The year we learned to say I love you

Here’s a joke. How do you say “I love you” in Chinese?

Answer: 你吃了沒? (have you eaten?)

I know it’s not only Chinese mothers who fuss over their offspring by cooking multi-course meals (thanks, mom!), commenting on their caloric intake (Too much! Too little!) or interrogating them about their ability to feed themselves (even when said offspring has their own offspring ...). I also know that it’s not just Chinese kids who know the tender underbelly to the joke: we may never hear love expressed out loud. Nevertheless, we feel their love with every sip of tummy-warming soup; we taste their dedication to us in the labor, thought, and time that goes into every meal.

For me, one side effect of this upbringing is a physical discomfort when people do effuse their affections. I remember my very first concert as a member of the college orchestra. My dorm mates had all bought tickets and come to see me, already a mind-blowingly generous gesture, and afterwards, they presented me a card in which each of them had written a note about how amazing the performance was and how proud they were of me. I was genuinely embarrassed and not a little bit confused by the gesture. After all, I was just one of dozens of violins on stage. A SECOND VIOLINIST.

This skepticism only grew as I got older until it became in my mind a trait associated with youth. Foolish youth, to be exact. For instance, when I was an old fogey in the masters’ program at Juilliard, my colleagues were musicians in their mid-twenties. Babies, really. One of these foolish youth was Greg, a violinist. He was even more unnerving than most. “I love you!” he’d yell at regular partings, like in the practice room hallway on occasions when others might say, “Time for lunch,” or just, “Gotta go.” He’d text, “I love you!” after a discussion of rehearsal times. He became known for these heart-on-sleeve, spastic outbursts. Oh goofy Greg, we’d say.

I was quick to dismiss anyone ready to yell “I love you” as a goof at best, lunatic at worst. However, as I got to know him, I realized that under the goofiness was keen intelligence and drive. He could be extremely precise in his words when he wanted to. For instance, in our rehearsals, we’d have long discussions about violin technique, down to the muscles in the shoulder one needs to relax to get a better sound. He’d draw out stories about my time at the law firm like a skilled litigator. Most of all, he was specific in his affirmations. We worked together on his graduation recital, and when he would hear our repertoire in outside performances, he would text me exactly what he thought I had done better. Despite how weirded out I was by such positivity, I screenshotted those texts to save, because especially at a place like Juilliard, one craves any sign of one’s value as a musician. During my years there, I squirreled away positive comments or compliments, stashing them away in a mental treasure box to gaze upon whenever I felt low.

It wasn’t until we lost Greg last year that I realized his affirmations weren’t about my remarkableness, but about his. I wasn’t the only one upon whom he showered affirmations, about my talents, about my accomplishments, about my self worth. He did this for everyone. And Greg knew literally everyone. After his passing, a flood of devastated friends poured out their gratitude, both on his Facebook page and at his memorial service (held on Zoom), for the ways he lifted them up. I could say more about who Greg was, his signature combination of cluelessness and insight, self-deprecation and ambition, hope and despair, but what lasts for me was his love and how freely he gave of that to all lucky enough to know him.

I think about him as we finally put that awful year of 2020 behind us not only because he is one of so many irreplaceable lives we lost. I think of him because a life in the arts, always difficult, seems to have gotten even harder, something we talked about often. I think of him because losing a loved one to a battle with mental health is as devastating as losing one to physical disease. I think of him because it’s been a relentlessly crushing year, and we all need every last drop of encouragement we can get, like the kind of unencumbered encouragement Greg gave.

Perhaps his loss is even greater because the pandemic has cut off many of the ways we hold each other up. Consider the five love languages, a framework of different ways people communicate and receive love. Many of these languages have been silenced by COVID-19. Physical touch? Not from 6 feet apart. Quality time together? Zoom hangouts just don’t cut it. Acts of service? Difficult when we’re so disconnected from each other’s lives. At least we can still order gifts on Amazon?

Of course, the five love languages are just one attempt to describe the enigmatic concept of love, and they aren’t meant to diminish the care poured into a mother’s home-cooked meal, or for that matter, into a musician’s performance. After his passing, Greg’s friends across the world combined their instrumental talents into a video of Elgar’s “Nimrod” variation as a tribute for his birthday. Which “language” is that? Isn’t music a language of its own?

I guess what I’ve learned then, is that how we express our love to others is less important than the urgency with which we do so. My last texts with Greg were about music, about job prospects, about putting yourself out there personally and professionally, and about self-doubt and emotional setbacks. I wish they had been more about appreciation, affirmation, and unconditional support. 2020 taught me that the best time to say I love you was yesterday, but that the next best time is today. Tomorrow, we are entitled to nothing except our treasure boxes of memories.

Until the pandemic ends, not with a bang but with a whimper, it seems the best we can do is to say, as often as we can: I love you, I value you, I miss you, I will hug you when we see each other again. I’m doing my best to do so, and I think of Greg every time I do.

Rest well, friend. Hugs when I see you again.