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.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
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.