blog 19

It’s kind of unfortunate, but my style seems a little self-absorbed. I really enjoyed writing about personal experiences and things that I knew well, but when I had to describe something with less personal connection to myself (such as the Hong Kong museum of art in my 4^th essay) I grew disinterested.

I enjoy descriptive writing. I have a passion for clear communication and making sure I’m understood. Unfortunately this does not usually happen in a manner that is concise. That’s something I need to work on.

My favorite subject materials, as I said earlier, are personal experiences. I especially enjoy explaining something that the audience has little experience with. This way I have control, just in how I phrase something, over what they’re going to think of it. (Well, a little control anyways)

My work is unique because I have a pretty different background and set of experiences than most people. I can bring these things into my writing. Another thing that hopefully makes my writing unique is that I  try to approach things from a balanced perspective, weighing all the options and possible scenarios, while delaying to the last possible moment a decisive statement.

I don’t think I’m good at analyzing. I shudder at any assignment with the words “rhetorical” or “analysis”. Perhaps I’m simple minded; I like to take things how they are, not how they might be. Describing is saying what’s already there, not trying to make an inference based on it. Maybe this goes back to my tendency to avoid making a decisive statement.

The publication venue that would be ideal for me is something that is going for unique subject material, as opposed to unique presentation. I’m not into modern or political subjects (has anyone else noticed that the only thing considered “daring” or “cutting edge” nowadays has to include sex?) Perhaps a journal that does travel pieces.

blog 18 - revised "I" essay 1

The summer of 2007 was like most other summers, I assume. People worked hard, went to the beach, and made new friends. I wouldn’t know though, because I was living in another world. The mountain town of Tlaxiaco[1] in Oaxaca[2], Mexico had been my home for the last seven months while I studied at a bible school. Having decided to stay on with the ministry, I was required to complete a four month internship living with a host family. I needed to master the language before my apprenticeship began in September. During the school year, I hadn’t had much time for regular language study. Thus, as of April when I began my internship, I only spoke Spanish well enough to have simple conversations.

Email Update Oaxaca              

Sunday, March 4, 2007 3:51 PM

As far as my host family goes, it’s settled that I'm staying with my friend Cesia[3]. She's 20,  and is my best Mexican friend here. We always have a ton of fun together (we get a bit crazy). Her dad is a pastor of a small church down the road from us. I spent the night there on Friday. I really can't wait to till I live there. So encouraging. I know I'm going to learn a ton of Spanish & culture. I learned just in that night how to cook a bunch of stuff, and a lot of Spanish & cultural stuff. They've been living in Tlaxiaco for a while, so they are more set in the 'town' culture than the 'village' culture, which is fine. It’s good because I feel really comfortable speaking Spanish with them.

I was instructed by my supervisor to develop a plan for myself that involved the LAMP method. Language Acquisition Made Practical focuses on learning language through social situations. I was supposed to make 20-30 contacts with whom I would visit each day and recite a memorized monologue to. A natural introvert, this idea terrified me. I had only survived the last seven months by cowering behind my friends. Although I spent several hours a week surrounded by Spanish conversation, I was convinced of my inability, and thus stayed silent.

Cesia became my friend because I didn’t need to talk with her. We got along very well with our similar youthful spirits. We would watch movies and play games. We would run and laugh and joke. But we would never talk.

I moved in the first week of April. Cesia and I cleared some things away, swept down the dirt floors, and somehow fit my borrowed cot along the wall opposite her bed. Separated by a curtain was the other part of the room, which housed her younger brother. The house was structured like a log cabin, with no insulation to keep the night cold from coming through the cracks.

For the first month or so, much of my time in Cesia's home was spent cooking and cleaning. I had to find a good balance of helping out enough so that, culturally, I would not be seen as a freeloader. I was a little nervous about this arrangement, since I knew I was responsible for learning Spanish. I wanted to implement a routine of language study for myself, but didn't really know how to do that. No classes were offered for me, and I knew that if I didn't want to use the LAMP method I should find a suitable alternative for myself.

“Tienes que aprender, Alisia[4]”[5] Cesia's mom exhorted me. She demonstrated how to flip a tortilla correctly.

“Um, sí,” I responded while rubbing the smoke from my eyes.

She continued, “Because if not, you'll never know how to cook! And what will you do when you go to other countries where there aren't microwaves like in your country?”

I smiled a little. This Spanish phrase was embedded in my memory long before I learned what it meant. Cesia's mom said it to me constantly, with the exact same emphasis each time. She was convinced it was her sovereign duty to prepare me to be a housewife one day. It was her who taught me to cook, embroider, and crochet.

“Asi?” I tried to flip another tortilla on the hot komal[6]. Cesia rescued the ruined lump of dough.

“Asi,” she turned one over easily.

  Soon, I found it necessary to step outside again to catch my breath from the smoke. I rubbed my arms then stared in shock as my singed arm hairs brushed away.

Re: Hello

Saturday, May 5, 2007 11:32 AM

Yesterday I was in [Cesia’s] house a lot. I've been helping out, they work a lot. It’s been hard keeping my priorities straight. Spanish study? Relationships in town? Relationships & work in the house? God time? For at least this month I'm going to help out around Cesia's house & focus on God more than other stuff. Being at home gets me as much or more Spanish as being in town.

As I gained confidence with my role in Cesia's house, I gradually transitioned to a schedule that would allow me a greater variety of Spanish conversation. Each day after the morning chores, I walked a mile through the corn fields to the highway. From there I’d catch a 40 cent taxi ride into the center of town, where I would spend four to six hours a day.

Tlaxiaco is a beautiful place. The smell of street food fills the air: fried bananas, cinnamon tea, fresh fruit, and homemade cheese. Vendors line the streets. American cities look gray in comparison; Mexico is decorated, unabashedly, in rich colors: the buildings, clothing, plastic chairs, and even the tarps strung over the stands to provide shade. The tiny alleys are laid out in a nonsensical maze; I spent much of my first several visits quite lost in them.

Nevertheless, I started to meet new people. I did this more out of fear of my supervisor than anything else. Thankfully it was easy to make friends in a town with only a handful of Americans. We were an anomaly, heartily welcomed.

Que ta? (What’s up?)

Monday, June 11, 2007 12:13 PM

I need you to come back so I can show off my Spanish. (just kidding) But God has been really good in blessing me in that. The main thing that changed is more my confidence level with talking. I’m learning a ton. I’ve been reading my Bible out loud in Spanish every day. Plus the songs at Cesia’s church are getting into my head. I know a bunch of them now. I want to learn so I can talk to people. I love them.

Sandra was one of the first people I began spending time with. She ran a Pasteleria[7] with her husband near the town square. Coming from a well-known and wealthy family in Tlaxiaco, their store had many regular customers. These people often liked to talk with me to find out who I was and why I lived there. Sandra was patient with my lack of Spanish and comfortable with “companionable silence.”  

I was looking for breakfast one morning when I met Eustolia[8], a local vendor. Her stand had all the breakfast staples: quesadillas, taquitos, and empanadas. Eustolia took my Spanish stumblings in stride, although I have to admit that a lot of our conversations were strained. Often, I would just sit and listen to her talk to other customers or friends who passed by. I think she appreciated the attention I attracted, although she never really understood why I had so much free time for visiting.

About halfway through the summer I gave up on the idea of establishing a routine for studying Spanish. I did have a few Spanish textbooks available to me, but I couldn't figure out what “level” I was at or where to begin. I did visit my friends regularly, and read aloud in Spanish every day, but my schedule had frequent interruptions. For example, when Cesia and I needed to wash clothes it was an all day event of washing, rinsing, and wringing each piece out by hand.

Graciela[9] was a girl my age I had met back in Spring. She offered to help teach me Spanish if I taught her English. To be honest, however, we didn’t spend much of our time together studying.

“Do you want to come with me to a party on Saturday?” She asked eagerly.

“Una fiesta?” I was confused, whose party was I invited to? I didn't know many people.

Graciela explained that it was the birthday party of some friend, but I didn't really understand who she meant. She seemed excited to bring me, even though I had never met this person.

“Ok. Esta bien.”

Over the summer I was invited to many events like this. There was always tons of food, loud music, and drunken old men. I never knew anyone other than the friend who brought me.  Eventually I realized that having a gringa[10] at your party somehow added status to it, regardless of how loosely related that gringa was.

Over time, I met all of Graciela's family members and even went to school with her once. Unfortunately, I lost contact with her after the summer. It took awhile to discover that she’d followed the cultural trend of getting pregnant at a young age. With virtually no future prospects (a situation that most Oaxacan youth face) she had agreed to move in with her boyfriend’s family to cook and clean for them in exchange for a place to live and raise her daughter.

Re: How are you?

Wednesday, July 11, 2007 2:06 PM

There are rumors flying around the [ministry] base now about my Spanish. I’m not trying to show off, but I want to praise God for it, because He has given me grace. Somewhere in the last 4 months I went from silent to easily conversational, and I’m really blessed in my accent. I can hear the subjunctive tenses now, and I'm using them too. The problems only appear when talking about something really serious, important, or confusing. Then I can’t keep up. But most of anything else I can handle now.

I never planned what to talk about with my friends. Talking was a byproduct of our friendship. It was rare that I used a dictionary to look up a word. The mesa was what  I ate at. The escoba was what I swept with. The jabón was what I washed dishes with. If I didn’t know how to say something, I simply talked around it. I wanted to communicate, not be correct.

Communication is something much deeper than language. It is meaning transferred from one person to another. When I focused on relationships, my language ability became a secondary concern. As long as my message was understood, I felt content with the communication. Of course, there were many times when I did not get my exact meaning across. The frustration of this drove me to listen harder, to study harder, and to speak more clearly.

Towards the end of the summer I was talking to a certain vendor that I and my American friends frequented often. I was explaining how I had worked on language all summer, but felt like I had so much more to learn.

“De veras?”[11] He looked surprised.

“Yeah,” I explained in Spanish, “I mean, my accent needs so much work, and there are so many words I don't know.”

“No, you don't realize. You speak so naturally, I would never know you're American. Talking with you, it's like talking with my daughter.”

            My eyes widened in surprise at this compliment. When had my accent gotten better? I couldn't name a particular day when I woke up and started speaking better. Around the same time, Sandra pointed out how much more we could talk about now that I spoke Spanish. Hadn't we been talking all along? At some point, without my notice, our conversations had gotten easier. I remembered that I used to go to bed with a headache from listening so intently all day, but that had stopped. I don't know how, but something had changed. There was substantial and measurable progress, when I never noticed and never planned for it.

Spanish Report—Week of June 2^nd to 10^th

Monday, June 11, 2007 11:42 AM

So I’ve actually been just using my own system. I only made a couple contacts, but I think that’s working better for me. I’m more relational anyways; I’d rather have a couple close friends than lots of acquaintances. But don’t worry; I’m speaking with Mexicans all day, every day. I spent several hours this week in town, and an hour or so every afternoon doing sit-down study. I’m learning a lot of words and grammar through context, I can’t even think of what they all mean in English. Not sure if this is what you wanted, but whatever I’m doing is working, so I’m gonna stick with it.

---

[1]    Tlaxiaco “Tla - hee - ah - co”

[2]    Oaxaca “Wa - ha - ka”

[3]    Cesia “Seh – see- uh”

[4]    Alisia “uh – lee – see – uh”

[5] You have to learn, Alisia

[6] clay griddle

[7] cake shop

[8] Eustolia “Eh - uu - stole - ee - uh”

[9]    Graciela “Gra - see -ella”

[10] White person

[11] Really?

blog 17 - Second Eye Essay draft

The Hong Kong Museum of Art holds many beautiful pieces. Although it is not as large as some famous museums around the world, boasting only four floors of modest sized galleries, it is the most improtant museum in Hong Kong and located along the Victoria Harbor, a famous downtown location. Historical artifacts are kept on the first floor. There are delicate bone combs and ornate hair pieces which were worn by both men and women hundreds of years ago to display their wealth. These items are carved from precious sources like Jade and ivory. Some battle regalia are also preserved there; models from different eras show mild improvement in protection.

Photography is not allowed in the museum, perhaps because the flash will damage the items. Or perhaps this rule comes from a sense of respect for this ancient world, so treasured by its people. History is important; Chinese must know it well. It is a measure of a man’s honor as well as intelligence to be able to discuss his history. If you don’t know the past, how can you say you know your country today? Without an understanding of your country how can you say you love it?

            In the floors above, the ancient world of China is preserved in paintings. The strokes of the quill are delicate, yet forceful. The swish brush along parchment fills the quiet gallery. Large canvases show glimmers of a simpler lifestyle, recalling the days when families depended on their rice fields for provision. Other pieces are ornate scrolls, as long as 20 feet, decorated with ornate calligraphy. Calligraphy is a prized skill in China.  

One can sense the time the artist spent gazing at the world around him, desiring to transmit that to permanence. The pictures never reflect our world directly, but show another, hidden side to nature. Each exhibit includes a description of the artist. It is important to note his honorable background and training from a prestigious master, to add value to his work. A person does not exist independent of his own history, but is created, layer by layer, like a painting.

            There is a section of modern art on the second floor. It includes representations from a recently famous Chinese artist who paints walls to create 3 dimensional scenes. The scenes are of urban street life in Hong Kong as it may have appeared in the 70s and 80s. The stores and houses are fit tightly together; Hong Kong is a small, dense place. A small storefront is depicted, a red iron table painted in front does not fit inside the tiny space, and is instead set out on the sidewalk for customers. Below, in the real streets, things are not as rustic. Hong Kong’s streets today are shiny, polished, organized. They are always full, packed with its 7 million inhabitants, rushing from work to school  and to work again. They are proud to call Hong Kong their home and distinguish themselves from the “mainlanders” of China. These are considered dirty and unclassed.

The gift shop is filled with plenty of interesting things. Of course everything is very expensive, as in the rest of Hong Kong. The prices in the megamalls run in the hundreds and thousands of US dollars. The business people and other professionals must show off their wealth by displaying it. They should dress their families well and drive classy cars. The gift shop, however, is geared toward foreigners with stylized copies of the paintings and curious oddities that would not appeal to most locals. Some items could be bought at a street market for much less money, but the average tourist might not know that.

There are four floors in the museum to which shiny escalators run. Escalators run through most of Hong Kong, even in some of the streets.  Hong Kong island and its associated peninsulas are mountainous. Although it is one of the most populated cities in the world, about 70 percent of its total landmass is considered undeveloped parkland.

The entire southern face of the museum faces the Victoria harbor. The wide waterway runs directly through the urban region of Hong Kong and enabled easy access for shipping throughout history. Thus, it developed into a powerful trade center in the eastern hemisphere.

Through the window, boats designed like traditional “junks” carry tourists to and fro. Across the water epic buildings line the banks on ground reclaimed from the waters. They feature cutting edge architecture. Each dazzles in urban beauty, displaying the wealth and high class of the people of Hong Kong.

Just outside the museum the Avenue of Stars lines the waterway. Based on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, the promenade honors celebrities who have gone forward to make the Chinese people proud and honored among the rest of the world. Their names are carved into concrete blocks of the walkway with their handprints pressed gently beside as if to say “this is my home, China.” Some of the names are unrecogniza ble to the younger generation in Hong Kong. Others are very familiar, especially to tourists, such as Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee.

On Saturday nights the museum itself becomes a piece of art from the outside. A light show decorates the entire harbor, each of the buildings on the northern shore coordinating its patterns with flashes in time to music. The museum responds to its sisters across the water by projecting colors along its own flank and even into the night sky. The harbor is full of the hearts of its people. They rejoice in the beauty, pointing out the lights in the sky, as if wishing for a star to come down. The show goes on and on, delighting its viewers while they gaze around this famous location, trying to remember that this same place saw battles and bloodshed, this place saw famous dignitaries sail in on colored ships. This place became one of the most important ports in the eastern hemisphere.

blog 13 - brainstorming for Essay 4

The Eye essays have been harder for me that the I essays. I enjoy talking about my experiences, but crafting a point from them is not always easy.
I either wanted to write more about my experiences in Mexico or from my trip to Hong Kong this summer. Since essay 3 did not go very well (I diverged into all kinds of details & had trouble sticking to the point) I tried again to think of the point first, then later decide the story to tell the point through. I wondered how I could describe the culture of Hong Kong, and somehow came up with the idea of describing the Hong Kong Museum of Art.
I did a brainstorming session and wrote very quickly everything that came to mind. The result was  alot of details that could say things about Hong Kong's past and present culture, all mixed together. I ended up describing the Victoria harbor as well (where the museum is, a famous & important part of HK). So the essay will be roughly split into those two things. I've struggled a little in how to organize the essay from my brainstorming notes; a lot of details overlap but don't necessarily progress in a linear fashion. because of this it's taking me a little longer to revise this draft. However, I'm much happier with it than with Essay 3 and I feel like I'm getting the idea of the Eye essays. My only concern is that I may be describing the museum in a way that is broad (hitting many things) instead of deep (looking closely at a handful of things). I don't know if this is a problem. I'm not sure how deep I can go based on my memory of a 1 day trip there. but we'll see how it turns out.

Eye essay 1, again

Okay, if possible, please disregard the last draft. This is the more updated one that should have gone up on Thursday, I had saved it on my computer by mistake.

In mid October, my friends and I were invited to a birthday party by a woman named Lydia. The party was planned for Saturday. We were excited for the opportunity to eat a meal with all of Lydia's family, knowing that it would help us to build confianza with them.
I spoke very little Spanish at the time, but I could always distinguish the word “confianza.” It means trust or confidence. At least, that's what the dictionary says. There is so much more to the word though. In a people group with very little trust for outsiders, to have confianza is to be allowed in.

People from our ministry had been visiting the village of Yucuañe for 5 years by that point. It is a tiny rural community tucked away in the mountains of southern Mexico. The dirt road leading to it had only been built about 20 years prior. The secondary school, which served up to age 15, was also a recent addition. The villagers had spotty electricity and a limited water supply that depended on the rain. Yucuañe is a beautiful place, hidden away from the world and full of secrets.

Before leaving for the village, my teammate Angela and I baked some banana bread to bring with us. Lydia fed our group almost every Thursday we visited, so we were culturally obliged to offer food in return. Normally, inviting them to a meal at our house would have been the best thing to do. However, no one in the village had a car so Lydia and her family did not leave often. Also, our group tended to avoid inviting locals to our base. Showing off our American wealth would not have made a good impression.

The party was supposed to start around 3. We knew that, per “Mexico time,” the party wouldn't actually begin for at least an hour later than that, but we wanted to arrive early to help with the cooking. It was ab outh 3 when we rolled our SUV down the last dip of the rugged path and approached Yucuañe. Normally we would park at the store on outskirts of town and walk, but this time we drove to Lydia's house, hoping that fewer villagers would notice our presence. Not many people appreciated our visits, and we knew that Lydia already received pressure from the others for allowing us into her home.
Lydia was the first contact the ministry made in that village. She lived with her two daughters and mother near their fields in the southern side of Yucuañe. She was a jovial woman of middle age, full of laughter and patience, even for me, who couldn't understand anything she said. Perhaps it was her outgoing personality that helped her overcome the natural sense of fear most villagers had of outsiders. There is a strong sense of superstition that governs the lives of indigenous Mexicans. Many expected our presence to bring bad luck to the village.

Six or so of the mangy village dogs identify Lydia's place as their home. They came out to bark at us when we called from the gate. Lydia's mother, la Doña, hobbled across the yard, shaking her thin wooden cane at the dogs and hissing at them. The gate opened, and they ran past us as we were invited in. Normally Lydia's yard was mostly clear, and we would sit in the shaded area by the house. Today, the kitchen table had been brought out into the yard, as well as a table borrowed from her sister.

We were invited to sit outside and offered drinks. Villagers drink soda almost exclusively because purified water is hard to get. It was la Doña's job to entertain us, apparently. We sat for a long time, exchanging pleasantries about the weather and our trip to the village. Communication is very indirect in this culture, so it was a delicate dance of words to convince Lydia that not only were we content to wait for the party, but we also wanted to help with the cooking. Her initial assumption was that we were bored and felt uncomfortable waiting in her house.

“How can we help you?” my teammate Amalie asked, “Let me chop the tomatoes for the salsa.”

“No no no, how could I?” exclaimed Lydia, a playful smile never leaving her eyes.

“We want to learn how to cook,” insisted Angela.

I nodded along and tried to seem eager. Although I didn't understand the words they were speaking, I knew this was an argument we had often.

“Are you hungry? Here, I'll make you un taquito to eat while we're cooking.” Lydia offered.

We tried to insist that we weren't hungry, that we wanted to wait until dinner. But our fate was sealed. Even worse than having her guests feel bored was the idea that her guests would be hungry while in her house. The embarrassment that would cause Lydia was unfathomable. What if we mentioned to other villagers how we went hungry while sitting in her house?

Blog 16: EYE draft 3

I just updated this draft this morning, but it's not with me in class here so know that this is a very rough draft, and that it's only half-finished. I'm hoping for some comments on if this is like an "eye" essay and what I could do to focus more on the meal, not on my experience of it.

Thanks :)

In mid October, my friends and I were invited to a birthday party by a woman named Lydia. The party was planned for Saturday, so we would go in addition to our weekly Thursday visit. We were excited at the opportunity to eat a meal with all of Lydia's family, knowing that it would help us to build confianza with them.
I spoke very little Spanish at the time, but I could always distinguish the word “confianza.” It means trust or confidence. At least, that's what the dictionary says. There is so much more to the word though. In a people group with very little trust for outsiders, to have confianza is to be allowed in.

People from our ministry had been visiting the village of Yucuañe for 5 years by that point. It is a tiny rural community, tucked away in the mountains, far from any developed civilization. The dirt road that led us to it had only been built about 20 years prior. The secondary school, which served up to age 15, was also a recent addition. The villagers had spotty electricity and a limited water supply which was dependent on the rain. Yucuañe is a beautiful place, hidden away from the world and full of secrets.

Before leaving for the village, my teammate Angela and I baked some banana bread to bring with us. Lydia fed our group almost every Thursday we visited, so we were culturally obliged to offer food in return. Normally, inviting them to a meal at our house would have been the best thing to do, but no one in the village had a car, so Lydia and her family did not leave often. Also, our group tended to avoid inviting locals to our base. Showing off our American wealth would not have been a good idea.

The party was supposed to start around 3, so we set off on the hour long trip at 2. We knew that, per “Mexico time,” the party wouldn't actually begin for atleast an hour later than the estimate, but we wanted to arrive early to help with the cooking. Normally we would park our SUV at the store on the north side of town and walk, but this time we drove to Lydia's house, hoping that less villagers would notice our presence. Not many people appreciated our visits, and we knew that Lydia already received pressure from the other villagers for allowing us into her home.

Lydia was the first contact the ministry made in that village. She lived with her two daughters and her mother in the southern side of Yucuañe. She was a jovial woman of middle age, full of laughter and patience, even for me, who couldn't understand anything she said. Perhaps it was her outgoing personality that helped her overcome the natural sense of fear most villagers had of outsiders. There is a strong sense of superstition that governs the lives of indigenous Mexicans.

“buenes tardes!” We called from the gate. Six of so of the mangy village dogs identify Lydia's place as their home. They came out to bark at us (home security). Lydia's mother, la Doña, hobbled toward the gate, shaking her thin wooden cane at the dogs and hissing at them. The gate opened, and they ran past us as we were invited in. Normally Lydia's yard is mostly clear, and we sit in the shaded area by the house. Today, the kitchen table has been brought out into the yard, as well as a table borrowed from her sister.

We are invited to sit while everyone exchanges pleasantries about the weather. Lydia and each of her daughters take turns leaving the cooking to come and say hello. We are offered drinks (villagers only drink soda and tea, knowing the water to be too unclean to drink). Eventually, once we have convinced our hosts that we are happy to be there and that we are content waiting for the party, Angela and I offer to help with the cooking.
This was a tricky thing to do. Of course, Lydia's first assumption was that we were bored and unhappy sitting at her house. They tried to shoo us away from the work, but we insisted. All communication is very indirect in this culture, so it was a delicate dance of words to convince our hosts that we wanted to help just to be friendly. Eventually they accepted, but relegated us to tasks that required the least amount of manual labor and that we could not mess up the meal. Our two male team members excused themselves to visit another contact in the village before the party started. It wouldn't do for them to sit around in this world of women.
Lydia offered to feed us “un taquito” before the party, if we were hungry. We declined, assuring her that we were comfortable. She would be considered a terrible hostess if we went hungry at any point during our visit. People feared that we would go complain to others how we were hungry sitting in her house.

blog 15

A cube. It sits in the hand comfortably. Not heavy, but not light. It could really hurt someone if you wanted to throw it.

Six different colors: blue, yellow, orange, red, green, and white, each a small square on a background of black. Nine tiny square stickers for each face of the cube. The stickers peel slightly, wanting to come off again.

 There is a pleasant click noise when you complete a twist. Each face of the cube can twist six different ways: three tiers horizontally and three tiers vertically. Not all at the same time of course, that would break it. You can make a fun pattern by giving each tier a quarter twist. Then it’s no longer a cube, but a multidimensional colored toy. That is not how it’s meant to be played with, however.

Twist things around until you get all of one face one color. Start with yellow, it’s easier. At least that’s what I always heard. You can only twist one tier at a time, so it takes some thinking. First line up one tier of one face as the same color. Then the whole face of the cube as that color. You’re supposed to get every face to be one solid color. Until it’s finished. Until it’s organized.