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.

Some work on Essay 1

So I thought that the redraft of our "I" essays was due sooner, and I've already started on it. that's probably a good thing.
I chose to redo Essay 1 because I put a lot more effort into that one originally, and I think it needed less work to help it out.
Some changes I made:
- I added narrative bits with some dialogue throughout
- I removed my references to learning the subjunctive tense within my emails. (Yes, shock and horror, I have and am tampering with those emails. So they are not truly 100% original. There is my disclaimer) Professor had mentioned that my reference to the verb tenses took away from my "point" which is that language learning is natural and usually happens without our notice.
- I tried to show how much language I had during the various phases of my story, gradually increasing
- I changed my "point" a little bit.
       before: I was trying to say that language learning is natural and happens within the context of relationships
       now: I am trying to say that learning (language or otherwise) is a natural process that happens while we live life. Many of life's greatest lessons aren't going to be things that we set out to learn. They'll happen along the way, with all of life's quirks, relationships, oddities, and experiences mixed in.

My questions for you:
How do you think the Spanish words work in my document? Should I use italics, put definitions within the text or in footnotes, or write everything in English?

I'll include a little of the narrative I added, and you'll see what I mean, (note: by underlining I was trying to suggest tonal emphasis)

“Tienes que aprender, Alisia[1]” (You have to learn, Alisia) 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?” (Like this?) I tried to flip another tortilla on the hot komal (clay griddle). Cesia rescued the ruined lump of dough.

“Asi,” she turned one over easily. Cesia also helped with my tutelage. From her I learned to wash my clothes by hand, keep a dirt floor clean, and collect the best pine cones for kindling.

  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.

---

[1]    Alisia “uh – lee – see – uh”

brainstorming

So I'm not really sure of what I want to write for the next paper. At first I expected that all of the papers for this class would be personal stories. Now my understanding of Creative Nonfiction has been expanded, leaving open many possibilities for the "eye" essay.
One of my classmates had a good suggestion, and it's probably what I will do. I could talk about some aspect of Mexican culture or Hong Kong culture. I love talking about these things anyways, so that would be pretty fun. I could explain the concept of confianza (trust in relationships) in Mexican culture. Or how language and culture overlapped. Or some of the superstitious beliefs I learned about. For Hong Kong I could talk about the materialism and the effect this is having on youth there today. Although, to be honest, I'd have to really think about that before I do. because I'm friends with some of my students from Hong Kong, and we still keep in touch. It would feel strange (betrayal?) to write about them indirectly and share it with the world.

Feedback

Well. I wasn’t very happy with this paper. Grammar and word choice are all fine, but I really struggled with the overall movement of it. I wasn’t really sure where I was going with it, or what “point” to make. The anecdotes were easy to write, but the introduction and concluding paragraphs were very hard.

Comments I would appreciate:

-          Was the piece interesting to read? Or did it sound too much like entries in a personal diary?

-          Did it read too staccato or did it flow? What do you think I could do to make it flow better?

-          How did the narrative/dialogue pieces fit in?

-          Ignoring what “point” of the story I tried to make, What “point” of the story would you naturally expect as the reader? 

I Essay 2 Draft 1

            I have never seen the Grand Canyon. Or Mount Rushmore. Or the beaches of Hawaii. Still, I was blessed with many awesome experiences growing up. My parents sought to give me and my two sisters a rich childhood. Or perhaps they were living out the rich childhood they always wanted for themselves; I'm not sure. It may be from them that I inherited my natural desire for an interesting life. We seemed to always be on a quest to escape the norm, the mundane. Family vacations were an important part of this quest; thus, we took many of them.

             When I was small, my parents took our family to Niagara Falls each year. I leaned on the rail of the skyline as my dad explained the sights to us again, “the rounded one is called the Horseshoe falls, the small one there is the American falls.”  I wondered why America got the dinky waterfall when the rest belonged to Canada. Later, we visited the museum that memorializes all the people and things which fallen over the ____ foot drop, whether intentionally or no. There was also a boardwalk area that I remember well for its many fun activities: mini-golf, haunted houses, little shops. Once when we were out, a storm blew threw raining hail the size of golf balls. We were stranded at a fun house. The employees waved us in good-naturedly, and let us kids run through the maze again and again.

            Another important tradition was the yearly vacation to the beaches of Wildwood. My dad’s grandmother paid for a timeshare there, so my dad's whole side of the family would come together. The beaches of Wildwood are very wide and shallow; thus family friendly. My sisters and I would several hours swimming every day. I don’t recall ever being taught to swim, although my parents always stayed close during high tide. Every evening of the week involved a different activity: shopping along the boardwalk, playing minigolf, or riding the theme park rides. Our visit often coincided with the week of my birthday, so a celebration was usually part of the week’s events. The vacation in Wildwood was a yearly tradition until my great grandma passed away when I was 11. Even after that, my immediate family has continued to make day trips there in the summer, often to celebrate my birthday.

            One place we visited so often, I know its roads by heart. This is the Amish country of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. To this day, my family will stay in the same hotels and eat at the same restaurants that I visited at six or seven years old. My mother knows the area so well she could give a guided tour. There are so many fun things to do there, none of which are very expensive. You could visit the petting zoo, take a scenic train ride, or go on one of “Abe’s buggy rides” through the country. We must have walked miles through all of the different little shops full of homemade goods. I stepped inside another store to the sound of a cheery doorbell's jingle. The smell of cinnamon flavored candles and dusty antiques filled the air. “Don't touch anything!” my mother hissed at us. I always wondered how simply touching, especially something so innocent as a stuffed doll or wooden toy, could be so dangerous.

            When we reached middle school ages our parents decided to try something a little different. We joined my mom’s side of the family visiting a dude ranch in upstate New York. We always went during the first week of October when the trees were just changing to beautiful shades of  orange and yellow. The ranch was a self-contained resort, so three kids like us could run freely with little worry to our parents. Group rides went out several times a day at the ranch. Since I'd never had the opportunity to take lessons as a kid, I gladly rode every single one, no matter the difficulty level. When I wasn't riding, we could take a hay ride down to the lake to go fishing or paddle-boating. Equipment was available to play mini-golf, ping pong, or tennis whenever we waned. There was also a pool with a water slide for the hotter days. Those years both of my parents worked paper routes in the early mornings, so our allowance came in the form of rolled quarters. Most of this was spent in the tiny arcade near the Chuck wagon. I'm not really sure what my parents did all day.

           

            Camping, on the other hand, my parents actively participated in. My mom grew up camping herself, and the campground we live near today is the same one my parents frequented when they were first dating. We went camping a couple times every summer. Upon arrival, my sisters and I would pour out of the truck, instantly looking for trouble. My dad handed us  spoons or something and told us, “Now you girls dog over here while we work on the campsite. If you work hard, you might reach China by the time we're ready.”

“Really?” I exclaimed.

My dad wandered by an hour later and leaned his ear near the hole.

“Oh, I think I can hear them! They're speaking Chinese. Better hurry up, you've almost reached them.”

When we got a little older we were shooed off. I guess even digging to China can interfere with campsite preparation. We grabbed our mountain bikes and took off. My sisters and I knew every path and hiding place of the 130 acre campground. It was usually after dark when my dad would come looking to bring us back for dinner. He'd find us deep in the woods battling Indians. Or riding our dirt bikes along dangerous mountain roads. Or at the swamp catching frogs.

            There were actually several different trucks my family went camping in during my childhood. We never had much luck with cars. Daddy brought home something different every couple years, just to patch us through. The huge brown suburban had been around a couple years when we set off to go camping in a new area far from home. On the way there, it overheated and caught fire. I stood along the highway, watching the flames char the seat I had been sitting in, and asked my mom to please come away. She was still in the truck, frantically throwing camping supplies out. Much of the gear, things my parents had used since they were young, was lost.

            Although my family loves our traditional places, I have still been blessed to plenty of variety while growing up. I have visited many important historical sites along the east coast such as Gettysburg and Jamestown. I have hiked through the beautiful terrain of Virginia, Pennsylvania, the Carolinas, and New York. I have seen the Natural. Bridge and the Delaware Water Gap. In each place we visited, the trip usually began by checking into a tiny motel room. I carefully unpacked my possessions, imagining that I had just moved to a new place or that I was on my way to an exotic location. We ate packed sandwiches, explored the surrounding area, and stayed up late playing cards or board games.

            I was a teenager when took a vacation to West Virginia. We went to see the historic town of Cass, where the steam engine trains still run to the coal mines in the mountains. There are many beautiful vista points, as well as quaint rural towns to visit. It was during that trip that my parents fell in love. They decided soon after to move to West Virginia, a dream they have held to since.

            I can't say that we ever got to travel far, but we did travel deeply. They were interesting journeys, full of the simple enjoyment of one another's company. We broke away from the “boring” routine of daily life more often than most people get to. There's something to be said for  the adventurous spirit who will run towards the unknown. There's probably also something to be said about what that adventurous spirit might be running from.