Roots of Gold: Anklets Like My Mother Wore
May Flowers mini series: a story on family, culture, and the memories we wear — from my parents’ love story built in heavy gold chains to the anklet that carried my own journey.
There’s a soft jingle that lives in my memory.
A shimmer of gold hugging my mother’s ankle as she stood at the stove, humming in the kitchen. Before I understood words like legacy or lineage, I knew how her anklet caught the light—how it made her seem powerful and soft all at once.
But here’s what you need to know about my mom:
She ain’t dainty. Never was.
She was the girl out there playing football, tackling boys twice her size. Jumping into baseball games if they were short a player. Gathering all the kids from our projects and teaching them how to dive at the Roberto Clemente pool. She had this mix of toughness and tenderness—she could lead a game, cook a meal, and wear her jewelry like armor.
And my dad? He knew exactly who she was. According to my mother, they had a little thing at first and then she went to North Carolina for a short period of time. Wrote letters to my dad while she was out on the reservation, rocking climbing and he DIDN’T write her back (gasp). The saving grace that got them together, my mom returned to the Bronx and was looking real snatched. A direct quote from my dad “that thang was thangin’ ight!” My dad did a double take down the hill and walked into the pizza place to get reacquainted with my mom and the rest was history.
Back then, he worked at a jewelry shop and one thing about my dad is he always works extremely hard. My mom’s love language is receiving gifts and he delivered. He’d bring her necklaces, trying to impress her, but my mom wasn’t interested in anything small or delicate. No thin chains for her. She wanted thick Cuban links. Heavy-duty pieces that matched her bold, unbreakable spirit.
Their love story was built like that.
Strong. Sturdy. Not always polished, but deeply rooted.
And tucked inside that story was always the jewelry. Solid symbols of their love, their life, their style.
The Magic of the Jewelry Box
The real magic happened when my mom opened her jewelry box.
Anytime her sisters, cousins, and/or friends came over she would go into her hiding spot and bring out the box. Not just any box, but this carved wooden treasure chest with secret drawers and velvet compartments. I’d sit on the edge of her bed, wide-eyed, watching her lift each lid like she was opening a portal to the past.
Inside were years of stories:
✨ Her engagement ring.
✨ The first ring my dad ever gave her.
✨ My grandfather’s gold chains, still heavy with memory.
✨ My paternal grandmother’s rings, glinting with age and reverence.
✨ And then—mine and my sister’s baby jewelry. Tiny bracelets, gold crosses, nameplates. Little heirlooms tucked away like sacred reminders that we were loved from the very beginning.
She would give a piece away to them. I would selfishly give a dirty stare thinking about the money she just gave away until I realized it was her way of giving them a piece of her love. She cherished and cared for every piece she was given, bought or found. She didn’t just keep them for safekeeping. She kept them as anchors. As proof that love—real love—could be worn, carried, remembered.
The First Anklet
I can’t remember the first anklet I ever wore because since I was a literal new born baby I was adorned with gold.
I must have been eight or nine, watching my mom and my tias get ready for a family gathering. Their hands moved with practiced ease—hoop earrings clicked into place, necklaces layered just right, toe rings and anklets adding the final touch.
I was mesmerized by their feet—gold glinting against sun-kissed skin. I wanted that shimmer. That knowing. That confidence.
I don’t remember if I asked, or if my mom just knew. But she pulled out a tiny anklet—simple, elegant—and fastened it around my ankle.
“Now you’re one of us,” she smiled.
Just like that, I felt seen. Grown. Connected.
When It Broke (and Never Came Back)
When I moved to Nashville, I brought just a few things with me—but that anklet, the one I’d worn since I was 14, neverleft my ankle. It had seen me through awkward phases, heartbreaks, graduations, beach days, late-night prayers. It was a piece of home, of history. Of me.
So when it snapped off during my first week in this new city, I panicked.
Like—full-blown panic attack, crying on the floor.
I searched everywhere, turned my little apartment upside down.
It was gone.
I called my mom, sobbing—knowing she’d understand and probably fuss at me for losing it. (She definitely did both. Caribbean moms love hard, but they don’t let you off easy either.)
But here’s what I’ve come to realize:
I never found that anklet because I wasn’t meant to.
Coming to Nashville wasn’t just a move—it was a shedding.
A release.
The shackles of my past self, all the versions of me that anklet had held, needed to be left behind so I could step into who I was becoming.
It wasn’t a sign I’d made a mistake.
It was a sign I was making room.
That anklet did its job—it carried me through the girl I was.
And when I stepped into this new season, it let me go.
But what I’ve learned—what my mother, my family, my culture have always shown me—is that even when the jewelry breaks, the chain never really ends.
The rhythm of the islands, the love of our people, the legacy of those who came before—it keeps pulsing beneath my skin.
Gold or no gold, I carry the Caribbean in every step.
Caribbean Adornment: More Than Style
Growing up in a Puerto Rican/Indo-Caribbean family, jewelry—especially anklets—was never just decoration. It was declaration. My mother and all her sisters wore them boldly. It was the signature of Caribbean womanhood—radiant, rhythmic, unapologetic.
Anklets carry centuries of cultural significance, influenced by Indigenous Taíno heritage, African legacy, and Indian adornment traditions.
They are:
🌺 Symbols of femininity and self-expression – Gold, silver, or beaded, they speak without words.
🌺 Ties to ancestry and tradition – Echoes of the women who came before.
🌺 Marks of joy and celebration – Worn on vacations, festivals, or just because we want to feel good in our own skin.
The Tradition Lives On
Now, when I clasp an anklet around my ankle, it’s not just for fashion.
It’s for grounding.
For remembering.
For honoring the boldness of the women before me.
Each one whispers:
I see you. I remember you. I carry you.
And one day, if I have a daughter, I’ll open up my own jewelry box—my treasure chest of stories—and pass her one of mine. I’ll fasten it gently around her ankle and say:
“Now you’re one of us.”
💬 Your Turn
Did you grow up wearing anklets, toe rings, or jewelry that carries cultural meaning? Do you have a memory of your mother’s jewelry box—or a piece you now treasure?
I’d love to hear your story. Share in the comments below or message me on Instagram at @_arielspeaks.
June is Caribbean Heritage Month and I have a ton planned to celebrate. Stay tune and let’s honor the beauty we come from—one chain, one shimmer, one story at a time.
#CaribbeanCulture #PuertoRicanHeritage #AnkletsAndTradition #IslandRoots #ArielSpeaks
This truly made me cry, brought back so many memories. I always got excited whenever she pulled out the jewelry box😂😂