March 9 2010

I walked toward the bungalow on the far left because that’s where Geometry class was being held. We had bungalows at our school, next to the last remaining orange groves in the San Fernando Valley, because our real high school location was still under construction after the 1994 earthquake. Yes. I had classes in bungalows that reeked when it was hot and turned into iceboxes when it was cold.

The door was shut and I didn’t really know anyone. I looked around and saw a guy walking in between two bungalows, carrying a guitar and strumming. A wire was dangling from his hip like a pachuco’s wallet chain, instead it was a wire connected to a mini-Fender amp strapped to his belt. I heard a distorted, violent and – quite frankly – terrifying version of La Bamba; the sound made me cringe a bit, but then I smiled when I recognized the tune.

This is my first memory of Manny. I was 13, impressionable, nerdy, chubby, but completely awed by this 14-year-old kid who was about to enter my Geometry class with a guitar and amp. Anxiety would fill my body when I had to wear school pants that were slightly dirty and I didn’t have time to wash them, but this kid – shy, with unrestrained confidence – was teaching me a new set of rules, one strum at a time.

Manny went on to teach just about every single friend I have how to play guitar. Some of us still need a lot of work. He’s also a great artist and designer. Above, Manny and the mural he designed and painted in Los Angeles, Ca.