“Pink!” said the teacher. He pointed to the map. “Pink! All those parts that are pink belong to us.” He waved his hands. He smiled at the sun that streamed through the window’s dull glass. “And that, Class, is why they say ‘The sun never sets on her Empire.’ Yes, children. It’s pink!”
“Pinko Communist twit,” the little boy insulted his friend. And the world was a different shade these days, the maps redrawn, the old globes gathering dust. The sun rises and sets rust-red and old books lie unread.
The leaders think, “Let’s spread democracy,” but is it pink?