Personal Narrative

I started out with this personal narrative for my biographical writing class and I was quite happy with the introduction.  As it went on it really fell flat.  Unfortunately, I found myself unable to keep up with the style and I'm not quite sure why.  Nevertheless, I've decided to share a little piece of it here with you.

I remember brown, orange, wet.  I remember the dirt, the mud on their feet and under their nails.  Their dark skin and children without shoes.  The tarp that was blue, rabbits and chickens meant for dinner.  I still hear the language I didn’t understand and the words that I did.  Our white skin we thought was tan dipping into the muddy wet that would make a brick.  Clumsy pale hands attempting to smooth the mold and the brown steady fingers quick to do the work.  The work we thought would be easy.  I remember my hesitation, my fear, my badge that said I was there to help.  Trying to hide my tears when only two of us squeezed into the hut meant for four.  Averting my eyes when I realized I was staring.  I remember the village I saw later: square, brown, dry.