Seeing Colors

My father was profoundly colorblind. Here’s how he found out: Some time between running away from the orphanage where his widowed father had placed him and running away from New York altogether, Grandpa got my father hired as an apprentice at a clothing factory. His first assignment was to pull a bolt of fabric for the cutting tables. He was asked to pull red and he returned with blue. He lasted two days at that job, which apparently was one day longer than his older brother, who was also profoundly colorblind and also failed the fabric bolt test. This infuriated my grandfather, the master house painter who mixed paint so well he could match the color of dirty walls. He refused to believe such a thing as colorblindness existed and preferred to think his sons were idiots. The only time my father’s colorblindness seriously impacted our safety was when he was driving and the setting sun would reflect off the street intersection lights. It was impossible then for him to see which glass was brightest. Normally, the position of the brightest light or the movement of other cars would guide him. I only heard panic in his voice once. “Quick Mary! What color is the light?” We survived, so I gather that Ma, who never learned to drive, made the right calls if she was with him. For other color choice dilemmas, such as picking out clothes, he had my mother to rely upon each and ever day. I later learned at least one of his nephews inherited this family trait. All of that man’s suits were hung with coordinating shirts, ties, and socks draped over the same hanger. His girlfriend was more organized than my mother. A common misconception of the day was that only men were colorblind. This myth was debunked for me when I spoke to an ophthalmologist who was profoundly colorblind himself. He studied the history of this condition after the Army yanked him from his initial assignment and put him into Special Ops once his colorblindness became known. Apparently, armies have been raiding villages for thousands of years, kidnapping young boys who were both colorblind and had keen eyesight. They were valuable assets in identifying enemy movements because they weren’t distracted by camouflage. These soldiers saw changes in color density that eluded soldiers with color sense. The same doctor told me women can also be colorblind, but to a lesser degree. He said in order for that to happen, the woman’s father had to be profoundly colorblind and her mother had to be slightly. Don’t quote me on the statistics; I’m only repeating what he said. This got me wondering about my mother. Could she have been slightly colorblind? Thinking back, the only way to tell was to recall the color choices she made once my father passed away. Prior to that, he made all the choices: furniture, decor, and her dresses, which is really stupid when you think about it. Bright primary colors were in style when Ma got her first apartment as a widow. I took her shopping for towels, curtains, wallpaper, you name it. I even sewed long dresses for her to wear at her Senior Center dances. All she wanted was the brightest orange you’ve ever seen and red, lots and lots of red. My mother’s affinity for strong colors may have been an indication of slight colorblindness. Now that I’m writing this, it occurs to me I may not have been the best one to judge my mother’s color sense. It turns out I am slightly colorblind and have almost no color memory. My first clue should have been when I was making beaded earrings for fun and profit. I would stay up until two or three in the morning, muttering “just one more bead.” The finished results were my versions of Southwest Indian woven bead patterns. Some of them were actually sold to tourists in Santa Fe who didn’t know any better. I was told that what made my earrings unique were the unusual color combinations. This was not done on purpose. I thought I was choosing conventional colors. When I was told that was not true, I assumed it was because of the poor lighting that made everything look green or brown at three in the morning. The next clues came when I was redecorating the house after my second husband relocated. I spent every weekend on a ladder with a paint brush in my hand. When I told my daughter I had just painted the living room walls pea green, she rushed over and was relieved to tell me they were in fact yellow-based manilla. My green furniture is actually brown, and the brown furniture is gold, or so I’m told. What it boils down to is that I have wall colors that can never be touched up because even the paint store scanning machines can’t figure out how I managed to end up with those tones. Let’s digress a moment to consider pattern and color memory. I was at work, trying to tell a friend about the wardrobe my daughter helped me pick out in order to spruce myself up for imaginary husband number three. When asked to describe the color and design of a dress, I said it’s an abstract pattern in gray. Just to make certain, I called my daughter. “Do you remember that grayish dress you told me to buy? Do you remember the pattern?” “You mean the brown dress with the Japanese print mauve-colored roses?” I rest my case. The best clue of all was when my son and daughter drew straws for which one had to tell me my hair was orange. My son drew the short straw. He and I were sitting on the couch, watching TV, when he abruptly turned to me and said, “Your hair is orange.” “What?” “Your hair is orange.” “What do you mean, orange?” Then he turned coward and said “Ask your daughter. She’ll explain it.” She explained. I went to the hair salon and I think we remedied the error. Maybe. When I related this funny story to my sister, she exclaimed, “Oh, thank goodness! I thought you were dying it orange on purpose.” No. No, I was not. Nowadays I check with people before I buy fabric or pick out bedspreads. I have a team of color assistants. I’ve been given strict instructions to never cut the sales tag off a new garment until one of my entourage approves my choice. They have fun showing me off. They’ll ask in front of company, “Ma, what color is that wall?” “Green," I reply. It’s turquoise blue, says everyone. Turquoise is a greenish blue: you can see where that would be confusing. However, grays are a complete mystery. Don’t ask me about grays. Browns are just as puzzling. I’m pretty good at reds. On the other hand, I thought my hair was red, so maybe not so much. The biggest shock, however, was learning I have blue eyes. I’m pretty sure I used to have green eyes. I see green eyes in the mirror. But my entourage insisted I have blue eyes, so for about a week I stopped strangers in the street just to double check. “Excuse me, but what color are my eyes?” Everyone answered blue, except for the majority who looked nervous and kept walking. Blue. Who knew?