However, I believe there is a lot more to be said about the unspoken sixth love language: the act of sharing food.

My cousin once said, “All we do is eat.” She was not wrong; most of our time together is spent cooking food and eating. Or if we are galavanting out and about, finding a good spot for all of us to sit and chow down. 

I never saw it as a problem since I love food. 

When I was younger and someone outside my family and culture would invite me over for dinner, I never really understood what that meant. For me, dinner at my house meant coming home at different times and eating whenever we felt hungry. There was never a set time of day when the whole family would sit down and eat; you would find your way to the table whenever it was necessary for you and eat what was already cooked and laid out.

Our table would be decorated with dishes from different times of the day, sitting in mismatched dishes and waiting for when everyone was ready to dig in. There was never just set of food for all to share; we picked at what we wanted and left whatever we thought someone else would be interested in finishing or eating later. Our plates would be filled with a little bit of everything – two sweet sausages or sliced spam from breakfast, cooked eggplant from lunch, fried fish from dinner, and a scoop of rice on the side. 

Coming from a big Filipino family, I was taught that food should never be an issue in our household. Our family would welcome anyone who walked through their doors with open arms and a plate made for them, saying “Come eat” without hesitation. I never learned the Filipino language despite my parents and grandparents coming from the mainland, but I learned to understand the various food-related phrases that was spoken by my elders’ tongues. It was common ground to at least know that much, even if we each spoke different languages and dialects at the table. 

I grew up in a household that did not prioritize saying “I love you” out loud or showing physical affection unless you were blessing your elder with a “mano po” or your aunties/lolas were pulling you in to give you a hug and “sniffing kiss”. Instead, they showed affection in their actions, family members offering continuously offering more food despite saying we were full. I knew I was loved when my family would say to me, “Come eat; I made your favorite.” 

More often, we lose our connections to our past generations by the different ideologies we hold. Asian-Americans, specifically Filipinos, struggle to find the balance between the two clashing cultures, often losing themselves in the process of trying to stay as a family unit without offending the other. Our ways of being able to communicate only partially translate to what is trying to be said, so we misinterpret, misinform, and misjudge, which ultimately leads to misunderstandings and missed moments with one another. Sometimes, we end up hyper-focused on teaching the older generation the new way when we must remember that the new way is not always the right way. We forget that despite how hard it is for us to communicate to them about our worries, pains, and health, it is just as hard for them to share the same. 

Regardless of the inter-generations that come and go through the household, and the hardships that may come from all the conflict due to our differences, we always find ourselves still being offered a plate during a meal. And when our cousins, aunties, and uncles would come over to visit, the table would be decorated with dishes cooked by different family members and set up for anyone to take whenever they felt hungry. 

It was here that eating food with family was more than just a simple meal – it was the gossip between the aunties with their coffee, the jokes between the cousins you have not seen in a while, and the drunk karaoke songs between the uncles who would sing to their heart’s content. It was here that food meant taking time to be with each other, and it was here that we found ourselves learning more about what love means within our family. 

It was here that we learned about our values and traditions cooked inside the recipes passed down from our mothers and grandmothers, their own twists and lessons engraved inside the mismatched dishes on the table. It was here we learned that love meant understanding one’s emotions in the food, finding their devotion and affection in the time it took to know our likes and dislikes, and cooking it repeatedly until it tasted like home. It was here I felt the warmth from the freshly cooked meals going through the plates and onto our hands – and in our bellies – and letting the heat embrace us with all the love, thought, and care that was put into it.

It was here we learned that you did not need to speak the same language, the same dialect, or even the same words in order to communicate your love to one another. You simply showed love by taking a plate, piling it up, and simply enjoying your family’s food. 

There are five love languages that we share to express and reciprocate our love for one another, but my favorite one of all will always be, “Come eat; I made your favorite.”

Dedicated to my cousins who shower me with their love language every time we eat together

My mom passed away from COVID-19 during the height of the pandemic, when the country was about to widely distribute vaccines to everyone eligible. In just a few months more, she would have been vaccinated, she would have fought the virus, and she would have been with us, laughing, joking, yelling, crying, and living.

The loss was too sudden. My three sisters and I did not know how to grieve. One of us put all their anger and sadness into cleaning the whole house. Another went off to double their hours at work to avoid the conversations. The other one believed money would buy her the happiness she could not feel or find. I spent time being angry at everyone who crossed my path.

“It’s okay to be sad and cry,” they say. I cried, but a part of me was reminded that crying was too raw, too personal, too vulnerable, so I chose not to cry in front of other people.

Coming from a Filipino family, showing signs of emotional distress have always been an unspoken sign of weakness. We have been told since childhood that the less feelings we are able to show, the more mature we are and the higher success rate we will achieve. Filipino families have always been known to be family-oriented, welcoming, and comforting to those who entered our households. We would open our arms to those who needed our help outside our doors but contradict ourselves by dismissing the cries for help within our own family walls. It wasn’t a bad thing –  it was just what we were taught.

Our parents and grandparents have taught and shown us the importance of brain power. “Self-care” and “mental well-being” always sounded ideal, but these words were non-existent with the way we were brought up. There was no need to worry about self-care. There was no need to worry about mental well-being.

Despite the need of assimilation to the Western ideologies, my mom prioritized school over a mild headache or a need for a sick day. Even before she passed and when the rise of Asian hate and violence grew, she would tell us that being afraid was not an excuse to miss work or miss a school assignment. We did not need to care about what happened out in the world or what we were feeling inside; these were all temporary that my mom – and my older family members – raised us to believe will pass after a certain time.

Now, as the fear of losing loved ones to a virus is still present, adding the fact of being Asian, xenophobia, or racism and hatred and violence are prevalent for our community. The need for safety, security, and well-being is at an all-time high. However, we are still unsure of how to take care of ourselves and our elders.

Asians and Asian Americans have been taught that mental health is not real. Asians have been generalized to be successful and abide by high expectations without much effort. On social media, Asians and Asian Americans alike are placed on a pedestal of being smart, nice, and hardworking.

How do you do it?, they would ask.

You don’t have time to be sad, we would say.

Being sad means you’re weak, we would reiterate.

Being depressed or having mental health problems is just an excuse to be lazy, our mouths would speak with the voices of our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents.

Yet, between the fact that “the mental health impact of the COVID-19 pandemic can persist and be long lasting for several years after the pandemic” and the continued acts of violence and hatred against Asians and Asian Americans, it is my crying call to see a push for the normalization of mental health and mental well-being within the Asian American households.

Asian American’s hyphenated identity glues together the interdependent and dependent self, between the voice of older generations’ that says, “I can show my child the right thing to do, and then help her do it the right way”, and the voice from the west, that a person “should first choose what she wants to do, and then do it her own way.”

Hearing both, how do we fight a virus, its recovery, and the danger and fear of Anti-Asian hate, and still feel strong enough to take care of ourselves? How do we not feel like a burden? How do we express our need for understanding from those we love when they don’t understand why we need it?

Just as our past generations have drilled within us the need to strive for knowledge, I seek education to possibly answer those questions. I learned that I am not alone in this as nearly 15% of the AAPI population reported having mental illness in the past year. Our socio-cultural context “perpetuates the stereotype that Asians don’t need assistance.” I learned that taking care of our mental health is not an excuse to be lazy or a hidden family burden. My interdependent self also reminds me to be patient with our elders. Only when we are healthy – both physically and mentally – can we be protective of ourselves as well as our family, can we possibly lead those who have asked us to become more educated, to believe in us, and to believe in our ability to decide for ourselves.

My mom passed away and I did not know the proper way to grieve. None of us did. That doesn’t mean I won’t cry for her today, tomorrow, and every time I miss her. Sometimes I find myself during different times of the day, sitting, thinking, feeling, and overwhelmed with emotions on how much I miss her. I know that’s the most vulnerable time for me, but I’m not holding back any more. Because during those times, I am no longer a hyphenated person. I am not labeled as anything. I am just human.