Nonfiction by Sherri Wright
I believe in purple, the perfect blend of blue and red. A mixture of cool and calm,
hot and spicy. Negotiating between red’s passion and anger, and blue’s bravery and wisdom, purple finds grandeur and dignity.
Purple needs just the right balance of pigments—too much red turns into muddy
maroon, too much blue takes on the look of a bruise. Too light and it gets girly like a princess, too dark it becomes like the uniform of authority or the wings of a purple emperor butterfly that feeds on rotting flesh and human sweat.
Originally purple was produced by crushing shells of rare sea snails, extracting
mucus and exposing it to the sun. It took over two hundred thousand mollusks to produce an ounce of the dye. So this “Phoenician purple” was expensive and in short supply – only available to the rich and royals. It came to be associated with wealth and pretentiousness. Roman emperors used it for their robes but forbade its use by citizens. The penalty was death. Only in the 1850s did a synthetic purple pigment become widely available. Rich and royal as purple is, democracy is blessed with an abundant supply.
I believe purple is an essential element of human wellbeing. Purple draws on all
the senses. Think sweet sour purple plum, fragrant April hyacinth, supple velvet robe, purple martin’s throaty chirp and creaky rattle, last arc of the rainbow, the amethyst’s crystal clear healing power.
I believe that nothing can go wrong when you are wearing purple. No podium is too scary when you stand up there in a magenta linen sheath, a lilac silk blouse, a tiny amethyst stud. Even under the most somber black suit, lavender underwear can save the day.
Purple is a lesson in moderation. Drawing equally from feminine and masculine,
earthly and spiritual. Purple doesn’t shout, purple whispers softly, waits for you to take it in.
You do not choose purple, purple chooses you. The “Violet” in your first box of
Crayolas. Iris blossoms you picked walking to school. Petunias printed on the feed sack your mother sewed into a skirt. Your grandmother’s gladiolas. The grape jelly beans. The lilac you hid under your pillow and made a wish. A belief in purple is as powerful as Sunday school.
Ubiquitous, omnipresent purple. You can find it everywhere. But one thing is true. There has never been, never will be, too much purple.
I believe in purple.
Sherri Wright‘s work has appeared in The Bluebird Word, Delaware Beach Life, RavensPerch, and Quartet. Kelsay Books published her chapbook “Winter of My Life.” Bay to Ocean Journal nominated her essay “Braiding Sweetgrass With My Daughter” for a Pushcart Prize in 2025.
