Back then, it wasn’t a question of a simple trip to the mall. We had to go to some lady’s dark and dreary house—I guess she was considered an ear-piercing expert? Her cats circled around my legs as I waited patiently, but a little frightened, as I watched her sterilize a sewing needle by burning it in alcohol. She drew a dot on each ear, and proceeded to pierce each lobe and thread it. It hurt. I bled. Or so I remember. She tied the ends of the threads into two small loops and I was sent home with instructions for my abuela on how to take care of my lobes until they healed. Then I could wear my first pair of gold studs, right in time for the communion. I was a happy camper.
