to think that no one behind me in line missed their flights, either...

Somehow, I made it out of California once with the real revolver and yet again with a fake one. The natives were shocked at my possesions, but too afraid to do anything except scowl to my face and say things behind my back. Not going to try for a third strike, that’s for sure!