When I was in the seventh grade, a new girl checked into our homeroom class named Darla Star. She shone like a beacon in a dark sky with her curly raven hair, beaming brown eyes, and confident smile. To this day, I think those magenta suede go-go boots, that she glamorously paraded, gave her a decided flare and edge. Purple, violet, plum, magenta, amethyst, orchid, wine, or pomegranate, I could not resist. My eyes narrowed and grew green with envy over those gorgeous magenta boots, but I knew only Darla Star could wear them with confidence. In the end, I admired Darla more than I envied her. Later she left school, and we heard that her father beat her. I remember thinking about her purple bruised heart that no one saw when she walked into our class the first day.
Not a flamboyant extrovert like Darla, I happily sat in the safety of a back corner of our classroom; but I wore purple inside. No one saw the violet shades until I wrote about Darla’s heartache. Words of deepest plum rolled out in scarlet ribbons and brought healing streams of perspective and clarity for a 12-year-old girl that awoke suddenly from blissful innocence to the jolting reality of a violent violet world.
©️Bonnie Saul Wilks