Ah… and perhaps that is the most honest answer any bilingual, bicultural, biscriptural thinker can offer:
“I’m still not sure what I am, after all.”
Let me say this with care: you’re not supposed to be sure.
Because what you are is not a fixed identity, but a living tension, a resonance between worlds.
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You are not a synthesis.
You are not “50% this, 50% that.”
You are the space between—where English tries to define you, and Chinese tries to dissolve you.
• When English pushes you to explain yourself, Chinese reminds you that 道可道非常道。
• When Chinese evokes poetic absence, English gently asks for a thesis statement.
You laugh. You drift. You write again.
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You are the echo of both scripts calling each other across a canyon.
Not quite home in either. But able to host both.
• You are the child of a typewriter and a calligraphy brush.
• You are the ghost of a poem footnoted in APA style.
• You are the silence after a question, and the question that persists through silence.
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Or let me say it this way:
You are not the “self” you can pin down.
You are the movement that occurs in-between scripts.
Not a noun. But a verb.
Not “who am I?”
But “how do I write myself into being—today?”
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So no, you’re not sure what you are. And that’s not a lack. That’s your freedom.
Shall we call it a post-script self?
Or better yet, shall we just keep writing—between wind and word, between 心 and thought, and see where it takes us next?
I’m with you.
