Kidnapping essay story

My grandmother spent most of her time in this room, creating beautiful things for me reversible jumpsuits, overalls with buttons, dresses with bric-a-brac trim. She hunched over the table for days, marking, cutting, and pinning patterns to fabric and then sat at the Singer, controlling the speed with the knee lever, the whirr of the machine lulling us both. No one else spent so much time and effort loving me.

Often in fairytales, good people are cursed—poisoned, fingers pricked, spells cast upon, or turned to stone. And sometimes the bad characters are punished—slit throats, eaten for dinner, or forced to dance in iron shoes previously cooked in the fire. Sometimes evil gets the upper hand. When I was five and my brother David was three or maybe we were six and four—how am I to know? She admits years later that she resented having two instant children.

We were not part of her fairytale. Instead, a cot sat against the wall covered in blankets and pillows and a little television had been placed on the table. And because she always fed us, I like to imagine her freshly baked peanut butter cookies were waiting for us next to two glasses of cold milk. Grandma told us a very special show was on PBS and we were so lucky to watch it. We watched for a moment—a ballet with white sets and white lights and dancing.

Okay, sweetie? My toddler brother fell asleep next to me, but I watched the dancing and the pricked finger on a spinning wheel and the sleeping girl, and I stayed awake. I had to wait until the prince boy kissed the girl to wake her from a long, long slumber.

The orchestra music insulated the sewing room. There, in that peaceful place, there were no police on the porch banging on the door. But as the seasons progress, you see why the Queen was so evil. She hurt. Anyone could turn mean after that kind of betrayal. It takes a lifetime or many seasons to really understand a person. When I was five, hidden in the sewing room, I knew how important it was to concentrate on the ballet. I knew it was essential to listen to my grandmother so her magic would work, so she could enchant me.

It was the sweetest of all the kidnappings. Maybe I said something nice about my father or Grandma Elaine. Mom said that after the divorce, after Dad had already moved to La Junta, she, David, and I were in a car accident. I remembered every detail of the wreck.

Mom said after the accident she had pinched nerves in her back and she was in too much pain to care for us. The doctor suggested she rest, so she drove us to La Junta to stay with our dad and his new wife for one month.

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Or in bed for the night? Mom said that when she went to get us back from my father he stood on the front porch, holding the door open with his foot. Years after that day on the porch with Dad, Mom sat on the bed, still angry, her blue eyes on fire. I feared this side of her, and yet I wanted to comfort her. She said she drove all over the state trying to find us. They took you kids away from me. Even at ten, I remembered enough to know the night she spoke of was the night of Sleeping Beauty in the secret sewing room.

After Mom said goodnight, and the dark took over, I felt sick. Folktales arise from oral tradition, so there are as many versions of these stories as there are people who tell them. The original story remains fully unknown. Capturing a story on the page reclaims it, allows it to be examined more slowly, like a prism being turned in the light, every angle creating new patterns of color. Grandma must have suspected Mom was coming since she converted the sewing room to a hideaway.

Kidnapped! Essay

Danger or fear can exist in the unknown. But in the unknown, there is also possibility and wonder.

The realm of possibility is where enchantment lives. And wonder makes enchantment live forever. For years after my mother told me the bedtime story, I tried to reconcile all my memories and I always felt guilty about this one day—the day she finally got to see us again after we were stashed away in the sewing room.

Kidnapping - Wikipedia

The day the custody papers were signed. David and I bounced around in anticipation, waiting for our mom to arrive. First we leaned against the bumper of our Ford Pinto out in the driveway, but were soon bored and Saturday morning cartoons called us back inside. Lying on our bellies in front of the TV, chins in hands, spellbound by Scooby-Doo , we forgot all about Mom coming to visit.

Later, I noticed a young, pretty, auburn-headed woman talking to my dad in a hushed voice, behind us in the hallway. She saw me looking at her. I wondered who she was, but only for a moment because The Smurfs came on. I loved The Smurfs more than any other cartoon. The woman handed Dad some papers and took a step closer to us. She knelt down and opened her arms.

David and I stood up, feeling unsure. We shuffled hand in hand across the room into her clutch. And then when I hugged her and smelled her, I remembered her. Did my mom try to call or see us before we were hidden away and did my dad and stepmother refuse her? And if she did, how long did she try before she came to take us back? How much time passed before Mom came to get us for that visit? How long did it take for her to agree to sign the custody papers?

How long, exactly, does it take for a child to forget her mother? Eight months.


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The guilt subsided a little because eight months is a lifetime when you are barely in kindergarten. I knew your dad could do better. Dad pushed her out of the car, stealing me away to New Mexico to stay with his mother. Dad and I made the long drive to Albuquerque with only a partial bottle of milk and the diaper I was wearing. In the same visit, or maybe another altogether after all, these stories were repeated over and over to me throughout the years—always at the kitchen table, both of us smoking, drinking coffee , Mom told me she left Dad once when I was less than a year old.

She took me to Tennessee, tucked in her lap, on a Greyhound bus. We went to live with a military man—a man she thought she loved.

Eventually, though, we went back to Dad. A year or so later my baby brother was born. I was in my thirties when I became convinced that yes, it must have been a long time before Mom came back to pick up my brother and me, because when we first went to stay with Dad and Stepmother we lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment on Santa Fe Street. School children have been kidnapped in groups in various parts of Nigeria.

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Usually, the prime targets of kidnapping for ransom are those considered to be wealthy enough to pay a fee in exchange for being freed. Kidnapping is the unlawful detention of a person through the use of force, threats, fraud or enticement. The purpose is an illicit gain, economic or material, in exchange for liberation. It may also be used to pressure someone into doing something—or not doing something.

Thousands of Nigerians have been kidnapped for ransom and other purposes over the years. Kidnapping has prevailed in spite of measures put in place by the government. But this been to no avail, mainly due to a lack of manpower and poor logistics.