May You Be Alone, But Never Lonely
I wanted a friend. To a child stepping into Kindergarten, a friend meant someone who could stand by me and help me blend into my brand new world: an international school. It felt wrong being alone, and I resolved to avoid that at all costs. I wanted someone to be constant in a volatile world.
So I began obsessing over finding friends. By first grade, I had memorised the home countries of each of my classmates. By third grade, I had memorised the birthdays of each of my classmates. By fifth grade, I made sure to help each of my tablemates solve a math problem at least twice before the end of the day. The more favors I gave my classmates, the more I thought I would find someone who could join me in the sandbox at recess.
And yet I faced a quandary: I never felt alone, but I felt lonely. My steps to making “friends” soon became an obsessive, perfunctory checklist. Say good morning. Offer them a pencil. Laugh at their jokes, even if they weren’t funny. Sure, it paid off in some ways—my classmates did select me as the lead of my third grade musical. But no matter what I ticked off my checklist, I never found that friend. The friend who understood my dreams of creating genomic innovations, becoming a renowned composer, and somehow still raising a chicken farm. After graduations, even my best friends had drifted away, the only sign of their existence being an occasional text.
It was my grandma who helped me find true companionship. After COVID-19’s silencing blanket lifted from the world, my family could do something we almost forgot existed: travel. Back to the home where she last saw me as a young child.
“My boy, Andrew!”
“I’m back, Po Po!” I stepped through the door and embraced my grandma. We smiled and patted each other’s backs.
I had been waiting for this embrace for five years. Grandma was young Andrew’s best friend. She was the cherry enthusiast who merrily joined me in our ventures to her backyard garden. Bending over to harvest, then placing little red gems in my hand.
With a smile even sweeter.
But Grandma was not the same anymore. Now, she sat outside and stared into the distance, oblivious of our calls to her. She had fewer friends and good health was becoming rarer at her age.
Music, however, had always been our shared language. So when George Lam’s “Who Can Understand Me?” was the first result on Grandma’s Youtube account when she searched for Cantonese pop music, it was as though the universe knew my million dollar question. A young man’s soothing voice swept through the room. His lyrics sung out:
Until I grow weary, I play and sing to myself. 到困倦我自彈自唱
I search for applause in my dreams, 掌聲我向夢想裡尋
Even if everything is but a wild fantasy. 盡管一切是狂想
George Lam’s voice was a call to me: my concept of an unchanging companion was a fantasy. No one could be frozen in time.
George Lam’s voice was a call to me: my concept of an unchanging companion was a fantasy. No one could be frozen in time. I couldn’t find that friend because they never existed in the first place.
But at least I could try storing the moments I spent with Grandma. I decided to compose my own arrangement for “Who Can Understand Me?” At first, I struggled translating George Lam’s voice onto the keyboard. But as Grandma saw what I was doing, she came over and smiled. Soon, we began singing together, laughing as we mimicked each other’s voices. As I watched the same smile Grandma showed when picking cherries years ago slowly return to her face, I realized that time could not change Grandma’s most important thing: her love for me.
My grandma still sat alone outside. But slowly, we returned to the past, laughing at each other’s jokes as we drove through San Francisco. It was as if our generation gap never existed. We would visit each other’s home on a regular basis, and each time I helped her to the family piano so she could decide what the next composition would be. I began to feel a happiness I hadn’t felt in years.
I didn’t need a constant companion who understood me. My grandma was changing, but she was always going to be my grandma. In fact, she had already been reborn in parts of me. My music. My character. My unending yearning for humor.
My grandma was changing, but she was always going to be my grandma. In fact, she had already been reborn in parts of me. My music. My character. My unending yearning for humor.
I still remember the day I said goodbye to my grandma. I hugged her. I promised her that we were going to sing George’s music again. She smiled in the sunset light.
As always, I carried some of my grandma’s freshly picked cherries in my pocket. Looking out from my cousin’s car, I savored the scene of my grandparents’s house. A small, humble light amidst an ocean of a darkening, golden brown. Our oceans were changing. We were changing. Our love for each other wasn’t.
Who can understand me, at the truest level? Perhaps no one. As each person traverses their own path, distances will inevitably form between friends and family. But maybe that’s okay. If true love and friendship outlasts time, we don’t have to obsess over hoarding followers on Instagram or pleasing as many prospective friends as possible. With those who matter to us most, we wouldn't ever be lonely in the first place.
Months later, I brought my piano arrangement for Who Can Understand Me? to compete for my school’s first talent show. As I stood alone in the spotlight, surrounded by darkness and the future’s uncertainty, I smiled.
Imagining my grandma beside me, I rested assured that I wasn't exactly on my own.