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In the late 1970s, I worked for Zbigniew Brzezinski, national security advisor to President Jimmy Carter. Part of my job was to report each morning on international developments that might warrant the president’s attention. The death of a major foreign leader, such as Tito, fit that description. After months of reporting that Tito was ill; then gravely ill; possibly deceased; and then still alive, I was able to confirm that Tito was undeniably and reliably dead. Vice President Walter Mondale led the U.S. delegation to the funeral, and I—because of my childhood association with Yugoslavia—was invited to come along. After three decades, the moment was finally right to wear Tito’s ring.

COLLECTION OF THE AUTHOR

A pin of my mother’s, designer unknown.

STANISLAV ZBYNEK/NEWSCOM

I was born in Prague, capital of Czechoslovakia, which later split into the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Both countries remain close to my heart. President Václav Havel, hero of the Velvet Revolution, is among the people I most admire. The art nouveau pins, opposite, are based on designs by Alphonse Mucha, a famed artist and Slavic nationalist of the early twentieth century. At right is the Order of the White Lion, an award I received, in 1997, from Havel and the Czech government.

STANISLAV ZBYNEK/NEWSCOM

Bird, Iradj Moini.

II. Wings

In the fall of 1955, I enrolled at Wellesley, a women’s college ensconced comfortably within one of the more distant and bucolic suburbs of Boston. The fifties were a period of transition for American women, and although the curriculum at Wellesley was modern, some of the customs were not. Many of my classmates arrived on campus as I did, decked out in the style of the day—with a camel-hair coat, Shetland sweater, Bermuda shorts, circle pin, and a single strand of pearls. Early on, we were sent to the physical education department to pose for what was called a posture picture. This was to see whether we had “an understanding of good body alignment and the ability to stand well.” To ensure accuracy, we were not allowed to wear any clothing above the waist. If we flunked, we were made to do exercises. I always wondered what happened to the pictures, until a few years ago, when they were discovered in a vault…at Yale.

COLLECTION OF THE AUTHOR

Wearing my mother’s ring. High school photo, 1955.

Wellesley women were, on the whole, excellent students, and many went on to have stellar careers. At the time, however, thoughts of history and philosophy competed with chemistry of a nonacademic sort. The majority of us hoped to be engaged before we graduated. According to the tradition, one became “pinned” while a junior and engaged as a senior before receiving—on the afternoon of commencement day—a diploma at two o’clock and a wedding ring at four. Today, young women are more likely to get pierced than pinned, but back then we viewed the pinning ritual with great seriousness. A boy gave his fraternity pin to a girl, thereby pledging both affection and fidelity. When the girl wore the pin, on a blouse above her heart, she advertised that she was spoken for. The arrangement brought a couple’s standing to a new and higher plane: more than dating, not always formally engaged.

COLLECTION OF THE AUTHOR

Alumnae leaf, Wellesley College.

The pin from Theta Delta Xi

As a singularly mature and independent Wellesley woman, I was not the type to get married the same afternoon I graduated. Instead, I waited three days. I had met Joe Albright, my future husband, right on schedule in the summer between my sophomore and junior years; we both had jobs at the Denver Post. Joe, a fledgling reporter, was handsome in a tweedy way, but I kept my distance until verifying that the gold band on his finger was only a class ring. That issue resolved, we were immediately smitten, and within weeks Joe had proposed, offering his Theta Delta Xi pin to cement the deal. I was in heaven—but also in trouble, because I had another boyfriend, who knew nothing about Joe. Until I summoned