Like most multimillion-dollar corporations, the NRA doesn't care much about what its members think, Pape says. LaPierre's thug comment was a "dumb thing to say," but both sides overreacted. He doesn't mind the ban on semiautomatic assault weapons as long as he can keep his hunting rifles and handguns.
Ruby Fox isn't interested in the members' meeting, either--even though she's been intensely involved with the NRA for decades. Fox is a three-time Olympic shooter. She won a silver medal in 1984. With her French manicure and pearls, the 49-year-old grandmother is a walking advertisement for the NRA; in fact, years ago, they used her in an "I'm the NRA" ad campaign.
For Fox and her husband, Art, both Parker residents, NRA conventions are reunions. They wander the exhibit hall, visiting with old friends. She won't get into the politics.
"It's best that I just concentrate--for myself--on the competition," she says. The Foxes plan to skip the evening's banquet, featuring chicken pesto, chocolate cake and a stump speech by presidential hopeful Senator Phil Gramm of Texas.
They've got reservations at Vincent's.
The banquet begins with "The Star-Spangled Banner" and a video presentation filled with inspiring shots of people with their firearms, with their flag and sometimes with both.
Eagles soaring. Flags flapping. People at target practice. Bombs bursting in air. A chunky white guy in an undershirt watching as a flag is raised. The Bill of Rights. Minority children singing as fireworks explode. (With the exception of two African-American NRA staffers, the children in the video were the only African Americans spotted during the three-day convention.)
A prayer, then Governor Fife Symington, card-waving NRA member, to introduce his buddy Gramm. He reminds the NRA assemblage to hold fast to both the First and Second amendments. "It's easy to see a matched set of guarantees against government power"--an interesting statement, considering the governor's penchant for suppressing public records.
Over jicama citrus salad, Gramm tells the crowd that Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio should be the director of the federal prison system and that his fondest memories are of "mah fahther teachin' me how tah shoot."
The NRA gives him a handmade rifle, the crowd goes nuts and there's a mass exodus. The reporters are filing their stories; everyone else needs a smoke. Despite the NRA's glossy production, the fringe element is evident.
Outside Phoenix Civic Plaza, two middle-aged white men quietly hand out leaflets published by a group called the National Alliance. When questioned, one simply points to a passage titled "America's Problem: Race, Not Guns."
Three or four decades ago, according to the pamphlet, "there were no drugs or gang violence in the schools. There were no drive-by shootings." The pamphlet says that burglary and armed robbery were rare.
"It was a White America. . . . Crime and violence came to America as a direct and immediate consequence of the loss of racial homogeneity in American society."
The pamphlet warns supporters to keep a low profile--for now. "Keep your firearms out of sight, but within reach. The day will come for using them. The day for a great cleansing of this land will come. Until that day, keep your powder dry.
