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Name: Zamira Alcaraz-Narciso.
(After moving to the United States, she dropped Narciso to have a more Western looking name.)
Nickname: None currently. She isn't against them, however.
Age: 25 years old.
Race: Human.
Sexuality: Bisexual.
Talents:
Weaknesses:
Likes: At least seven.
Dislikes: At least seven.
Fears: Everyone has them.
Dreams: Clarity and peace of mind. Finding happiness in the end. The usual things.
Secrets: Everyone has them. It can be a major plot point, or a minor contributing factor to their personality.
Place of Origin: Artemisa, Cuba.
Personality: What a woman is Zamira Alcaraz. Even in a glance you can sense her strength, her defiance, her radiance of mind and body. She is a woman who has come to understand many types of people sheerly by realizing that humans all are the same deep down, that we all have connecting roots that simply want nurturing and understanding. It is her upbringing that keeps her grounded, and the loss that reminds her daily of where she has come from and who she is. She is tolerant to a variety of people, though she does not stand for being insulted or mistreated, and will in an instant put one in their place if they dare to wrong her. You will always know where you stand with her unless it benefits her to keep the truth to herself; it is rare for her to hold her tongue. Her inability to stay silent where it was more appropriate has earned her as many enemies as it has earned her friends. At times, she feels like a martyr, a woman destined to resolve conflicts and let the truth be known. To her, the truth is righteous, no matter how much it may hurt. Her opinions are formed on the knowledge she has acquired and the people she has met, open to other lifestyles
History: Zamira was born in the warmth of Cuba, in a place that is questionably named for the goddess of the Hunt, to two hard-working, clear headed people who were excited for their first child. They made decent enough money, with a seamstress mother and a father that worked deliveries, and this assured them a thin net of security to support their newborn daughter. Zamira was a happy, bright-faced child; she giggled often as an infant which was a trait that followed her into young childhood. She was friendly but bossy with other children, and didn't let others bully or push her around like most little boys did to little girls at that age. She always fought back and regained harmony with her playmates. Life was very simple then. She would watch her mother fix dresses and clothes for neighbors and strangers that passed through Artemisa, helping when her mother asked. She would run after her father's delivery truck, one of few vehicles in that area of the city, hooting and yelling goodbye to him as he set off to work. Her father, proud but humble, valuing a strong work ethic over anything else, was the one who brought home most of the income, and at times he would return from the long work day with a gift for little Zamira and Mama, knick-knacks and flowers and little do-dads of jewelry.
Things were well up until she was about 5 or 6 years old. Her dear father had suffered a bit of an accident on one of his delivery routes, as a gang of teenagers had attempted to rob his truck and instead left the older man beaten near death on a stretch of dirt road. He had been left out there for hours, seeing his age did not permit him to recover from such an attack as easily as a younger man might, and managed to catch infection in his open wounds. When discovered, he was full of aches and pains, with death just over his shoulder; he was returned home, only to die there before proper help could arrive. This of course was what stole the giggle from young Zamira and the light from her mother's eyes. Seeped to the soul with a depression that their neighborhood feared would take Zamira's mother away, it was decided that the daughter and mother would be sent to live with relatives in the United States, hoping also to make the money to take care of the child. Their plane tickets were gifts from the neighborhood, and they began life over in a tiny town in Arizona with estranged cousins. It was rough in the beginning; children made fun of her accented, chopped English and weren't afraid of her big words; there were times where she began to come home early from school after getting into fights with other students. She had a resentment for these American people that thought her stupid because she didn't know their language or their customs. They looked down upon them also for being from Cuba, and asked her all sorts of silly, ignorant questions she didn't quite understand.
Eventually, however, things evened out, as her mother saved money from odd-ended jobs to move to California and settle in their own place. Zamira grew up wild-mouthed and beautiful, with a fierce temper that could ebb into words as soft as an ocean wave; she kept all kinds of company, a mosaic of people passing through her life. She was ambitious, proving smart and hard-working like her parents in class once she began to make peace and actually learn. Her skills excelled, and it did her mother proud to see her apply herself and tackle the obstacles of American culture and education, goal-orientated and sure to go off to places like Harvard or Yale or wherever she decided to go. This sure track of life was derailed with the event of her mother's sudden strike of illness, staying home after graduation to take care of her despite her mother's encouragements to go off to college. Two things occurred. One was that Zamira was not sure that she wanted to anchor herself down just yet in one place, as there was in her as in many young people that lust to see the world and experience the great energy of life that is unchanging no matter the location. The other was that, after a particularly long visit to the doctor one day, it turned out her mother had cancer. Scared to death of losing her madre, she knew that whatever she planned to do it was on hold until her mother got better, trying to keep spirits up and look towards the bright side, to keep her mama in good hopes. It was in vain, and the scales did not tip in their favor. The summer she lost her mother was a hard one. For months, she was in a fog, not visiting friends, barely managing the housekeeping job she had taken over for her mother to keep supporting themselves. Even though there were several times she wanted to give up, her mother's voice would come to her and remind her of the greatness Zamira could do, the strong woman her daughter was. "After all, you are my child."
One day, Zamira decided to leave; to travel dawned on her like an epiphany she had knew was coming. She found herself with few belongings and in Los Angeles overnight, and soon she had been all over the country. She had been away from her mother's little house in the rurals of California for months, nearly an entire year. She would then decide to sell it and continue her adventure, trying to quench a feeling of listlessness that seemed to always repossess her no matter where she stayed, who she was with. It was the wind that guided her it seemed. She found herself in the oddest of places, small towns, big, thriving cities, giving aid where she could for the exchange of what she needed, be it money or food or water or a place to stay. There was, on a particular August day, a draw to return back to where she and her mother had worked so hard to recreate their lives. What brought this on was beyond her, perhaps that restlessness dying down into a nostalgia for that little pinkish house, just to see it, maybe ask the owners to let her come in and look around. Whatever it was, she only made it to the Nevada-California border. (wip)
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