Bling Baby Bling

It was March, 1996, in the suburbs of Seattle. The Coen Brothers’ film,“Fargo” had just opened in theaters. The first surface photos of Pluto, taken by the Hubble Space Telescope, were released. The toll-free (888)- area code had just been born. And my mother had made up her mind that she’d take eight-week-old-little-me to a tattoo shop—and get my ears pierced with real diamond earrings.

Some people consider this to be a controversial choice that my parents made for me at such a young age. For many—especially in other cultures—it is entirely normal or even fundamentally traditional. I don’t particularly have an opinion on child piercings either way, but speaking in terms of my own personal experiences and tangible memories, I am grateful to my mother for making this choice for me.

A small bit of backstory: my brothers and I didn’t grow up particularly well-off, but my parents were smart enough with their finances to create the illusion that their humble means were more than just that. We lived in an incredibly well-kept but old house, always had two working vehicles, and were able to get a few new articles of clothing for school each year—though we virtually never traveled or ate out, and often didn’t get to do many of the fun things that so many of our friends were able to. Don’t get me wrong here—my parents did very well taking care of us and even spoiling us at times, and I am incredibly thankful to have grown up with what I had. But to this day, considering my family’s finances, I do not know why they splurged on real diamond earrings for their two-month-old daughter.

What I do know, is that my mother wanted my ears pierced as early as legally possible to get it out of the way, and avoid any later trauma or fear that can come from getting pierced. Yes, she did assume that growing up as a young girl I would want my ears pierced—and she was right—but that still doesn’t explain the real diamonds. The only reasoning that I can surmise in regards to this detail is: that because I was their only daughter, they wanted to spoil me in some way; reinforce the fact that I was their little princess. That, and they probably just wanted me to be completely and utterly extra cute in photographs.

Fast forward several years to grade school: I was incredibly intelligent, kind, and social, but not particularly popular or cute. I had intense confidence and drive in the classroom, but very little outside of it. (In my adult life I’d realize that I had been living with generalized anxiety disorder, (among other things) my entire life, but that’s a different story.) My friends were always more fashionable, and their families could afford much nicer clothes than mine could. But what I did have was a means of expressing myself that few of my peers had the luxury of experiencing at that young of an age; I had my ears pierced.

My mother would take me to Claire’s Jewelry at the mall and would allow me to pick out just about any set of earrings I wanted. Typically coming in packs of three or nine—I had hoops, studs, (fake) pearls, smiley faces and peace signs in all different colors. Animals, watermelons, Disney characters, and my initials. I even had several pairs of those weird-looking spiked rubber balls that were oh-so-popular in the early 2000’s. I had just about every pair of earrings a girl could ever want: including, still, the original pair of diamond earrings that my ears were pierced with all those years ago.

Although having decorated lobes wasn’t a choice that I myself made, I began to muster up a certain confidence in school because of it. As an artistically inclined child, I developed a deep appreciation for this opportunity to be expressive in my appearance. Waking each morning to get ready for school and getting to choose which pair went with my outfit, mood, or current season was something I looked forward to and thrived on. Once I’d arrived at school, my earrings would spark a conversation or compliment from someone, exponentially boosting my spirit. It became a signature of sorts. I was the smart, kind, creative girl with the fun earrings and a newfound sense of certainty that this was indeed my identity.

After many arguments attempting to convince my mother to allow me to get more piercings, for my eleventh birthday, she took me to get second holes in each of my lobes. Around fourteen, she allowed double cartilage rings in my left ear. After that point, I think she was so exhausted of my pestering that it no longer took much convincing for her to take me to get third lobe piercings, then a fourth and fifth in my right ear. I wouldn’t say that I became addicted to piercings—but as I got through middle school and into high school, I continued to grow my artistic abilities and had developed a wickedly artistic sense of fashion for a young girl in the suburbs. I simply had a desire for more real estate to create different daily combinations of jewelry that made me feel like me.

When I turned fifteen in the tenth grade (I’d already been getting dropped off at the mall with friends on weekends for several years at this point), I knew I was still too young to get pierced without a guardian. With five holes in each ear and a growing unpleasant sense of teenage rage, I was well aware that I wasn’t in a position to be asking my mother for more. But one day while walking through the ever-so-educational store that is Spencer’s Gifts, I realized that I could stretch my ears without parent permission. To make another separate long story short, I stretched my original eight-week-old baby piercings to size 00g (10mm) and the second hole in my right ear to a size 6g (4mm). Very much in my favor I had long, thick, curly hair that I typically always wore down—so it took my parents a full year to even notice. And just believe me when I say: my mother was NOT happy.

My parents told me that my plugs were hideous, gross, and unprofessional. They said I needed to take them out right then and there, so that the holes would shrink up; that if I didn’t, they’d never close and I would deeply regret my choice later in life. They attempted to bribe me multiple times by offering me money to take them out. They threatened to take away certain social privileges. Their initial shock finally died down, but still every so often my mother would ask me, “Are you ready to take those gross things out of your ears yet?” and would just sigh when I told her no. I loved my plugs. They gave me a sense of independence and rebellion. Going through the whole process of slowly stretching my ears over the course of a year, I’d felt myself growing up so fast. That was all I really wanted. That sense of adult independence, and a further expression of the creativity I’d so intensely lived for. Remember what I said before? More real estate.

I don’t think I need to explain that high school was a tough time for many of us. We are all just trying to grow up, find our way, figure out who we are and who we want to be. Though I already had this overwhelming feeling that I knew who I was and who I wanted to be: an artist. A cool artist. And my piercings and plugs were a huge part of visually depicting this persona that I had chosen for myself. They gave me inspiration to make more art. They gave me poise to confidently walk through those dreaded hallways. They showcased to my peers that I was (and still am) a creative. Above all, they gave me a deep sense of validation that I was growing up to be the badass artist that I’d always wanted to be.

Alas, for my identity, confidence, and independence, I say thank you to my mother.

Thank you for walking into that tattoo parlor when I was only weeks old.

Thank you for taking me on all of those Claire’s shopping sprees.

Thank you for allowing me to dress myself up and be the creative kid that I wanted to be.

Thank you for caring so much when I stretched my ears without telling you, and for (eventually) understanding that it was a vital decision I needed to make for myself, in order to grow.

Thank you for allowing me to grow.

And most of all, thank you for being my mom.