Early one Saturday morning when I was still little, my father took me down to the school to have me tested for color blindness. It was one of those bustling Saturday morning events that schools often have where there are booths set up and people are passing out fliers, and signs made from construction paper are displayed everywhere in the halls. The classrooms sat dark and the parents sat in loose groups in the cafeteria, where coffee and donuts were being served.
The color blindness test involved several different puzzles that were set up on a series of different tables. There were a variety of intriguing puzzles. There were some where you had to work your way through a maze by following different color paths. There were others where cards of various colors were laid out in a grid on a table, and you had to add up all the cards of a certain color to arrive at the correct sum.
I moved from station to station, trying my best to solve each puzzle. For some of them, I even had to get up onto the table and tap the correct answer with the tip of my shoe for some reason. I was having a blast. But I sensed that my father was getting irritated with me. He didn’t see why I should be trying so hard to solve these puzzles when I already knew that I was color blind. It just seemed like wasted effort to him. I countered that the point of the tests was to see if I actually had color blindness. If I already knew the outcome, what was the point of even being there in the first place?
I thought that was a pretty compelling piece of logic. And so I moved on to the next station, where I had to get back up onto the table and match these pictures on different yellow squares by tapping them with my foot. Soon I was having a good time again, tapping and shuffling at the cards. But when I looked out over the crowd of laughing people gathered around the table, I saw that my father was gone. He had taken off and left me there.