The RahRahRah

Guest Submissions - First Impressions

The RahRahRah loves having guests over, especially guest authors!

A huge shout out to the talented writers who shared their thoughts on "First Impressions." They are:

Dylan Bean of Brooklyn, New York

CeCe Bloom of Brooklyn, New York

Mr. Anonymous of Somewhere Out There, USA

Millie Kelly of Akron, Ohio

Melissa Parish of Beacon, New York

Check out their posts by going to "Guest Submissions" on the right hand column and clicking on "First Impressions."

Or just click here. Same same, but different.

First Impressions

My mother has an uncanny ability of figuring a person out at first sight. Just by looking at a picture, she can tell you if someone is serious or lighthearted, greedy or generous, cold or caring, a liar or a cheat. She's usually spot on. I was not gifted with this ability, and I've come to grow wary of first impressions. I've been wrong on a number of occasions, my most famous error being when I hated, upon first encounter, the man that eventually became the first love of my life. They say that we know everything we need to know about someone in the first few minutes of meeting them - for me, I've found that first impressions never reveal enough. And so begins the process of knowing a person, for better or worse.

I realize this goes both ways, and so I've also become far too self-conscious about the impression I give other people about myself. I often think I make a terrible first impression on others. A malicious voice in my head tells me that I was far too loud, too excited, too quiet, too sarcastic, too proud, too opinionated, too accommodating, too eccentric, too ordinary, too ugly, too stuck-up, too whatever-the-hell I was most unsure about that day. I know how insecure and unconfident I sound right now (there goes that voice again!), but hey, I'm being honest with you. And I wonder how many of you out there share these anxieties; perhaps more than we think, once you take away the bravado and defenses.

What it comes down to is that what we think, both about others and ourselves, matters, so we should be very careful about what we choose to think, and what we use to form those opinions. First impressions can have a lot of sway...but so do the tests of time. We may find that we were completely wrong about that guy in the office, completely right about the girl we wanted to be friends with, completely right about that dude that gave us the creeps, completely wrong about our own qualities, completely right about our most private feelings. The beauty is that we can always change our minds (or not)...both about others, and about ourselves.

Over on the right hand column of this blog, you'll find a new section entitled "Guest Submissions." Next week, I share with you five wonderful essays about first impressions submitted by readers like you - stories about themselves, about another person, about some event that changed their impression of everything. Thank you so much to those wonderful writers. Check back on Monday for the first one; a new one goes up every day next week.

Until then, have a great weekend. And remember: Everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt...including yourself.  Toodle-loo!

Student vs. Teacher

Professor X is a well-educated, well-published scholar who is the authority on a number of well-dead authors. A long, long time ago, in my very first semester at Yale, tragedy struck: I ended up in Professor X's class on Major English Poets.

At first, I was excited to be there. I was (and still am) deeply in love with the English language, both for its words and what those words can create. Words are powerful, they move people, and everyone has a unique, personal relationship with the words, books and poems they read. When you really think about it, words are magic - they can be and can mean anything to anyone. So, there I was, an eager prospective English major entering into my first English class at a place like Yale, about to gain more insight on the English language under the tutelage of an expert in her field - I couldn't wait. 

But then, we started having discussions in class that went something like this:

Professor X: What do you think the passage on page 3 means?
David: Um, I think [insert David's personal interpretation].
Professor X: Riiiight. Well, that's wrong. Does anyone have a better answer?

Of course, no one ever volunteered to say anything in class ever again. And I'm sure David was humiliated, he who had been brave enough to talk about his thoughts in the first place. But it was also crushingly disappointing for me. To Professor X, there was only one way to interpret anything: HER WAY. I just didn't agree.

I know that Professor X is smart and well-read. She's researched and written books about authors and their works, and I'm sure she's not wrong about authors' intentions and all that. But, Professor X, for all her erudite authority, should have known about the magic of words. No matter what the writer intended, a reader transforms the written word by the power of their own understanding. There is never a right answer, there can be multiple personal meanings. Professor X should have known this. 

And so it was that right there in class, and all because of her, I decided that if this was how English was taught at Yale - with "right" and "wrong" answers - I didn't want to study it there. I didn't care that it was YALE ENGLISH. It wasn't right for me. So I dropped English as my second major and never looked back.

It's a scary thing to think, but the truth is that teachers are not always right. When it comes to forming ideas and opinions about the world around you, you have to remember that the most important authority on ANYTHING is yourself. Great teachers encourage this personal authority in us. Bad teachers simply tell us what to think. It's those teachers that we must challenge. So in the end, maybe I owe Professor X a huge thank you. Like my best and most favorite teachers, she as well taught me the greatest lesson I ever had, even if that wasn't her intention: To think for myself. 

I want for you, dear reader, to do the same.

Epilogue

I did always wonder if it was wise or rash to avoid English at Yale all because of Professor X; surely the whole department can't be like her. But I always told myself that it had been the right decision for me, and I have nothing to regret. I still love words and I still love books, and I'm still forming my own personal relationships with them.

Then, on the very first day of this year, I found myself having dinner with an old college friend from Yale; he had won a writing prize when he was a freshman there. He told me something very surprising: Back then, when he spoke with one of his English professors about majoring in English at Yale, the advice he got was "Don't." That professor feared that my friend's voice and passion for writing would die within a department focused on "right answers." And so, my friend didn't study English there, either. He still likes writing.

Now for the big disclaimer: The Yale English Department is full of some amazing professors; Joseph Roach and Nigel Alderman, for instance, were outstanding professors when I was there. If you are at Yale or are planning to go, and you want to study English there, I think you should...but just be sure to study under professors you want to be learning from. To be sure, this can be said for all things in life. 

But that's just my opinion.

I wanted to see what would happen if I turned the last post's topic around on its head. So I guess I have to thank Lauren An of Honolulu, HI, again, for the topic that keeps on giving.

"Teacher vs. Student"

Dostoyevsky once said that "the soul is healed by being with children." 

Clearly, Dostoyevsky was never a 6th grade teacher. 

On the face of this planet, there cannot be a sweeter person than my dear best friend, Sharon Lee.* Sharon will laugh at all your jokes. She sings your praises. She is blind to your shortcomings. Sharon goes to church and is extremely patient - this is a girl who will sit with you while you drink yourself to oblivion bemoaning your fate, and then she will drive you home and hold your hair while you throw up...all over her backseat. Verily, I say, my friend Sharon is a good person. 

My friend Sharon is also a teacher. A 6th grade teacher. She teaches a class of 30 ungrateful pre-teens who think they know everything (or so my trusted source says). Once my good friend Sharon goes to work, she stops being Sharon. She becomes someone that I don't recognize. Someone who takes candy away from babies. When Sharon walks into her classroom, you can almost hear the faint sound of drums beating out a rhythm of impending doom. Birds stop chirping. Sunlight weakens. When Sharon starts her class for the day, she stops being Sharon. She turns into MISS LEE.

Miss Lee is scary. I hear that she has eyes that will kill you on the spot, especially if she catches you talking during class. She has been known to banish students to the seventh circle of hell for rolling their eyes at her, and she's deprived whole classes of recess, lunch and the afterschool privilege of going home because they forgot what a common denominator is. I have never sat in on one of Miss Lee's classes, but our mutual friend, Christine, has. She's reported back that the excursion is a must-do, although she couldn't really recount too many details because she spent most of the day with her head down on her desk - Miss Lee punished her for laughing.

Outside the classroom, though, Sharon has tearfully revealed to me the unfortunate circumstances that necessitated Miss Lee's unlucky birth. Apparently, today's students are nightmares. Back in my day, back in 1952, my friends and I would never dream of acting up in class. We had a healthy respect for authority, but more than that, we had a healthy fear of our parents. If my mom ever got wind that I was disrespecting my teacher and the school's rules, you can be sure she'd have me digging my own grave in the backyard before sundown and no amount of protestations or denials would commute my sentence. Back in my day, whatever the teacher had to say went, because THE TEACHER was GOD.

Well, things just ain't what they used to be. Sharon has told me horror stories of students who outrightly disobey her, challenge her authority and, even worse, expect to get away with it. And if you think it must just be because of her, think again. This kind of shite is going down EVERYWHERE! Take my friend Brent as an example. Brent is a wildly gifted radio DJ who moonlights (or I guess I should say "daylights") as a substitute teacher. The other day, during silent reading time, instead of opening a book, one kid sat doing yoga in the corner. Yoga! He told Brent that he was "reading in his mind." Cheeky.

Sharon contends that these rugrats have got this way because their parents allow it. When she's met with parents to talk about their unruly children, they end up arguing with her and insisting she must be mistaken about their darling Bruce or Mallory. And rather than parents reinforcing what the educator is trying to teach, Sharon has had parents yell at her for reprimanding or failing their precious ones. Seems like parents these days just don't want to admit that their children are anything but perfect little angels, and this leaves the teacher unable to influence his or her students, unable to teach.

Sadly, schools have become battlegrounds for teacher vs. student, so it's no wonder that Miss Lee has had to put the smack down on...and that she gains tremendous satisfaction from doing so. After all, you have to win your battles where you can. Brent has also learned this art of war. At the end of the day, when he handed out reward tickets to his students for the silent reading time, he gave one to everyone in the class except for the budding yogi who had sat in the corner, "reading in his mind." When the boy asked where his was, Brent relished the moment.

"I gave it to you in my mind," he told the boy.

And just like that, Brent's soul was indeed healed.

Thank you to Lauren An of Honolulu, HI, for this topic.

*Name has been changed to protect the teacher from murderous parents and their hellish offspring.

You tell me....

"We met in the summer of 1989. He was fifteen and I was thirteen. He had been climbing trees with his bare hands all afternoon, down by the lake near William's Edge; all the high school boys went there in the summer to cool off and fetch themselves battle scars. He came riding back into town with his white shirt all ragged and dirtied, the arms cut off at the shoulders. Holding onto his bike handles, standing on the pedals the way my mother warned me never to ride my bike, he was everything the world needed: young, strong, overly confident. His hair was wet and his face was dirty. He turned his head oh so slowly, and I knew he was something special. The trick was to get him to understand he was my something special."

Introducing The RahRahRah's first call for submissions. 

Your topic: 

First Impressions

[I mean it can't be all "Anna thinks this" all the god-damn time!]

Submissions due by 11:59pm on January 31. 

Email files to TheRahRahRah@gmail.com

So come on, you tell me.........

"Love Letters"

I gotta be honest with you - I have spent three days sitting on this post because I have no idea what to say. I thought this would be an easy one but, as with all matters of the heart, it's turned out much harder than I thought. 

Do I tell you about the love letters I have received? Or the ones I never did get? Do I tell you about the love letters I have written...and the ones I never wrote? Do you know how special love letters make me feel when I get them? And will you understand how sad they make me when I read them after love has gone? And how do I do justice to the earnestness and courageous honesty of the writer, which leap out on the page, so heartfelt and intense were the feelings that the author risked everything to take a chance on love?

I haven't been in love much...maybe twice. But having felt the fire before (twice...maybe), there is only one thing I know for certain:

Love is meant to be expressed. It's not enough to just feel it - love grows too big for the confines of the heart. It demands to be shared. If we are lucky, we find a welcoming heart on the other end. If we are not, we suffer not only because love is not returned, but because it must be kept locked away, bursting our hearts at the seams.

Love is meant to be expressed. Every love letter is written for this reason alone. Would that we wrote them more often. 

And that's all I have to say about that.

Thank you to Kelleigh Miller of Akron, Ohio, for this post.

"Forgiveness"

Anne of South Carolina writes:

"Why is it harder to forgive those we love than those we do not? Why, once our inability to forgive makes us stop loving, do we then forgive (and sometimes forget) what they did? And why, in unloving and forgiving, do we re-love, despite the hurt that comes back?"

Anne was one of my best friends in college. We were so different. Where I was inexperienced and shy, Anne was knowledgeable and brazen. Where I took everything literally, Anne found ways to poke fun. Anne taught me something about indulging in whims and being unapologetically passionate. I often wondered what she was doing hanging out with a girl like me, but don't be mistaken - we were best friends.

Unfortunately, our friendship eventually fell apart over a few events in which I felt Anne had made the wrong choices at the expense of me and our friendship. Of course Anne apologized, profusely, and there was a time when we seemed to make amends. But it eventually became clear that I had never truly forgiven Anne, and it got in the way of our friendship. We eventually drifted apart once I moved to New York City, and we didn't talk for years....until Facebook reconnected us. 

I can't be sure if Anne submitted this topic with our falling out in mind. The funny thing is, although we've been back in touch again through Facebook, we have never broached the topic of our falling out and how we feel about it now, seven years on. When she submitted this topic, I actually had no intention of talking about Anne and me, but as I'm coming to learn, these posts have a funny way of becoming whatever it is they want to become.

So, to answer your questions, Anne, I can only tell you why I could not forgive you...and how I finally learnt to let it all go.

Seven years ago, I was so mystified as to how you could do something that would have such hurtful effects on the lives of those around you. With the wisdom I'm slowly accumulating in my old age, however, I see now that the decisions you made were never malicious. I don't think anyone ever wants to hurt others by the actions we take. We grow up and have new experiences, and if we were all being honest, we would all admit that sometimes we feel compelled to do things that we thought we'd never do. Sometimes life draws you a certain way and even if you know that what you are doing may make another person unhappy, you still go through with it because it feels essential to your happiness.

One could argue that this is simply selfishness; I dunno, maybe it is. But I do know that we all must live our lives the way we are pulled, and we do the best we can, and sometimes we make mistakes, and people get hurt. 

But seven years ago, all I could think was, "How could someone I loved and trusted do this to me?" Unlike harm done to me by a stranger, this one hurt like hell because I had let you in so close. Try as I might, I couldn't find it in myself to forgive and forget, and so our friendship died, but I don't think it was because I stopped loving. Deep down, I still loved you, and that's why I still hurt. I still loved you, and that's why I was so angry for so long. Time and space helped heal those wounds...but they didn't help me to forgive. In the end, forgiveness came with experience. 

You see, these last seven years, I have found myself making some of the same decisions that you made back then...some of the same mistakes that other friends have made as well, friends that I was also unable to forgive. But unlike what I did to you and them, the friends still surrounding me have found it in themselves to forgive me for my mistakes. To me, that is amazing, it is humbling...and it also makes me very ashamed.

The way I see it, I have done nothing to deserve such forgiveness because I have failed to extend the same compassion. But having been granted such mercy, I have learned that everyone is worthy of a second chance. 

Good people make mistakes. No one is perfect. I have learned that forgiveness is about trusting that the good you saw in someone is still there. It's about remembering that if we judge each other by our worst decisions, we are forever blinded to the best in others. 

Some of my most precious memories from college involve you, Anne. I follow your goings-on on Facebook, and I see that you are still the same spirit that I chose as one of my best friends in life. It's taken me years and years to learn to forgive, Anne, but quite frankly, I'm relieved to do it. Tonight, I am wishing you the very best 2010.

"Ghosts and Hauntings"

I know a lot of people don't put much stock in ghosts, but on this matter, I really had no choice but to become a believer. I grew up in Hawai'i, and if you grew up in Hawai'i too, then you know that Hawai'i is THE MOST HAUNTED-ASS PLACE ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET.

Every single child in Hawai'i spends their youth scared shitless by their surroundings thanks to the endless retelling of local ghost stories that just never seem to get old. Apparently, you are never too young to be told a frightening story about faceless women in movie theater bathrooms. And at some point you're going to be choked by a ghost in your sleep, so you might as well be reminded over and over again until it happens to you. Sometimes, when I think back on my childhood in Hawai'i, I feel like all we ever talked about was ghosts, and when you live on a teeny tiny island, you get the feeling that they're all around you. 

Don't take pork over the Pali Highway. Stay out of Morgan's corner. Don't pick up the lady in white on the side of the road. No, scratch that: Pick up the lady in white on the side of the road. Don't even think about taking that rock home with you, idiot! You wanna die?! - Look the Night Marcher in the eye. It was nice knowing you!

To this day, no ghost story scares me like a ghost story from Hawai'i. They just seem so much more potent...and that's because they are true. You die-hard skeptics out there will chalk all this up to hocus-pocus superstition in Hawai'i, but dude, trust me: Shit happens there. Hawai'i is an incredibly sacred and mystical space, and Hawaiians have a close relationship with nature, their ancestors and the supernatural world. Spirits abound, and almost everyone I know in Hawai'i has had an experience "not of this world"...but let's talk about me for a second, okay?

When I was in high school, I had my first encounter with the "choking ghost," a spirit that pins you down while you sleep and gets all Chief Bromden on your ass. There are many personal accounts of this ghost, with quite a few reporting seeing something on or by their bed. When this happened to me in high school, I heard deep, mean voices in my bedroom somewhere to my right, only I couldn't move my head to take a look. After a few minutes, I finally broke free...and later discovered that whatever had been in my room, it had turned my alarm clock off. I know, right? - That's freaky shit.

Fast forward to the beginning of 2008, on the beautiful island of Kauai, where I was playing tourist with my then-boyfriend, Luke. Wanting to get a taste of the "real Kauai," we had checked into a cute B&B near a beautiful valley. To be honest, I got the heeby-jeebies from the place as soon as we pulled up to it, but I told myself that the place had a whirlpool jacuzzi. Whirlpool jacuzzis are never haunted.

Sho'nuff, the first night we slept there, I had my second encounter with the choking ghost; this time, I heard strange Hawaiian music coming from the valley outside. It was no less terrifying than my first experience, only this time, someone else (Luke) had been in the room with me, and he swore that he had felt and heard nothing. Hmmm. Maybe it had been a dream, but how do you explain what happened the next night?: I awoke suddenly in the middle of the night, all of my senses on the alert and a strong feeling like something was in the room. Even more frightening was the fact that Luke had woken up at exactly the same time, with exactly the same feeling.

Well I don't need to tell you that we checked the hizzell outta that B&B and into a 4-star resort the next morning. Later, after doing some sleuthing on the Google, I discovered that the B&B was just down the road from an old Japanese cemetery, and in one of the most active menehune valleys on the island. 

Yeesh. I don't know about you, but all this talk about ghosts and hauntings has me spooked. When I lived back home in the islands, I never liked retelling ghost stories myself; I worried that simply mentioning the spirits was enough to draw them to me. Save me Jebus, that's the last thing I ever want! So, if they're listening right now, this is all I have to say: I mean you no disrespect...please don't visit me in Brooklyn.

And now....I'm off to bed. (eek)

Thank you to Carmen D. Hopper of Virginia Beach, Virginia, for this topic.

"Swearing"

**Author's note: This post may not be suitable for the easily offended...or for 2-year-olds. My apologies in advance.

The first time I ever swore, it wasn't even a swear word but I still got in trouble. I was seven years old and the offensive expletive was the wicked, naughty phrase "Son of a gun." As soon as the words slipped out of my mouth at the dinner table, out of the corner of my eye I saw my mom's face whip around to look at me. I sat there, frozen, with a growing sense of dread. Damnit, I was in trouble. I turned to look at the fire-breathing dragon sitting where my dear mother had been not a moment before, and had I had more swear words in my seven-year-old vocabulary at the time, I am sure I would have thought to myself, "Oh shit."

I grew up in a household where swearing simply didn't exist. We weren't religious by any means...this was just one of my mom's golden rules, which is all really funny because these days, my mother is the biggest curser I know. In fact, "son of a bitch" is her favorite expletive today, but back then, "son of a gun" was enough to earn you a licking. Thus it was that I spent 18 years never having uttered a swear word in my entire life, a fact that tickled my college roommates pink to no end.

I remember how one day, my roommates and I were sitting around and chatting in our common room when somehow it came up that I didn't swear. They couldn't believe it and they begged me to say one swear word, to just give cursing a try, just say "Shit" just once and see how it feels. I caved under peer pressure and I said it, except it came out sounding like "Shh It" because I really struggled getting it off my tongue. You have to understand: it was like speaking a foreign language. I also felt ridiculous saying it: there I was, a generally happy but very nerdy girl with thick glasses. What business did I have swearing like some ruffian? 

Well, dear reader, I've some good news to report. You'll be happy to learn that since that fateful day over 10 years ago, I have mastered the art of swearing. Yes, I have transformed into the creator of some very colorful strings of swear words, the most melodious combinations of "fucks" and "shits" and "motherfucking assholes" that the world has ever heard. I know it is not very ladylike, and I've been told that swearing doesn't really suit me. But I seriously can't help it. These things just fall trippingly off my tongue, usually before I even realize I am saying it.

That's not to say that I am constantly swearing. Other than the sprinkling of expletives in everyday conversations with friends, I generally observe some boundaries when it comes to swearing. After all, there is a time and place for it. Venting about something morbidly craptastic? Ok. Joking around with your friends? Ok. Swearing in front of little children? Not ok. Swearing at a loved one? Definitely not ok.

I am extremely adamant about that last point. Surprisingly, for all the artful curses that I utter to myself when I'm frustrated or upset, I never ever swear when I am actually in an argument with another person. To me, if you're going to argue, then you need to say what it is you need to say. As far as I know, saying "Fuck You" to another person never solved any problem. It might make you feel better...but this isn't like venting, is it? You're making yourself feel better by inflicting pain on another person. And if you think words are harmless, think again. An old boyfriend of mine once ended an argument with me by saying: "This is purely to make me feel and sleep better: Fuck You." He said it simply to be mean. It sounded and felt like venom and he achieved what he wanted: he hurt me. I'll never forget it, that son of a gun. I know we all have our own ways of expressing ourselves, but when it comes to dealing with another person, there are better words to use. 

Barring such verbal abuse, I'm still in favor of curse words in general. They can be pretty fun to say, after all, and quite satisfying when you need to blow off steam. I mean, let's be honest here: When you're really upset about something, there is nothing like a good "fuck" to help you feel better. Wouldn't you agree?

Thank you to Gene Roseman of New York, New York, for this topic.

"Possessions"

When you grow up without a lot of money in your family, every new thing you get means the world to you. It doesn't have to be a video game set or even a new bike - in fact, extravagances like that are well outside the realm of possibility for a kid who goes to school with holes in her shoes (yes, I did). No, even the smallest of things - a pin, a book, a doll from the $1 Win-A-Doll machine in the local diner - feels like a luxury when you never expect to get anything nice.

My family was never rich and I can't even say that we were well off. Some years were certainly better than others, but most of the time, we struggled financially. My mother, a waitress, worked six nights a week to make sure my sister and I were well provided for. She did good: We had a home, we had a family car, my sister and I got everything we needed for school, and we always had enough to eat. 

Yes, my sister and I always got everything we needed, but it was rare that we got what we wanted. When we were very little, my mother made great efforts to give us presents for every birthday and Christmas, but as we grew older, the gifts came less and less...not for lack of love, but for lack of money. DON'T WORRY: My sister and I made sure to express our dissatisfaction over this sorry state of affairs. However, my mother always had something to say about hungry kids in Korea, and I think I once caught her talking on the phone with a group of nuns from an orphanage for ungrateful children... Needless to say, my sister and I learned fairly quickly to be thankful for what little we got. And those little gifts really did mean the world to us.

There were the Cabbage Patch Kid dolls that my sister and I both incredibly got on my 7th birthday. There were the tiny individual bags of candy my mom made for us one year when she couldn't take us trick-or-treating because she had to work. There was that Nintendo game set we finally got when we were teenagers, even though we could only afford one controller and one game. And then there was that single box of gourmet chocolates that my sister and I relished when there were no other gifts under the Christmas tree.

But above all this, there was the Anna Bear pin.

When I turned 8, my mother took the whole family out to dinner and a movie, the typical Swanson Family Celebration. We went to the movie theater at Kahala Mall. Back then, there was a Hallmark store directly across from the theater entrance; I think it's still there. Anyway, while my mom purchased the movie tickets, my sister and I wandered into the store to look at all the pretty things. Inside, near the cash register, I fell in love with the Anna Bear pin.

Looking at it, it's nothing special - it's a simple glazed enamel lapel pin of a teddy bear holding a heart with my name on it - but I was mesmerized. It was shiny and pretty and bright. The heart was ringed in red dots that in my imagination turned into rubies. It was the prettiest thing I had ever seen and I lingered over the display, looking at it.

I was still there when my mother eventually came into the store. I didn't even notice her until she was standing next to me and, to my astonishment, asked me if I wanted the pin. Unbelievably, the first words out of my mouth was, "No, it's okay." But my mother insisted. "Really?" I asked, even as she made the purchase at the counter. 

I couldn't believe this was happening. It was nice enough to get a present on my birthday but BOY! - to get a present that I had also WANTED. I tell you, I cherished that pin. I think I wore it a few times, but I mostly kept it stored away somewhere safe so that it would never break or scratch. Apart from the earrings that my mother pierced my ears with when I was a baby, this was my first piece of "jewelry" and I loved it.

I still have that pin. It sits in the top drawer of my jewelry box. Today, it means much more to me than just a present that I had wanted and got. The pin probably cost $5, but that $5 was a lot of money to my family back then. That pin stands for everything my mother has ever done for my sister and me. It stands for everything she did to give us what we needed...and sometimes what we wanted. 

I will never, never throw that pin away...and those red dots will always look like rubies to me.

Thank you to Jessica Lee of Kanagawa, Japan, for her topic: "Tell us the story behind one of your possessions, something no one would ever have thought would have a story behind it."