My Path to an Obsession

Do you think having an obsession is a bad thing? An evil thing? I’ll tell you about mine. You can be the judge.

It started out innocently enough, about twenty years ago. My intentions, which were a response to a work event, were initially good. However, my employer’s intentions, which caused my response, were not. I’d worked as the Exhibits Designer at the local zoo for ten years, the longest I’d worked anywhere, and I hoped to work there until I retired. I’ve always loved animals. I enjoyed walking past the bear moats to get to my office, listening to the male lion roar at feeding time, and taking a stroll at noon to visit gorillas or elephants or zebra.

One Friday afternoon at three p.m. I was called to my boss’s office. My job was abruptly eliminated. I was shocked, angry, and then worried. And, in an ironic turn of events, the loss of my job, which led to my obsession, was due to an altogether different obsession, not mine. I was let go because of the world’s obsession with giant pandas.

In 2003, our zoo, like many zoos in the U.S. and all over the world, was in the throes of pandemonium, the fun word for giant panda obsession. Zoos were pandering to pandas and to China, from whence all pandas come. Ever since China had started renting pairs of pandas to zoos for ten-year periods, at the bargain price of a million dollars a year, zoos had scrambled to be one of the chosen. It became like a gambling obsession. It didn’t matter if your zoo couldn’t afford pandas. The scarcity, the competition, the sheer cuteness of the black and white bears whetted the zoos’ appetites. No funds? No problem! The zoos would somehow find a way. They were caught in the  age-old conundrum of supply versus demand, the pull of yin and yang. The news claimed pandas were nearly extinct. People were clamoring to see the cuddly looking mammals before they disappeared forever, and to help keep them from vanishing  as part of the bargain. A great public relations plan on the part of the pandas. And zoos competed vehemently for the black and white cash cows.

Our zoo had a dog in the fight, so to speak. It sought to become one of the few elite U.S. zoos to house giant pandas. Those in charge thought it would put our zoo on the map. They knew it was an expensive proposition, but they didn’t know how expensive it was. They knew about the ten million rental for ten years. Budgeting said it would cost another 4.6 million to build a China exhibit for the pandas and other Chinese animals. But construction was slow and costs went up. The American architects struggled to explain to Hispanic workers how to install Chinese roof tiles. Owing to language difficulties, few hundred thousand surplus Chinese roof tiles were ordered. Oops! The final cost for the whole panda exhibit was close to twenty-six million. Oops again!

Our zoo’s staff was mainly black and white racially, but we weren’t necessarily all that cute and cuddly, and the public wasn’t clamoring to see us. Exit the fifteen members of the Education Department, including me and my job. Lost to the zoo’s giant panda obsession. Spoiler alert: eliminating my job saved the zoo less than three percent of a year’s panda rental cost. You do the math.

So, what’s an unemployed zoo Exhibit Designer to do? Our zoo was literally the only game in town. I had roots here and didn’t want to leave. I was fifty-three –not an ideal age to job hunt in the recession economy into which we were headed. Hmmm.

Fortuitously, friends of a friend in Alaska offered me a six-week dog-sitting opportunity, with free transportation and a place to stay, use of their car, and a stipend. I am a life-long dog lover—another obsession? Possibly. And I am passionate about cold climates—yet another obsession? Perhaps. I took the job. Obsessions be damned. I could mull over my employment opportunities while walking the dogs and gazing at glaciers.  

Juneau, Alaska proved to be everything I’d ever dreamed of. Wait –was I developing an obsession for a place? Undoubtedly. Regardless, now I’m getting closer to telling you about my serious obsession. While in Juneau, my friend there showed me how to make earrings out of fishing swivels. She worked for the Department of Fish and Game. Alaska is a very fishy state. The devil’s handmaidens come in many different guises: sometimes they appear as a dear friend.  I loved making jewelry out of cheap materials intended for a different use. We added a few small, cheap beads and ear wires to the fishing swivels, making eye-catching earrings. I took the bait and made a now cliched move even though I’m not a ballerina: I pivoted.

I’d recently inherited my mom’s collection of inexpensive but attractive costume jewelry. I could take it apart and make jewelry out of it with very little financial outlay. What else? In Alaska, I saw jewelry, clothing and blankets ornamented with buttons. I had also inherited a large collection of buttons of different shapes, materials, and colors from Mom and Grandma. Now I was cooking! With a few simple materials, I could make a fortune. Hand-made jewelry was hot at the time. This work was meant to be; I would become rich!

Back home, I couldn’t wait to get started. I cleared off my drafting table and some shelves, laid out my Alaskan fishing swivels, buttons and old jewelry. I sorted them into handy plastic margarine containers that I’d recycled. So far, so good. I was starting my own business with zero overhead! Take that, you ten-million-dollar pandas!

Hmmm. What was missing? Materials with which to construct the jewelry. No big deal – I had a forty percent off coupon from the big box craft store. I headed to the store to buy wire, clasps, and a few earring hooks. Hmmm. Looks like I’d also need some basic tools: wire cutters, needle nose pliers, other types of pliers. It turned out that jewelry making was a very pliers-forward craft. And I could probably use a how-to book or two, just for some ideas. What the hell, I had a coupon! And, with every purchase, you got another coupon. What a cool deal!

           I didn’t realize it, but it wasn’t just a craft store. It was the tip of an iceberg. In Alaska, I’d seen actual icebergs and learned that only ten percent of the iceberg is above water. I had ninety percent more of this jewelry-making iceberg to explore. I love exploring! I explored more of the craft store. Wow! It had an assortment of beads besides the tools and the findings. I turned up my nose at the cheap plastic beads: I could do better. But the store also had strings of semi-precious stones, like turquoise, jasper, coral, and onyx. And crystals! A little sparkle wouldn’t hurt. Maybe just a few of these beads and crystals would be good accents for my fishing swivels and buttons. Plus, remember, I had a coupon.

At home with my treasures, I began making jewelry. I really enjoyed it. A couple of friends came over to make jewelry with me. Fun, sociable, and profitable—what a way to make a living. Together, we examined more of the iceberg.

We found out that there were other places to buy beads besides the big local craft store. The interwebs. And beads were cheaper if you bought in bulk. Anything to save money. But online wasn’t quite as much fun as going to the store, where you could handle, really fondle and caress, the beads and stones; see which ones looked good together, how they took the light; feel their cool, smooth surfaces. It was a very sensual experience. Sensual experiences, I learned, can cloud pragmatic thinking.

Then one day, I got an email, I guess because I had bought from a jewelry company online. Hmmm. Interesting. There was going to be a wholesale bead show in town soon, out at the Agricenter, a huge space. Hmmmm. I mused: there were probably going to be more than a few beads and gemstones there. Turns out there were indeed.

I walked into the vast hall. It was there that I would lose my virginity, where I would truly fall into the clutches of this obsession. Table upon table were piled high with beads and stones of every persuasion. Most were “temporarily strung” and draped over stands in clusters, with dozens of bright lights reflecting off their dazzling surfaces. Piles of discount “orphan” stones nestled together in bins, inviting you to run your fingers through them. They looked like big bowls of colorful Christmas candies.  

I rationalized that the bead show had educational value. I found out that the darker veins in  some stones are called matrix, were formed by the host rock; that a stone’s clarity increased its value; that the different shapes and cuts of stones were called teardrops, briolettes, baguettes, pillows, pears, marquise and more. I was learning so much!

And there were the different colors and textures. The pale, subtle glimmer of my birthstone, aquamarine, in various cuts and sizes caught my eye. A similar but more opaque blue-green stone called Amazonite was as cool to the touch as its colors. Jaspers ranged from tans to browns, oranges to reds, were speckled and striped, shiny and polished, or matte and flat, with names like evergreen, ocean, picture, rainforest or leopardskin. Amber was millions of years old, the fossilized remains of tree resin. It glowed a brilliant  orange as if lit from within. Kyanite had a translucent blue-gray depth, its bladed crystals crisscrossed by dark veins. And I lusted for any and all of the deep blues—sodalite, lapis lazuli, azurite, chrysocolla, chalcedony. Even the names were exotic. Greens were every shade in the forest—aventurine, malachite, peridot, tourmaline. Just saying their names was pleasurable.

I also learned that one could spend an impressive amount of money without even looking at the more expensive stones, the pandas of jewelry, the rubies, sapphires, emeralds, and diamonds. I virtuously stayed away from those sparklers. Crystals, though, were another story. Man-made stones that shimmered and glittered, glinted, glistened and gleamed, calling out to me as much as their unattainable cousins. Buying a few, just for accents—what could be the harm? I was saving money.

And oh, lord help me! I discovered freshwater pearls! Small pearls in simple shapes called potato or rice, or larger, bumpy and irregular shapes called baroque. White with a sheen, or off-white, or dyed shiny gold or silver, pale pink or deep copper. Bless those oysters’ hearts! Not only are they tasty, but they make luscious adornments out of waste material. They were thoughtful recyclers! Buying pearls was striking a blow against global warming!

The culture of bead show attendees was yet another learning opportunity. They were women of diverse nationalities, shapes, sizes and ages. Alone or with friends, sisters, mothers, or daughters. We didn’t talk to each other. We all had intense, laser focused stares and grabby hands. So much to see—would we have time to see everything? What if someone else got the last strand of lapis lazuli? If a crowd formed at a particular vendor, it drew more people, just like the panda craze. If everyone wants to see this, it must be really special.

The vendors were mostly male. They were silent sirens. They eyed you as you fondled their wares. If they saw your interest, if you kept returning to that same strand of turquoise, they helpfully gave you a bin to collect your favorites, and plucked out a similar but more expensive strand to reel you in. Unaware of their ploys, I circled their traps. They had mastered the art of showing instead of telling. After I went to a few of these bead shows, the vendors recognized me, spoke to me in a friendly, familiar fashion, and offered me a special price, like drug dealers who knew I was vulnerable, in need of a fix. I realized later that these guys also worked for the devil. They were Enablers.

I fell deep—hook, line, fishing swivels and sinker. I was following the iceberg down, down into the depths. It was too late to call for a lifeboat. I was in the throes of a full-fledged addiction. Could I be saved? Did I even want to be saved? My low overhead work was costing much more than I’d budgeted, just like the panda exhibit.

I’d been earnestly doing my best to sell my jewelry, to make good on my plan to earn an income from beading. I sold jewelry at craft shows. I held jewelry parties at friends’ homes, built a website, sold to museum gift shops. I gave jewelry as gifts to friends and family, thus “saving” on gift expenses. Was it enough to offset the costs? In a word, no. There was always one more string of pearls to entice me, that I needed, just in case. It would take an outside force to cure me. Ironically, in a full circle moment, that force came from China, but it wasn’t a panda.

The force came early in the year 2020. It crept in slowly at first, but it quickly built momentum and took over. Anyone in the world who was old enough to read in 2020 knows what happened. From the massive city of Wuhan, China came something very small in size but with a world-shattering impact: the coronavirus. I don’t want to make light of it. The illness and suffering it caused for millions was real and heartbreaking, but that belongs in a different story.

Just about everything shut down. The craft store, a “non-essential business,” was closed. The bead show didn’t come to town. You could still shop for beading supplies online, but for some inscrutable reason, cargo ships were backed up, sitting idly offshore, and they couldn’t unload their wares, so more often than not, your orders were out of stock. It seemed every place was out of everything. Plus, China is a major source of gemstones and beading accessories. Nobody wanted anything they didn’t absolutely need from China. We had slammed into the iceberg. Why buy jewelry with no place to go to wear it? Everyone stayed home and made sourdough bread. I applied for government relief money. The government said I didn’t make enough money for it to qualify as income. For once, they were right.

By the time the world gradually opened back up and supply chains started moving again, the handmade jewelry craze was over. People were staying home watching Netflix while eating sourdough bread, and they didn’t need jewelry for that. The pandemic was my intervention. Once my obsession was interrupted, I could see it for what it was. The impetus to buy shiny stones lost its allure.

What happened to the pandas in the meantime? Zoos, even though they are mostly open air, had closed for a time also, and they were hurting. Then China got mad at all the other countries because we wouldn’t just let them run roughshod over us on political issues. So China recalled its big-eyed weapons of soft diplomacy. The folks with giant panda obsessions were left high and dry, just like us jewelry makers. The only way to see pandas was to go to China to see them, and risk getting the coronavirus.

To everything, there’s a cycle, and a season. Hmmm. That could be a good song. It’s now been four years since the pandemic began. Just recently, China shipped some new black and white bears to the San Diego Zoo. They—China, not the bears--needed to rebuild some friendships.

What does this mean for me and my obsession? Maybe people will start wearing jewelry again, so they can dress up to visit the pandas. There’s still a lot of jasper and turquoise, amber and sodalite, waiting for me in my craft room. Maybe I should feature panda jewelry, all black and white. I’d need a few more onyx stones, a few more pearls. The big craft store is open and stocked. And a bead show is coming to town next weekend…