There was also the dilemma of how to arrange multiple pins. Some went together naturally, such as the zebras that I wore to a meeting with Nelson Mandela. Other combinations took more imagination—for example, bees approaching a sunflower. It was fun experimenting with various arrangements, but the practice threatened to consume too much energy. This is beside the fact that my clothes began to resemble dartboards, so perforated were they by the pins; eventually, I had to wear more and even bigger ones to mask the destruction.
At the same time, I had to deal with what a male friend described to me in jest as the Hooters issue. At Morey Junior High School in Denver, I had worn a blouse with a decoration that included two spiderwebs made of white stitching. I also owned a pair of small bug pins that I did not hesitate to place at the center of the spiderwebs, which were located on the left and right sides of my torso, face-front, breast-high. Given my age at the time, no one pointed out that they resembled pasties. With maturity comes growth, however, and as I traveled the world as a diplomat, I wanted people to look at my pins without embarrassing either the observers or me. So I wore the pins higher and higher up.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
Spiders and their web, reproductions, The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Flower with four bees, Joseff of Hollywood.
Nelson Mandela represented a new hope in Africa in the mid-1990s. I wore my favorite zebra pins when I met him at his estate in Pretoria, South Africa, in December 1997. From left: Medium zebra, Ciner; large zebra, KUO; small zebra, designer unknown.
JUDA NGWENYA/REUTERS
Foxy Lady, Lea Stein.
I was justified in this approach when the foreign minister of South Korea made a comment, intended to be off the record, that he enjoyed hugging me at meetings and press conferences because I had “firm breasts.” When the remark hit the newspapers, the foreign minister almost lost his job. Upon being asked to comment, I said, “Well, I have to have something to put these pins on.” After that, the controversy quieted, but when I next met the foreign minister, instead of embracing we stopped an arm’s length apart and shook hands.
One reason I had so many meetings with the foreign minister of South Korea is that we had so many quarrels with North Korea. That country’s dictator, Kim Jong-il, had begun testing long-range missiles of a type that could conceivably threaten the territory of the United States. We were determined to prevent that, and so I traveled to Pyongyang, North Korea’s capital, to negotiate.
In no other country on Earth are pins more crucial or less decorative. Every North Korean is expected to wear a pin bearing the image of the nation’s founder, Kim Il-sung. Failure to display this badge of adoration is evidence of independent political thought, something strictly prohibited and severely punished. This is one reason why I find it absurd when U.S. politicians are criticized for not wearing American flag pins. The United States is a strong, confident country; we need not be so insecure as to require constant demonstrations of allegiance. At the same time, I wore the boldest American flag pin I had when meeting with Kim Jong-il. North Koreans are taught from an early age that America is evil; I wanted them to reconcile that reputation with photos of their exalted leader playing host to me.
Evil, of course, resides in the eye of the beholder. One of my more distinctive pieces of jewelry conveys a message about evil and how to resist it. The story begins in the spring of 1999, when leaders from NATO gathered in Washington to observe the In North Korea, October 2000, posing for the cameras with Kim Jong-il. To appear taller, I wore heels. So did he. American flag, Robert Sorrell. alliance’s fiftieth anniversary. As part of our preparations, President Clinton met with his foreign policy team. Just as we were getting down to business, photographer Diana Walker was allowed in. The photo op was good for public relations but meant that we had to cease talking about confidential issues. To dramatize the need for discretion, the president, clowning around, clamped his hand over his mouth. Defense Secretary Bill Cohen then put his hands over his ears. Taking my cue from the other two, I promptly covered my eyes. We literally made monkeys of ourselves before the camera, mimicking the well-known “Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil” adage.
In North Korea, October 20, posing for the cameras with Kim Jong-il. To appear taller, I wore heels. So did he. American flag, Robert Sorrell.
DAVID GUTTENFELDER/ASSOCIATED PRESS
DIANA WALKER/TIME
Clowning around with Defense Secretary Cohen and President Clinton.
At the time of the Walker photograph, I didn’t own a three-monkey pin, but I soon found a set in Brussels. The individual figures are carved out of tagua nuts and each sits on a glass cabochon (pink, purple, or orange) encircled with crystals. The origin of the monkeys as a warning against temptation is lost in the mists of Japanese folklore, but the admonition dates back at least five hundred years and has much to do with accepting responsibility for wrongful thoughts and actions. The most famous carvings of Kikazaru (the “hear no” monkey), Iwazaru (the “speak no” monkey), and Mizaru (the “see no” monkey) can be found above the door of the seventeenth-century Toshogu shrine in Nikko, Japan.
Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil, See No Evil, Iradj Moini.
I first had occasion to wear the monkey pins on a visit to Moscow for a meeting with Russian President Vladimir Putin. One of the issues I wanted to raise was Russia’s callous attitude toward human rights in the region of Chechnya, where brutal fighting was then taking place. The Russian military had legitimate reasons to fight rebel terrorists, but its approach was so heavy-handed that it was only creating more enemies. I argued that international monitors should be allowed into the region to protect civilians. Putin blocked the request, denying that any human rights violations were being committed. He saw no evil; hence my pins.
Despite our disagreements over Chechnya, the Russians were ever mindful of the signals I was sending. Putin told President Clinton that he routinely checked to see what brooch I was wearing and tried to decipher its meaning. Sometimes my choice reflected warmth in our relationship, as when I wore a gold spaceship brooch celebrating our partnership in the skies, but more often the mood was tense. Putin, who was young and disciplined, had replaced Boris Yeltsin, who was neither. My first impressions of the Russian leader were mixed—he was obviously capable, but his instincts appeared more autocratic than democratic. As the months passed, my early hopes were deflated by Putin’s single-minded pursuit of power.
Among our most contentious discussions with the Kremlin were those involving nuclear arms. The United States wanted to make changes in the antiballistic missile treaty, and our counterparts did not. At the beginning of our talks, the Russian foreign minister looked at the arrow-like pin I had chosen for that day and inquired, “Is that one of your interceptor missiles?” I said, “Yes, and as you can see, we know how to make them very small. So you’d better be ready to negotiate.”
One high point in U.S.-Russian relations occurred in 1998, when modules from our two countries linked up at the International Space Station. In Florida, I witnessed the night launch of the space shuttle Endeavour, which carried the U.S. module to its rendezvous. Space shuttle pin, RC2, Corp.
As the debate about missiles showed, Cold War habits were slow to disappear. One December day in 1999, Stanislav Borisovich Gusev, a fiftyish “diplomat,” was arrested while sitting on a bench outside the State Department. He was, in fact, a spy harvesting data from a listening device that our agents had located in a conference room at the far end of the building from my office. The electronic bug had been hard to find; Gusev had not. To avoid detection, the Russians had used a battery with low power, but this meant that anyone listening to the signals had to be stationed nearby. Gusev spent much of that autumn ostentatiously maneuvering his car outside the department’s heavily guarded building, while inside our security people were scouring floors, walls, and furniture for whatever was prompting his movements.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
With Russian foreign ministe
r Igor Ivanov on the balcony of the State Department.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
Interceptor Missile, Lisa Vershbow.
Sorcerer, Z. Alandia; other designers unknown.
UFO, Jonette Jewelry.
Bug, Iradj Moini.
The incident attracted unwelcome publicity, but the Russians learned nothing from their eavesdropping that we wouldn’t have told them if asked. Nor did the episode disrupt our diplomatic relations with Moscow, which have survived far more embarrassing cases of espionage. I met with Foreign Minister Ivanov in Europe only a few days subsequent to Gusev’s arrest. We greeted each other as the friends we were, but Ivanov could not fail to notice on my dress a pin in the shape of an enormous bug.
U.S. DEPARTMENT OF STATE
Perhaps it is my imagination, but this pin always seems to end the day higher on my jacket than where it began.
I was reminded while secretary of state that there is a political dimension to the operations of the gem industry. Valuable resources attract feverish competition for access and control. To regulate the market, the world has created a system that encourages trade based on agreed-upon standards and rules. In some cases, as with endangered species, those rules prohibit trade. In others, our leaders have found it necessary to limit or ban sales from particular countries. Two examples during my tenure are worthy of mention.
Jade has been called the stone of Heaven. It is a personal favorite of mine and has been sought after for centuries, initially by Chinese emperors and Asian warlords, more recently by lovers of fine gems on every continent. Carat for carat, jade’s value has soared. It is disquieting, then, that the majority of the world’s most precious jade (or, more properly, jadeite) is mined in Burma, home to some of the poorest people and one of the most repressive governments on Earth. Until the mid-1990s, ethnic groups controlled the mines, using the revenue to preserve autonomy from the military regime. Over the past decade, the government has seized control of the mines, exploiting them (and the beaten-down souls who labor in them) for money and power. While in office, I championed economic sanctions against Burma; these have since been extended to include the most lucrative types of Burmese gems that are processed elsewhere. The ban is firmly supported by the Jewelers Vigilance Committee (a legal compliance group), the trade association Jewelers of America, and such leading international firms as Cartier and Tiffany.
In 1999, I visited a camp for amputees in Sierra Leone. It was a sweltering, muddy, crowded place. I remember especially holding a three-year-old girl who wore a red jumper and played with a toy car, using the only arm she had. Like many poor countries, Sierra Leone required voters to dip their fingers into indelible ink to prevent double-voting. The best-equipped rebel group felt it could frustrate the elections by chopping off the hands of potential voters, including children. This militia, and others in Angola and Congo, was financed in part by what came to be known as “blood” or “conflict” diamonds. These were diamonds seized and trafficked by armed groups that killed indiscriminately, often employing preteen soldiers.
Human rights activists appealed to me to try to stop the commercial use of such stones to fuel civil wars in Africa. I agreed. We supported a diplomatic initiative—known as the Kimberley Process—that is now accepted by every major diamond-producing and diamond-consuming country. Its purpose is to ensure that the much-coveted stones are traded legitimately from the time they leave a mine until the moment they appear in storefront windows. Like any such system, it is not leakproof, but it has done much to squeeze the profit out of blood diamonds, in part because the process has been widely backed by legitimate dealers. No responsible company wants to contribute to the success of thugs who start wars out of greed and hack off the limbs of children.
As a matter of policy, this story has an encouraging ending. On a personal level, it is even better. In 2007, I learned that the little girl in the red jumper whom I had tried to comfort in Sierra Leone had found adoptive parents and is now a happy and healthy teenager living on the same street as I do in Washington, D.C.
Panther, Cartier.
Trailing Eagle, Les Bernard.
IV. “It Would Be an Honor”
The twentieth of January 2001 was my final day as secretary of state. I imagined that the incoming staff might have to drag me out of my office by the heels, but in the end I went peacefully. I had had my time; now it was the turn of others. That is how democracy works.
In my new life, I have worn many hats—as author, professor, speaker, and businesswoman. I serve as chair of the National Democratic Institute and president of the Truman Scholarship Foundation and have led task forces on poverty, genocide, and Arab democracy. World affairs remain my preoccupation, which means I continue to crisscross the globe. I also enjoy, now more than ever, wearing and collecting pins.
COURTESY OF WILLIAM J. CLINTON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY/SHARON FARMER
I wore the Trailing Eagle pin for our official cabinet photo in 2000, my last full year as secretary of state.
This pen and book pin was a gift from my sister, Kathy Silva, upon the completion of my memoir, Madam Secretary. Fountain pen, Carolee; book, designer unknown.
In Las Vegas years ago, I was booked to give a speech to a gathering of executives from the travel industry. The woman who organized the event asked what pin I intended to wear. I replied that I had brought only a necklace. She was aghast: “But that’s impossible; we all expect you to wear a pin.” Hours remained before the speech, and Las Vegas shops are always open, so I had little trouble finding something suitable. Since that time, I have learned to accept that when I appear in public, a pin is part of the package.
Fame, of course, is relative. In recent years, I have been mistaken in one venue or another for Margaret Thatcher, Barbara Bush, Judi Dench, Helen Thomas, some nice young fellow’s Aunt Agatha, and the television weather lady in Minneapolis. Confusing my face with that of someone else is—in my ledger—a misdemeanor. Ignorance of my pins, however, is a felony. Among former foreign ministers, one of my closest friends is Joschka Fischer of Germany. After I left office, I was interviewed with Joschka on Berlin television. The commentator asked him what he thought of my practice of using pins to send a diplomatic message. Fischer hadn’t a clue. He looked at me, then at her, then back at me, and confessed he couldn’t have an opinion about something he had never noticed. No doubt Joschka will be delighted this Christmas to find under his Weihnachtsbaum an autographed copy of this book.
Gift from the Harry S. Truman Presidential Library.
The 2008 election was one of the most exciting in memory. I was honored during the campaign to spend time working on foreign policy with the winner, President Barack Obama.
JIM BOURG/REUTERS
Flower with pearl, Russell Trusso.
JIM BOURG/REUTERS
Obama pins, Ann Hand.
Kangaroos and hippo (with friend), St. John Knits.
Desert village. The golden palm tree is from Saudi Arabia, the dwellings are from Egypt.
Palm tree, WRA;
desert dwellings, Arabic markings.
Early in my life, my mother’s ring served as a means for connecting one generation to another. When I was a young woman, the gift of a fraternity pin was an emblem of romance. In maturity, the brooches I bought for myself were signs of growing confidence and independence. In government, I used pins as a diplomatic tool. Now that I am out of office, my hobby often serves as an icebreaker. Before or after a speech, or while standing in line at the airport or supermarket, I am frequently asked about the pin I am wearing or to comment on one worn by somebody else. Such conversations, once initiated, can lead anywhere. I will not forget the woman who spoke enthusiastically about my pins before proceeding cheerily to compliment my overall appearance. “You look great,” she said. “Just like my grandmother. She’s 106 and as fit and sharp as she can be.”
Although I remain busy, I do have more time than previously to shop in Washington and around the United Stat
es. I also often pick up pieces while overseas. In a less troubled world, we would ordinarily think of jewelry as sending a friendly message, or at least not a violent one. In the post-9/11 era, however, even bottles of mouthwash and tubes of toothpaste can be considered threats. Perhaps I should not have been surprised, then, when a security agent stopped me at an airport gate and asked to examine a brooch I had just purchased in Turkey. The pin is of a slithery dragon wrapped around a small silver sword. Nothing to worry about, except that the sword is removable. The security agent glanced at me, then peered at the pin while shaking his head. “No weapons,” he said.
© GEMOLOGICAL INSTITUTE OF AMERICA. REPRINTED BY PERMISSION
Speaking in San Diego at the Gemological Institute of America’s fourth International Symposium, 2006. Given the nature of the event, I chose a particularly dramatic pin.
Dragon and sword, designer unknown.
Sea horse, Swarovski;
two colorful fish, Swarovski;
two colorful fish, Swarovski;
rainbow fish, Swarovski;
sea creature, Cécile et Jeanne;
coral reef, designer unknown;
sand dollar, designer unknown;
lobster, Landau;
crayfish, designer unknown;
starfish, José & María Barrera;
sea sponge, R. DeRosa;
sea anemone, Ann Hand;
Read My Pins: Stories from a Diplomat's Jewel Box Page 5
