I grew up an Anti.
Not one of the Brady-spouting types, mind you; but in a household with no guns, knowing no one who had any guns, and under a general sense of "Guns are Bad". I had no fascination with them either--they weren't even "forbidden fruit".
Sometime early in the '90s I went to visit a college friend about 2 hours away, and while I was there one of his old high school buddies (who'd I'd met before and considered an idiot) came over to show off his new .357 Magnum revolver. And I told my friend "Either it goes or I go", and my friend, who didn't like to be put in such a hard spot, couldn't say anything to his high school buddy--so I left.
As I drove home I was angry at my friend, and angry at the Idiot, but I was also angry at myself. I knew I had done the right thing, removing myself from a potentially dangerous situation, but I realized I didn't know anything else, like if the gun was loaded, or if I could have unloaded it safely, or what. I had no other recourse but to leave--and what if that hadn't been an option? I'm no fan of ignorance, especially my own, so I set out to read everything I could about guns. I had a job that kept me on the road, so I'd stop at gun and pawn shops, ask questions, handle them, etc. Oh, yeah, I eventually went to the range and shot, and
loved it.
But the day I decided to educate myself is much more vivid than the first time I shot.