“Why are your hands purple?” said the little girl.
“I was born this way,” said the man.
Her mother approached. “Why are you talking to my daughter,” she said.
“She asked me a question,” said the man with the purple hands.
The mother shot him a nasty look, took her daughter by the arm, and marched off. As the little girl walked away, she turned around and gave a sympathetic glance.
It made the man with the purple hands feel good.
He left the park and headed back across town to his apartment. As he walked he glanced in the storefronts and read the signs:
“White, black, and brown hands welcome,” one sign side.
“Purple hands = no service,” said another.
The man with the purple hands crossed the railroad tracks, and the scenery changed dramatically. Pristine buildings and luscious greenery gave way to row houses and streets lined with garbage.
He walked past a woman with a t-shirt that read “Purple hands matter.” She seemed sad.
A block from his apartment, a car pulled up alongside.
A man rolled down the window. “Hey give me a wave,” he said.
The man dug his purple hands deeper into his jacket pocket.
“Give me a wave,” the driver said, laughing.
The man with the purple hands started walking at a brisker pace. The car rolled along beside him.
“Don’t ignore me,” said the driver.
“Teach him some respect,” said a voice from the passenger seat.
The driver leapt from the car, a crowbar in his hand. The passenger got out with him, wielding a baseball bat. Both men wore “All hands matter” hats upon their heads.
They chased him down the block. The man with the purple hands turned into an alley but found it was a dead end.
The two men closed in on the man with the purple hands. They raised their weapons and started beating him viciously about the head and body.
Between the screams, the man with the purple hands managed to say “why are you doing this?”
The men replied, “because this is a metaphor for racism.”