When I was in seventh grade back in Norwich Junior High School in Norwich, N.Y. (population 6,400-ish, approximately 4,700 of which were dairy cows), I was introduced to the Ishihara Color Test, which Google AI describes as “circular plates filled with colored dots that form hidden numbers or shapes.”

I did not know about the hidden numbers or shapes. So, when the school nurse introduced me to a book full of circles containing multicolor dots and asked me what I saw, I responded, “Dots. Lots of dots.” Page after page, the same response: Dots. I started to believe that this was some sort of intelligence test — and the school nurse was failing. DOTS, LADY!

Finally, we came to the last page. Smack dab in the middle of the circle were about 15 colored dots in the shape of the number 7, with a few dots of markedly different colors spread out along the edges of the circle, like amoeba in a petri dish. And I could swear they were laughing at me.

I was an incredibly gifted child (that I was in school at all was viewed by some as a gift), and I understood instantly what that book full of dot-filled circles was all about. I had heard the word “color blind” before, and I realized that’s what I was.

The nurse looked at me sadly and said, “You’re never going to be a pilot, Jeff.”

Those words came as a major disappointment since I had planned to grow up to become a Mercury astronaut.

I was fated to become one of those men of whom the question is often asked: “You aren’t going out wearing that, are you?”

There are different types of color blindness: blue-yellow, red-green, and complete color blindness. Blue can look green with blue-yellow color blindness, or yellow can look pink or gray. With red-green color blindness, green can look red, or red can look green.

I’ve never been tested, but my best guess is that if it’s possible to be both at the same time, I am. I see colors — unlike those who have complete color blindness — but I just don’t see the same ones you do.

I once bought a pair of steel gray slacks. I got home to find out from my wife Diane that the pants were dark green. This kind of thing happens to me all the time. And don’t try to throw me off with colors like “dusky rose” or “savory cream.” I’m at a complete loss. Don’t ask me to discern the different thread colors in a tweed jacket. You’ll be out of luck.

I have trouble enough with bold primary colors. Please don’t baffle me with colors like lilac or mauve.

Often, I pigheadedly insist I’m right about a particular color if for no other reason that I am so often proven wrong.

Which leads me to my current skirmish: the colors of the Chestnut Hill Local, which production manager Blaise Brugger assures me are a very light yellow (looks tan to me) and green (gray, obviously!). To me, both colors seem a bit subdued. I have suggested that we add a splash of a brighter color to our palette.

By which, I think many people mean a color like the one worn by the construction worker in the picture accompanying this column. (Bright yellow, by my lights, if you’ll forgive the pun.) I am afraid that they believe I mean the color palette of your basic circus clown. What I mean is, a color scheme that does not suggest the excitement of sandals with black socks as a fashion choice.

I have made the case to my co-editor, Donna Shaw, who drolly suggested that the Local’s colors are what they are because we are WASPs. Well, first of all, I started out my religious journey as an Irish Catholic. (I still have Irish heritage. I’m now Episcopalian.) But second, even WASPs have been known to wear neon green slacks with little whales on them. (Episcopalians in particular, I’m afraid.) A dash of color couldn’t hurt.

So I throw it out to you, the jury. Should the Local include in its branding a brighter contrasting or complementary hue?

Or is my judgment colored?