Poppy, Verdura.
Meli Melo, Cartier.
Wrapped Heart, Verdura.
The jewelry worn by the wives in our circle consisted primarily of engagement and wedding rings, the occasional pearl necklace, and earrings that were generally nondescript but sometimes op art or pop art. We thought of jewelry as a traditional and fun means of adornment that was paid for by (usually male) acquaintances or that came to us through family ties. A fancier or more expensive item might make some statement about how much a husband could afford, but it was not a declaration of any depth about the woman wearing it.
Following my divorce in 1983, I found myself tapping into another sort of tradition. By then, I had completed my education and started out in politics. I had begun drawing a salary of my own working for a U.S. senator, Edmund S. Muskie of Maine, and then in the White House under Jimmy Carter, in whose honor I wore a pin shaped like a Georgia peanut. After that, I followed in my father’s footsteps, becoming a university professor. Though devastated when my marriage fell apart, I soon found my own spirit and voice. From that time on, when my mind turned to jewelry or clothes, I thought less about the expectations of others and more about my own sense of identity and pride.
Suffragette pin, designer unknown.
My experiences, of course, were hardly unique. Women have been striding toward independence for many generations. In Great Britain in the early twentieth century, supporters of the suffragette movement wore medals or brooches in the shades of green, white, and violet—signifying, respectively, hope, purity, and dignity. Not coincidentally, the initial letters of the colors ( G, W, V ) suggested an acronym: “Give Women the Vote!” In the United States, suffragettes were equally flamboyant, greeting Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration with an 8,000-person march down Pennsylvania Avenue led by a woman dressed as Joan of Arc and seated on a white horse. During Wilson’s second term, activists who were thrown into jail for picketing were given a distinctive Jailed for Freedom brooch, produced by the indomitable women’s-rights advocate Alice Paul. The pin displayed a prison door with a chain and heart-shaped padlock. In 1920, shortly before Wilson left office, the Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution was ratified, and women were finally accorded the opportunity to vote in federal elections.
SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION NATIONAL MUSEUM OF AMERICAN HISTORY
The silver Jailed for Freedom pin was awarded to suffragettes who were imprisoned after picketing in front of the White House in 1917. Jailed for Freedom, Nina Evans Allender and Alice Paul. Courtesy of Smithsonian Institution National Museum of American History.
In my case, I didn’t have a special color, didn’t dress as Saint Joan, didn’t go to jail, and didn’t think of myself as belonging to a movement. Instead, I was in my mid-forties and venturing from marriage into—for the first time—the status of a fully grown, unattached adult. Although medals, ribbons, T-shirts, hats, and, I suppose, tattoos were optional means of expression, I found myself frequently turning to pins or brooches. I preferred them to necklaces because a perfectly presentable pin is less expensive than a comparable necklace. I also preferred pins because for years I did not want to wear a ring. In fact, the only one I felt comfortable wearing was purchased in the Philippines and made of black onyx. My thinking at the time was that every divorced woman should wear a black ring.
The fashions of the 1980s have been described as postfeminist, which was fine with me since I had largely missed out on the earlier phases. The idea was that a woman could show independence from stereotypes without eschewing ornamentation; it was no longer thought essential to dress plainly in order to be taken seriously or to imply that wearing earrings made one unable to think. Since women were making inroads in business and the professions, power jackets and pantsuits came into style. The brooch was a natural accompaniment.
During my first decade of postmarital independence, I taught world affairs at Georgetown University and advised presidential candidates, most of whom lost. I also dated and shopped quite a bit. This is when I discovered the Tiny Jewel Box, a boutique situated on Connecticut Avenue in Washington’s busiest commercial district. The store is actually more narrow than tiny. It advertises itself as “six intimate floors filled with treasures from around the world, each one hand-selected with an eye for the truly unique.”
I have spent many an afternoon wandering about the Tiny Jewel Box’s displays of antique pieces (typically bought from estates) and newer items by hot designers. My motives at the outset were entirely pure; I marched through the doors intent on selecting a necklace or brooch to give to a relative or friend in celebration of some event. If the occasion were a wedding, I might also decide to buy something elegant to wear at the ceremony; if a lesser event, a bauble to match a dress.
French urn, designer unknown.
Before long, I accepted that it was okay to shop with my own needs and desires in mind. Thus, when my eye was attracted to a serpent pin, I did not hesitate to buy it; this was the pin that would later launch my use of brooches as a diplomatic tool.
The sheaf of wheat is a symbol of abundance and health. This pin was given to me upon my return to Georgetown University after my time as secretary of state. Sheaf of wheat, Tiffany & Co.
MICHAEL KRESS PHOTOGRAPHY
In a celebratory mood at Katie’s wedding, joined by daughters Alice and Anne, and my three sons-in-law, Greg Bowes (holding grandson David), Jake Schatz, and Geoff Watson. Grapes, Tiny Jewel Box.
Late in 1992, President-elect Clinton asked me to serve as America’s ambassador to the United Nations. During the Cold War, the UN Security Council had been frozen by rivalry between East and West. The Council could only act when the superpowers agreed, and they did not agree often or about very much. When I arrived, three years after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, relations had thawed and the Council had new life. Instead of the big powers preventing cooperative action, they were asking the world body to take on jobs no country wanted to do alone. This had important implications for international law—and for my wardrobe.
JAMES ESTRIN/THE NEW YORK TIMES/REDUX
My friend Jeane Kirkpatrick gave me good advice before my move to New York.
Before leaving for New York, I consulted with my colleague at Georgetown, Jeane Kirkpatrick, who had been UN ambassador when Ronald Reagan was president. Kirkpatrick gave me one piece of advice: “Lose the professor clothes.” Until then, I had been a student, mother, government staffer, and teacher; this was to be my first prolonged experience in the limelight. I spent time trying on outfits in various Washington boutiques; soon I also confirmed what no one has ever doubted: New York offers boundless opportunities to shop. As a friend from the Big Apple told me, “The only real difference between a human being and other mammals is our ability to accessorize.”
JAMES ESTRIN/THE NEW YORK TIMES/REDUX
This pin was made from fragments of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the year the Wall was brought down. Berlin Wall, Gisela Geiger.
BPA, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
Surrounded by men at a meeting of the Group of Eight (G-8) Foreign Ministers. In the pin below, which represents the G-8, gender is not an issue.
I had expected my initial Security Council meeting to be in the huge room with the horseshoe table that is frequently seen on television, but that chamber is generally reserved for formal sessions. The space used for routine meetings—where much of the real work is done—was no bigger than the college seminar rooms I had just left. The similarity reminded me of what I had frequently told my female students: Do not be afraid to interrupt. A woman usually prefers to size up a situation before speaking, but for America’s UN ambassador, silence was not an option. So I squeezed my way into the cramped space, sat down, and, when the opportunity arose, plunged in.
BPA, FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF GERMANY
G-8 pin, designer unknown.
From that day forward, I attracted attention because I represented the United States and was the only woman on the Council. With so many eyes
on me, I didn’t want to worry about my appearance. This prompted me to pay added heed to how I looked and gradually to acquire new pins to make my clothes more interesting. Because every activity at the United Nations has a political aspect, one of my signature themes was Americana.
New York’s famed Pier Antiques Show is held periodically on the far West Side of midtown, in a sprawling building overlooking the Hudson River. Collectors and dealers from around the world are on hand, and whenever I could arrange my schedule, so was I. For seekers of high-quality costume jewelry, this was the equivalent of the Promised Land. Amid the crowd of shoppers, I moved from booth to booth, looking, touching, inquiring about prices, and—as one quickly learns to do in New York—using my elbows. One year, after surveying my options, I selected an eagle brooch manufactured by the distinguished American firm Trifari; it was enameled in red, white, and blue and set with rhinestones. Nearby, I came across an Uncle Sam’s hat, also by Trifari, in a similar style. Both were made of enameled metal, and both dated from the 1940s. Either seemed suitable for America’s UN ambassador, but I found the best effect came when I wore the two together, with the hat tilted at a rakish angle, seemingly atop the eagle’s head.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
Sailor, Monet.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
Overseas, accompanied by officers from the U.S. Air Force.
PHILLIPPE WOJAZER/REUTERS
French president Jacques Chirac practicing the art of diplomacy. My pin (shown on the following page) celebrates liberté, égalité, fraternité.
I also purchased a large American flag pin that I have since grown accustomed to wearing on the Fourth of July and other festive occasions. For funerals, to which I have been too often, I picked up a tricolor memorial bow.
The manufacture of costume jewelry with a patriotic theme flourished in the United States during and immediately after World War II. All the symbols I love—eagles, flags, drums, trumpets, and rousing slogans—were in vogue. The pieces were worn by noncombatants to signify support for the war effort and bought by sailors and soldiers to leave with sweethearts before taking up arms across the sea. Many of the pins came in the colors of the U.S. flag and continued selling after the war (except for those in red, which fell out of favor because of the color’s association with Communism).
PHILLIPPE WOJAZER/REUTERS
Memorial bow, Trifari.
One of the reasons I appreciate costume jewelry is that it can delight the eye and still spare the pocketbook. The modern woman needs to be able to experiment with a look and try different ideas. Given my height (five foot two), I had always assumed small pins were best for me, but soon I began to buy pieces that—although not costly—were bigger, bolder, and sometimes even crazier. To my surprise, I found that the look I preferred was more on the dramatic side than the demure.
American flag, Ann Hand;
brave heart, Swarovski;
AIDS ribbon, designer unknown;
heart with donkey, designer unknown;
heart stickpin, reproduction, The Metropolitan Museum of Art;
French ribbon bow, Silson;
patriotic bow, Carolee;
Statue of Liberty, designer unknown;
safety-pin American flag, designer unknown;
small American flag, designer unknown;
large Fight for Freedom torch, DMW;
WWII ribbon, Silson;
Stars and Stripes, Ciner;
small Fight for Freedom torch, DMW.
Uncle Sam Top Hat
Eagle, Trifari.
JOYCE NALTCHAYAN/GETTY IMAGES
I wore my Chinese shard dragon pin when testifying before Congress concerning U.S.-China relations.
JOYCE NALTCHAYAN/GETTY IMAGES
As my pins became more expressive and drew more comments, I had cause to reflect on the relationship between appearance and identity. To what extent, to adapt the old saying, do pins make the woman or, for that matter, the man? After all, the display of pins has never been confined to one gender. Medieval knights wore elaborate jeweled badges that defined their status and conferred a group identity. A fourteenth-century English lad could have no higher aspiration than to advertise a connection to the royal family by embellishing his cloak with the Order of the Garter’s radiant star. Conspirators on all sides in the English Civil War used pins, rings, and lockets to signal their loyalties to friends without tipping off their enemies. George Washington sometimes wore a spectacular diamond eagle, based on a design by Pierre L’Enfant and given to him by the French Navy, that included no fewer than 198 precious stones. Pottery pioneer Josiah Wedgwood, Washington’s contemporary, manufactured a medallion to be worn by opponents of the slave trade. Exquisitely carved, the cameo showed a black man in chains with the question, “Am I not a man and a brother?”
One of my many bold pins. Colorful bird, Iradj Moini.
THE TRUSTEES OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM
Josiah Wedgwood’s abolitionist medallion. Courtesy of the Trustees of the British Museum.
ESM pin, Cartier;
saxophone, Kenneth Jay Lane;
Solidarity, designer unknown.
Heart-health red dress, National Institutes of Health;
In our own day, security experts rely on coded pins to identify people who are cleared to enter a particular area while excluding those who are not. Members of Congress are given pins so that they might avoid being stopped by guards while en route to their offices or the legislative floor. Clubs and lodges typically use badges (along with secret handshakes) to enable fellow members to recognize a common bond. Voters display pins to demonstrate allegiance to political candidates or causes. My own loyalties could be seen in a pin labeled “ESM,” identifying me as an early backer of U.S. Senator Edmund S. Muskie; a “Solidarity” clip that, in 1981, I was given by anti-Communist activists in Poland; a pink ribbon for the race to cure breast cancer; a red dress for women’s heart health; and a saxophone pin evoking our one and only sax-playing chief executive, Bill Clinton.
Susan G. Komen for the Cure breast cancer ribbon.
Finally, our armed forces also use pins—in the form of ribbons and medals—to convey messages about accomplishments, stature, and rank. I was reminded of this during my time as UN ambassador.
Harry Truman was president when my family arrived in America. Since then I have participated in many political campaigns and worn my share of buttons, including these featuring Truman and five other presidents.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF DEFENSE
With General John Shalikashvili, who succeeded Colin Powell as chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In the background are Janet Langhart Cohen and Secretary of Defense Bill Cohen. It was Janet who designed the eagle and dove pin on the opposite page, celebrating NATO’s fiftieth anniversary.
In 1993, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff was General Colin Powell. We were both members of the Clinton national security team and sat across from each other at the long rectangular table in the White House Situation Room. Although we saw eye to eye on many controversies, we did not agree on whether the United States and NATO should intervene to stop ethnic cleansing in the former Yugoslav Republic of Bosnia. I thought we should act and listed the reasons why; General Powell expressed doubts and listed the reasons why not. The dilemma for me was that although I had my patriotic pins, he had a chest full of well-earned medals. He was fresh from victory in the first Gulf War and cut a dashing figure in his uniform; I was fresh from my classrooms at Georgetown and, even in my best suit, resembled something of a dumpling (this was before I began working out).
As a civilian and a woman, I did not feel comfortable challenging the wisdom of such a true American hero, but I also knew that I had not been given a chair in the Situation Room to imitate a potted plant. I took my own advice and interrupted, arguing that the United States had an urgent interest in halting the slaughter of innocent people in the Balkans. Using a pointer and slides, Powell made clear his own expectation that the
potential costs of such an effort would far outweigh the benefits. For months, we were at a stalemate; the administration did nothing, and, as the killing continued, I grew frustrated and at one meeting finally let loose.
Partners in Peace, Janet Langhart Cohen/Ann Hand.
DIRCK HALSTEAD/TIME
Some of my more deadly pins. Jambiya dagger, Yemen;
DIRCK HALSTEAD/TIME
rocket-propelled grenade launcher (RPG), Pakistan.
DIRCK HALSTEAD/TIME
On the cover of Time magazine, May 17, 1999.
“Colin,” I asked, “what are you saving this superb military for, if we can’t use it?” In his autobiography, Powell wrote that my question almost gave him an aneurysm and that he was compelled to explain to me—patiently—the appropriate role of the U.S. armed forces. In retrospect, I am willing to concede that the general was right to be cautious, right to ask questions, right to consider alternatives, and right to worry about the facile assumptions of civilian leaders. However, I was right about Bosnia, where NATO did eventually intervene and as a result saved thousands of lives.
Although I love pins, they have in common with necklaces and bracelets one complication: the clasp. Thus it has ever been. The earliest pins were less ornamental than functional. Primitive hunter-gatherers used thorns or sharp pieces of flint to keep their clothes from falling off while they ran around in pursuit of lunch. As civilization progressed from the Stone Age to the Bronze and Iron eras, pieces of metal began to serve the same essential purpose. From there, it was only a short step to the use of rare ores and gemstones that combined the fastening with the alluring. Royal burial sites in Ur, home city of the patriarch Abraham, included gold and silver pins—some topped by lapis lazuli beads—that would have been used to secure robes at the shoulder.
Read My Pins: Stories from a Diplomat's Jewel Box Page 3
