Ultramarine

ARTICLE BY HUILIN TANG, STATEN ISLAND, NY

The glass door closes, opens, then closes again. The Whitney Museum is hosting an Open Art Studio for teens today. My friend and I are more than excited to get our hands on some free supplies. More people walk into the studio, and outside the glass door where the art gallery stands, I see a young woman in a creamcolored winter coat, perhaps still in college, looking at the artwork hanging on the wall in the museum.

would be. However, my parents dislike ultramarine. They say it is too dark, just like unnecessary negative emotions piled up. It gives them an unwelcoming vibe. I never argue with them regarding this color — just like how I never argue with them about anything. I am old enough to understand that those quarrels don’t end well and no one will end up happy. I have learned from experience.

it?” I jokingly said to my father at the dinner table.

His aging face froze for a second, and he replied, “That is not a suitable job for a girl. If you are a boy, I will support you 100 percent. ”

My smile vanished, “Fine then.”

My father noticed my mood change and later explained that it is because as an architect, I might be

With the dim illumination from the ceilings shining on her face, she looks tthe table near the floor-to-ceiling window to get a new canvas to paint. Then, I see my reflection in the window.

The original orange sky is vanishing as the horizon becomes more and more visible, and it seems to include my reflection in the scene, too. I see my favorite color, the most pleasant blue in the world: ultramarine. It starts to expand until I can no longer detect another trace of orange. Ultramarine is such a romantic color. I used to tell everyone I know about how beautiful this color is, how brilliant and dignified its existence is, and how unparalleled the artwork it creates

My parents often ask me what I want to do in the future, and I answer every time that I don’t know. It is not an impressive answer, but it is the truth. My parents have their own list of ideal jobs they want me to pursue. On the top of that list is a teacher. My mom absolutely loves this career. Her reason is that it is an easy and stable job with a good salary and a summer vacation. Most importantly, it is a job that is very favorable in the marriage market since there is a long-standing stereotype that female teachers are good at raising kids and supporting the family. I know teaching is a sturdy profession, but growing up, I have begun to feel annoyed with this stereotype as the emphasis on the teacher is not on how they teach, but on how good it looks to outsiders. I wonder what my mom would think if she applied this logic to her high school teacher, whom she recalls as the “most biased human being alive.” I remember there was a time when I was very interested in being an architect. As a kid growing up in New York City, I had this dream of making my work stand among those worldlevel buildings.

“Wouldn’t you be proud of me if I did too far from home, and he would miss me a lot.

“It is also a very hardworking job that is just not suitable for a young lady like you. It is not a comfortable job where you will sit in an office all day and draw. Instead, you actually need to go look at the construction sites.”

“I know that,” I interrupted him. I know my expression is full of disappointment, and I don’t want to hide it, either.

I have often heard my parents’ annoying comments about how if this person has a son, his or her life would be better. They act like those annoying relatives who pressure people to have another kid solely because their firstborn is a girl. I feel this is deeply disturbing, but I can’t really say much, because I know for sure I can not pull up the roots of bias that have been planted in their minds for decades. It is because they grew up in such an environment where these ideas were ubiquitous. My parents both grew up in rural China back in the ‘80s. It was the age of the cult of domesticity, where women are expected to stay home and raise children. It was the age when women’s education was unvalued. However, my mother is an educated woman. She went to college, which many girls in her village were not able to do. She broke many barriers to get where she is now, and yet, the hidden bias that time left behind is still seeded in her mind. I often complain to my parents about why my sole value in this society is to get married early. They laugh at my silliness. “You’re too young,” which is what they often said. “Everyone gets married and has kids, it is just a process that you need to experience.” I have hated this idea from the day I heard it, just like how I hated their other hackneyed, biased views.

Ultramarine is like a battle of generational concepts. I look down at my canvas, which is printed with different hues of blue — most noticeably, the ultramarine that I use to color the ocean. I grab a paper bag on a table nearby and put my dried painting inside. My friend is already waiting near the exit, ready to head outside to go home. The sun has completely set, leaving only a dark night behind. As I walk down the stairs of the museum, I can feel a cold breeze echoing around me. Its flow greets the trees with an autumn vibe and the leaves are falling down toward the sidewalks like golden confetti. I look up at the starry sky. The ultramarine is hiding its trace among the stars.

You might not notice it, but it is always there.