Do you remember “LYLAS” or “LYLAB?” We used to write that in yearbooks back in the day. Love you like a sister. Love you like a brother. For whatever reason, we couldn’t write “love you” or “love” outright–we had to qualify it, disclaim it, with “hey, I’m fond of you, but only like I’d be fond of a sibling” as though claiming someone as family was less provocative or edgy than just saying “I love you.”
LYLAS came to mind at our gathering Saturday night when we were talking about yearbooks and the “profound” messages we’d written to each other way back then. This was a gathering of our old tribe, a tribe that came together in the late 1980’s. This is part of my chosen “family,” the LYLAS and LYLAB folks that will always be dear to my heart. Some of that tribe I still see often, and some of that tribe I only stay connected to via Facebook or text messages, but they are still “my people:” people who I can settle into a comfortable conversation and rapport with whether it’s been 10 days or 10 years since I’ve last seen them, and when and if they need me, I will rush to them no matter how long it’s been. Some of that tribe I’ve known since I was 5 years old, and I didn’t even realize how much I’d missed everyone until we gathered all together, Jello shots in hand, trading stories and laughter. There’s a good energy when you gather “your people” together, a collective happiness and comfort that can’t be faked.
We gathered this time in memory of our friend Jason. Jason was a smiling, positive person who passed away this month, a shock to us all given how much effort he’d given this last year to improving his health. We are in our early 40’s now, this tribe, and while I guess we are middle aged, it doesn’t seem right than any of us could die so soon. We still have so many dreams, so much more to do, and it is a terrible loss that our people, our connections, could be gone in an instant. Jason, I will miss you; we will miss you. I “liked” things he posted on Facebook just hours before his death, but I hadn’t told him anything important or personal in ages, because, well, I guess I still thought we all had plenty of time. I was wrong.
So, to my people, my tribe, wherever you are, whether you were able to raise a Jello shot on Saturday night or we raised it without you, please know that I LYLAS, LYLAB, just plain love you. You are my people, the Deadbeat Club. “We would talk every day for hours; we belong to the deadbeat club.” Or if you prefer, we are the Breakfast Club, “demented and sad, but social.” No matter the name, you will always be my people.