教室里静悄悄的，只有笔尖划过纸张的沙沙声。我看着眼前空白的英语作文纸，标题是“Introduce Yourself”。这大概是我第十次写英语自我介绍了，从初中到高中，这个题目像个老朋友，又像个考官，一次次回来检验我的成长。
第一次写自我介绍，是在初一第一节英语课上。我用了整整一节课，憋出五句话：“My name is Li Hua. I am 13 years old. I like blue. I have a dog. I want to be a teacher.” 那时我觉得，自我介绍就是把几个最基本的“零件”——名字、年龄、爱好——组装起来，像搭积木一样简单。老师给我的评语是“Good start”，还在“I like blue”下面画了条红线，旁边写着“Why?”。当时我不明白，喜欢一种颜色需要理由吗？蓝色就是蓝色，像天空，像校服，像我铅笔盒的颜色，这还不够吗？
第二次写，是初三为了参加英语演讲比赛。我决心要写得“高级”一点。我翻出词典，找了些看起来厉害的词——“diligent”（勤奋的）、“enthusiastic”（热情的）、“broaden my horizon”（开阔视野）。我把这些词像勋章一样镶嵌进作文里：“I am a diligent student who is enthusiastic about exploring new knowledge to broaden my horizons.” 写完后，我读了几遍，感觉很满意。那篇自我介绍帮我通过了初赛，但在复赛时，评委老师问我：“What specific knowledge are you most enthusiastic about?” 我卡住了，因为那句“探索新知识”只是我从范文里借来的漂亮外壳，里面是空的。我第一次意识到，自我介绍不只是词语的堆砌。
高中后的某次英语课，老师让我们互相交换自我介绍来读。我读到同桌的作文，她写她如何因为一次失败的烘焙经历，爱上了化学。“The moment I understood why my cake collapsed, I saw the magic of chemistry.” 那么简单，又那么真实。而我写的依然是“我是一个乐观的人，喜欢阅读和旅行”，干巴巴的，像一份简历。那天放学，我撕掉了原来的稿纸。
这次，笔尖终于动了。我不再想用什么复杂的句型，也不再想罗列优点。我想起每个周末在旧书店消磨的午后，不是为了“开阔视野”，只是单纯喜欢纸张的味道和翻书的声响；我想起我养的那只总是打翻水杯的猫，它让我变得异常有耐心；我想起我其实讨厌在人群前说话，但为了辩论赛，可以对着镜子练习上百遍。这些，才是真正的我——一个矛盾的、具体的、在成长中的人。
我写下：“My name is Li Hua. If you see me in the library, nose almost touching an old book, that’s me. I’m not always brave, but my cat (and his endless messes) taught me patience. I believe real growth starts when you move beyond the ‘perfect’ version of yourself on paper.”
我不确定这是不是一篇“好”的英语自我介绍。但它是我最真实的一次自白。原来，用另一种语言介绍自己，最难的不是词汇和语法，而是鼓起勇气，把那个不完美却鲜活的自己，坦然交到陌生的词句之中。
My Confession: The Journey of Writing a Self-Introduction in English
The classroom was quiet, save for the soft scratching of pens on paper. I stared at the blank English composition sheet titled “Introduce Yourself.” This was probably the tenth time I had written an English self-introduction. From middle school to high school, this topic felt like an old friend, and also an examiner, returning time and again to measure my growth.
The first time I wrote one was in my first English class in seventh grade. It took me the whole period to painfully produce five sentences: “My name is Li Hua. I am 13 years old. I like blue. I have a dog. I want to be a teacher.” Back then, I thought a self-introduction was simply assembling basic parts—name, age, hobbies—like building blocks. My teacher wrote “Good start” and drew a red line under “I like blue,” with a note asking, “Why?” I didn’t understand then. Does liking a color need a reason? Blue was just blue, like the sky, like my uniform, like my pencil case. Wasn’t that enough?
The second time was in ninth grade, for an English speech contest. I was determined to make it “advanced.” I dug out my dictionary and found some impressive-sounding words—“diligent,” “enthusiastic,” “broaden my horizon.” I镶嵌 them into my essay like medals: “I am a diligent student who is enthusiastic about exploring new knowledge to broaden my horizons.” After writing it, I read it over several times, feeling quite pleased. That self-introduction helped me pass the preliminary round, but during the semifinals, a judge asked, “What specific knowledge are you most enthusiastic about?” I froze. The phrase “exploring new knowledge” was just a fancy shell I’d borrowed from a model essay; inside, it was hollow. For the first time, I realized a self-introduction wasn’t just about stacking words.
In high school, during an English class, the teacher had us exchange and read each other’s self-introductions. I read my deskmate’s essay. She wrote about how a failed baking experience made her fall in love with chemistry. “The moment I understood why my cake collapsed, I saw the magic of chemistry.” It was so simple, yet so real. My own writing was still “I am an optimistic person who enjoys reading and traveling”—dry, like a resume. That afternoon, I tore up my draft.
This time, my pen finally moved. I stopped thinking about complex sentence structures or listing virtues. I remembered the weekend afternoons spent in the old bookstore, not to “broaden my horizons,” but simply for the smell of paper and the sound of turning pages. I thought of my cat, who always knocks over water cups, teaching me immense patience. I remembered how I actually dislike public speaking, but practiced in front of a mirror hundreds of times for a debate competition. These are the real me—a contradictory, specific person growing up.
I wrote: “My name is Li Hua. If you see me in the library, my nose almost touching an old book, that’s me. I’m not always brave, but my cat (and his endless messes) taught me patience. I believe real growth starts when you move beyond the ‘perfect’ version of yourself on paper.”
I’m not sure if this is a “good” English self-introduction. But it is my most honest confession. It turns out that introducing yourself in another language isn’t hardest because of vocabulary or grammar, but because of the courage required to hand over the imperfect, yet vivid, real self to unfamiliar words and sentences.