Maryann Watkins hummed as she went through her morning routine.
She was going to make a three and a half hour trip from Phoenix to
Yuma that afternoon, but she hardly gave it a thought -- she'd
driven it many times before, and was familiar with every mile.
It was February, but in Arizona that doesn't mean cold. Maryann
slipped into a comfortable purple cotton dress that looked good on
her 5'5" frame, and buttoned up the bodice. She liked the colorful
floral print, and the mid-calf length. The full skirt would be
comfortable to wear in the car. A pair of flats completed the
traveling outfit.
She looked just like what she is, a forty-something professional
woman who works in the broadcasting industry. But she is also a
divorced mother of two nearly grown sons -- she made sure to say
good-bye to them before she hopped in the car, alone. Well, not
quite alone. As usual, her Ruger SP101 38 Special revolver with a
2 1/4 inch barrel was with her. She had learned to shoot as a
child when her father took her hunting, but she's only owned her
own gun for a couple of years. The Ruger fit her small hands
nicely, and she enjoyed practicing with it at the range. Carrying
it was a bit of a problem.
Although this is difficult for some people in other parts of the
country to believe, open carry of firearms (handguns as well as
long guns) is legal in Arizona, but concealed carry is illegal.
Open carry of a handgun, however, means in a proper holster. No
so-called "Mexican carry" (the gun stuffed in a waistband without
a holster) is allowed.
Maryann used to carry her little Ruger in a fannypack with a
holster (a gift from her sons), until an "enlightened" superior
court judge determined that even though a fannypack was
specifically designed as a holster unit for a gun, using one was
not "wearing a holstered gun" but "carrying concealed" and
therefore illegal.
So, being a good law-abiding person and unable to use a fannypack,
a pocket, a purse, a briefcase, or a concealed on-body holster to
contain her firearm, she simply and lawfully put five Federal 110
grain jacketed hollowpoints +P in the gun, put the gun in a
holster, and put the holster on the car seat beside her as she set
off for Yuma that afternoon.
The interstate highways in Arizona are miles and miles and miles
of desert and not much else. "I'd be a fool to go without my gun,"
she says. As often happens on long trips, nature called, loudly,
about 4:30 in the afternoon. Maryann knew she couldn't hold out
until she got to Yuma, so she pulled in at the next rest area, one
she had stopped at "hundreds of times" before. It was one of those
minimalist places with no amenities but the rest rooms. No food
service. No gas. And nobody else around, apparently, though there
was a silver 18-wheeler with a red cab parked nearby.
It didn't have an identifying company name, so it must have been
an independent. Since truckers often pull their rigs off the road
for a quick nap, Maryann didn't think it was particularly ominous.
The truck's motor was running, which, in Arizona, even in
February, is an indication that the occupant wants to keep the air
conditioning on. She parked her 4 door sedan near the area
entrance.
She had absolutely no conscious premonition of disaster or feeling
of dread. If she had even felt slightly nervous, she says that she
would simply have driven away "and found a big cactus a few miles
down the road". But something must have been going on in her
subconscious.
"This particular day, I stepped out of the car, and then, for some
reason, I cannot tell you what it was, I reached back into the car
and took the revolver out of the holster. Always before I'd just
put it in the glove box and locked it up, but this time I took it
in my right hand, my shooting hand, and held it down at my side,
concealed in the folds of my skirt. I know it couldn't be seen. I
was breaking the law, I suppose. Maybe if someone was very close
to me they could have seen it, but nobody at a distance would know
I had it."
She walked from the car to the restroom, used the facilities, and
came out a few minutes later, casually holding the gun in the same
position, concealed in the purple flowered folds of her skirt. As
soon as she stepped out of the door, she saw him. He had been
waiting for her to come out. "Standing about 10 feet away, right
in front of the door, was a huge man. I'm talking about NFL
lineman size!"
Maryann's brain registered the giant's appearance quickly: a white
baseball cap with a blue bill, collar-length brown hair, a faded
red-plaid shirt, jeans, and boots with pointed toes. But his size
was not the only ominous thing. He had a rope, coiled up on his
arm in big circles. Maryann recognized it right away as the type
of rope used in rodeos and ranches. He was grinning, but it was a
cruel kind of grin. Her surprise clearly registered on her face,
and the giant man began to laugh, but his laugh was as mean as his
smile. Then he spoke.
"I'm gonna have some REEEEEEAL fun now!!" he boomed.
Maryann's initial shock suddenly dissipated, leaving outright
anger in its place. That someone would DARE approach her that way!
That someone would DARE to threaten her! With a rope! Her anger
was overwhelming, and gave her strength. She pulled her right arm
up, took a good firing stance, brought her left arm up to grasp
the little Ruger in a good two-handed hold that lined up the gun
sights right in the middle of his chest. The giant who was
threatening her suddenly became a big, close target that she'd
have no trouble hitting.
She gave him a good view of the business end of her revolver as
her anger poured out of her in the words she shrieked. She called
him something unprintable, followed by, "If you want to play,
we'll play with this!"
The giant hadn't anticipated this change in his game plan. Instead
of the bondage games he'd had in mind, he suddenly had to decide
between living and dying. It's not a choice that takes long to
make. The rope dropped to the ground almost as quickly as his jaw
dropped into an expression of utter surprise. His hands went up,
and he started backing away. The giant was getting smaller and
smaller with every step.
As he backed away from Maryann, away from his rope, away from his
intentions to harm her, and, hopefully, away from his image of
himself as a big, bad dude who could have any "fun" he wanted with
a woman, he started muttering, "Bitches with guns. Bitches with
guns. Bitches with guns." He kept saying it over and over, as his
own surprise gave way to impotent anger, "Bitches with guns.
Bitches with guns."
This particular BWG was no fool. She kept the Ruger trained right
in the middle of his chest as she backed away herself, toward her
car. Every fiber of her body was consumed with the need to get out
of this dangerous place and back on the road.
She made it to the car, got in, locked the door. "I'm not going to
panic just yet," she told herself, as she took time to fasten her
seat belt before driving off. About ten miles down the highway,
the adrenaline rush that had fueled her furious defense began to
subside, making her shake so badly that she had to pull over.
Maryann can't remember if she cried, sitting there shaking on the
side of the road, waiting to recover enough motor coordination to
continue driving, but she soon continued on toward Yuma. She
stopped at the first phone she could find, in a gas station, and
called the Department of Public Safety to make a report. She told
them what had happened, which rest area it was, and gave a
detailed description of the man. Although she also told them where
she would be staying in Yuma, she never heard from them, and when
she called them again after she got back to Phoenix, there wasn't
anything for them to tell her.
What lessons can we learn from Maryann's experience? It is good to
be a BWG (bitch with a gun). BWG's don't go looking for trouble,
but if it comes to them, they are ready. BWGs can keep themselves
alive in the face of circumstances that might destroy an unarmed
woman.
Sometimes women who have been assaulted keep their stories to
themselves for a while, until they are ready to talk about it.
Maryann told everyone about it right away, the police, her
colleagues, her family and friends. Some of them asked, "What
would you have done if he had started toward you instead of
backing away?" Her answer has the firm ring of truth.
"I would have shot him right smack dab in the middle of the chest!
I'm a very good shot with that little puppy. And I would have done
that because I value my life. I've got things to do in this life,
things I haven't finished, and I'm not willingly going to let
someone take my life from me. I value it too much. If I don't
value my life, who will? If I don't defend myself, there is nobody
else around to do it. I can't depend on Officer Friendly to be
there. The police can't always be where you are."
Her experience has left Maryann a vocal spokesperson for the right
to carry firearms for protection. "I am convinced that that
firearm prevented an assault, a sexual assault, a kidnapping, or a
murder. I truly believe I am alive today because of that firearm!"
Maryann fights not just for the right to have a gun, but for the
right to carry it concealed, because that is safer. "The reason my
weapon was effective that day was that it was concealed in the
folds of my dress. If this guy had seen it as I went into the
bathroom, he could have jumped me from behind as I came out, or he
could have pulled a weapon out of his vehicle or wherever he had
one hidden. One of the only reasons I survived is that he didn't
know I had a gun!"
The difference between some people's public statements and private
actions on this issue is difficult for her to take. "I know at
least five police officers whose wives carry concealed, not only
with their husband's support and encouragement, but on their
husband's advice! If it is OK for a cop's wife, it ought to be OK
for me. If a cop knows his wife is safer that way, he ought to be
willing to say that I'm safer that way, too, but the police
association won't come out in favor of concealed carry."
Another important lesson is that it is important for individuals
to be able to decide for themselves whether to have a gun for
protection. Many states require a person applying for a concealed
carry permit to "show need", which usually means showing that they
carry large sums of money or have been threatened by someone.
Maryann says, "I see absolutely no reason to have to beg a police
chief or a sheriff for permission to carry. There is only one
person who can determine my need to carry a gun concealed for
protection, and that is me. Men will say, 'I drive a Mercedes and
that makes me a prime target for people who want to rob and beat
me,' or 'I'm retired and people know I have a lot of money.' Well,
I don't drive a Mercedes. I'm a single mom, so I don't have
expensive clothes. I don't have any valuable jewelry, not one
piece. But I have one thing that all of the rest of them don't
have that makes me particularly vulnerable, and that's the fact
that I'm a woman!"
The little Ruger still goes everywhere with Maryann, though she
has been thinking of getting a Glock ever since she tried one and
found the trigger pull smoother than a revolver, and easy to shoot
accurately.
"My gun makes me know that I have an edge, or at least am going in
with a fighting chance. That builds your confidence. And when you
have that, you are less likely to appear like a victim."
"I go to a range twice a month, and work with my revolver, and try
other weapons. I want to get the feel of other guns. My boys (age
18 and 20) go, too. They both know how to shoot. We have all been
through firearm safety and handling courses as a family, together.
They have a healthy respect. When they were 9 and 12, we started
going to the courses together, me and the boys. It was something
we did as a family, something we enjoyed. We still enjoy it."
In the months following the incident at the rest stop, in a
reaction that nearly every assault survivor will recognize,
Maryann replayed the scene in her mind "a thousand times." She
kept looking for the man, too, knowing he was still out there
somewhere. Now, after more then a year, "It still haunts me a
little but not nearly like it used to. I am still very hesitant to
stop at a rest area."
There is no hesitation, though, if you ask her why she survived
that afternoon. She says very matter-of-factly, "He decided his
rope couldn't compete with my Ruger."
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