"The Lost Artist" by Xinyu (Hazel) Wang
I gazed at her from afar. Her eyes dreamy, her mind floating in her own world. I watched her fingers dancing triumphantly to different keys. The tranquil and tingling music added to her mystery. There was almost an invisible veil closing around her, separating her from me and the rest of the world. I longed to comprehend the stories she conveyed in the music. I stayed there, never advancing for fear of breaking the perfect image.
That was the only time I saw my mother play the piano.
She used to be a professional musician: piano, singing, dancing and conducting. Yet ever since I was born, she changed. Had I ignored how her movements sometimes resembled those of a ballerina, or how her fingers danced on the table as though she was playing the piano, I would never relate "artist" to my mother. I often gazed at her pictures of dancing in pointe and creating her choreography in college. She looked mesmerizing and confident, with chin raised high, arms gently raise, as though embracing the world as her kingdom. I questioned her why she replaced this beautiful ballerina dress with an apron. Her justification laid all the blame on me, “You were born and I need to take care of you.” The piano was ordered to be pushed to the corner and her pointe shoes were locked in the basement. She became a housewife, a position that most of the Chinese mothers attain.
As I gradually understood this phenomenon, I questioned and challenged her decision. As she gave me my first piano lesson, I deliberately demanded her to play a piece. She played A Maiden’s Prayer. I could still hear the first ten chords struck on the piano — powerful, infuriated and penetrating. At first, she looked embarrassed and shameful, for she hadn’t touched these keys for six years. She made a wrong chord or two here and there, yet I could still sense her proficiency, and how she and the piano seemed to combine into one. As she moved into the theme, a soothing and melancholy confession, she looked barely recognizable, glowing, more like herself. Yet as soon as she finished the last note, shame instantly filled her face.
After that day, we never spoke of that performance. The piano stayed in the corner, my mother calmly ignored its presence, and the box contained her college photos was pushed under the bed.
I picked the flute instead. Over the years, I could feel her burdening me with all her unfinished dreams, as she wanted me to be a music prodigy and perform around the world. She would stand beside me during my practice, counting with the metronome and listening for any minute intonation problems. Yet I never complained -- I wished to prove to her that I would build my own life, and be a successful person in my future area instead of a housewife.
It then occurred to me she did not seek to empower me, but to make me a model of her. One day, I spoke of how I longed to travel to Berlin after college and perform with the Berliner Philharmoniker. She expressed her wish that I would think about marriage and birth. This suggestion sounded foreign to me. I could not see myself as a wife or mother. Nor did I intend to be one.
“You’ll get it,” she smiled benignly, gently brushing a strand of hair from my face, “You’ll love your baby’s face at the first sight, and feel a surge of joy-”
“But what about my flute?” I asked incredulously.
“Why, of course, you wouldn’t care much about the flute at that point.” She waved her hands dismissively.
This conversation never got picked up again. As I continued to play the flute, she started shrinking back to the living room, planning how she would travel to my house once I gave birth to care for the baby. My prizes and leaderships delighted her, yet I could not perceive the sparkling pride in her eyes again. I understood that she came from a traditional Chinese education, where Confucianism and Taoism taught her to be a virtuous and tender wife. Empowered in my music and leadership, I felt privileged that I discerned this unjust distribution of roles by gender and how it influences people’s mindsets in Zhengzhou, which would only be altered by education.