I wear my mother’s ring on the fourth finger of my right hand, where nothing rested before it — the birth of a bond within an extant band. 

It has been a sentimental anchor of sorts since I first slipped it on the day of my 18th birthday. Gifted to me by my mother, who received it from her own mother on the day she herself turned 18, it was bought at a market in South Africa and carried back to France — and now the United States — spanning land, sea and time.

The ring may be valuable in the eyes of society because of its weight in gold, but its origins make it far weightier, invaluable from a personal standpoint. Yes, it’s molded from a precious metal and inlaid with a precious stone, but it’s the fingers it encircled before mine, the hands that spun it around those fingers, that are truly precious to me. 

Opposite my mother’s ring, nestled snugly upon the middle finger of my left hand, is an heirloom from another branch of my ancestral tree: my paternal great-grandmother’s chevalière ring, engraved with the initials that I myself possess three generations later and stamped with the distinctive hallmarks of French jewelry.

It was commissioned as a gift from a devoted husband for his beloved wife, entrusted by a doting grandmother to her cherished grandson and passed down to an honored daughter by an adoring father. 

While circular in shape, these rings are linear in legacy, strings tracing bloodlines through the years. Not only have I treasured them as the first real pieces of jewelry I could proudly call my own, but as markers of my transition from girlhood to womanhood, a cementing of my place within my lineage.

If I had a nickel for every story they told, I’d have no nickels. Because metal can’t talk, obviously.

But I’d be rich all the same, because I carry with me the family I would be nowhere and no one without. I carry the culture that has shaped my outlook on life, the memories that paint the portraits of my loved ones and the relationships that have withstood the test of time.

And just as my current parure connects me to my family by blood, the Aggie Ring will tether me to my family by choice: the Aggie family. Beyond that still, it will represent the interweaving of a new string — my own — with those of my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

Throughout my tenure at Texas A&M, as I have worked to lay a sturdy foundation for my future, my past has steadfastly glinted from upon my fingers, the light catching my rings at the perfect moments and angles to be reflected as golden flashes. 

Could these bright rays be interpreted as the manifestation of all the right circumstances lining up at just the right time, similar to that which led to my birth and turned strangers into a tight-knit network of proud, loyal Aggies — a version of the invisible string theory, if you will?

Possibly. Add it to the tally of strings I seem to be collecting.

I expect the Aggie Ring to be just as reflective, albeit in a different way: Its luster will be symbolic of the golden path I am forging for myself. One could also perceive its brilliance as the ring emitting shards of enlightenment, but that’s probably just wishful thinking on my part. The other explanation is clearly far less abstract and fanciful.

Regardless, as I slide this ring onto my finger, it will represent a new dimension of myself that, as emblematic as they are, my other rings cannot. Though they are mine now, they have never been, and never will be, mine alone. That truth is what constitutes their intrinsic beauty and what has hitherto inspired such philosophical jargon, the underlying thread of which I’m sure has been quite straightforward to follow, with no knots to untangle whatsoever.

Another string reference for the books — check.

In contrast, the Aggie Ring is the embodiment of my own achievements, of my own decisions and their consequences; it signifies me as a student and individual, whereas the rings passed down to me are an expression of my composite identity as a daughter, granddaughter and great-granddaughter.

While my mother and great-grandmother’s rings encapsulate my heart and soul, the Aggie Ring is, in essence, the product of my drive and intellect, and I am not one without the others.

So though it may take the spot of my mother’s ring, it will not supplant it. Rather, they will complement each other — in aesthetics, of course, but also in what they symbolize.

My great-grandmother, my mother, myself — I will have the tangible representation of generations stretched across three continents hugging my fingers. Every hand I shake in every interview I undertake, every essay I write and vow I make, my family — both maroon and bleu, blanc, rouge blood running through my veins — will be with me for every milestone, major and minor. Together, the triad of gold adorning my hands will be the bridge between what made me and what I have made of myself — for myself, but also for those that came before me and those that will come after. And everyone knows a truss bridge, a unit of interconnected triangles, is indeed the strongest under pressure.

So I will now wear my Aggie Ring on the fourth finger of my right hand, where my mother’s ring rested before it — the embedding of a band within a new bond.