The Man in the Purple Hat

He had the loudest mouth in town, but I loved him. I loved him from the day I met him outside my building in Philadelphia, near Broad and Market. It was an overcast, cloudy day. I had just stepped out, headed toward my favorite food truck, which sat about a block away. To get there, I had to walk through the corridor at City Hall. Everyone knew that truck had the best halal chicken and rice. The line was always long, and the wait usually stretched to fifteen minutes or more.

This particular day, the streets were packed. It was close to Christmas, and the trees were up in City Hall. Crowds gathered, snapping pictures, laughing.

I’d lived in Philadelphia all my life. Born right at 42nd and Tasker—not quite the projects, but not far from them either. My parents were blue-collar workers. My mother worked for City Hall in finance, and my father was a postal worker. They were devout Christians, in church every Sunday. As their only child, I was forced to go too. Bible study was different—they rarely attended, always using work as an excuse. Still, they believed. They prayed. Especially my father. When the house started falling apart, we’d often find him in the living room, head bowed in his big recliner, praying. On Saturday mornings, while my mother cooked breakfast, he’d sit at the table reading the Bible out loud.

All I knew growing up was “Jesus Christ and Him crucified.” I didn’t go to college—we couldn’t afford it. My father said I was smart enough to make it without a degree, and my mother helped me find a job at the bank in Center City. I’d been working there nearly six years when I ran into Sterling James.

He was wearing a purple cape, a black shirt and pants, and a cloth crown on his head. He was reading the Bible when I walked by. Our eyes met, and for a moment they locked, just as I stepped into the food truck line. The streets were busy—people brushing past, bumping into those of us waiting.

Sterling and his group, all dressed in matching purple, were posted up nearby. They stood beside sidewalk vendors selling watches, wallets, knockoff purses, city hustle in full swing. While others sold, Sterling read scripture. His followers tried to grab the hands of people walking by, shouting, “Jesus is the Black Messiah. We are the true children of Israel.”

At the time, I wasn’t like my parents. I didn’t read the Bible much. Occasionally, on a whim, I’d crack open one of the Bibles they’d given me as gifts. But every time I started reading a passage, my eyes would grow heavy. Even if I made it through a chapter, I couldn’t retain a single word. I didn’t know much—except the name of Jesus.

And that day, when I heard Sterling speak His name, I listened. Not because I cared about what he was preaching, but because he was so handsome. That deep, rich skin and those hazel eyes? A beautiful thing to behold on a cold, dreary Philadelphia day.

Next, he started saying something about Black people being the chosen people. As I moved up in the line, he looked right at me and said, “Do you know you’re an Israelite, my queen?”

A wave of embarrassment swept over me, but I was grateful for my gray trench coat and the way my hands were tucked deep in my pockets. At least no one could see how fast my heart was beating. People in the line pretended to be busy—some fiddling with their pagers, others flipping through newspapers. A few just stared straight ahead. I felt the weight of side-eyes, though I never caught anyone staring directly.

When he stepped closer, I caught a soft, clean scent—like he had just showered and dabbed oil on his neck. Later I learned it was Black Lotus, and I grew to love that scent. Over the years, I bought him that same oil more times than I can count.

That day, he invited me to the synagogue. I was confused—he was Black, and I had always associated synagogues with white Jews. But I said, “Sure, I’ll go,” even though I didn’t understand. He stood there, right on the street, calling me a queen. He said I was chosen by God—he could tell. And somehow, in just five minutes, beneath my coat, scarf, and gloves, I felt it. Like I was meant to walk as a daughter of God. A chosen one.

He asked about my church, my parents, where I worked, all while I stood in line waiting on my halal. It felt like we talked for an hour, but the line had barely moved ten feet.

When I finally got to the window and ordered my food, he smiled and said, “You eat kosher. You’re a real Jew.”

I didn’t tell him I’d had pork that morning. I knew it was forbidden, but I let the compliment stand.

I started attending weekly meetings with him at the Philadelphia Saints of Christ. he called it the synagogue and talked about the ways Christ would go into the shnkgauges to teach. But it felt more like a Christian church sprinkled with judahism.

The synogauge was very small not even a quarter the size of my parents church and everybody wore purple. Big kids little kids adults and the women didn’t speak while in the sinkage and had to have their heads covered At first, my parents didn’t ask any questions about Sterling. He was just another boyfriend to them. I’d had a few over the years, and none had ever sparked much interest. They didn’t pay him much attention—until a particular Sunday morning.

That morning, Dterling and a group of his brothers had picked picked me up for the synkgague.

I wore a purple wrap dress, a black hat, my long black coat, and gloves. When Sterling arrived, he stepped out of the car with his coat off. It was windy that morning and as he walked to the house briskly the sleeves of his purple dhashiki blew. He held on to his signature purple crown hat. My father gave him a long look, then turned to me and said, “What kind of man is this you’re dating?”

I replied, “Daddy, this is my friend Sterling James—the one I told you about.”

My mother just shook her head slowly, as if in disapproval. She didn’t say anything, but her face said it all. She didn’t understand what I was doing. I didn’t understand either. After all, they were still talking about Jesus.

By then, I had already fallen in love with Sterling. We’d been dating for four weeks straight, and he had my heart.

He introduced himself to my parents as politely as possible. Caught off guard, they received him warmly enough, and we all got into our separate cars and headed off to church.

During the drive, Sterling began explaining more. He told me he was a Hebrew Israelite. I had already sensed he was different, but now I had a name for it. Still, that morning’s service didn’t feel so unfamiliar. It was like our church in some ways—except the women wore purple and covered their heads. The message focused on Black Israelites and the Bible, and how we were the descendants of the Hebrew Israelites.

It would be years before I learned they believed white people were the children of Satan. But at the time, that detail felt small. What mattered to me was that Sterling still believed in God—and in Jesus, in some form. That was enough.

My parents would later tell me they objected to his religion. But they liked that Sterling was an electrician. He came by the house often to fix broken things, and over time, they took a liking to him. Religion became the unspoken boundary—never discussed, not even at family dinners. Whenever Sterling was invited over, he checked his Hebrew Israelite talk at the door.

He once told me he didn’t care that his parents had been Christians. But when it came to me, he wanted something different. He wanted me to be a real Israelite—a real Jew.

My parents objected in their own quiet ways. They rolled their eyes when I brought up things I’d heard in Sterling’s community—festivals, Sabbaths, ideas about who the true chosen people were. But I didn’t care. I loved Sterling, even if I didn’t believe a single word of his church’s doctrine. To me, it felt like a mix of Christianity and Judaism. Familiar enough to feel safe.

We had been dating for six months when things between Sterling and me grew more serious. I was twenty-nine, and my parents were hoping I’d settle down and get married. Sterling was my love, and as things progressed, we finally committed to one another.

The first time we made love, we both knew that was our wedding ceremony.

One day in July, we went to the fest and had a great time. Back at his house on Walton Street, we sat down to eat. Sterling loved fried chicken and rice. Though he followed a mostly vegan diet—like many Israelites—he ate meat at night, as long as it was halal.

He came out of the kitchen with plates in hand, and I just knew: this was the night.

After I showered, he kissed my cheek, then my neck. Before I had time to think, it had all unfolded. It wasn’t dramatic. It was tender. He was the first person who ever made me feel truly special. I wasn’t a virgin in deed, but in emotion and affection, I had been.

It was bliss.

Afterward, he picked up his Bible and read to me, just like my father used to on quiet Saturday mornings. It felt perfect.

We married two years later, just as I was expecting our only child—Sterling Jr.

The wedding was held at my parents’ church. Somehow, we managed to blend both belief systems—his Hebrew Israelite faith and my Christian upbringing. Minister Jerome Colleger officiated, and Prophet Lawrence Shabel spoke from Song of Solomon.

Sterling Jr. was born six months later.

As the years passed, Sterling grew more vocal about his religion. He started his own chapter, preaching downtown every Wednesday and Saturday. I went with him at first, but eventually I began drifting back to church with my parents.

Sterling didn’t like that—especially with Sterling Jr. going to a regular Christian church. But he wasn’t the type to argue. One day he said, “When your father dies, I’ll take control of Jr.”

When my father passed, I was at his bedside. He said, “Your husband’s religion is false. Remember that.”

When my mother died, her final words were, “I pray you come back to Jesus.”

Then it was just me, Sterling, and our son.

Eventually, Sterling asked me to stop attending the Christian church. He wanted me to fully devote myself to the Hebrew Israelite faith.

I just nodded. But I didn’t say much.

Sterling Jr. was the first to depart from the Hebrew Israelite religion. He never believed it—he told me so.

After he graduated high school, he went into the military. I picked him up from basic training on Tenth Street. He wasn’t the boy who looked like a mirror image of his father anymore. He wore green khakis and carried a duffle bag. His posture had changed. His face was fresh with a new haircut and a clean shave. He smelled like discipline and soap and something new.

He had plans. He wanted to rise through the military and become a general. As we drove home, just before we pulled up to the house, he said it.

“Ma, y’all religion is false.”

I almost ran a stop sign.

I looked over at our boy—no, not a boy. A man. And all I said was, “I know.”

We didn’t say anything else for a while.

It’s been difficult for me, knowing his religion was a lie and watching him cling to it for so long. But it’s no use. It’s so hard when you love the man to tell him everything he believes is false.

“I’ll have to tell him,” Sterling said, almost in a whisper.

“He won’t listen,” I replied.

“We have to try.”

So Sterling Jr. tried. Every time he came home during those eight years in the military, he tried. They’d sit for hours talking about the Bible and their beliefs. Sterling would sit like a scholar—like a white Jewish Christian from Jerusalem—reading his papers, flipping through his books. Jr. had met pastors in the military. He had taken theology classes while deployed. He brought everything he learned home.

He’d go to church with us like we were a happy family. Then, at night, he and his father would debate scripture until the early morning hours. But Sterling never changed his belief. He would get up the next day, go down to Center City with his brothers, and preach as if he hadn’t heard a single word Jr. had said.

But Sterling Jr. never gave up.

even the afternoon when everything changed, Sterling left the house and went down to center city with his usual followers. There were all getting old. JR managed to get out of going down to hear his father quite the same verses to people who passed in the most aggressive tone imaginable, Everything changed on a Wednesday night. Sterling got into a heated argument downtown with a group of muslim men. The man quoted from the Qur’an and challenged Sterling with scripture. There was some back a forth . His group grew unsettled. Voices rose. And just like that, it became a street fight.

Fists flew. Guns were drawn. Sterling was shot in the back.

He was rushed to the hospital. When I arrived, he was still alive—but barely. We were old then. Sterling Jr. hadn’t arrived yet. I sat beside the bed and asked one last question.

“Do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?”

He said, “No.”

I said, “Sterling, you’ve got to believe. The Hebrew Israelite doctrine—it’s not the truth.”

He looked at me and said, “I’ll never believe that.”

An hour later, he was gone.

By the time our son arrived, the doctors had already begun preparing his father’s body.

When I think about that cold day in December, it still makes my heart flutter. Those eyes captured me, but it wasn’t enough to distract me from the truth that followed.

As for me—I’ve always been a Christian.

And now, as I lie here with cancer in my lungs, my kidneys, my breasts, and my brain, I know what I’ve always known deep down. I was never a Hebrew Israelite.

I spent most of my life treating it all so casually—quiet, compliant, pretending it didn’t matter.

But now, as time grows short, it does matter. And I want to say it plainly:

I believe in Jesus Christ.

He is the Son of God.

And I am His.

Blog Post Title Two

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Three

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.

Blog Post Title Four

It all begins with an idea. Maybe you want to launch a business. Maybe you want to turn a hobby into something more. Or maybe you have a creative project to share with the world. Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.

Don’t worry about sounding professional. Sound like you. There are over 1.5 billion websites out there, but your story is what’s going to separate this one from the rest. If you read the words back and don’t hear your own voice in your head, that’s a good sign you still have more work to do.

Be clear, be confident and don’t overthink it. The beauty of your story is that it’s going to continue to evolve and your site can evolve with it. Your goal should be to make it feel right for right now. Later will take care of itself. It always does.