When I was a pre-teen, I had a stepmother who enforced a strict rule when it came to clothing: She wouldn’t allow me to wear anything purple. This sartorial restriction never made sense to me. After all, I pointed out, purple is the traditional color of royalty. My arguments fell on deaf ears: Purple was out.  (I also wasn’t allowed to pierce my ears–body piercing was only appropriate for Gypsies and “the French,” according to the wisdom handed down to me.)  

I never understood the ban on purple. Was the color considered to be vulgar, or simply tacky? My adolescent speculations ran wild. I had visions of plum-skirted Gypsies and French women jitterbugging through the streets of Paris–in my imagination they’d be whirling in all their purple glory, pierced body parts jangling.

Finally came the day–I think it was the eighth grade–when I finally got to wear something purple. I’ve never felt more daring than the day I ventured down the hallway of junior high in my pale lavender miniskirt and matching vest.

I guess it wasn’t only my stepmother who disdained the color purple. For example, here’s a line from a poem written in the early 60’s by  Jenny Joseph:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple/And a red hat which doesn’t go, and doesn’t suit me.