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Member since: 2003 before July 6th
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Not to take away from the compelling saga of Patty Hearst,

but I find the story of one of her kidnappers, Angela Atwood, to be just as interesting, if not more.

Angela DeAngelis (yes, that was her maiden name), grew up in the town next to where I live, North Haledon, NJ. I've taught in the school she attended. In High School, she was Honor Roll, head cheerleader, Queen of the Prom, star of the school musicals. Most Likely To, etc.

She graduated and enrolled in Indiana University and knew Jane Pauley. Continued to study theater. Married Gary Atwood. They left Indiana with Bill and Emily Harris, to live in California. Angela separated and divorced Gary because he wasn't radical enough for her anymore.

She was teaching literacy in prisons when she became involved with a guy who was eventually arrested and jailed. And he was her entree into the Symbionese Liberation Army.

You likely know the rest of the story, esp. how she died in the shoot-out and fire in Los Angeles. She's buried in a Catholic cemetery in Paterson, the same one as Fr. Mychal Judge (Saint of 9/11). Buried with her family with just the name "Angel", her nickname.

I can understand how Patty Hearst suffered from the shock of the kidnapping and being held a hostage and being raped. I can also appreciate Stockholm Syndrome.

But to me, I just can't understand how Angela DeAngelis Atwood voluntarily and willingly went from Prom Queen to terrorist. To me, THAT'S the story not being told.

When I was a kid (decades ago), I loved comic books.

Superman, Superboy, Dennis the Menace, Archie/Veronica/Betty, Leave It to Binky

I had about maybe 20 that I would read over and over and over.

When I was 12, my father was agitated about my comic book habit. (It wasn't like I was buying 25 new ones a week. I just liked what I had.) He made me throw them out. As you may imagine, I felt that to be a violation on several levels.

It was August, 1969. In the dead of night, I stole outside and took them back. (I was lucky: they were on top of the garbage and not ruined.) I hid them from him for about six months before I became afraid of the consequences if he discovered that I was secreting them. So, again in the middle of the night, (albeit, now 10 degrees with snow outside), I sneaked out of the house and put my beloved comic books on top of the garbage and said a reluctant goodbye.

I don't know why my father was so angry. Maybe he believed that crap in Readers Digest about comic books leading to juvenile delinquency. Maybe he wanted me to read "Little Women" and other "classic literature". He's gone and so are the comics.

It's nearly 50 years ago. I still wish I had those comics. I just do.
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