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 teachers 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 dont 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.
