I retired from the Public Defender Dept. November 12, 2015 after 16 health destroying years.
Now, I'm a full time multi-media artist and writer on a new adventure. As an artist, I create with beads, fabric, fiber, and ceramic clay. Sometimes separately; sometimes in assorted combinations. You can find my on-line store at: www.debthumanart.com.
I have been using ketamine through Mindbloom for a couple years now and I’ve made great progress healing from an abusive childhood. One of the things Mindbloom offers is something called Integration Circles. These are zoom meetings led by a facilitator and offer peer support. What happens in the circles is confidential, so I am limited in what I can share.
After listening to one member speak, bells, whistles, lights and sirens went off in my brain. I thought about the idea of a container for feelings that I had suppressed and which were surfacing. I’m working on an idea to make a fabric box to contain these feelings. I’m not sure I can get into my sewing room – it’s not a walker-friendly room and I’m still using a walker to get around while my broken foot continues to heal.
I’m at the thinking about and sketching about stage of the design process.
This is how far I’ve gotten. I’m thinking about a box with a lid. The lid has a flap so I have a way of keeping the feelings contained. I’m thinking that if I cut the stiff interfacing into individual pieces, the fabric with interfacing will be easier to fold into a box. The sketch shows a cube, but I wonder if I want to play with a rectangle instead. I’d like to be able to use my embroidery machine for the design on each side and the lid of the box. To keep the box closed, I’m thinking I’d like to use a ribbon on the flap. The ribbon would wind around a button keeping the box closed.
Once I get the design worked out, I will need to determine if I can get into my sewing room. Then, it will be a matter of auditioning fabric and sewing the box.
The statute of limitations on the second hate crime that was aimed at me is approaching. This was the hate crime where a number of masked terrorist wannabes rushed at me while I was a good 100 yards away, surrounded me, pushed me, shoved me, told me to leave although none of them had the authority to do so, and then the wannabes called the campus police in an attempt to get me arrested. Although the university has video from the university’s security camera showing I was attacked, the campus police refused to arrest anyone. I can only identify one of the masked attackers. Although I was clearly the victim, the campus police gave the wannabes my home address. I had to increase the number of security cameras around my home and notify the sheriff, who lives next door, of what happened. I also needed to formulate and institute a safety plan so I could be in my own home with less fear of being attacked by these wannabes.
Eventually, the wannabes stormed the administration building at New Mexico State University and 11 arrests were made – including the arrest of the one attacker I could identify. Of the 11 arrested only 5 were students. The term “outside agitators” appears to be appropriate.
Attorneys are required to attend continuing legal education seminars each year in order to keep our licenses. At least I get to pick what legal education I get. Rarely is there anything I don’t already know in any of the seminars. In 2014, being intensely bored, I started writing a novel during a seminar. Recently, there was a nugget of information. Although I had requested assistance from an assistant district attorney and from the campus police, no charges had ever been brought against any of the wannabes. I was reminded that the US Department of Justice handled hate crime prosecutions. Perhaps the feds would listen to me and prosecute at least one of these wannabes.
One might think it would be easy to file a report. One would be wrong. I started with the US Attorney’s office in Las Cruces. They weren’t interested and referred me to 575-339-1120. I’m not sure who I called, but I was a bit surprised to hear the person I was talking to found two reports I made to the FBI about possible terrorist activity. The person I was talking to decided that the two prior reports plus what I was calling to report were the same incident. No. Those were three separate incidents. Rather than help me, I was told to go to nm.doj.gov to file a report. I did. I’m not expecting to get help, but it’s useful to have additional places to file a report.
I’ve been trying to figure out just why I got my Facebook account suspended for violating advertising rules when I never advertised anything.
When it came to profanity, I restricted myself to #(%*@)$_@#%!!! I did criticize the government, something the First Amendment allows me to do. I refer to the top three in the federal government as the nazi, the trailer trash and the psychopath. It’s fair comment and protected by the First Amendment. I reposted from the Jewish on Campus Facebook page. Jewish on Campus came into sharp focus after October 7, 2023 and the attacks on Jewish students that followed on college and university campuses across the country. I posted items from the Anti-Defamation League regarding antisemitic acts. I posted excerpts from articles in the New York Times and The Washington Post making sure credit was clearly given to the appropriate newspaper.
There was nothing wrong with what I did.
I think I figured out why Zuckerberg went after me. A former Facebook employee wrote a book, Careless People: A Cautionary Tale of Power, Greed, and Lost Idealism. Zuckerberg tried to suppress the book. He failed. In response, I bought the book and encouraged others, via Facebook post, to buy the book. You can find the book on Amazon here: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0DY9TZD8Z/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_d_asin_title_351_o06?ie=UTF8&psc=1 I paid full price for the book and the last time I did that was when Prince Harry’s autobiography came out.
The timing is interesting. Zuckerberg is being sued by the US for anti-trust violations and the trial started this week. I hope he loses. His insistence on silencing dissent and anyone who criticizes him while sucking up to the psychopath in chief is going to bite him on the tush. The president of Columbia University thought giving in would be the end of the psychopath’s interference. The president of Columbia University was wrong. Give in to one demand, and more demands follow. Sucking up will not protect tech companies.
China is only going to take a certain amount of nonsense from the psychopath before cutting off access to all sorts of raw materials the US needs. Try building an EV without rare earth metals – and China supplies 70% of the rare earth metals the world needs. Try building a laptop without computer chips. China is the largest purchaser of soybeans grown in the US. How much nonsense and threats from the psychopath will it take for China to decide not to buy US grown soybeans? Just as it’s impossible, without a whole lot of expense, to turn an auto plant into a plant to manufacture ceramic toilets, it’s equally impossible, without a whole lot of expense, to turn a soybean farm into a tomato farm.
While I wait out my 6-month (and likely permanent) suspension, I’m looking for other on-line social media. I used Facebook to keep up with friends from law school (we live in three states in two different time zones), relatives (four states and three time zones) and friends from high school (three states, two time zones). I’m open to all social media suggestions for a replacement for Facebook.
I decided I would move anything blocking , my embroidery machine, load the patterns I purchased onto the USB drive, and do some machine embroidery.
One of the sets of patterns I bought was a set for free-standing-lace earrings. I decided this was a small enough and easy enough project that I could manage. I still can’t put more than 1/2 my weight onto my Erector Set Foot. But I can take a shower by myself and I can use the Big Girl Toilet rather than the potty chair. I’m going for physical therapy and I can’t wait until I can do things again – like drive and bake.
I need to soak these in warm water so the water soluble stabilizer disappears. Then, I need to hope I can get near the tool box with my earring findings so I can turn these into earrings.
This was going to be a pair of earrings, but I ran into difficulty making the second one. So it’s a pendant.
I decided to take a little walk to see how the irises are coming along. I had to fold up the walker to get it out of the sliding glass door. Then, I needed to navigate around rocks, art and plants to get to the iris. All that, and the new iris aren’t blooming yet. Last fall, I happened to be at the mall when the local iris society had a sale.
Here’s one of the irises we’ve had blooming since we moved in 24 years ago.
I’ve had a couple Spoonflower sales this week. I wish I could see what people make from fabric printed with my designs.
Passover starts at sundown tomorrow (April 12) when we celebrate freedom. May you have a joyous, enlightening Passover.
Once upon a time, there was a wonderful experiment. It was call the United States of America.
From California to the New York Islands…..
There was no country on earth like it. People could speak their mind. People could worship, or not, as they pleased. People could assemble. People could criticize their government and their leaders. The press were not censored. It was amazing. It was worth dying for. And people did die for this country and for the rights contained in The Bill of Rights.
From the redwood forest to the Gulf Stream waters…
There were free elections and a process was put in place for the peaceful change of power when a new president was elected.
This land was made for you and me.
Don’t look for this country. It no longer exists. Marc Zuckerberg, whose mouth is firmly attached to the narcissistic sociopath’s appendage common to males, has frozen my Facebook account. It’s not safe to criticize the government. It’s not safe to refer to the idiot in the White House as a narcissistic sociopath even though his niece, Mary Trump, a psychologist, wrote in her book that narcissistic sociopath is an accurate diagnosis. It’s not safe to refer to a man who lied to get low interest loans to build exploding cars as a nazi even after he proudly gave a nazi salute.
As I was walking, I saw a sign there…
I’ve been an attorney for 31 years. I began my career as a cooperating attorney for the New York Civil Liberties Union. I’m proud of the work I did for the NYCLU. I’m proud of how I fought my guts out for my indigent clients. I’m proud of how I fought to keep the state from steamrolling over my clients.
And on the sign it said no trespassing…
I know better than to ask the ACLU for help. I’ve been the recipient of two anti-semitic hate crimes. The ACLU couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge my request for help. Instead, the ACLU offered legal assistance to groups financed by terrorist organizations and swallowed the lie about Israel starting a war with Hamas.
But on the other side, it didn’t say nothing…..
Pete Seeger was called before the House Unamerican Activities Committee for signing one song. A famous song written by Woody Guthrie.
That side was made for you and me.
When I needed financial aid to attend law school, I had to sign an oath that I wouldn’t attempt to overthrow the government by violent means. After law school, four times I stood in court – in NY, in NM, in Federal District Court, and in the Supreme Court of the United States, I stuck up my right hand and made a promise to uphold the constitution. I meant it every time. Let me make one thing extremely clear to the narcissistic sociopath, the trailer trash VP, their nazi buddy and all their brainless minions: If you want to shut me up, you need large calibre firepower. In the meantime, I’m going to uphold the Constitution and the Bill of Rights.
Here’s the verse that got Pete in good trouble:
Nobody living can ever stop me, As I go walking that freedom highway; Nobody living can ever make me turn back This land was made for you and me.
While I can roll the wheelchair around the house, I can’t get outside unless it’s for a medical reason. We have a flagstone walkway in the front of the house and it’s exactly the right size to make wheelchair wheels land in gravel. I can’t get to the back patio because the back door is too narrow to get a wheelchair through. Getting outside through the garage is not a one-person operation. First, I have to do what I can to hold the door open while Jim backs me through the door. I have to go through backwards because there’s a tiny 1″ bump under the door. That 1″ might as well be the Great Wall of China. Then, there’s a 3″ step that Jim has to back me down. He made a ramp to make getting up and down that step easier. Then Jim has to get me over a small bump under the overhead garage door. I can’t navigate any of these bumps by myself.
The claret cup cactus are blooming, and I could only glance at the blooms on my way in and out of the car before and after we got covid boosters.
With this much hardware in my foot, I’m not about to go walking around until my doctor says I can. No photography. No sewing. No cleaning out the junk room. No baking. If we do go somewhere, I have to make sure I don’t drink anything so I don’t have to use a bathroom. I’ve discovered the hard way that the handicap stall in public restrooms doesn’t accommodate wheelchairs.
Bathing is a two-person process. Jim wraps my foot and leg in a garbage bag and cling wrap to keep water out. That’s what the doctor recommended after he explained those “water tight” boots aren’t water tight – they are water resistant. I use a tub chair and hang my fiberglass encased foot over the edge of the bathtub. It is not fun. It’s cold. Because we’re using the hose with the shower head attached, there’s time when I’m wet, but no hot water is rolling over me. I’m cold most of the time because I’m less active. Wet and cold sucks. Jim has to help me bathe and help me dry off. Then, he gets to help me get dressed. After 5 weeks, he’s become expert at getting my socks off and on and getting my pants off and on. I can put on and take off my tee shirt by myself.
In theory, the cast comes off April 1. I’m hoping I can get my foot wet. If I can, the shower curtain gets put up and I can take a shower by myself.
Spring in southern New Mexico lasts only a tiny time. By the time I can go outside by myself, the spring cactus flowers will be gone.
I haven’t been able to drive since mid-December. The last time I had to give up driving for a few months, the peripheral neuropathy progressed to the point where it’s hard for me to feel the gas and brake pedals. I’m terrified that I won’t be able to feel them at all when I can finally be independent again.
And so I sit here feeling sorry for myself and being afraid of the future. Bleah.
There’s a quilt in here somewhere, but so far, I can’t see it.
I saw the doctor on Tuesday. I thought sure I’d be told I could get my foot wet. If I can get my foot wet I can give myself a shower. But nooooooooo. I got a hard fiberglass cast that will stay on for 4 weeks.
This thing needs bling! The hideous orange color on my toe nails is betadine.
My husband still has to help me undress, wrap my foot in a garbage bag, wrap enough Saran Wrap around my leg to keep the bag on and to seal out water. Then, I get to hoist myself onto the tub chair, scoot all the way over, leave my right leg hanging out of the tub. Jim gets to handle the shower head that’s on a hose. Wet, get very cold very fast, soap up, wash hair, rinse, get very cold very fast, Jim turns off the water and hands me a towel.
If you have a son or two, grandson or two, or you are of the male persuasion, get a Barbie doll and play with it. Never mind the sexist crap. This is important. If you can get boots on a Barbie doll, you can get my sock onto my foot. Jim has to help me dress. I can get on my tee shirt. I cannot get my pants on. Right after I had surgery, Jim went to Walmart and bought me 3 pairs of pants. I haven’t bought clothes in more than 25 years. I’ve no idea what size I am. Jim found three pairs of knit pants that have elastic waists and wide legs. He gets my pants on over my cast and helps me pull up my pants.
If I brace myself on the counter and balance on my good foot, I can brush my teeth,
I used to walk into the bathroom, take care of why I went into the bathroom, wipe, wash my hands, and be done. Now, I wheel myself into the bathroom. I line up my wheelchair with my adult potty chair, I do my business. Wiping is difficult because the seat on the potty chair is much smaller than the seat on a toilet. I’ve got adult diapers for when I can’t wheel fast enough. I’ve got the most wonderful invention – an ass wiper. That’s not its name. If you put “assistive devices” into the search on Amazon, you will be taken to a whole page of ass wipers. Mine folds up and has a travel case so I can wipe my ass if I need to use a bathroom during the few outings I have. I have Huggies non-scented baby wipes because they had the best price. I thought I had enough baby wipes to last through this broken foot misery, but Jim discovered baby wipes remove oil paint from hands. I’m not sure what that says about baby wipes other than I won’t have to worry about leftover baby wipes when I can again use the big girl potty otherwise known as a toilet. Meanwhile, Jim still has to empty the pot every time I go. I’m usually healthy, but today I’ve got the trots. The Hershey squirts. The Urgencies. The runs. You get the idea. As miserable as that is when you can use the big girl toilet, it’s far worse when you are stuck using the adult potty chair.
When I was little, I would go places with my grandparents. They didn’t have much money, so we went for Sunday drives. My grandmother always packed a roll of toilet paper and the pot from the potty chair. Portable peeing at its best. Now, I’m 72 and I’ve got a big potty chair. No, I am not taking the pot from the chair when we need to go someplace. If I get that close to the ground, I’m not sure I can get back up.
When I came home from the hospital, I was assured by hospital folks that I could use a folding walker and hop up to the toilet. I tried. One hop and I was on the floor. Jim had a hard time getting me back up (I could put no weight on my right foot). When Jim went out to buy groceries the next morning he came home with an adult potty chair.
I can’t get my wheelchair into my sewing room. For one, the door isn’t wide enough . For another, it’s crowded in there with my cutting table, my sewing table, my ironing board….. There will be no sewing for the duration. But my embroidery machine didn’t fit on the sewing table so it’s on a table in the bedroom. I can, thanks to an ultra wide door, get into the bedroom. All my stabilizers are in the bedroom. All my threads are in the bedroom. I bought and downloaded patterns for FSL earrings. Of course, the earring findings are in the sewing room. But at least I can create something. I can talk Jim through finding my earring findings in the sewing room and failing that, I can buy earring findings at Michaels. I can make earrings. I can rig something up in my office so I can do product photography. I can put these earrings into my online store,http://www.DebThumanArt.com. I intended to raise the prices to accommodate rising shipping costs, but I haven’t done that yet. So, take advantage of a bargain and visit my store.
I am taking a painting class, but I can’t manage going in to the painting studio. The class is crowded, and having to get around on the Fully Manual Motorcycle knee wheeler contraption is hard enough when there are no obstacles like easels, other students, stools. It would be impossible to manage in a crowded painting studio. So I’m painting at home. This is easier than it sounds. I’m using Shiva paintsticks. They come in lots and lots of colors plus iridescent colors. You can use them like crayons and dry brush to blend colors. Or, you can use the colorless blender stick that acts like a wonderful medium and you can work with the paintsticks the same as you would work with oil paint. The paint is supposed to be dry to the touch in 24 hours. I like not having to use mineral spirits in the house. I have two cats and a dog all of which have little lungs. What might not pose a problem for me can be a huge problem for them.
Here’s what I’ve done so far. I can see I need to clean up some brush strokes. I was working with thalo green, thalo blue and ultramarine blue.
I’ve been working with wire wrapping and it’s a whole lot harder than I thought.
I’ve been able to do some mending so I found out I can sew with my left foot. This is good because there’s a lot of sewing I need to do. At least one pair of jeans and several bras.
I had a CT scan and an MRI this week. Next week, I find out about surgery.
I thought my foot was sprained. My doctor wanted me to see a specialist and get an x-ray. I forgot that I didn’t go to med school; I went to law school. I decided that I wasn’t going to pay for a specialist and an x-ray because I was sure my foot was sprained. After hobbling around for five weeks with no improvement, I decided I should see a specialist. My foot isn’t sprained. My foot is broken. My arch has collapsed. I likely will need surgery but won’t know for sure for another two weeks. Imaging is set for next week and the follow up with the specialist for the week after.
For the next 4-5 months, I’m not supposed to put any weight on my broken foot. So I bought a knee wheeler thing that I call my Fully Manual Motorcycle. It’s got disc brakes and a shock absorber. I’m not planing on knee wheeling along the Appalachian Trail, but I do want to be able to navigate parking lots, sidewalks, and getting into and out of buildings. I’ve discovered that the slightest decline is enough to send me flying wild down the sidewalk.
The Fully Manual Motorcycle will not turn on a dime. Or on a silver dollar. I’m learning how to make a 15-point turn. I’m also learning that my shin is not designed to hold my weight. Going to the mall is out. So is going to Sam’s Club or Walmart. Or even the grocery store.
I cannot drive for the duration because it’s my right foot that’s broken. I can’t use my left foot to drive because I’m short and have to pull the seat all the way up. That means I can’t get my left leg around the steering column to reach the gas pedal. The other problem is I drove a standard for more than 20 years. My left foot only knows how to use the clutch. It doesn’t know how to be subtle when stepping on the gas or the brake.
Failure to follow the specialist’s instructions can result in my foot being amputated.
All the things I cannot do is causing me to be depressed. Depression is causing me to be frozen. I have to force myself to get out of bed. I have to force myself to take a shower and brush my teeth. I have to force myself to get dressed. I’ve had to increase the dose of my antidepressant. I’m trading being frozen for brain fog. That’s the problem with psych meds. They work, but a dose high enough to give relief causes brain fog.
I’ve done embroidery on the two long sleeve tee shirts I have. I was going to dye them, but it’s very cold and I’m too depressed. So I have a white tee shirt with a Star of David and another white tee shirt with a pink flamingo. I don’t need to use my foot when I use my embroidery machine. Press the green button, and the machine does the rest. I’d take photos, but it’s very cold out. Too cold to hang the tee shirts on the clothesline while I take photos. Too hard to get the Fully Manual Motorcycle out through the sliding glass door. I haven’t tried using my sewing machine yet. I suppose I can learn to sew using my left foot with the pedal.
We had a full moon while I thought my foot was sprained. So I hobbled around the yard to take these shots.
The postal rates have become such that I will have to raise the prices of my work in my store, Deb Thuman Art http://www.DebThumanArt.com but I’ve decided to keep prices as they are until the end of February. If you’re looking for a Valentine’s Day one-of-a-kind jewelry gift, please visit my store.
Some people wear their heart on their sleeve. I wear my heart on my art. I know what I want to say, but I haven’t figured out how I want to say it although I have some ideas.
I have my grandmother’s candlesticks. We always had candles on the table for holiday dinners. My family came from Dittersdorf, East Prussia cleverly disguised as German Lutherans. It took a lot of research, 120 years, and pure dumb luck discovering my grandmother’s bad German was Yiddish to see past the disguise. It wasn’t safe to be openly Jewish when my great-great-grandparents arrived in America although Jewish traditions were kept. Sort of. Cleaning had to be done on Friday and only on Friday. When I was little, we didn’t go anywhere on Saturday. And lit candles had to be on the table for holiday dinners. Jim’s family was different. On the rare occasions there were candles, they weren’t lit. We lost sight of who we are and what we believe since 1888 when my great-great-grandparents arrived in America. But we’ve kept our traditions. Now, I keep our faith and I don’t hide the fact I’m Jewish even though being openly Jewish right now is dangerous. This piece could work as either a quilt or a painting.
This is about child abuse and how I would hide from my mother and The Drunk. I would like it to be on three levels. Blue on the bottom, gray in the middle and green on the top. After the inauguration in 2017, I was so angry, I made a quilt featuring a life-size, nearly anatomically correct, 3-d depiction of a vulva – complete with a Swarovski crystal for the clitoris. It was quite the challenge to figure out how to sew it onto the quilt and then to actually sew it onto the quilt. I don’t think I want to try a 3-d quilt again. I’m not sure this would work as a flat quilt.
It could be a painting. I’d need Jim to make the “canvas” out of wood and float the gray and green levels. My painting teacher would like to see more work where Jim helps me fashion the “canvas.”
I’m afraid. I’m tired of being afraid. Fear sucks.
There’s a new Starbucks in my town. Jim and I decided to visit it. We won’t be back. My drink was fine. Jim’s drink was fine. A man behind the counter was wearing a keffiyeh. That isn’t fine. What if he discovers I’m Jewish? I did an internet search, and a keffiyeh has no religious significance. It is not a requirement of any religion as, for instance, a hijab is. Right now, the only significance is to terrorize Jews.
We attended an outdoor Hanukkah celebration. I didn’t see any security. What if someone starts shooting us because we’re Jewish?
Classes start at New Mexico State University on Wednesday. There’s a Students for Justice in Palestine chapter on campus. Don’t let the name fool you. They have organized attacks on Jewish students on campuses across the country. They advocate killing Jews. They advocate obliterating Israel. No, I don’t know what incredibly stupid person in academic administration decided to allow the chapter on campus and give them a meeting room. This isn’t a free speech issue. This is a keep terrorists off campus issue. Yes, I have let the FBI know about them.
I’m afraid. I refuse to hide, which may be a mistake – the kind of mistake that could cost me my life. For years, I’d spoken out against assault rifles saying it should be illegal to own one. Now, I seriously consider buying a Tav-7. I seriously consider buying Level IV military grade body armor designed to be worn by women.
I wish it were that simple. Send a card, everyone is nice. No bad memories to haunt me. It’s not simple. It’s a complex collection of traumatic events. Being an over achiever, I didn’t get regular PTSD. I got the hard-to-treat complex PTSD. It won’t go away. The memories won’t go away. The pain won’t go away. Worst of all, the depression won’t go away.
I’d like to go someplace today to cheer myself up. But it’s Christmas and everything is closed. Except for the Asian Buffet – overpriced, underwhelming, greasy all-you-can eat before the heartburn sets in restaurant. For the past few years, the reform temple to which I belong has made reservations at the Asian Buffet and members can come and enjoy the heartburn, and everyone pays for their own meal. I’ll skip that. I don’t know anyone who shows up and even the rabbi doesn’t attend the greasy festivities.
Hanukkah starts tonight, but I’m too depressed to make latkes.
I’d like to soak in the tub, but I’m too depressed.
I’d like to take a shower, but it’s too late in the day.
And so I eat cookies and worry about my weight. Maybe I”ll skip the tub and the shower and just get dressed.
I’d get up and take my psych meds, which includes an antidepressant, but I’m too depressed.
I have aches and pains that would be cured with exercise, but I’m too depressed to do a fitness routine that would take 15 minutes. Besides, my foot is sprained and the plantar fasciitis is back. And that’s why I can’t go for a walk which in my case would be going for a hobble.
Christmas is a collection of horrible memories. One Christmas, sometime between the ages of 4 and 8, my mother and The Drunk brought a Christmas tree into the house. I saw white stuff on the tree and asked what it was. My mother looked at The Drunk and said, “She’s so stupid she doesn’t even know what snow mold is.” I remember being confused by that.
There was the Christmas when The Drunk didn’t like the way I threw an apple core into the fire. He kept digging the apple core out of the fire place and making me throw it back in telling me he hoped I’d learn before I got burnt. He never tortured my three siblings like that.
There was the Christmas Eve at my brother and sister-in-law’s house. My brother said the advice he got from The Drunk was to have fun but be careful. I said that was horrible and that my brother could get a knock on the door in 20 years and find an adult child he didn’t know about. The Drunk said that could happen to him. That’s when I knew The Drunk wasn’t my father. A non-returnable Christmas present.
Another year, I didn’t hear from my mother and called my brother on Christmas Day asking if Ma was going to do Christmas. Yes. And then Ma bitched at my brother because she expected me to just know enough to come over. Actually, that’s not what happened. She wanted me to skip Christmas so she could say how peaceful it was without me and have an excuse to bar me from all future festivities including First Communions and baptisms. Which is what happened after the Thanksgiving that I skipped. I got an “invitation” from my brother’s wife to come but only if I promised not to fight with my mother. I initially accepted. A few. days later, I called her and said I wasn’t coming because we couldn’t trust my mother to behave. That’s when I stopped getting invited to family celebrations.
The Drunk is dead. He died 22 years ago. A friend sent me an email which is how I found out he was dead. My mother is dead. She died 9 years ago on my birthday. I subscribed to Legacy.com and got a copy of her obit in my email. Otherwise, I would never have known she died. I haven’t talked to my brother or sister, The Fruitcake, since. Actually, I didn’t talk to The Fruitcake then. Just as well, we have another to say that the other one wants to hear.
This semester, the painting class was about identity. I spent the semester painting about child abuse. For the final project, we had to do a painting only we could do. So I did a quilt. About being Jewish.
After the disastrous election, I saw a design in my. head: a Star of David and a hammer. In the Hanukkah story, the Jews were ruled by a powerful, evil king. Jews who didn’t pray to the collection of the king’s gods were killed. Finally, Judah had enough. He gathered a band of warriors and they defeated the king’s vast army. End of rule by evil king. Judah was called Judah the Maccabee. Maccabee means hammer.
I thought about how people have been trying to wipe us out for about 6000 years. So far, they’ve failed. I saw my quilt as an expression of hope and perseverance. Since October 7, 2023, the Anti-Defamation League has received reports of more than 10,000 acts of antisemitism. Jews on college campuses have been physically attacked, muzazahs have been ripped off dormitory door posts, hamas supporters have called for the elimination of Israel and the killing of Jews. This is nothing new. We are still here.
I used matching thread to write out my feelings because I wanted people to look at my work. “We are still here” “Am Yisrael chai” (it means the people of Israel live and it’s a battle cry). The shin (Hebrew letter) has an “sh” sound and is frequently put on a mezuzah. It’s the first letter of the prayer: Listen Israel. The Lord our God, the Lord is one. That’s what set us apart from all the other nations which had many gods.
“Fighting for our right to exist”
My family hid. I refuse to hide.
This was the first time I had used my embroidery machine with a quilt. It was an interesting experience trying to get everything straight. I didn’t always succeed.
I looked forward to the final critique until the day of the critique when I received an email saying my class would be combined with another painting class for final critique. That means we would rush through each person’s work. No one would have the opportunity to really look at my work and see what’s there. No one would get to hear my reason for using the images I used. I was horribly depressed and sent my teacher an email explaining why I wasn’t going to be attending critique. That was last Thursday. I haven’t heard from my teacher and I don’t expect to ever hear from him.
I’m depressed enough that I’m not looking forward to taking another painting class. Actually, I’m not looking forward to much of anything.
It’s been 26 years since I last endured holiday hell. Used to be I’d go into a deep depression the third week of November and the depression would last until January 1. Holidays featured screaming, fighting, crying, bad food and that was just the first hour. It went downhill from there.
Two weeks ago, every story in my writing class featured being home for the holidays. I was shocked to discover the stories triggered a depressive response. A few days later, I needed to push a walker around. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my spine. This feels like strained muscles. Oddly, taking a double dose of antidepressant relieved much of the pain. I’ve got an appointment with a massage therapist later this week.
I’ve been working on some art.
I’ve been making free standing lace ornaments featuring a nativity scene.
I tried using metallic thread for this. It a frustrating process.
These and other ornaments are in my store, Deb Thuman Art which you can find here: http://www.DebThumanArt.com
I’ve been working on the quilt for my painting class. Because I can’t find stock images that would be suitable for quilting, I’m working on making my own images. It’s slow going.
I am devastated by the election results. I am frightened by the election results. The last time the narcissistic sociopath was in office, every hate group in the country came out of the closet. Suddenly, hate became a national value to be celebrated. This culminated in an armed attempt to overthrow the government on January 6, 2021.
The Anti-Defamation League received more than 10,000 reports of antisemitic acts since October 7, 2023. Jewish students are not safe on college campuses. It’s going to get worse.
After the election, I saw a quilted piece in my head. My painting teacher said our final assignment was to make a painting only we could create.
Deb: Does it have to have paint?
Teacher: It has to have pigment and a binder. That’s paint.
Deb: That’s also fabric dye.
My teacher has agreed to accept a quilted piece.
I had picked out fabric when I picked up my sewing machine. It needed to be serviced and lots of lint was removed from deep in the guts of the machine. I’m good for another year.
These are the fabrics I picked out. The purple is going to be the background. The yellow will be for the images and the binding.
I laid out the pieces.
I’m letting it sit for a while. I want to make sure I’ve got the pieces the right size. The appliqué in the middle is something I bought on sale from 1-800-dreidle. When I ordered it, I had no idea what I would do with it. I’m thinking it would go with with this design. I’m thinking I will need to make the star and the hammer smaller. They seem out of proportion with the appliqué.
It’s not really a Hanukkah quilt even though I’m using Hanukkah imagery. In 164 BCE, Judah the Maccabee gathered a handful of warriors and led the fight against a mighty army, Judah won. The temple was cleaned out, the eternal light was lit, and someone was sent to buy olive oil. It took eight days for the person to find, buy and return with the olive oil. Meanwhile, there was just enough oil in the temple to keep the light lit for one day. That little bit of oil lasted for eight days.
Maccabee means hammer, which is why there’s a hammer in the design. I saw the quilt as a symbol of how people have been trying to wipe us out for nearly 6000 years. We are still here. We’ve always been a tiny minority. We are still here. The quilt expresses my hope that we will again prevail. We will triumph over antisemitism again. Jewish students will no longer be attacked on college campuses. I won’t have to be on the receiving end of hate crimes any more.
Deb's Art 