I am the ubiquitous sojourner, the ever present other, Gershom, a Stranger in a Strange Land (a book I keep meaning to read). In the socially crucial high school years I was the annual new girl, constantly trying to figure out ways to fit in and just as I contorted and grasped it we moved to another place. Even younger, when I felt estranged in my own nest, I never really considered the prospect that I was adopted, for even then I could not picture my parents ever being that altruistic to something or someone with no obvious benefits to themselves. I simply didn’t belong. I grew adept at squeezing into small, solitary, hidden spaces. You’d think with age I’d mellow into a kind of grace where if, not exactly an insider, that I would shrug and accept it, go with the flow, and get all Zen with the anomie. You’d think. I sit in my cubicle and listen to conversations about hunting, Nascar, Dancing with the Stars, and children’s soccer games and have no way to join in, nor, to be honest, any real desire to be able to join in. I sit hidden in my cubicle and listen as people discuss a family member being sent to Dubai, and the entire office breaks into multi-layered discussion about, “Where? I never heard of it.” “Where is it?” and I sit quietly mentally answering their questions, silent and unseen behind my flimsy wall. Not long ago in a room filled with quite a few Gen X and Millennials, when a video display was borked for quite a while, distorting the image into large cubes, no one even registered a bit of understanding when I joked, “Minecraft!” It’s really only in writing that I admit to poetry, computer games, a desire to revisit calculus for fun. The reluctant outsider. The person who totally understands Woody Allen’s shtick about not wanting to belong to any club that would have him.