The Ring I Almost Bought: Why I Didn’t Choose a Black Diamond

When my partner and I started ring shopping, I had done a ton of research. I knew we weren’t going to fall for the idea that my ring has to:

1. Cost two months’ salary

2. Be paid for by him alone

3. Magically appear at the right moment, with him somehow knowing exactly what I want

   
   

When we decided we wanted to get married, I already knew exactly how I wanted my ring to look. About two months into dating, we were on a walk. My partner has what we call “stray kitty traits”—he’s always finding weird and wonderful things on the ground. On this particular walk, he bent down to pick up a ring. He tried it on first, and when it didn’t fit, he gave it to me. It was a piece of costume jewelry: a black, pear-shaped “diamond” on a gold band with a halo. Looking back, it feels like foreshadowing.

A year later—around the same time—we decided to fully join our lives together. We decided to buy both of our rings together in South Africa. (And yes, we’re sharing the cost of both. We’re equal partners, and we want that reflected in our engagement rings, too.) Initially, we wanted an engagement ring with a real black diamond and real gold—one that would nod to the ring he found that day.

And so, being the bookworm I am, I started researching black diamonds. The phrase “black diamond” had come up in two novels I’d read before, and in both, black diamonds represented masculine potential. In Zakes Mda’s Black Diamond, Don—a handsome man—is caught between his model girlfriend, Tumi, who wants to polish him into the black diamond he could become, and his new client, Magistrate Kristin Uys, who needs protection (and many other things, wink wink). In this novel, black diamonds represent the potential to become a person with money, looks, and status.

In Sue Nyathi’s The Polygamist, the phrase appears again in reference to Jonasi. In a conversation with wife number two (because yes, he’s a polygamist), he admits that wife number one, Joyce, is the woman who “polished me into the black diamond I am.” Once again, the black diamond is a man who was always special, but needed a woman to refine him and help him realize his potential.

These novels reflect an idea I wasn’t comfortable with: that women, after doing the hard work of refining themselves, must now dedicate themselves to “completing” the men in their lives. The symbolism didn’t align with my relationship, so I turned to academic work that further illuminated my discomfort. Scholars E. Dimitris, Tommaso M. Milani, and Erez Levon discuss not just what “black diamond” means, but the pejorative context it comes from.

To summarize a very long history: South Africa endured a system of racial oppression called apartheid—a Jim Crow-like regime that segregated people and deliberately impoverished Black communities to ensure a cheap labor force. After democracy came in 1994, a rising Black middle class (BMC) emerged. This group was quickly labeled “black diamonds”—a term likening their value to that of precious gems. The color black was, of course, a reference to skin tone. Already, we can see how this framing ties Black people’s value directly to their skin color.

The authors point out that “the idea of a shiny/valuable gem is matched to consumption.” So when Black people gain economic power, it’s not viewed as long-overdue dignity or success, but as consumption and materialism. They also note that the term “black diamond” often carries a subtle moral condemnation, suggesting Black people with money are spenders rather than savers or investors.

A part of me wanted to reclaim “black diamond,” both in words and in my ring. Black people have reclaimed the N-word to strip it of its power, and queer people have transformed a once-derogatory label into a badge of pride. Reclaiming “black diamond” could be an option. But in the end, my partner and I decided against it.

Reclaiming a term is one thing when there’s a larger, collective movement behind it. But as we’ve seen with the N-word, Black people are still burdened with the task of constantly explaining why others—especially white people—can’t use it—so much so that Ta-Nehisi Coates had to publicly address it in both his book We Were Eight Years in Power and during his book tour.

To reclaim “black diamond,” I’d always have to confront and explain what I was reclaiming it from: its roots in masculine potential, racialized class expectations, and post-apartheid economic stereotypes. I’m already grappling with the fact that diamonds themselves are tied to a history of colonial exploitation (but that’s another article). I don’t want to look down at my ring and do the mental work of remembering why I’m “reclaiming” it. I’m already tired.

So I’m going traditional: a solitaire pear diamond design with a floral-basket setting. It references the original ring without replicating its racialized and gendered complications.

Citaions:

Dimitris Kitis, E., Milani, T. M., & Levon, E. (2018). ‘Black diamonds’, ‘clever blacks’ and other metaphors: Constructing the black middle class in contemporary South African print media. Discourse & Communication, 12(2), 149-170. https://doi-org.proxy.lib.duke.edu/10.1177/1750481317745750 (Original work published 2018)