I was five years old when I picked up my first weapon. My father took me outside after breakfast to a group of targets that he had set up. He handed me a blaster pistol and told me that its time I started learning to fight. There were five targets, each with a number on it, spread out in front of us. He told me that he would call out a number and I would shoot it. “Target one” he said, I pointed the pistol at it and fired, missing. “Again” he stated, I fired and missed. “Again” he stated, I aimed carefully and missed again. “Again he stated. I kept firing and after each shot he said again, I couldn’t hit the target, every shot seemed to go differently, some left some right I couldn’t figure out what I was doing wrong. It always seemed so easy when I saw people training, point it at the target and pull the trigger. After what seemed to be an eternity of the word again I pulled the trigger and heard a click. The power cell had run out.
He walked over slowly and took the pistol from me. He could see the disappointment in my face. Looking me in my eyes he asked, “what did you learn”? I wasn’t sure what to say, I had missed every shot he had to be disappointed in me. “I need to practice more so that I can hit the target” I tentatively asked. Shacking his head he said “no, the lesson was that you need to start thinking for yourself, I handed you a pistol and you have never picked one up or fired one, you don’t know how to fire one.” He paused for a minute before continuing “You should have asked me to show you how to fire it, there is no shame in learning how to do something you have never done before, everyone needs to strive to learn and better themselves in all that they do.”
“Now let me show you how to fire a pistol” he said as he slid a new power pack into the handle.