Rose Maura Lorre’s recent essay for Salon.com begins this way:
“On the day I was kidnapped, as my abductor drove us down the Garden State Parkway, I pressed my toes against his car window so someone would see. Because this was 1982, his sedan boasted front-row bench seating; by his command, my 7-year-old frame was splayed across it, my head wedged at his hip, my feet skimming the passenger-side door. When he’d yanked me neck-first into his car less than an hour prior, he’d jammed my body against the floorboards (too young to know that word, I thought of it as the pit) and kept me there a while, steering with his left hand while his right pressed on my head.”
But what’s interesting about Rose’s story is something that not many survivors of kidnappings talk about. What to do with the memories, the story itself. Rose didn’t bottle it up, instead she told the story. A lot. Too much, she says.
“I had the terrible idea for years that boys would be interested in me if they knew this about me. Probably the greatest mistake I made after being kidnapped was that I was sort of cheap in telling my story. And I don’t think I did myself any favors in doing that,” says Rose.
She tells Dick Gordon about finding her own way to tell the story.