People who wear diamonds
On my right hand, I wear a diamond ring that my grandmother gave me. It was her engagement ring, only she was given it several years into her marriage because, well, she and Grandpa had come from the Ukraine with nothing, and it took him a long time to be able to buy it.
When he could, though, he bought her what must have been the biggest darn diamond in the store. This thing is unmissably huge, and it’s set in a curious sort of post-Art-Deco swirly platinum band with teeny diamonds in the channels. So you don’t miss the point, I guess. D-I-A-M-O-N-D.
It’s mine because I am the first — well, all right, the only — granddaughter of my grandmother to be married. This is not quite how it appears; my sister and I are my grandmother’s only granddaughters, the Rovners having run to boys. I wear it because it was hers, because I like the story behind it, because I want to honor the kind of love that gives such gifts.
I get many complimentary reactions on the ring, from the sort of person — invariably female, thus far — who notices diamonds. Sometimes it’s like being accepted into an exclusive club. Women Who Wear Large Diamonds. The only thing that seems to confuse them is that I wear it on my right hand, not my left; the sapphire engagement ring over the wedding ring on my left hand being quite small by comparison. Diamonds come from men, in this particular sorority’s estimation, and are always worn on the left hand.
Still. It’s a large diamond. Due attention must be paid, it seems.
The Women Who… sorority reclaimed my notice the other day on the city bus going downtown to pick up the bus to Chicago. A sorority member looked me over, wasn’t quite sure what to make of the stained tan backpack over the gypsy-green dress and the gray wool shawl — then saw the diamond. Suddenly I was worth talking to, and the shawl was an elegant fashion accessory, to be compared with the contents of her own closet.
She flashed her own sorority symbol, duly left-handed. I think she was mildly confused over my lack of reaction. I may bear the symbol, but I don’t know the passwords or the secret handshake. She told me with a slightly shopworn flounce that of course this was her first time on anything so vulgar as a city bus. I nodded. The city bus is how I get places.
And a few moments later, she betrayed herself, mentioning how she’d learned the city-bus etiquette of leaving from the rear door. First time. Right.
I’m not quite sure what ran through her head when she left the bus, what she would think of me if we happened to run into each other again. The sorority has rules, etiquette, worldview. I don’t follow the rules, am ignorant of the etiquette, and don’t share the worldview. Yet it seems I am still a sorority member, by virtue of my grandmother’s ring. Is that really how these things work?