When one of my friends confessed to having a gun phobia, other friends and I rallied to support her. Only one of us had actually grown up around guns since her stepfather had taught her how to hunt since age 8. The rest of us just believed, since we were all very cerebral academics, that nothing should be feared when clearly becoming more educated about a fear was more productive.

Hence, “Chicks with Clicks.”

The Hunter asked her gun enthusiast/instructor friend, who owned property outside of Austin, if he’d show us the basics of gun safety. Through email, we pinpointed a date, the firearms we wanted to practice with, potluck items for lunch afterwards, and confirmed that The Chicks with Clicks would buy and split the cost of the ammo.

Of course, nothing happens with us without food; so we first met for brunch prior to ammo shopping, which I referred to as “Brunch and Bullets.” (Yes, there was a corny theme that ran throughout the soul of this endeavor, but I’ve not captured all the “gun puns.”)

So, our bullet brunch discussion included the fact that .22 ammo fit in both handguns and rifles. The Hunter stated we were much better off starting with a rifle. That last part was counterintuitive for my novice self only because I thought the kickback from a rifle would be more challenging to deal with than a handgun. The Hunter air demonstrated how one’s wrist allowed a lot of flexibility, which meant that the barrel of a gun could theoretically point anywhere. A rifle, when properly positioned against the user’s shoulder of the dominant hand, had a more predictable direction for the barrel.

As a matter of fact, the most common direction of a rifle barrel once a novice user pulled the trigger was involuntarily raising it up. Plus, the wrist flexibility was greatly controlled, making it at least safer in terms of knowing where the bullet would go after the trigger was pulled.

The Hunter led us to the aisle. Since we planned to practice with a handgun, a rifle and a shotgun, we needed 3 different types of ammo. As The Hunter looked on her phone for the size of ammo needed, I dashed off to the firearm counter to ask one of the two employees to help us.

The younger of the two men followed me to where my friends stood. Although I already knew that shotguns used shells, and handguns and rifles used bullets, that was the extent of my ammo knowledge. He advised us to look for bullets that had brass casings since steel casings dirtied guns more. Besides, if there was a faulty bullet, steel casings would cause more damage to the gun due to pressure buildup than brass. For shotgun shells, one didn’t have to worry so much since there was more room within the shell to dissipate pressure.

Another consideration he brought to our attention was our environment. For example, since we were shooting targets on private land, we didn’t have to worry so much about which type of bullets we were using, but he normally steered people away from AR-15s for home protection. The justification was this: if you shot an intruder with an AR-15, the bullet would most likely go through the person and could potentially hit a loved one. A shotgun shell, on the other hand, would hit the intruder and its momentum would be greatly reduced by the impact.

He then added that hollow-tipped bullets were more likely to lodge into the intruder, but would be far more deadly. I’m sure we must have all pulled a face when he said that since he quickly added that it was far better for the intruder to get the brunt of the bullet than any loved one we were protecting. Nonetheless, we had no use for hollow-tipped bullets for this activity.

The user could breakdown the shotgun and store its parts in the buttstock. Intrigued, we walked over to the firearm counter and asked to see one. The employee wasn’t allowed to break it down for us, but he let us to hold it.

The Hunter took the opportunity to show us the proper way to hold a shotgun, especially where the non-dominant should go. At this point, an older man peeked around the corner with a big smile on his face. Initially, we all thought he was going to be an asshole, seeing four women gathered around the firearm counter. Blessedly, we were wrong.

First of all, this guy was a veteran who’d trained soldiers on how to properly handle and fire weapons. Not only that, he’d taught his own daughter the same thing. He informed us that the number one consideration we should look for in any firearm was comfort. If the weapon didn’t fit comfortably in our hands or rest comfortably against our shoulder, then we had the wrong one.

The Hunter made the actual purchase while the rest of us used a cash app to reimburse her for our quarter.

During this outing, we learned that The Hunter had invited her husband along. Then, Phobia asked if she could invite her boyfriend. After all, he’d taught his kids how to use guns and knives, and trained them in martial arts. We agreed that Phobia’s boyfriend could join us. Yet, we shot down the idea of changing our name to “Chicks with Clicks and Dicks.”

The other Chicks with Clicks were texting and emailing what they would bring. I saved time by texting a picture of my basket at checkout.

After a round of introductions, including two of The Instructor’s friends who’d brought their shotgun for us to try, The Chicks with Clicks took a group picture: Phobia, The Hunter, Alpha Tits (her own spontaneously minted nom de guerre), and me.

We either wore disposable earplugs or hi-end durable ear protection, which was a bit overkill, given the firearms The Instructor had chosen for us to practice with weren’t too loud. Only Phobia’s boyfriend’s AR-15 seemed surprisingly loud since it lacked a suppressor.

all weapons being open with no magazines attached until loaded; loaded weapons with the safety on until aimed and ready to fire; having a proper, stable stance such that one could do a “booty dance” without moving the weapon; having proper hand placement.

By some strange sense of pecking order, I was always second, usually followed by Phobia and graciously The Hunter went last.

While watching The Instructor demo our first rifle, a Ruger 10/22 with an AAC Suppressor .22lr, I noticed Phobia’s cringing posture: slouched back, curled fingers pressed against her mouth and lower jaw. I couldn’t visualize anyone with that posture handling a loaded weapon. I immediately stopped her by saying she had to adopt the Wonder Woman posture: back straight, shoulders squared, hands on hips.

The Instructor purposely started us off with the most user-friendly rifle, mounted on a table with a wonderfully powerful scope with crosshairs that visually lessened the 100 yards between us and the targets. With all that help from the setup, my biggest challenge was being too close to the scope. What I learned about a rifle scope was it differed from a microscope eyepiece. I started off too close to it. Minute movements on my part made the entire visual field dramatically move around. After commenting on that phenomenon, I received the advice to move my head farther back from the scope.

Then I overthought, pulled the trigger and nothing happened.

The rifle was a little dirty, so The Instructor cleared out the loaded bullet, I overthought some more, pulled the trigger and hit the target. I tried again only to discover that the magazine was empty, which gave me the opportunity to reload it. Once I put the magazine onto the rifle, The Instructor told me to smack it into place. So, I smacked it and heard rifle fire.

Perfectly timed to my smacking the magazine, Phobia’s boyfriend had fired his AR-15. I let him know in a not-so-gentle tone of voice that he had to warn us before he did his own thing. I took a few deep breaths, overthought, and managed to hit the target a few more times.

Not only did she shoot the beginner’s mounted rifle, but also tested out the .22 caliber survival rifle she’d gifted her husband.

here was Phobia’s boyfriend set up on the same firing line to our left. At least he followed my sage advice and got our attention before he pulled the trigger.

but they both agreed that it was a good skill to have and congratulated us on being proactive non-gun owners. After all, if the first time you’re around a gun is when there’s an active shooter, that’s too late.

I felt peer pressured to practice with this shotgun, a CZ Quail 20 gauge,  to hit a moving target. Everyone kept telling me that since the shotgun’s owner was about to leave, I needed to try it before it was too late. I knew before I even said “pull” that that clay pigeon was in no danger. I loaded one shell, said “pull,” swung the shotgun in the direction of the moving target, and missed just as I knew I would. As a matter of fact, the only thing I hit was my right shade lens when ejecting the shell.

“Fuck this,” I grunted and handed the shotgun to its owner. I assured him it wasn’t his weapon; it was me. Definitely me.

At least I took an impressive picture with the shotgun. I texted it to my family. Mom commented, “You look like Granny (from the Beverly Hillbillies), looking for an opossum!” In real life, my maternal grandmother was a markswoman–a skill lost by my generation of suburbanites. By the time I came along, she only hunted with a fishing pole.

no amount of comfortability or persuasion would bring Phobia to try it out. When asked why, she said that she had no reason to because it was a weapon of war. Not that I disagreed with her rationale, but I had to try it at least once since, for the past decade that I’d been living in Texas, this weapon, more so that any other, had been the symbol of Second Amendment rights.

I did my usual overthinking before pulling the trigger. Although I hit the target, the stench of ammonia from the rifle startled me.

Ruger Mark 23 in 22lr, Glock 34 in 9mm with a SilencerCo Osprey Suppressor), we moved closer to the targets, so we were only 15 yds away. At this point, I was starting to become hungry, and not for more gun practice. I’d snacked a little in between practice, but nothing takes the place of actually sitting down and eating.

I can’t remember if we practiced with the Glock first or second, but I definitely remember trying the revolver last. It turned out to be my favorite. None of the handguns felt particularly “right” in my hands, even with The Instructor correcting my hand placement. Yet, I liked the revolver since the weapon’s action meant that the user couldn’t just pull the trigger and many bullets fired away. Even loading it with 6 rounds took longer than loading more bullets into a magazine.

Despite Alpha Tits’ sheer enthusiasm, she kept aiming too high. Round after round, The Instructor told her to lower her aim. I couldn’t resist. “She can’t aim lower because she went to Yale!” She laughed and confirmed that all her life, she’d been told to aim high.

I was next and hit the target nearly every time. Of course I attributed that to going to a state school–Carolina, to be exact. Every other person who hit the target, then identified that he or she either attended a state school or community college.

After wiping off the front porch table twice, we all dressed the table with pre-prepared foods from our local grocery stores along with adult beverages. All of us sat around the large community table and ate and drank, firing off lively conversation.

The combination of giddiness and concentration had taken a toll on my energy. I’m so happy I hadn’t planned to do anything afterwards since I didn’t know how long we’d practice.

I’m still not convinced that I need to be a gun owner, but I’m far more interested in learning more about both the culture and the legislation of guns. I know there’s a happier medium between the two extremes being bandied.

I didn’t bother correcting anyone or pointing out the double entendre since I’d driven nearly 4 hours and had a hot second to check into my room, shower and change into costume. Yet my newly purchased off-white platform shoes didn’t fit as well as I’d thought when I’d tried them on in the store. I could only shuffle in them since they were tethered together. I knew they were about a size too big, but better than being a size too small, right?

but they were lower than normal and didn’t quite convey what I wanted.

I’d only seen most of them twice before. I joined their standing table after making a Mac n cheese with coleslaw plate since the buffet had run out of the cooked vegetables and meat. I’d waited in line for a drink first, then waited after I’d made my plate, but in the end, I had to make a second trip to get the rest of my meal.

In the meantime, I smiled through it all and talked with the Zilis Austin crew. Once I finished eating and replenished my lipstick, I joined them on the deck for our group picture. I left soon after the group picture with all the Zilis White Out participants and as much dancing as I dared. I walked as gingerly as I could in those platforms.

I seriously thought I’d be on time for the Saturday morning session, but I’d slept so well that I arrived late for breakfast. It was a shame to eat such a delicious meal in a hurry, but at least I spoke with Mom and one of my sisters who thinks she’s my mother.

The greatest part of going to a conference by myself was when I showed up to a session late, I eventually found a singleton seat. After all my seat hunting, I still ended up just a row behind the Zilis Austin group.

I’d focused so much energy on finding shoes to go with my Princess Leia costume, I’d forgotten to pack anything nice for the awards gala. I got lucky with finding a dress at the hotel on sale and my size. That sales rack was full of size 6s and XLs. There were only 3 dresses that were around my size. By a sheer stroke of luck, the best choice turned out to be Zilis blue, but I didn’t notice that at the time.

I changed into my workout clothes, took 5 minutes worth of steps on a stairmaster and then rode 20 minutes on a reclining bike. Later, I took a shower and enjoyed a much deserved nap prior to the Booze and Schmooze.

I’d just approached the photo display from the other side. At least I played it off by talking to some women from Kansas and Arkansas as I chose which sign I wanted to pose with. Then, the line slowed down for some reason and I made my move with one of my new found friends as the photographer.

We reunited with the others in the drink line, of course.

We enjoyed a delicious meal during the marathon awards ceremony. I enthusiastically clapped during the first 2 hours, especially when members of my table were recognized for moving up in rank. By the time dessert came, I was ready to dance. Yet, the awards continued. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have been recognized, I just think the high school diploma style of passing out awards needed to be reworked.

I enjoyed watching the video clips of the Diamond-ranked ambassadors. If the awards ceremony had ended there, I would have been a happy camper. Yet, I had to contain myself to chair dancing to the music between awards.

The real saving grace was talking with my Zilis Austin crew. All the plans we made–I hope it wasn’t all the wine! I thought how funny it was we had to go hours out of town just to strategize our next steps.

Once the awards ceremony finally concluded, a few tables had already cleared out and a slow herd made their way to the door. I refused to leave. I hadn’t waited that long to dance out of the room to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family,” which was then followed up by Michael Jackson’s “Annie Are You OK.”

I made my way onto the main stage where the DJ was and told him the deal. “Dude, I just sat through a 10-hour awards ceremony. I wanna dance outta here to a real dance song.” He said he was just playing what had been requested, but he understood. I blew him some air kisses, which he returned.

My posse of ladies, who stayed behind with me, danced a few steps on our nearest dance floor to Missy Elliot.

I planned to get my money’s worth with that dress; so no wild and crazy stuff for the first wearing.

I drove back to Austin just dreaming of how I’d take my CBD business to the next level: one-on-one practice presentations with friends. One valuable lesson I’d learned was that a bad presentation was better than no presentation!

so turning 49 was a low-key celebration, where I texted a few friends for fish and chips at an English-styled restaurant.

We managed to take a picture of dessert, Guiness Chocolate Cake, since our feeding frenzy had slowed down to “normal.”

All I really wanted was the pleasure of her company, but I’m always happy read a friend-recommended book.

My older, wiser self knew better than to load up on desserts all on one day.

or a Saturday–for my usual Inferno Hot Pilates class and took a birthday picture with the teacher before hand. She had the nerve to ask if I would wear my tiara during class. Uh, no. Not trying to worry about looking cute during a grueling session. Plus, her idea of celebrating my birthday was to mention it several times with a smile while turning up the challenge level. Hopefully, surviving her class was foreshadowing for being up to the challenge of a new trip around the sun.

After regrouping at home, I went to a massage appointment. I’d met the masseuse while getting dressed in the yoga locker room the day before. We hit it off because she used to work for the first CBD company whose products I’d tried. I told her briefly about the CBD that I sell. When we walked out together, a yoga instructor wished me happy birthday. The masseuse immediately offered me a birthday massage for 50% off. We compared schedules in the parking and found a compatible time on my actual blessed day.

My friend was well aware that it was my birthday and told me to stop by for cake. Dessert #2 the second day in a row! We message one another Monday through Friday since we both work for the same company, but from our respective homes; so it’s wonderful when we see one another in person. Plus, another coworker came up from San Antonio, which was quite a haul since she lived farther away than I and it had taken me nearly an hour.

I’m so happy the woman who cut it only gave people either a top or bottom half.

Months ago, a friend of mine invited me to participate in a literary event, which included submitting several pieces to a juried magazine. As usual, I’d been juggling a lot of other things at the time and looked for several reasons to decline since participation involved an overnight trip. After he sent me a copy of last year’s magazine, however, I was convinced.

At least I didn’t have to write any new pieces, thanks to past essays I’d written for the Austin Writers Roulette. As a matter of fact, I submitted pictures of myself in the costume that accompanied those essays. I sent more than what was needed just to give them a selection to choose from and, of course, because my writing, in some circles, may be considered a little controversial.

Fast forward to the first Wednesday in September. Allegedly, GPS doesn’t navigate well to my friend’s house. Plus, he had to send me a picture of his house since he’d planted large shrubs in front for privacy. Oh, and the name on his mailbox isn’t his.

but following them was more like a scavenger hunt. I had to call him twice for clarification because the terrain didn’t match the instructions. I wasn’t going to stop and ask anyone.

My general philosophy about living in Texas has been that I live in Austin, which happened to be in Texas like a liberal island, surrounded by a sea of conservatism. I drive around the greater Austin area and occasionally Houston, and fly in and out of Austin, but never in the 10 years of being an Austinite have I driven to a Texan podunk town.

My nervousness about driving out of the liberal oasis manifested in thinking that one of my tires seemed a little wonky. I kept praying that I wouldn’t have a blowout since I didn’t want to suddenly have to discover just how racist people were if my car broke down.

Once I pulled into my friend’s driveway, instead of getting out of the car, as I would have normally done, I called him to verify that I was in the right place. I described his truck and his grown son’s car because, as I joked with him, “I sure in the hell don’t want to knock on the wrong white person’s front door!”

but he thought it was funny to give a former math teacher wine that had “Trig” in its name. I was more than ready to have a glass of wine once I arrived although I had a glass of merlot that was already opened along with a grandma’s slice of homemade chicken pot pie.

Then, I brushed my teeth, washed my face and changed into a dress that accompanied one of the things I’d planned to read at the literary event. My friend and one of his NY poet friends were also reading during our shared 45-min segment. I teased my friend about importing two black women for this thing. He told me that black people only made up about 1% of the population; however, he needn’t have added the Klan rally stories he “entertained” us with on the drive over to the event.

Even the poet shared how her grown children had advised her to call them periodically because they feared her being in the middle of Klan country. We were all banking on the fact that since this literary event was sponsored by a university, we’d have a liberal audience.

Once we arrived, we set up our books in the reception area. Fortunately, the walls were pillow padded since they regularly displayed art. I’d bought push pins to hang up my poster.

Although we arrived a few minutes “late,” the organizers were still putting the final touches on the tech equipment. I’d only seen the computer and projector, but the last performer actually used a microphone, which would have been a good option for all of us had we’d known about it.

poetry, music, clothing, essays and paintings.

in which his NY poet friend appeared in both and I appeared in the second.

Then, it was my turn. Normally, I’m not too nervous to perform, but I worried that this audience may have been far too conservative to appreciate my liberal bent. So, I eased into it.

First, I explained that the 12-doll pattern cutouts of curly Afro’d women represented the 12 generations of mothers in my lineage. Then I read the accompanying piece, “All-Knowing Mother,” a Mother’s Day tribute to the generations of black women’s mother wit. Toward the end of the piece, it laments about how much of their knowledge had been lost during the time blacks were not legally allowed to be literate. If any conservative member of the audience winced at my references to slavery, I didn’t detect it.

Instead, I segued to my next reading selection by saying, “If nothing in that first piece shocked you, then surely this will.” I explained that my first novel was a racy story about a woman looking for Mr. Right and still being smart about it. I tested the waters by reading the first sentence in the book. I paused after nervous laughter broke out when I said, “vibrator.” I eyed the crowd and asked, “Shall I continue?” They laughed again, so I continued.

After a few short paragraphs, I read one sentence with so much gusto that I merely had to dramatically pause and look at the audience again for them to fill in the blank of the male body part that I hadn’t said. More laughter. By the time I got to the phrase “cock block,” the audience was prepared to hear a vulgar action verb.

I’d only read the first page and a half from my book, but I’d worked it for every glorious, scandalized word and thought it conveyed. The audience greatly rewarded my performance with their clapping. At that point, I had completely forgotten my paranoia of reading in a conservative part of Texas.

During intermission, a woman beat a path to me. Not only did she buy the copy of the book that I’d read from, but we had a very touching conversation about how she strongly identified with the whole pursuit of love and still have a sense of integrity. We also talked about the writing process. I only gave her two pieces of advice: consider self-publishing to minimize the gate keepers and definitely pay to have professional editors tear her manuscript apart. I admitted to paying 2 different editors before I published Tribe.

Once the event was over, the host’s father approached me, saying that he loved my dress, but unfortunately couldn’t hear what I was reading. I reached into my purse, and gifted him the print out of “All-Knowing Mother.”

In the reception area, one of the servers confessed that many of them had thumbed through my book and had thoroughly enjoyed my writing. After so many years of not reading from Tribe to an audience, I was as entertained by their discovery of this story as they were to the story itself.

I paired a glass of red wine with a chocolate and coconut dessert, magic bars, that Mom used to make when I was growing up and sat down beside a woman who turned out to be the writer in residence for the university that sponsored the literary event.

Throughout our conversation, newly won fans of Tribe paid me for a copy of the book and handed it to me to sign. Experience definitely pays off. Instead of asking them their name, I personalized it by writing everyone a unique message, signing my name, and dating it. No more worrying about if I spelled their name correctly.

Once we returned to my friend’s house, we ate more savory food since the reception was more of a dessert and drink event. I didn’t mind starting with dessert first, but that didn’t do much for actual hunger. Afterwards, I showered and went to bed. I was happy that they were also ready to go to bed. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone to bed quite that early, but after worrying while driving and worrying before reading, I was more than ready to rest for the drive back the following morning.

I’d repeatedly said that I wasn’t getting up early and I didn’t. At least for me. I got up my normal time, ate breakfast, packed up and had brushed my teeth before my friend woke and asked if he should make me breakfast. Ha! At that point, all I needed to do was put my things in the car and drive home.

the route was still fresh in my mind and I had no problem reversing the trip–except for when I came upon a slow procession. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing because I couldn’t readily process a fishing trawler traveling by land. With police escorts in the front and wing cars on either side. That entourage delayed me by at least an hour.

Even so, I didn’t stop off to gas up my car until I got to Georgetown. I figured that was close enough to Austin that my presence wouldn’t trigger a “gassing up while black” interaction.

I’m well aware that just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean that nothing would have happened had the general population known of my presence. I’m just happy nothing bad happened and I got to share my work with people who had not previously heard of me.

First thought that crossed my mind, “Why haven’t I’ve heard about this before now?” The second thought was to find out whether I could volunteer for this. Yes and no, but ultimately yes.

Once I checked out the website, I discovered the deadline to submit interest in volunteering had past. Here’s where I played the race card: “late” for black people tended to be marked by how much shit still needed to be done, especially since the festival hadn’t yet begun. In this case, I was right on time.

Keeping with that theme, I strolled up into a very short line to take a picture with festival ambassador, Sherri Sheppard, after I’d finished my duties of helping people check in. I didn’t get a chance to give her my card even though it was just on the back of my ID case. I didn’t want to be that person to hand a celebrity something when I could clearly see she had nothing to put it in. Yet, I managed to network with others; so perhaps something will become of those conversations.

since blacks only make around 6-8% of the population in the greater Austin area. I always have the silly idea that I’ll know more people than I do at black events. Although the event only had a few hundred people on opening night, many were from out of state.

and staunch black film supporter and first recipient of the Harlem Lights Award, Julius Tennon (AKA Viola Davis’ husband, center) awarded filmmaker Deborah Riley Draper the Harlem Lights Award, which recognizes luminaries in all fields, especially creative ones.

Zakyiah Larry discussed all aspects of filmmaking with actress/producer/director Tangi Miller. Honestly, Miller wore so many hats because a black woman’s work is never done. She lamented about the times when she had to hurriedly do her own hair and makeup because none of the hair/makeup artists knew how to properly style black hair nor had a makeup foundation to match her skin tone.

Furthermore, and this part truly perked up my ears, she briefly discussed how she buys commercial real estate in order to generate passive income since “more doors, more money.” She cautioned anyone starting off in the industry to have another source of income that didn’t essentially require trading time for money since projects may be far and few in between. I gave her an “Amen” to that whole line of logic.

No matter whichever creative path I choose, seems like all roads lead back to investing into real estate. I didn’t need to attend this festival to get that idea, but it was wonderful to get another dose of truth from a completely different source than I’d had.