Live from New Mexico it's... only an amateur...

It's been almost a year since my last blog. Last week, for the first time ever- I got my very own laptop and wanted to start my blog up again. Here is what I want to write about: Saturday Night Live. Most my Saturday nights as a kid was spent watching SNL with my mom. Yes, she would change the channel during The Ambiguously Gay Duo (how were we supposed to know they were gay anyways? We were just children). Long story short, it would be a dream to write skits and crack people up on SNL and to be a legend by having people remember me for some character I made up, or pretending to be some politician (Susanna Martinez?). If only I were that damned funny....
"Well isn't that special?"

Lifestyles of The Unemployed That Don't Receive Unemployment

It's month number four in this dark night of the unemployed soul. Every week, it's Craigslist, The Albuquerque Journal, applications, resumes, interviews- you name it.

I had a job at a restaurant that is close to where I live- within walking distance. Then I went off to serve as a kitchen staff member at Catholic Heart Workcamp. I was stoked. So much time and money invested into a highly anticipated summer of traveling, living in community, serving God and serving camp food to very happy campers. They were going to pay me $450 per camp for four camps plus $360 of food expenses paid. Of course I wasn't in it for the money but $1000 to start school and possibly move to Vancouver, WA would've done it for me. After two weeks, I was what I like to call "convinced to resign" (sounds good enough on an application, doesn't it?) by two camp directors that I thought liked me and thought I was doing a great job. Sadly however, I was sent home on a United Way airplane ticket that came out of my only check. My former job had also filled my position.

When I first returned home, I couldn't show my face to anyone with the exception of a few people. I didn't want to talk about it. All I wanted to do was sleep. So I did. I slept for about a week and then forced myself to register for classes and look for a job.

At one point out of desperation, I applied to and got a job with the local amusement park. While I applied for gift shop associate or ride operator, but the only position they had available was known as ECO. I'll tell you why there was a shortage of people in this position. Actually, let me ask you something: Would you want to get paid minimum wage to walk around in 90-100 degree weather for eight hours picking up trash (including vomit), wiping down tables, sweeping up little crumbly leaves that never want to leave their spot, and not really getting the chance to sit? And would you also want to be under the training and supervision of high schoolers whom most of them have never had a job before? I know some of you could. I know some of you know I can and I did until the second day when an adult supervisor barked at me for not checking the bathroom every 15 minutes. That's 32 bathroom checks in one shift. So I set my broom and dustpan down, sneaked past the Water Monkies kiddie park and made my escape. Yep, at 22 years old I walked out of a job. Quite an awesome feeling to escape and never look back, but I assure you it won't happen again.

I promise.

Now, four months after my last job, the ads fill my computer screen, my hand hurts from pressing my pen neatly (and I mean perfect penmanship) down on my applications, corrections are made to my resume, and I can recite a question from a personality test that appear on most online applications:

I think these questions in getting to know me before you even meet me are ridiculous:

• Strongly disagree
• Disagree
• Agree
• Strongly agree

Then there are the interviews. Since my job search began I have had four interviews. Maybe more but four that I can surely remember. I walk in with the same outfit, an orange polo and gray capri pants (most of my nicer clothes are locked away in storage). Then I sit down and make sure I sit up nice and straight because slouching means that you are lazy (yes Miss Mac, I know I just wrote "you"). Smiling says a lot about you too. But if not too much because being too happy is too good to be true nowadays. Be yourself, but tell them what they want to hear too. Finally there are the questions:

"Why do you want to work for Jugs Are Fun Jolly Jumps?" (Okay so I made that company name up.)

"Name one good and one bad experience you've had in customer service." Who couldn't name a bad experience in their previous job(s)?

"We're looking for people who have at least three years of experience in the dental office, have you had any office experience?" No.

And my personal favorite

"Do you have any questions for me/us?" Will you please hire me?

So kiddies, I am still on my quest for a job and hopefully this holiday season, my sword will be sharp and shiny enough to get results. Do you have any tips for resume building, applications, or interviews? Perhaps you know of a place where it is easy getting a job. Or, if you just want to comment for the hell of it, go on ahead.

Prayers, wishes, and/or weird rituals are also appreciated as well.

Until next time, goodnight folks!

Ciera L. Ramirez

Two Story Bookstore: A Short Story

I wrote this after walking through a Border's store while they were playing Johnny Cash's, "1 Corinthians 15:55." Hope you enjoy.

"Two Story Bookstore" by Ciera Ramirez

"Come on," I say as I take his hand through the two gigantic doors of the two story Barnes and Noble.

"What are we doing here? Did you want to buy a book," he asks with a hint of "Is this really your idea of a first date? A bookstore?" in his voice.

"You'll see," I reply with a confident smile. A smile only a woman can give a man. The kind that makes him feel like she's wrapped her arms around his neck. He smiles back.

We make our way to the center of the first story. From here we are surrounded by print that can take you to any place and time; print that can introduce you to characters you never thought existed. The music that is playing in the background is Johnny Cash. If he doesn't get a kick out of this, at least he'll enjoy the music.

"Okay, stand in this aisle and count to 76. Then come find me."

"Alright," he replies chuckling with a bit of awkwardness. "One, two, ten, twenty-six..."

I spring out of the aisle almost knocking over a couple whom I recognize. They come in to eat at least once a week and they expect everyone to know where they must sit and what they want to eat. Oh yeah, because I have no life and the world stops just so you can be satisfied. Ha ha, oops! "Sorry," I say as I rush past them. I turn back and see the same miserable expression that's pretty much tattooed to her face.

"Time's running out," I think as I dart into the elevator. Where should I go? Does it make any difference? Wherever I go, I feel intelligent, radiant, even beauty. He'll never find me in the children's books. I sneak past the Teen Series and try not to let him see me as he comes up the escalator.

I sit down and find myself in what looks like Seussical The Musical. Yeah, he'll never find me here.

"Found you," he says. Darn. He smiles and looks at me with his bright eyes. I'm short of breath. Like I've been running to him. Only he found me and I feel like a princess being rescued in a Grimm's fairytale.

"How did you know?"

"You love reading so I knew it'd be a challenge, but a good one." We're walking on opposite sides of the audio books and he catches my eye from across the bookcase. We smile and he says, "You're also pretty random and imaginative so I had a gut feeling to come here. Now it's my turn. Count to forty-five." He takes off.

I begin to count as he disappears. He's gone. I look to my left and there's a woman reading to her son. She's reading Harold And The Purple Pen. I don't know what part she's reading to him but he begins to squeal with laughter. She looks at her son with love and awe. I want that. I want my children to know Lewis, Sendak, Cleary, Tolkien, Conolly, even those of whom I have never heard. I'd even let my teenage daughter read the Twilight Saga as long as she's reading, as long as she feels something.

Oh yeah..forty-five.

I walk through the store beginning my quest to find him. I browse Religious... ha ha, I only wish he was there but no. Then it's cooking. He likes cooking but no cigar. Then it's Romance and Relationships. Am I walking away from my innocence to find him? No and that's a relief.

Standing from the top of the escalator, it hits me where he could be and there he is in the music section. He has a book on McPherson guitars. Music is the guy's life and sometimes that scares me. My dad was a musician. Enough said. He looks happy- like a pic is strumming his heart strings. I sit down on the moving steps and sigh- a big one at that. I'm enamored. The lady in front of me turns and it's the same woman I nearly tackled from earlier.

"Hi," I say with an ear to ear grin. She gives me a dirty look that almost makes me feel bad and continues on to the first floor. Secretly, I delight in the fact she hates me. I peak around the book case to see he's under the book's spell. Cash is still playing, "Oh death, where is thy sting?" There's too much happiness for any sting right now.

"Hey," he smiles and comes up and meets me and the end of the aisle and takes my hand.

"I had fun," I say looking into his eyes.

"Yeah for sure. Me too," he says and kisses me gently.

The End

Don't Really Know Why I'm Doing This...

I guess to start off with is that I want to start writing again. I've found myself observing so much and thinking in the form of literature. For example, when I hear oldies at my work, I think, "Oldies music to me is like what the St. Michael prayer is to the devil himself."

This blog was originally to give people insight on how it feels to be a Mexican-American in today's society; in the midst of all the issues going on. It's hard. It's hard being torn. Torn between my heritage and my country. It's hard having that pressure from friends with the ultimate extremes of "Send them all back," and "How can you turn your back on your people?" It's hard being an American and knowing the possibility of being asked to show my "papers" and then turn around and get a dirty look from someone who doesn't appreciate the fact that I don't speak Spanish. I've been told that I need to keep my culture. Honestly, how many white people do you see walking down the street speaking Gaelic or German to each other? Or do you ever see black people conversing in languages such as Afrikaans? My friend and co-worker, "Bradley" says that culture is something you make. It's your family, your language, the way you do things, your beliefs, etc. He says if anyone tries to tell you you don't have "the culture," then they're ignorant. I must say I agree. I'm just me. I have my personality and the experiences in life that have made me who I am today. It really doesn't matter if I've never been to a Quinceanera or if I'm living the American dream. That doesn't make me..well, me.

By the way, Chiquita Banana is a nickname my sister gave me when I was a kid. In the winter time, my skin turns to a yellow tinted tan and in the summer, it's ripens just like a banana and turns into a darker shade. And often times, people refer to me as a coconut (dark on the outside, white on the inside) but Chiquita Banana suits me better. Considering that my blog was originally going to be about this particular issue (which it will be about other things too), I thought the name was perfect. So I'm sticking to it. Just so you know, give me your feedback. You don't have to agree with me so don't worry about hurting my feelings. Or if you have any ideas on my thoughts on something or if you want me to write a story about anything (and I'm mean anything), I encourage you to write it.

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed this and there will be more to come!