In French classes, which I have on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, je me demande why my ring sparkles while professors go on about composition, Louis XIV, and the upcoming election in France. We get together in groups and talk about elements of text or absolute monarchy or current events, and none of these things are as important as my ring.
In my Tuesday/Thursday English classes, I imagine the most Postmodern thing I can do is look at my ring. In my Postmodern lit class, we’re learning to expand and enrich our reading experience, but looking at my ring transcends me to another level of consciousness. In my senior project class, we’re learning about models of looking at the city in literature. The professor drew three concentric circles on the board to stand for the history of the city, the time and space needed to realize the city, and the city itself. But in those three circles, all I could see was my ring, morphed into white gold that insets a very sparkly diamond with four tiny sparkly diamonds around it.
That ring would have sparkled in 17th-Century France much more brightly than any of the kings, as well as in New York City. It would sparkle in third-world countries, especially the country where the diamond may have come from, which may or may have not been illegally obtained, which people may have died in the process of getting it to a Salt Lake City diamond dealer then to my jeweler.
But who cares about all that? Who cares about poverty and misogyny and human rights? Who cares about child abuse and inadequate health care? Let’s just say before I go to sleep at night, I close my eyes and say a little prayer to my ring, and when I wake up, I thank the ring for my many blessings. Sometimes when Reilly turns my hand to look at the ring, I accuse him of trying to steal it, but then we close our eyes and say a little prayer to it before meals.
It sparkles on my finger now. It winks approval at me.