Lifestyle
Asian American Women Are Redefining the ‘Old’ in Grandmother’s Gold
Chokers encrusted with rubies. Strands of bright emeralds. Delicate headpieces framed by opalescent pearls. These are just some of the golden treasures belonging to her mother that Farah Khalid long admired — and knew she would one day inherit.
That day, however, came far too soon. Khalid’s mother unexpectedly became ill and split her collection between Khalid and her older sister, Lubna, before dying in 2013. Then, in 2021, Khalid inherited the rest of her mother’s items when Lubna died at 47.
Khalid wanted to honor her family members by wearing their jewelry, but she typically preferred silver. She decided to take some of the smaller trinkets to Lahore, Pakistan, and remake them into a chain with her mother’s and sister’s names translated into Urdu. The necklace was washed to tone down the yellow hues, so she could wear it more frequently.
“Having their names on me out of something that they used to wear — it just felt really important to be close to them in that way,” said Khalid, 48, a film director who lives in Brooklyn.
Passing down gold is a common practice among many Asian families. The precious metal isn’t just a superfluous adornment; it’s seen as a liquid asset: something that can be traded, act as collateral or melted down and sold. In pop culture, gold has even become something of its own character: Consider the mangalsutra, a traditional Indian necklace representing marriage, in the Netflix hit TV show, “Never Have I Ever,” and the 2025 rom-com “Picture This,” in which Simone Ashley plays a financially struggling photographer who must marry in order to access her family’s heirloom jewelry.
For many Asian American women like Khalid, coming into these accessories from their mothers or grandmothers prompt questions about how to bring the past into the present. Many women simply stow away these delicate heirlooms in safe deposit boxes of their own. Others save the jewelry for special occasions like their weddings. Some have even reshaped them into more contemporary, wearable pieces. Here are four other women and the stories their gold jewelry tell.
‘Tiny Little Piece of History’
Alicia Penn, 42, Charleston, S.C.
Growing up in Baltimore, Alicia Penn and her siblings would make routine stops at a jewelry store with their mother after visiting the temple. Her mother would spend an hour haggling with the owners, family friends who were also Cambodian, to buy gold accessories that she had no intention of keeping. Instead she would wear a piece until a friend showed interest in buying it, then resell it for a profit.
Penn never gave a second thought to what her mother did. “She explained it as a way to invest and enjoy buying stuff,” Penn said. “I thought it was an interesting way to think about investing, as opposed to traditional stocks and bonds.”
What Penn didn’t know then was that the Khmer Rouge, which was responsible for the deaths of at least 1.7 million Cambodians, had abolished Cambodia’s currency, making gold even more valuable. Penn’s parents left the country before the most brutal years, 1975 to 1979, but her maternal grandmother wasn’t as lucky.
She eventually made it to the United States in 1980 and helped raise Penn and her siblings until she died when Penn was still a child. Penn learned the story of how her grandmother escaped in 2022 during a visit to her mother’s bank locker, where she was invited to select a piece of jewelry: a tiny flat piece of gold in the shape of a mermaid.
“I’d never seen anything like it before,” Penn said.
The jewelry was one of two remaining charms of a gold belt that once belonged to her grandmother. She had sold and bartered pieces of the belt, made up of charms linked together, to escape the genocidal killing fields and flee to Thailand on foot.
Penn wears the charm on a heavy gold chain with a malleable hook enclosure. “It’s this tiny little piece of history that you can’t replicate,” Penn said. “Nobody makes things like this anymore.”
‘I Want to Wear It’
Nigar Iqbal Flores, 39, Clovis, Calif.
Marrying a man outside her Pakistani heritage has complicated the issue of who might inherit Nigar Iqbal Flores’s familial gold, compounded even further by the couple having three boys. “One issue that I have to think through is: Are my kids going to marry a Desi girl who would appreciate this jewelry?” Flores said. “Or are they going to marry a Desi girl who does not appreciate it?”
Her children are still young, but the questions do offer an opportunity for a new tradition, already a familiar concept in her family.
When Flores’s parents got married in Karachi, her paternal family insisted that her mother not work. She defied them, becoming a professor of home economics, and spent her first paycheck on an emerald set, including a necklace, earrings, a tikka (headpiece) and a ring.
“When I was a little kid, I remember being like, What a weird set because circles are not a traditional shape,” Flores said. The reason, her mother said, was that she had designed them herself.
Her mother gave Flores the set the day after her own wedding in 2012. Now Flores is on the lookout to wear her mother’s emerald jewelry to as many formal occasions as she can. “I only buy green shalwar kameez now,” she said, referring to the traditional outfit of loose trousers and a long shirt. “Because I want to wear it.”
Something Reimagined
Robin Kasner, 41, Chicago
Robin Kasner remembers her 16th birthday being a bit of an ordeal. She was given a jade bangle that was measured so closely to her wrist that she needed the help of her popo (maternal grandmother), her mother, some oil and a plastic bag to slip it on. “I never took it off for 20 years,” Kasner said. “Until it shattered.”
A spontaneous visit to a batting cage led to it splitting it into four pieces. Kasner called her mother in tears, who didn’t mirror her panic. She said that in Chinese culture, when jade breaks, it’s a form of protection, and she advised Kasner to keep the pieces. But Kasner was determined to find a way to salvage it for posterity.
She came across Spur, a jeweler based in New York that reimagines heirlooms as everyday pieces. The broken bangle was remade into something else entirely: a smooth, curved jade pendant attached to a 22-karat gold chain. “I love that the broken piece was made into a new piece, and that it’s something that I can hopefully pass along to my future daughter,” Kasner said.
An ‘Acceptance of the Relationship’
Lisa Kumar, 51, Franklin, Mich.
As a child, Lisa Kumar didn’t love the yellow gold she associated with Indian jewelry. But as her mother, now 83, began bequeathing more and more pieces to her, she finally came around. For Kumar, the jewelry offers a reminder of having been hard-won.
Kumar’s father came as a student in the 1960s to the United States from Mumbai. He soon met her mother, who is white and American, and they fell in love and got married — a decision that his parents weren’t pleased about. The couple made a trip to India shortly after their nuptials to meet the family, and, when it was time to leave, Kumar’s mother decided to stay behind for almost two months to travel around southern India with her new in-laws. “That was a really pivotal moment in her relationship with them because they didn’t think that she could hack it,” Kumar said. “And she did.”
Over the following years, Kumar’s grandmother gave her daughter-in-law jewelry: heavier pieces but also simple things she could wear, like half a set of gold bangles. “My grandmother giving all of this over to her was a sign of acceptance of the relationship, acceptance of my mother,” Kumar said.
Now Kumar tries to wear the accessories whenever she can and plans to pass them on to her own daughter, who is 20 and mostly wears silver. “I’m hopeful that as she ages,” Kumar said, “she’ll come around to it the way that I have.”
This story is part of a series on how Asian Americans are shaping American popular culture. The series is funded through a grant from The Asian American Foundation. Funders have no control over the selection and focus of stories or the editing process and do not review stories before publication. The Times retains full editorial control of this series.
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This week’s challenge
Today’s puzzle is a tribute to Mimi. Every answer is a familiar two word phrase or name in which each word starts with the letters MI-.
Ex. Assignment for soldiers –> MILITARY MISSION
1. Pageant title for a contestant from Detroit
2. One of the Twin Cities
3. Nickname for the river through New Orleans
4. Super short skirt
5. Neighborhood in Los Angeles that contains Museum Row
6. Just over four times the distance from the earth to the moon
7. Goateed sing-along conductor of old TV
8. American financier who pioneered so-called “junk bonds”
9. Little accident
10. Land-based weapon in America’s nuclear arsenal
11. In “Snow White,” the evil queen’s words before “on the wall”
Last week’s challenge
Last week’s challenge comes from Benita Rice, of Salem, Ore. Name a famous foreign landmark (5,4). Change the eighth letter to a V and rearrange the result to make an adjective that describes this landmark. What landmark is it?
Answer
Notre Dame –> Renovated
Winner
Chee Sing Lee of Bangor, Maine
This week’s challenge
This week’s challenge comes from James Ellison, of Jefferson City, Mo. Think of a popular movie of the past decade. Change the last letter in its title. The result will suggest a lawsuit between two politicians of the late 20th century — one Republican and one Democrat. What’s the movie and who are the people?
If you know the answer to the challenge, submit it below by Thursday, April 23 at 3 p.m. ET. Listeners whose answers are selected win a chance to play the on-air puzzle.
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
Phil Pritchard of the Hockey Hall of Fame works the 2019 NHL Awards at the Mandalay Bay Events Center on June 19, 2019 in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Photo by Bruce Bennett/Getty Images)
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