Created by Survivors of Violence with Disabilities for People with Disabilities & Our Allies
Personal Stories
This category includes posts by disability advocates (self-advocates, providers, and caregivers) whose stories lend additional perspectives on education, advocacy, and disability justice. All stories will include content warnings.
Indiana Disability Justice showcases artwork by people with all kinds of disabilities. We are here. We are human. We matter. We want to be seen. Thank you, Tom! Your artwark has such a cool element to it!
(ArtMix offers avenues for people with disabilities to express themselves creativity- www.artmixindiana.org.)
A pale ceramic mask with brown eyes, red lips, and black sunglasses.
Current location: ArtMix
Size: Three dimensional, widest point w6”x widest point h7.5”x tallest point 2”
Medium: Ceramic and plastic addition
Artist’s name: Tom Hamilton
Title: Blues Brothers Kid
Date: Unknown
I think this piece is entertaining. It was challenging to make it- to think up the designs and put it together. I had to go through the steps and make it work. The piece is made from a clay slab that I rolled and cut to shape. I added the glasses to the glazed ceramic mask with a hot glue gun to make my piece neat. I designed it around a character from the second Blues Brothers movie. The way I feel or think about my work goes a lot of different directions.
(ArtMix note: Tom really enjoys making, showing, talking about and selling his work. He uses templates to keep his work consistent and has worked hard over the years to develop his processes and a line of ceramics that is high quality and identifiable as his. Before Covid, Tom also volunteered at ArtMix with student check in for classes and as a guest musician at gallery events.)
About the Artist: Tom Hamilton
Tom grew up and went to high school in Indianapolis. He has attended classes at ArtMix for many years. He lives in the neighborhood and often stops by on his bike to say hi and check on his artwork.
Painting. Textured background that is very rough to the touch, but you can see the grooves. The bottom left of the painting starts dark black and slowly transitions to dark purple and ombre effects into light colors at the top right corner. There is one lotus flower in the center, one to the left, and two to the left in the colors of pink and white. There are abstract blue and green lily pads to complete the aesthetic.
Painting Description: Textured background that is very rough to the touch, but you can see the grooves. The bottom left of the painting starts dark black and slowly transitions to dark purple and hombre effects into light colors at the top right corner. There is one lotus flower in the center, one to the left, and two to the left in the colors of pink and white. There are abstract blue and green lily pads to complete the aesthetic.
Lotus flowers, much like survivors of complex trauma, have learned to thrive in the most adverse of circumstances. These gorgeous specimens have reclaimed the concept of beauty and what it means to grow something lovely from filth, one that has become a beacon of light for my own healing journey. 15 years ago, I found myself caught in my own murky water and found my own way out 2 years later. Much like a lotus flower, I learned to thrive in the unkind world that helped to create the circumstances leading to my exploitation. One of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn during my 13 year recovery journey was to know when it is time to stop reliving the pain and to let myself heal and enjoy life. The voices of all my abusers past have faded as the years passed, and I slowly learned that I am worthy of love, acceptance, and happiness. They were so loud for so many years that even after I broke free from them, I still could not rid myself of their influence. You’re ugly. You are worthless. You will never find anyone else because no one wants to put up with you. You’ll never find a husband. God hates you. Everyone hates you. No one will help you. You don’t deserve to live. I think I was just afraid that if I let my pain go, I wouldn’t know where I came from or the kind of person I would become. I guess I was afraid that I would lose touch with my reality and forget that it even happened. But then it happened after several YEARS re-programming, re-defining, and re-learning what it means to thrive. I let my beautiful petals grow brighter and lovelier through each season of growth so that I could still have a life full of everything I thought I had lost. I decided I was worthy. Like a lotus, I fought through the murk and the mud to get to the light. And then I became my own light.
Charlie’s art is available for purchase at this link.
Charlie Quinn Tebow, LMSW, survivor, artist
Image description: Caucasian non-binary individual with a big smile in front of a brick building wearing my favorite tie-dye shirt. Wild styled short pixie cut blonde hair
Creator Bio: An alumnus of Washburn University with a clinical Masters of Social Work degree, Charlie dedicates their life to serving others like them, CPTSD (chronic post traumatic stress disorder) survivors. Their day job as a social worker and Missing Youth Specialist on the Kansas Special Response Team for Missing and Exploited Youth provides them with opportunities to empower and engage runaway and exploited youth in foster care to overcome complex and compounded trauma, and find the path to who they want to be. Charlie is a dedicated advocate with specializations for persons who have experienced human sex trafficking, commercial sexual exploitation, childhood trauma, interpersonal violence, and other complex or compounded traumas. Charlie is part of the LGBTQ community as a nonbinary person (they/them), and a staunch leader and participant in social justice activism. They are an ally for all trans and/or persons of color, as well as dedicated activist for Black Lives Matter and Trans Lives Matter movements. Charlie is a member of the National Human Trafficking Survivor Network and Survivor Leaders Institute, and has delivered keynote and training sessions to professionals from around the country. Charlie is also an accomplished artist and expert in the healing arts for survivors of complex trauma. Featuring bright colors and textures, their art has been featured in 35 states and sold to patrons from around the globe.
Hi, my name is Meishy and I live at home with my mom, Cheryl. She is helping me write this because I am a quadriplegic and unable to write and dysarthric and unable to speak. However, I want to tell you about my experiences of surviving in the world of Covid 19. I know all of you are having to survive this as well, but I am on a ventilator 24 hours a day, so if I get this virus, I have a 99% chance of dying, so that is scary to me. I want to tell you about all the things people have done to try to protect me and keep me safe so you know what people can do to help keep you safe too.
I have not left my room since February 18 of last year when I went to see Dr. Tolley at the pain clinic at Riley Hospital. That was right before Covid burst on the scene. In March I was told by my doctors that I needed to stay in my house and not leave for any reason; that my mom, who is a nurse, and my nurses would need to take care of any problems at home. The doctors made sure that I had all the medications that I needed (antibiotics, meds to thin my mucus, etc.) were on hand so they could be started if I needed them so I did not have to make a trip to the emergency room. I am a palliative care patient because I no longer have any veins that are good enough for IVs, so all my antibiotics must go through my stomach tube. I have needed these medications a couple of times during my isolation period, and it has been wonderful to not have to go to the hospital to get them. My doctors have also been great about doing all my doctor visits via virtual visits. Mom holds the phone up and we talk with the doctor about what has been happening with me and we are able to do our appointments that way. It has been amazingly effective. Another important thing is that the only people that I have seen since I left the house are my mom, my two nurses, Steve and Shannon, my therapist Jaime, and my aunt Susan. All of them do things like wearing masks and gloves when they get close to me if they are not feeling well. Mom even had to take care of me in November when she had Covid and managed to keep me from getting sick. She wore her mask, her gloves, and washed her hands a lot. She also kept herself in the other room except when I needed something bad, just so she could keep me safe. I did not get sick at all. I cannot say it has not been a little lonely, but I have my iPad and my DVDs to keep me busy and happy. Those are the things that I really enjoy. I plan to keep on doing what I am doing for as long as I need to do it, and I hope you will all do the same. Please remember that masks and social distancing do work. I am proof of that and stay safe.
Woman with brown skin and long black hair, wearing a pink dress with a fierce look on her face.
About the Author:
Meishy was born in Philadelphia and lived in a foster home there until she met her adoptive mom. They flew home to be a family on 9/20/2001, right after the planes started again. Meishy attended Shelbyville High School. She loves all things Disney, but especially the princesses. She spends her days watching movies and surfing the internet.
*Image description* Child in a pink wheelchair with blue jeans and a pink shirt that reads ‘Warning! I always win at musical chairs’ with her hands atop her head, and her mouth open wide in a silly face.
Too much. Too loud. Too vocal. Drawing attention. Advocating loudly. Never satisfied.
In the space of a few weeks, these words became loud in my mind. Back to school meant lots of conversations, text, and e-mails. Needs. Disagreeing with people, and working really hard to come across diplomatically. My mind bent over gasping for air while trying not to throw up. Not because it was bad. Or, received poorly. But, because advocating is hard. And, scary. Necessary. While invoking fears that if things are pushed too hard, too loudly, or we just take up too much space, my children could suffer the repercussions. Part of me wants to apologize for speaking up at all. Making waves. I can feel it. It’s too much space out of a whole lot of kids with needs. We’re not staying in our area.
A trip to the park buzzing over the excitement of a new swing. One I can roll a wheelchair up on, and watch my daughter lean back and smile in the breeze. I pull up, and immediately feel all the blood rush to my face. They’ve built a swing. A whole separate area for kids with disabilities. I can’t believe it. How did this happen? So I speak up. I arrange meetings and have hard conversations. I listen, and try to understand. I tell them what I want, knowing the cost is astronomical in a Midwestern city that has lost its factories and is struggling to survive. And, I know, I’m taking up too much space in the financial agenda of a city.
We’re out. My daughter is excited. She makes her noises. Grunty and screechy. Over and over. It’s loud. People move away or stare. They don’t know how to respond to it. She’s just communicating. We’re used to it. But, all of a sudden, I know. Too much space. We are occupying more than our share of the noise level.
Sunday morning. Front row during worship because that’s where my daughter wants to be. She can see all the instruments. The singers. There’s room to dance. And, a few times, she makes her way on stage and just sits there, watching everyone, dancing, and sometimes even singing. I breathe deep and purposeful to slow my heart, thankful I can’t see anyone behind me. She darts quickly to make an attempt at grabbing the guitar, and I sprint on stage and grab her. This sort of thing repeats a few times, amidst her other antics of trying to get me to hang her upside down, do flips, and use me as a jungle gym. I can feel it. Sweat is starting to pour out of me. We’re taking up more than our share of space. Drawing attention away from the things people want to be focusing on.
The tears are no longer staying just behind the surface. They spill out onto my cheeks. I’m reminded how long it took for people like her to be allowed any space in society at all. Their space used to be one that hid them away. Gave them less area than was theirs. Took a family, an education, self worth, outdoors, human interaction, dignity, and at times, their lives.
I drop her off at Sunday school, and slink into the back of the church. The weight of the past week of advocating, and feeling too much settles in. I’m self conscious from the worship time, and uncertain whether bringing her in for it, no matter how much she begs, is truly the right thing to do. Our pastor stands up, talks a little about the set up of Sunday school, who goes where, when. And, out loud, in front of everyone, welcomes my daughter by name to be part of worship as she sees fit.
It’s okay for her to take up more space now. To grab back what was denied to so many before her. To loudly declare that she is alive, and has worth. This is her time. Her place. And, we will be here, taking up more than our share of space.
About the Author:
Image Description: Andrea has long light brown hair and is smiling broadly. She is wearing a white top, a silver necklace, and dangling earrings. Trees are in the background.
Andrea Mae is a mom, advocate, writer, and special education aid. She spends time caring for her three children: juggling therapies and specialists, reading, hiking, kayaking, hammocking, eating Reese’s, and being followed around by her dog-Daisy.. She is active in her neighborhood and community, advocating for the rights and needs of people with disabilities, and speaking on the topics of disability and theology. She is currently obtaining her degree in special education.
