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[The following is an editorial column by contributor Carly Kocurek and does not necessarily reflect the views of the Austinist staff. --The Editors]
This past weekend, while I was visiting my family, my mother busted out an inherited cocktail ring. You have to understand, my upbringing was more 10k gold than platinum, and if we’re being perfectly honest, more cubic zirconia than diamond. We just didn’t do jewelry. We just didn’t do luxury. In part because we couldn’t, and in part because, as my parents continue to assert, “We aren’t those kinds of people.” But, now there’s this ring. This ring was inherited from my great aunt, who was a bit more drinks-with-dinner than the rest of us, which might justify the need for such a ring.
My mother has had the ring for the past few years. The stones are supposed to be split up between my mother, her sister, and their mother. Apparently, my grandmother’s diamond will pass to me when my grandmother dies. My mother, though, whom I’ve seen wear a ring maybe three times in my life, has already earmarked her diamond to be put into an engagement ring, assuming my brother eventually proposes to his girlfriend.
She relayed this information, ring in hand, with a decades-old appraisal and photograph of the piece in question as my brother and I sprawled on the bed and joked what we could do with diamonds. He said he thought maybe he’d rather get a really high-end grill made than get married.
My mother ignored the jokes, and instead fussed over whether or not the rock was big enough. My mother, who hasn’t worn her wedding band in my memory, was worried that the inherited diamond might be too small for an engagement ring for my brother’s girlfriend, who wears nearly every day a $30 necklace my brother bought.
I think everyone in my family is a bit uncomfortable with those gems. Diamonds are one of the most common examples of conspicuous consumption. At a wedding I went to a few months ago, the bride was sporting a 5-carat monster. I couldn’t stop staring. It was like seeing a Picasso in someone’s living room. Who lives like that?
Diamonds are also the subject of some of the most effective advertising campaigns. We all know that “a diamond is forever.” After the “right hand ring” ads started appearing in every women’s magazine, I’ll admit, I wanted a diamond of my very own. I wanted the world to know that “while my left hand rocks the cradle, my right hand rocks the world.” I’m not even the target market for these ads. I’m too broke, and I’m too young. The only time I rock a cradle is when I’ve managed to score a babysitting gig.
I’m not sure what I’ll do with that diamond when it skips a generation and lands in my care. I can’t in good conscience sell it; in a family with few valuable heirlooms, to let one slip free would be poor form. To lock it away seems somehow worse – I can’t imagine my aunt, who bought herself silk pajamas even as she was quite obviously dying of lung cancer, endorsing such behavior. I wouldn’t feel good about having it fashioned into anything for my left hand. After all, the piece of jewelry it came from wasn’t about commitment – it was about having a good time. And, ultimately, I’ll probably have it put into something like the original ring – a cocktail ring, the one use of a diamond that says neither “I love you” nor “I am an independent, diamond-buying woman,” but instead, “For a good time, call.”
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Live guilt free and go Canadian or, gasp, synthetic.
http://www.amnestyusa.org/amnestynow/diamonds.html
Sneed