Purple

I have always loved Purple. Plums and grapes were so appealing because of the color. Blackberries picked at the side of Hines Drive. Alone in a bramble on an embankment picking and eating the mesh of berries. Small I was, hidden down below the tops of the brush. A glorious memory. And my hands stained dark purple. My mouth full of purple.

I had a small bed, and inherited from my brothers an ugly beige bed spread that my mother promised to dye purple for me. It turned out more lilac, my mother's idea of a pretty purple. I was disappointed, because it was not dark enough, but I knew enough to be grateful and not complain. Likewise when I was older, my brothers long moved out and I had their room, I was given the canopy bed I so wanted, romantic notion. It was not dark wood with heavy purple velvet drapery surrounding the bed. Not that that would have been reasonable, an expensive proposition. And I was only in 3rd grade. I had a say in the fabric for the spread and canopy, but my mother's absolute notion of what colors were appropriate for a little girl meant I deferred to her. And she was sewing it for me herself. It was a pretty but very light blue, with multicolor pastels on the flat of the bed, short ruffles at the top. And the bed itself was white and gold, Sears probably still sells them. But my mother went to so much effort, and I was getting what I said I wanted... I was quiet and tried to be grateful. Appeared to be certainly. I could not be so aware of tight money and not make her feel I appreciated her efforts.

There was a lilac jumper once, dreadful polyester thing. But mom had made it. I wore it. It made me feel ugly. My mother told me purple was not the best color on me, lilac certainly is not.

When I was out on my own, I found a deep dark purple sweater in a rummage sale. I kept it, despite holes and general decay until just a few years ago. It made me feel wonderful. It was the perfect purple, and the ratty appearance, even when new to me, was part of it's charm. Soft, body too short, the arms stretched out, often worn inside out. Often worn with dance clothes. My first article of clothing in the right color, and I kept it for 20 years. Had it with me in Saudi.

I tried other colors, black especially, and grey. I had a bright pink shirt that I paid too much for in San Antonio. A saffron scarf, blues of any dark hue for many things. I owned a green car. I have had red jackets, one now, because of a sale rather than a preference. I wore army green for six years, but only when I was paid to. I wear green scrubs now for the same reason. Being able to wear colorful hats in deep rich shades, two purple- helps. I wore white through nursing school, hated because of periods and because always looked grey, and dirty. I wore navy blue uniforms in grade school and brown in high school. I have worn many unflattering clothes, but uniforms were the perfect excuse to look bad, because it wasn't my fault, and everyone around me was wearing the same thing. Easy. I believed I had no fashion sense, so uniforms in disliked colors didn't matter. I yearned for purple.

I had two years of prosperity, and I found that my fashion sense wasn't so much bad as a bit expensive. I cannot make bad clothes look good, but when I can afford it, I can choose good, flattering clothes. My love of that rich dark of a midnight purple is still part of me. The sweater I wear now, another of silk, many scarves of all kinds of purple. A stretchy knit skirt of dusty purple. I was just too poor to indulge my taste except with a second hand bit of knit for many years.

Purple is still to me a symbol of my independence. My own taste indulged. And my mother's inability to understand me, and attempts to interpret me, wrongly. Of the imposition of her will on something that shouldn't have mattered that much to her as an adult, but that mattered to me as a child. Like banning denim jeans as 'what workmen wore', not her daughter. Like resisting letting me grow my hair. "You look so cute in a Pixie." Symbolic of other narrow views and absolute dogma. My father's opinion on all of this was just something to rail against, anything he liked was what I didn't do, because I did not want to please him or attract him. That was just part of his overwhelming cruelty. But my mother was my ally, I wanted to please her. She made unreasoned demands of my taste and preferences as though they were a moral issue. Today I cannot talk to her, because I do not want to be judged by her. Because her judgment is suspect. Because she never bothered to know my favorite color, as a child nor as an adult, and I don't now care to trouble myself to get to know her.

Because I look beautiful in purple.