An Authentic Forgery

Dear reader,

I believe that, from this personal essay, you expect to see authenticity—an unfiltered, unembellished portrayal of me. For that, I sincerely apologize.

You’ll be getting none of that today.

Instead, my story is farthest from authentic. I’m here not to tell the truth, but to put on a performance.

My story begins with not myself, but with someone else’s handwriting. I remember my middle school literature teacher projecting the “exemplary” script on the screen. I remember her praises. I remember thinking: I want that.

So, I volunteered to deliver the literature homework—a selfless task on the surface, with dirty intention. Every day, when I collected the notebooks,I would hide in the bathroom, pull out the “exemplary” one, studying it, copying them over and over until they were identical. The teacher might have wondered why my delivery was always ten minutes late. That’s why.

But that was only the beginning. I copied everything—my fashion, my poetry, my smiles. I never felt smart enough or original enough to be worth remembering. So, I borrowed fragments of others and performed a “better” version of myself. I studied how people spoke and moved: the exact twitch of an eyebrow, the half-beat between laughter and reply, the perfect tightness at the corners of a smile.

In high school, I founded West Light Theatre Club, a refuge for performers like me. Among us were Nora, a dancer who hid her OCD behind layers of grace, and Elvin, a pianist who spoke only through melody. We were all pretending to be normal, and theatre gave us permission to do so proudly.

Off stage, I performed for them too—projecting an easy warmth that made others feel seen and safe.

I wrote a stage play called Murder, about two lovers who stage their own heartbreak. The boy, fearing that time will ruin their love, plans an elaborate fake breakup so it ends at its most beautiful moment. The girl, fully aware of his scheme, acts along—pretending to be deceived to fulfill his wish. A play built on deception, yet every emotion was real.

Strangely, as I rehearsed the girl’s lines, I saw myself. Perhaps performance isn’t “fake”—it’s the essence of being human. To speak kindly, to cry, to love—these are all gestures we learn through imitation. Even when the gesture itself is “fake”, the desire to perform for someone to make their day a little better—is genuine.

After the show, we celebrated with bubble tea and began planning our summer trip to Pingtan. When we finally won our parents’ approval for our dream trip—after crafting the perfect collective pitch—we laughed until we cried. I laughed too, a laugh rehearsed so many times it had become real. Then Elvin whispered, “I’m truly glad we found each other.” The words, startlingly raw, made me see what had been true all along: though I had performed to make them like me—to make anyone like me—the friendship we built was real.

Perhaps I’ve been overly dramatic this whole time. What I called “performance”, was simply an unnecessarily self-conscious display of love and kindness.

We often assume we are born as “authentic selves” and later learn to lie, to act, but I think it’s the opposite. We are born a blank slate, and our only way to connect is to mimic and perform. Authenticity is not what we start with—it’s what we build from the fragments we’ve borrowed.

Now, dear reader, it seems I may have lied at the beginning after all—perhaps this essay is more genuine than I expected. Or perhaps it isn’t. Does it matter? Looking back, I’ve built communities where voices once silenced found harmony, and crafted art that reached unseen hearts.

If that is performance, then that’s hell of a good one.

And get ready for more sequels.