Describing one incident in preschool when I felt like I did not belong should by no means indicate that my life since that fateful day at morning playtime has been a shining beacon of popularity. Nor do I intend to establish my roguish individuality and rejection to conformity. Rather, I write about this time when I was at the tender age of four, because the resulting feeling made a lasting impression on my young memory. It did not change my life, and I did not learn a major lesson, but since it is one of my few lasting memories of that age, I suppose it played a role somehow in my development.

I had a best friend in preschool, which served me both as a blessing and a curse. We did everything together and shared a great childhood bond, from playing dress-up to family trips to Tahoe in the summer. Yet, one morning while playing in the small schoolyard that was our scale-model of the cruel world, this best friend of mine had a lapse of compassion towards me. Among the colorful plastic facades that adorned our domain was a pastel, child-sized playhouse, coveted by most all the little mothers-to-be. This particular morning, several girls made a spectacle of gathering inside and conducting what seemed to be a vitally important, enviable game. Though, as I would come to find out, it happened to be a decidedly exclusive one. Unfortunately, my efforts to join the fun were thwarted from within by a strong, uncharitable someone who held the door fast, refusing to let me enter. Knowing my best friend was inside did not help my understanding of this injustice. As I awkwardly stood outside and calculated my next move, an uncomfortable feeling crept into my stomach, the kind that threatened ascent into my throat to choke back tears. Yet, I bravely maintained an exterior of fierce stoicism, true to my natural character, which prevented those girls from any sort of satisfaction they might take from my marginalization. I think the most disconcerting part of the whole event was the fact that my friend did not choose to stick up for me.

Though these times are seemingly traumatizing at first, the innocent four-year-old has a unique capability to bounce back from such petty drama, and very quickly the following day pick up the friendship where it left off. Such was the case for me, when amends were made in time for the very next collaborative dig to China through the sandbox. Hence, I have remained friends with said preschool mate all through the years and to this day. If we are not close as we used to be, it is certainly not due to that incident of the playhouse. For, that was not the last time I would feel estranged from my peers. Although, not in such a literal fashion. I am proud to say that no one has since physically locked me out or kept me away. I have been left out of birthday parties, and my name forgotten by people in higher rank, all on a larger scale than our micro-society preschool playground. There is no denying the uncomfortable feeling, but in the end it lends itself to that tear-stained pride which comes after dusting oneself off and checking for damage. These my growing-up years are all about finding where I belong. Such experiences are part of life at various times. They have helped me develop and change, strengthening who I am as an individual. Still, if I ever saw someone be excluded from a game or whatever society he thinks he identifies with, I would completely understand the feeling.