3 ways of love

The following piece was inspired by this UChicago writing supplement prompt:

In French, there is no difference between “conscience” and “consciousness.” In Japanese, there is a word that specifically refers to the splittable wooden chopsticks you get at restaurants. The German word “fremdschämen” encapsulates the feeling you get when you’re embarrassed on behalf of someone else. All of these require explanation in order to properly communicate their meaning, and are, to varying degrees, untranslatable. Choose a word, tell us what it means, and then explain why it cannot (or should not) be translated from its original language. —Inspired by Emily Driscoll, Class of 2018

To love. Aimer. 爱 (ai).

I’ve grown up around three different languages: English, French, and Chinese. Not in that order. Words swirl and blend in my mind like the end of the ocean, constant waves of over and under, into what I’ve come to call Changlais. They catch often on the tip of my tongue, struggles of “There’s no word for this in English” accompanied by wild hand motions and “我不知道怎么说这句话” (I don’t know how to explain it in Chinese). It almost always ends in hopeless defeat, and that small moment falls into the abyss of everything-passed-you-by. The true meaning is left unsaid, lost in no one’s mind but my own.

But for every word or phrase that feels untranslatable, there is no phrase more impossible to truly replicate than “I love you.”

“I love you” in English is smooth, rolling off the tongue in one crest. It is hollowed and muted into “ily,” crafted to be thrown recklessly and meaninglessly around. But it is perfectly capable of the other end— deliberately unspoken to be saved, hovering until it becomes the thunderous thump and explosions of butterflies into the next step of your relationship. It is a mother’s kiss goodnight, the better goodbye before you hang up the line.

In French, however, “je t’aime” doesn’t just mean “I love you;” it also means “I like you.” For as long as I have been learning this language, I have frustratingly wondered how you differentiate between “love” and “like.” I could tell you “je t’aime” a thousand times over, and I could still just be in like. How do I convey that I love something, and not just like it? I’ve even asked my French correspondent this question, but the answer is never concrete: it just is. Je t’aime, made for the casual liker and the serious lover. The same two easy syllables passed between the front of countless t-shirts and the same mother’s kiss goodnight.

In Chinese, “我爱你” is rare. Pronounced woh-aye-nee. It feels awkward on my tongue, always my signal to switch back to my more-first language. People are more afraid, I think, not to love, but to admit that they love. I can’t recall the last time I heard this phrase, except in a purposeful attempt to defy that fear. The love here is shy of being love, abashed at its own existence.

I love you, je t’aime, and 我爱你. Three different ways of saying what is meant to be the same thing, but each embedded with layers and layers of its own nuances. They don’t always feel so equal.

In Changlais, love isn’t made of words. Love is the mother’s kiss goodnight, it is being worth the courage to love.