An article which did not/is yet to make it to print.
I think I know what it must feel like to come out of the closet. When I admit that I am different from other people in a certain department, I become an instant freak.
I am one of those who are not able to distinguish between a few colours, who always shout out the wrong numbers or no numbers when shown those diagrams with dots all over them during primary school medical check-ups.
Thus I get bombarded with questions such as “What is the colour of the teacher’s ink”, “Can you tell between a red apple and a green one” and “Did I succeed in making an annoying git of myself.”
There is one incident though which really takes the cake and looking back, it was rather hilarious.
In a Chemistry practical, answering the questions often requires identifying chemicals from their colours and using indicator dyes which change in appearance when enough reagents are used.
My eyes can trick me into writing the wrong conclusions and they often do. For instance, there is this yellow reagent called potassium chromate, which never seems to turn orange to me when I add acid to it. Thus, I am allowed some assistance from teachers and invigilators.
In my secondary school days, I was assigned, together with other people who need assistance, the last shift for the practical examinations. Other normal schoolmates in that shift would ask what I was doing in “quarantine” with them while my other classmates were conducting their experiments, so I had to explain.
One cheeky person suggested, “When they tell you the colour (of a chemical product), can repeat loudly for us right? Say ‘GREEN IS IT’, or ‘RED ARH’.”
He was joking, of course, but he was the first person who considered using my weakness to “help” others. Although I, very wisely, did not do that during the exam, he still managed to complete it, even after I had smacked him on the head with a rolled-up car magazine.
When people find out about my imperfect colour vision, they tend to make a royal tragedy out of it. Colour-blindness occurs in varying degrees in different people, so I am fortunate that mine is not that severe and all I need is just their understanding, especially during a Chemistry lesson.
I can see colours, so the world really does not appear as a black and white movie and the traffic lights look the same way to me as what they would to you.
I just confuse a few colours when the hues and lighting are not right. Apart from the example of practicals, under their own illumination, red candles have appeared green to me.
I know the multi-syllabic euphemism for people is “the colour vision deficient”, but it sounds lame and I am not going to kick up a fuss over details.
My condition may be one of the less serious types, but I am not going to take any chances in the future. The girl whom I marry cannot be colour-blind too. It may qualify me as one of those miserable people with criteria for a wife, but I could not care less.
Car salesmen could try to trick me into selecting upholstery that looks like dead lichen and then turn purple in their attempts not to laugh in my face. I could be the last person to know that I have picked a dreadful colour scheme for my home. When the colour TV set packs up, I donÂ’t want to fiddle with the settings or the coloured wires.
In these incidents the rolled-up car magazine offers no protection. Therefore, utilitarian though it may sound, a wife with sound colour vision would be a life companion as well as my safeguard against embarrassment.
That, dear reader, is my take on my own genetic failing. If a scrawny young lad who sounds odd approaches you for help in the clothing department or the paint shop, I hope you understand.
