I tried for a decade to fit into the “nerd” community. It might not be possible.
When I was twelve years old, I was certain I was not a nerd.
Never mind that I was researching in astronomy and loved math and reading. Never mind the thick glasses and the crazy curls I’ve barely, a decade later, learned to control.
I didn’t want to be a nerd. In middle school, I got punched in the eye and was partly colorblind for a month all because some muscled boy thought I was a “geek.” The Big Bang Theory had just started airing and no one knew that nerds were about to take over the world.
What I was certain of is that I was a social misfit. An outcast. Lonely even when not alone. Drawn to other misfits starved for kindness.
During high school, I tried to make friends during stints at particle physics and cosmology centers that were bursting to the brim with nerds. I learned about D&D and complex board games and LARP’ing and xkcd. But I was never invited to join.
Much younger than everyone I worked with, I hadn’t grown up on video games. As a girl growing into my body, I wanted to talk about dresses and relationships — but quickly learned not to. Though I had read many comic books, they were Amar Chitra Katha, not Marvel or DC.
