The Last Night

    It was my last night in the city and I couldn't sleep. I probably would've nodded off eventually, but the "band" practice going on next door left my nerves fried and my idea of a good nights sleep shattered. Just like a first date or a Chinese buffet there's something about returning home that always leaves my stomach tingling. Home is great, but it's also the embodiment of stress. So the thought of having to leave this laid back and beautiful city bummed me out to no end.
    As I ambled my way towards downtown I started to feel the energy that I found so unique to Queretaro. The walk towards al Centro is invigorating, being just long enough to build up the anticipation. The light was also fascinating, on the onset of my journey everything is shadows and sleepy townhouses, but as I get nearer and nearer to the vibrant center of town, the light built around me. I felt like a miner, who's finally emerging into the fresh air. The night air felt full of the life that dominated Centro Historico at this late hour. The bustle engulfs and cocoons me in it subtle energy. The one last stop is the cigar shop I passed every morning and evening as I walked too and from my classes and home. It was always closed to the world, old steel bars covering the door and deflecting the keen observers interest. But tonight was a night of finality and maturity, which to my young mind meant a big cigar and a long walk.
     Even in a country without a smoking age there is something satisfying about buying tobacco when you're still young. Youth nourishes rebellion, and even something relatively silly like a comically large cigar holds it's own rebellious appeal. As I walked out of the store puffing my cigar I stopped by the fountain and soaked up the night. Mexican cities are nothing like white bread Petoskey, the night is lively with people crowding every street and the sounds of eating, drinking, and merrymaking floating on the warm breeze like so many leaves falling from a great tree of merriment. I walked to el Jardin Zenia (a large garden/park/plaza area) and sat down, enjoying the rich nutty flavor of the cigar and absorbing the second hand energy a vibrant city creates. Children were throwing toys in the air and screams and laughter mingled in the air like nervous dancers.
     It's about now that I realize how long it's been since I heard English. Spanish is an elusive lover, I'm seduced by it all day long, yet it consistently escapes my full comprehension. I've been wrapped in the language for the last three weeks, and now it's time to "disrobe" as it were and re-embrace my native English tongue. So I listened to the general hum of quiet voices like a devoted nun to their priest, with reverence and awe, trying to capture the music in the words before they fade in my memory. Queretaro has been a gracious host, one that asks for naught and supports continual mistakes on my part. Even when I was lost or depressed, the city provided. The people with an infinite patience and my teachers with infinite wit have come together to help me fall in love with this spoiled colonial throwback of a town. I have lost myself to that night in Queretaro, and I only hope I can return to continue the search.

The Debt We All Carry

This isn't technically for this class but I'm posting a copy of a graduation speech I wrote in AP Lit. It's here not to toot my own horn, but because It carries a message that everyone, even people who are still starting their high school career should know. It's also pretty long, but don't get discouraged, it's worth the read. So here you are.

The Debt We All Carry

Hello class of 2012! Congratulations everyone, I’m proud to be a part of this years graduating class. Today is a day for honoring the achievements of this class but as much as I’d like to pat every single one of you on the back I think that we need to talk a bit about how we got to this point. Yes we sat in classes, did the homework (mostly), and filled up our 21 credits. That’s obvious, but how did we become the people we are right this moment? Now that’s the deep question all these speeches need. How did we become the people we are right now? Today I don’t want to give a trite speech that you can zone out to. No today I’m here to help us reflect, as a class, on how we became who we are and who we have to thank for it.

Choices. It’s all about choices. I’m not going to quote some made up number about how many decisions we make in a day. It’s unquantifiable, we constantly and continually make and act on choices. The ability to make choices is one of our society’s most cherished values, we call it freedom. In high school we are defined by the clubs and sports that we chose. College applications certainly reminded me of that fact. I’m Robert Manges a four year Model UN delegate, a four year quiz bowl team member, a ten year theater participant, a ten year boy scout, and the list goes on. And yet when you examine the exact moment you chose to join “X” club or “Y” sport the decision seems almost trivial. Even with simple electives like choir and band, chances are you made the choice all the way back in sixth grade. That’s potentially seven years of commitment made by a person who couldn’t do basic algebra. When I decided to be a cub scout I was five years old. I had only been on the earth for five years, yet I made a commitment that would end up lasting the rest of my life. That’s huge! But even when you’re older you don’t really understand the consequences of these choices when making them.  When I was in seventh grade my teacher Mrs. Van (who happened to be a close family friend) asked if I wanted to join something called Michigan Youth in Government, YIG for short. It’s a mock state congress and it was a great time. If I hadn’t joined YIG I may not have gained a passion for politics that drove me to clubs like Model UN. Without Model UN I wouldn’t have met Mrs. Pontoni so early in high school and she wouldn’t have been able to nag me into doing forensics speaking. Forensics taught me worlds about public speaking, and without the confidence it inspired in me I may not be the man I am today. When you truly break down one relatively trivial decision, like joining YIG, a two day conference for middle schoolers, it’s frightening about how much else rested on it. Steve Jobs said in his address to the Stanford class of 2005, “You can’t connect the dots looking forward you can only connect them looking backwards so you have to trust that the dots will connect in the future.” If I hadn’t decided, “What the hell, might as well try this out” I may have had a radically different high school experience. Our brains don’t fully develop until our mid to late twenties and yet it seems like we’ve been making potentially life changing decisions since we were old enough to talk. 

So here’s my question to you, “How much of your life, up to this point, has been the result of your own decisions?”  Take a second and think of your closest friends. For me they’re almost all people I went to elementary school with or I’ve known since early childhood. Now here’s another rhetorical question, “Did you specifically pick out a best friend?” I certainly didn’t, it just happened. We went to the same elementary and both our parents did cub scouts. We got along great and I’m still thankful that we met, but the fact remains that we met mostly by chance. If his parents had moved to Charlevoix or Harbor Springs instead of Petoskey we might not have ever met. These what if questions seem pointless, but they actually tell a lot about how we’ve lived our lives. The same can be said of my joining Boy Scouts or YIG. If my mom hadn’t started my Cub Scout pack or Mrs. Van hadn’t asked me to be in YIG I may not have even known what I was missing. I’m damn lucky that they encouraged me to join YIG and Boy Scouts, both have been or helped to start huge portions of my life. 

These personal decisions, while on the surface may have been trivial, were influenced predominately by caring people with my best interests at heart. That is not a bad thing. As children we need the benefits of experience desperately. The “just try it” talks from our parents, as tired and frustrating as they were, were essential to forming our own life story. Knowledge can be taught but wisdom can only be learned. We need our parents’ wisdom to fill those gaps, where the knowledge is present but the understanding is lacking. Were any of you hit by a car when you were little? If the answer is no, then you can thank your parents for granting you that wisdom. When we were six years old we knew that streets had traffic. But did we actually understand the horrific damage a car going thirty-five miles an hour could inflict on a six year old? No, we had the knowledge but lacked the wisdom and experience to interpret it. This “wisdom granting” for lack of a better term, isn’t done solely by our parents. Our siblings,  coaches, bosses, and even friends all try to pass on their wisdom to us. We all try to teach each other, intentionally or otherwise. The phrase, “learn from my mistake” captures that sentiment perfectly, most people would like to spare their friends the pain of suffering a preventable mistake. Telling stories to younger kids has long been a tradition of older siblings and friends, we do it because it’s fun. Even though it’s fun, the advice younger kids get from their elders is vital to their personal growth, good advice has kept me out of a bad situation plenty of times. I’ll ask my earlier question again, “How much of your life, up to this point, has been the result of your own decisions?”

America is enamored with the idea of the self-made man (or woman). He worked his way through school. He practiced day and night to perfect the trade. He got all A’s and won that scholarship. He designed that business. He, He, He. He did this, He did that. The self-made man is a lie, at least partly. Because, as much as we like to think so, He is not as self-made as it sounds. No one is self-made. The horribly trite saying that it takes a village to raise a child is quite astute. No matter how brilliant or creative or good looking or talented you are, you still depend on others the from the moment you were conceived to the moment you fall dead in smokers car on the train to work. Let’s take a second and look at ourselves. Seriously, just look down at your hands and arms. You see those hands, they aren’t your own.  No, even our bodies, at least in some minute way, belong to the people that have taught and trained us. Athletes know this better than the rest, those strong arms and toned legs are the physical evidence of their coaches work. All the time that our mentors and coaches and teachers put into us, it doesn’t just disappear at the end of practice or class. It stays with us because it’s impossible to teach a lesson without leaving a part of yourself with the student. When you do math you aren’t just doing it, you’re using knowledge that goes all the way back to kindergarten and learning to count. Look at your body again and now you start to realize the debt we all carry. All the thousands of hours planning curriculums, planning workouts, planning play dates, planning parties, and planning planning planning have culminated in the beautiful and whole person you are today. No one is self-made, to say so is to ignore literally millions of hours that people have put into your personal development. Your teachers, coaches, mentors, family, and friends have all expended monumental effort to communicate their wisdom and knowledge to you in the hope that you’ll succeed. Don’t ignore them. Remember the debt we all carry in our hands and our minds and our hearts. We owe society for the innumerable benefits it has given us. When you look at your body remember this, we are a reflection of the time that society has put into us. Our achievements are wonderful and we deserve the accolades, but it’s vital that we always acknowledge those whom enabled us to achieve. I know we all want to claim sole credit for our accomplishments, but in a way that is the worst kind of lying. It’s lying to yourself. You may have done the work, but you used skills that your teachers and mentors and family taught you, you used their help at a subconscious level.

So as you go home today hug your parents, hug your friends, exchange professional handshakes with the principle, and then make three more stops. One at your elementary school, one at middle school, and one right back to good ol’ PHS. Find those teachers and coaches and mentors and give them a giant bear hug. They deserve more than an invitation to your grad party. Tonight isn’t for us, it’s for them. The entire town of Petoskey and beyond has worked hard to help you achieve, and they deserve to hear a little thank you now and then. Never forget the debt you owe them, it’s in your hands and your minds and your hearts. Pay it back someday, not enough people do.

The Subway

      There is nothing I hate more than the subway. It's because, unlike work or family or even the bar, the people I see on the subway aren't real. At least not to me, I'm sure they think they're real, but to me I see them more like robots or toasters. They're there but only in the most literal sense. Like scenery or the little bowl of decorative fruits at your coworker's designer apartment (Ikea and all, ugh). They are barely sentient beings, just capable of grunting, complaining, and dirty looks. Identifying with a stranger is like trying to hammer a nail with a screwdriver, it's a waste of time and most likely not worth the effort.
      Back on the subway I'm perfecting a very valuable skill, invisibility. I play this game every time I get on the subway (or bus or train or plane or pretty much anytime I'm near people) where I try to speak as little as possible from the second I leave work to the moment I step in my house. My record is 17 words, which is pretty damn good for a 45 minute commute. I was already past my high score at an embarrassing 64, thanks to the chatty secretary that tried to ask me about my day. Hopes of salvaging the game were ruined when I saw the lady burst into the train. She made a systematic search like the robot she was, taking note of every empty chair and then sitting down right across from me. The tension reminded me of those hostage negotiating movies, where the bad guy had a gun some poor fools head and everyone knew he would pull the trigger. It's the shifty guy in the movie, he talks to much and has eyes like a caged panther watching and erratically jumping all over the place. Of course he's the first hostage to lose the game, he practically deserves it, acting so openly human, scared, fragile and weak. One of life's enduring goals was to never be that hostage. That's why I practice being invisible, so when the chips are down my biggest threats simply ignore me.
       The slight intake of breath, pursed lips priming for some high impact conversation, the almost imperceptible lean forward, it all foreshadows a miserable experience in the new future. I held up my iPhone like Athena's aegis, hoping it would shield me from the sharp arrows of unwanted dialogue and uncomfortable silences. But her voice ripped through my focus like the Kool-aid man through a house wall.
"How you doing big man? You just get off some big wall street job did ya?"
        Oh god. It's started, the terrifying duel of wits that we call conversation. I could feel the pressure of polite small talk welling up. And to make matters worse she was African American. I'm not racist! Not at all! But thanks to my mashed potatoes rural Iowa upbringing black people have always just put me a bit off kilter. I know that seems odd but I just don't feel comfortable, I feel like I'm going to make some huge racial blunder. I'm normally pretty awkward with white woman, but the combination of gender and racial barrier made me want to crawl all the way back to elementary school. I liked girls more when I could just push them in the mud, it was better that way. But I'm still sitting quiet! I missed my chance, too much hesitation, now she obviously knows I'm uncomfortable. I've gotta say something.
"I'm here. Oh man, I meant good. I'm good. And I work in accounting, unlike wall street I just add the numbers, not fake them."
        That drew a laugh and even that slow second looks girls sometimes give my friends when they say something clever at the bar. That look is the signal, I've evolved from a toaster in her eyes, I'm not a bowl of decorative fruit, I'm a man. How on earth did I manage that? I'm scared out of my wits and sitting across from my antithesis, a chatty extroverted black woman. Slow and smooth, just out of the corner of my eye, I take the look too. The look men give women that let's them know they are more than a toaster, they're a woman. Not a vulgar glare, just the slight glance that let's me notice more than the bare essentials. Am I being smooth right now? Is this how normal men feel? I could feel the terror leaking out of my core seeping through my viens down to my feet and slowly dripping out my toes to join the city that had spawned it.

That's it for now folks! Let's see some feedback and direction. I want someone to give me a direction or even just dialogue suggestions. It's like a "choose your adventure" book, but instead of flipping pages you type down in the comments box. Thanks and have a good day!

Clarity

Hey guys, here's my first actual fiction post. It is not at all related to the "love" post, it's just something I thought of. Let me know if you like the story and give me some good feedback (I'd like it if people could focus more on writing style and my phrasing, little things like proper spelling are important, but it doesn't actually change how I'm writing)! If people show interest in this idea then I'll expand on the character. It may be kind of morbid, but you can just get over it.

     Joe lived in a perpetual state of war. He lived with a great hurricane in his mind, a maelstrom of all his concerns and frustrations, that had raged perpetually since his birth. A pugnacious soul, Joe constantly fought against most aspects of his life with a vigorous  drive that was somehow frightening and endearing all at once. Shoveling the driveway was a skirmish with the cruel mother nature. Breakfast was not just a meal, it was a battle. He didn't cook his eggs, he dominated them, frying them up with a strange sort of ferocity that brings a slight smile to the eyes, like a proud parent who watches his 5 year old try so hard at soccer. But this war on the world wasn't always so endearing, more often then not it ended with bruised knuckles and battered pride.
      Then Joe got sick. HIV. Those three letters embodied 24 years of rage and senseless self-destruction. The bottle of AZT in his medicine cabinet became his new body armor, protecting him from the environment he had always loathed and now feared. The disease left him with a crushing sensation, like the time his brother caved in their igloo and the snow nearly suffocated him. The maelstrom of his mind only swirled faster these days, with rent, taxes, work, and illness piling up on the to do list. All the while Joe could feel the death lurking in his viens, patiently waiting for the first sign of weakness.
       The first time it happened Joe didn't even understand what he was feeling. He was driving home from work when he let go of the wheel. The maelstrom of his cluttered bitter mind started to slow while the car sped up and veered into the other lane. Have you ever just laid in bed and relaxed every muscle in your body? If you clear your mind and relax your body soon you'll find your thoughts wandering. Joe's war against the world had taught him that, just like waiting at a bus stop or taking a ticket at the DMV, sleep was only a means to an end, a necessary evil. Relaxation just wasn't a priority to a man like Joe. He began to feel that wonderful drifting sensation and it seemed that the faster the car sped the more profound the state. The maelstrom settled into gentle rocking waves, his mind slowing down and releasing 24 years of pent up tension. That clarity was nirvana for a man whose mind had never slowed down.
       Autopilot took over and just as Joe thought that it would all end his hands grabbed the wheel and saved the day. The clarity of that moment still echoed in the dark recesses of Joe's mind while the deep bwoong of the semi echoed in his eardrums. Now that his clarity had slipped away all that Joe could think about was getting it back. The maelstrom raged once more and he could feel it slowly ripping away at his soul. When Joe flirted with death on that freeway he had found the eye of the storm in the chaos that usually reigned supreme.

Tell Me About Love

Alright world, this time I've got a kind of different direction. Valentine's is in a week and since I'm seasonly appropriate I'd like to look at one big aspect of most fiction, love. Over the next week I'll be asking people in person (and here) to tell me about love. The feelings it raises, how you know it's struck, when it dies, and any other tidbit about it. Describe your perfect woman (or man) and how they make you feel. I'm looking for descriptions that catch the emotions. Ideally I want to interview people in person, but if you want to write a short piece here feel free (you can post completely anonymously, I don't want to embarrass anyone). Once I have all the info then I'll play around with it and try to capture the feeling behind this universal emotion, and if people express interest then I'll post too. Also, if you talk to me in person, I'll give you a gift (that is not in anyway romantic). Thanks team!

Where To Start

Hey team, here's the deal. This blog was made to provide a flow of ideas and feedback on my creative writing. There are a couple ways you can get involved. If you want to give me an idea then here's what I need:
1. Main characters (protagonist, antagonist, ect.)
2. A plot or conflict.
3. A theme or setting.
The more description you give me the better, but in the end it's up to you to decide how much information you want me to work with. My responses may be of any length. Also, a little disclaimer, I might not use every idea posted, so please don't feel badly if it seems like I'm ignoring you, it's not personal. Some ideas work better than others for my style of writing. I'm not always the fastest responder as well. I plan on putting a fair amount of effort into each post, so you'll have to be patient.
If you want to get involved but don't feel like coming up with an idea feel free to provide feedback on any stories I post. I'll try to post back as quickly as I can.
*General posting advice*
When you want to leave a comment pick a post and then click on comments. From there you should see a spot that says "comment as", if you don't have a google account scroll down to Name/URL and click there. Then it'll allow you to post just leaving a name, you can leave the URL box blank. If you are commenting for class credit then use your full name. If you're idea is somewhat private then you can post anonymously, but be sure to email me at r_manges@yahoo.com to claim the credit or else I may not publish your comment. No rowdiness will be tolerated, keep the posts clean and relevant.
Thanks guys!

Welcome to my blog

Hello world, this is my creative writing blog. Thanks for stopping by!