The Virgin Mary Statue :: Personal Narrative Writing

The Virgin Mary Statue Kindergarten through fourth grade was absolutely beautiful. We all sat together at lunch, played tag together on the playground, laughed and listened to the teachers together in class. Then fifth grade rolled around, and all my friends started to evolve, and for the worse as I saw it. We all started noticing things that we weren’t aware of before. We used to be like a bunch of happy naked babies, absolutely oblivious to the fact that we were all unclothed and different from one another. Then, some of us took the role of Eve; we became seduced into eating the forbidden apple and offered it to our friends. We started realizing that despite the fact that we were all wearing the same black plaid uniforms, our skin colors differed. We all acted differently too. Some of us had accents, others didn’t. Some girls had long hair, others had bob cuts. Some wore glasses and had skirts that went past their knees; others had perfect vision and had their skirts h iked up to show as much leg as possible. As I said, we were all becoming aware of these things. Whether it be in fifth grade ,earlier, or after, we all have these moments of â€Å"revelation† and we start to interpret our surroundings in a different way. For me, after fifth grade, my surroundings were changing all the time. Formation of â€Å"cliques† had officially started. The word â€Å"cool† was being redefined almost every month. With these new definitions came new friends and ex-friends. I recall watching girls in the â€Å"popular† group playing a game of running behind the Virgin Mary statue whenever they saw someone they didn’t like entering the playground. It was a way of letting the unwanted girl know where she stood with the â€Å"clique.†As embarrassing as this is to admit, I used to be one of those girls who ran towards the Virgin Mary statue as if there was some reward there awaiting me. But there was no treasure there. And even if I did find some comfort in being part of the â€Å"clique† that day, the fol lowing day I had become a victim of the same cruel game I was in part responsible for.