The Day I Told My Father to Shoot Himself

I’ve never spoken about what it was like growing up in a house overflowing with guns. But now I understand how even weapons that are never fired can wound us for life.

Illustration by Jenn Liv

I stand sweating and anxious in a downtown Seattle courthouse. I am here to perform the frequently groaned about, but required responsibility as a citizen – jury duty. I am 32 and have reported for jury duty twice, but have never been called in for questioning. For this case, a high-profile gang-related shooting, every single person who showed up is questioned.

Already I’m nervous. Just the word “shooting” has me twitching and looking for exits. The judge asks the group: “Do you have strong feelings about guns?”

“Yes, everyone should have one. I have three,” says one man in a kilt.

“Constitutional right,” says another.

“Be responsible, but yeah. I like guns.”

“I just don’t like ’em,” says one woman who wears a locket holding a photo of her children. She had shown me while we were in the waiting room.

The judge, wanting to parse out those just looking to get out of their civic duty, questions everyone mercilessly.

I don’t want to draw attention to myself. I don’t want …