Growing up was, for a long time, an elusive concept for me. What did growing up mean? Back in Shanghai, every few weeks my mother would line me up against the kitchen wall and mark my height, then step back and rub her chin, examining the result.

“Honey, I don’t think you’ve grown at all. In fact, you’ve shrunk.”

I was never a tall kid. In the school hallways, my peers loomed over me like dense redwood trees next to a weed. I was a weed, an outlier, some indeterminate thing that was not especially wanted but kept growing just the same. Does the well-meaning weed grasp its status in the hierarchy of the plant kingdom? Unlike its more recognizable counterparts, belonging in groups and cliques that are like a phylum, the weed is not really a part of anything. And so it came to be that I found myself as that weed, struggling, begging to belong, but unsuccessful in all my attempts.

What a horror it is to discover one’s inadequacy. Perhaps it would be nicer to never learn the truth of one’s inferiority, to allow the poor creature to wallow in the contented bliss of ignorance. But nature – the nature of society – is not known for mercy. It is set in stone that a weed is but a weed; a seemingly ill-fated law that simultaneously brings enlightenment and self-revelation. Giving itself its own definition, the weed learns to grow independent of its neighbors and seek the light from beyond the redwood shadows.

At school, it was common knowledge that everyone had to be part of a group. There were the popular girls, the plainer girls, the jocks, the gamers, the socially awkward boys and girls (even they had a group to belong to), and so on. These were stereotypical cliques, yes, but fitting nevertheless. Students were defined by those they sat with in the cafeteria, those with whom they were seen at school and in photos on social media. Being in a clique meant belonging, inclusion, strength, unity. So, as a means of social survival, I forged my own type of belonging, becoming a leech who followed others around at lunch, at school, and in photos.

Angela, Candace, Catherine, and Sabrina were the girls I followed. At lunchtime, I would sit at their periphery while my “friends” talked about … I don’t even recall what. Conversation was an agonizing process, for it seemed that my membership in the group was inclusive of presence, and presence only. Simply put, there was nothing to be said. Perhaps the reason I had never spoken was because subconsciously I knew that I did not really play a part with these girls. And yet, I miserably clung to them.

One day, after lunchtime, the four girls walked to the fountain. Candace and I climbed onto the wooden arch; the others stayed on the ground.

“I have to go meet with Mr. Green,” said Angela, and capered off.

“Yeah,” said Sabrina, clumsily hopping off a ledge. “I have … this thing I need to do. Bye!”

Catherine followed without bothering to make an excuse.

I watched them leave, one by one, then Candace shifted to face me. An outsider may have simply seen two friends having a casual, post-lunch chat.

“Oh, how do I start this?” she said, chuckling goodheartedly. “This is so awkward!”

I laughed right along with her, like the proper sidekick. Whatever she wanted to say, I was quite sure that it – like everything else she said – wouldn’t have anything to do with me. But her statement was followed by an uncomfortable silence. Silence was normal from my side, but not hers.

“So, you don’t really talk with us,” she began.

“Oh, well, um, I … there’s isn’t much to talk about.” I laughed for effect.

“Yes, but I – we – feel like … wouldn’t you be more comfortable sitting with Sandra or Julia?”

I managed another strangled laugh. My face was heating up with humiliation, petrification, stupefaction, bewilderment. I gulped. The intensity of her gaze demanded a response.

“Not really,” I said meekly. I pretended to yawn to disguise the pots of tears brewing behind my eyes.

Did she know what she was doing? Did she know what my identity was made of, what it meant if she were to confiscate this label, why I voluntarily lingered around them despite their tacit exclusion? Did she understand the severity of ostracization? Candace’s stare was full of pity and patronization and pernicious artificiality. It reminded me of the archetypal “I’m sorry but there’s nothing we can do” customer service response.

“I feel bad about this. It’s just – we don’t feel like … I don’t think you should hang out with us anymore. Is that okay?”

Okay? What did she expect me to say? Did Hester Prynne cheerfully agree to be blacklisted from her community? Did Napoleon gladly accept his excommunication? I laughed at the irony but realized that I was crying and could no longer hide it. Candace’s expression remained the same.

What should one do when confronted by the ugliness of rejection? The weed does not know it is inferior until it is told so. Ultimately, I did leave their group and found a new one by sitting with Sandra and Julia. But beyond that, I learned that I need not be a part of a group to be defined. The weed stands alone, not with shame but with pride. If it cannot be classified with those around it, it is free to define itself, the first of a species.