Iraq War veteran uses art to cope with PTSD

Jeffrey Stenbom smooths out an inch-wide piece of fabric sliced off his old Army uniform and attaches it to his loom. That strip of fabric he knots with another strip ripped off a different military uniform, then he weaves the fabric through the loom's warp thread, which is parachute cord.

Over and over, the Iraq War veteran and art instructor at Normandale Community College repeats the meditative motions of weaving. One strand of fabric is from a World War I uniform he bought off eBay; the next is from an Army combat uniform his grandfather wore during World War II in Europe; the next is from Air Force coveralls worn by his other grandfather, who served in the Korean War and the Vietnam War.

This will eventually become an American flag woven from uniforms from every military conflict the U.S. has engaged in since World War I. It's one of 10 pieces of art commissioned by USAA, the military-focused financial services company, which will be displayed at each of USAA's 10 regional offices.

But Stenbom's largest work — a 25-by-12-foot American flag that took 1,200 hours to weave — is already complete, displayed at the San Antonio International Airport for the next six months for USAA's 100th anniversary. It will then permanently move to USAA's San Antonio headquarters.

"So much history," Stenbom says, holding part of a World War I uniform. "There's so many stories, untold stories, with each of these uniforms."

You may assume Stenbom's story is a simple story of veteran patriotism.

That is partly true. The message of the "Freedom's Threads" flags he wove for USAA is straightforward: Stenbom wants to ensure the sacrifices of military veterans are not forgotten. There's symbolism in interlocking all these veterans' histories.

But look deeper and Stenbom's story is as tortured and complicated as his dark, powerful art.

The 44-year-old Apple Valley father of three is primarily a glass sculptor. One of his pieces is a glass replica of the combat boots he wore in Iraq, resting in a bed of 5.56-millimeter rifle casings. Another is a sculpture that mashes up a grenade and a human brain. Another is a display of 7,300 glass dog tags, the number of U.S. veteran suicides each year.

Stenbom's art lives in that darkness. His darkness stemmed from a harrowing deployment early in the Iraq War that left him with post-traumatic stress disorder.

"It's not just bringing awareness to the sacrifices," he said. "It's the aftermath of war, PTSD, veteran suicide. That stuff is not pretty. I'm not into making pretty artwork. I do a lot of stuff that talks about death. I was around it all the time. I do a lot of stuff with skulls. My fiancee and my parents, they're like, 'I know you made this stuff, but it's just so sad!' [But] I need to do this. It's part of helping me deal with the things I've gone through. Before I did art, I was lost."

He wants his art to cast light in the darkness, because that's what art did for him.

**

Stenbom was taking a break from college when 9/11 happened. Eight days later, he signed up for the Army. By the end of September, he was in basic training. He trained to be a cavalry scout, the eyes and ears of the Army: go out in your Humvee and track down the bad guys.

He was deployed to Kosovo in 2002, then in February 2004 went to Iraq as a squad leader with seven soldiers under him. He was just north of Samarra, living in old grain storage bins in the heart of the Sunni Triangle, when the insurgency heated up that spring. His base was hit by rockets and mortars almost daily.

"I remember the first time being shot at, and it was like, 'What the heck?' " he recalled. "Then it shifted. The days you didn't get shot at became the weird days. That was when you knew that things weren't right."

Soldiers struggled with heat and the lack of sleep, but the worst part was the uncertainty. Insurgents didn't wear uniforms. Americans never knew who the enemy was. Once, an improvised explosive device, or IED, exploded next to Stenbom's Humvee, lodging shrapnel in his hip. Another July day, a suicide bomber attacked a base where Stenbom had been the night before. Six U.S. soldiers died.

While he was in Iraq, Stenbom's first son was born. In August, he went on R&R to meet his son, and his sister died by suicide back home. All the emotions piled up and broke him. He was suicidal. He tore up an ER when military doctors told him he had to return to Iraq.

With assistance from military psychiatrists, he was sent back to the United States. He was filled with rage. Some of it was feeling duped by a war on false pretenses; some of it was transitioning from war zone to home front. Once, at his parents' house, he threw a table against the fireplace, shattering it. He didn't know why he did it. His grandfather took him for help.

Stenbom knew he wanted to go back to school. On a whim, he took a fused-glass art class at Normandale Community College. Spending hours fusing shards of glass together pushed war from his mind.

"This started giving me a passion and a drive and a focus, energizing me like hadn't happened since before the war," he said. "I got lucky. If it wasn't for this one class, I don't think I'd be here, man. I'm positive I'd be dead."

**

Now armed with a master's degree from Tulane University, Stenbom teaches the same class he credits with saving his life. At the beginning of every semester, he tells students about his path. He tells them he used to be a nontraditional student, like some in his class. And he talks about how art like these American flags woven from military uniforms saved his life.

"That isn't just fabric," said Taylor Clark, a retired Navy officer and the executive sponsor of USAA's 100th Anniversary. "Each one is a different story of commitment and honor and service."

The giant flag at San Antonio International Airport weighs 100 pounds. It includes 6,500 feet of parachute cord and fabric from 140 military uniforms of all six military branches.

"There is something sad about it," Stenbom said. "I'm deconstructing these uniforms — pulling them apart, cutting them up — and there's a lot of history in there."

Sometimes, when he tears off the pockets, things spill out. An N-95 mask. Tobacco that was never used. Grains of dirt or sand from a far-off land. Stenbom always wonders about the stories contained within, and how similar they are to his own.

"My mission is to bring awareness to the sacrifice," he said. "That's what my art is about — making sure the message is being delivered. I want people to think about all these stories."