American Superhero In L.A.

If you think you have a complicated life, you should really walk a mile in my shoes. A lot of people say that. I actually mean it. My name is Ramon Hamilton Costa. I was born in the City of Los Angeles, California. The son of a Spanish immigrant father and African-American mother. My father Ernesto Costa died shortly before my birth, leaving my mother Theresa Hamilton to raise me by herself. Single motherhood is never easy, and in the continent of North America it can be pure hell. In spite of all these difficulties, I turned out just fine. My mother is a graduate of Spelman College in the City of Atlanta, Georgia, and she holds an M.D. from Howard University in Washington D.C. She encouraged me to focus on education, which she saw as a pathway to a better life. Mom was right. At the age of twenty seven I have a Master's degree in Sociology from the University of California at Santa Barbara. These days, I work for the Los Angeles Social Services Department as a special counselor for at-risk youth. There are lots of them in the greater Los Angeles area and I do my best to help the ones who come my way.

Anyhow, that's my day job. At night, my life is a bit more complicated. You see, my mother Theresa Hamilton is descended from the legendary Amazons of Dahomey, a nearly mythical race of Warrior Women from the African nation of Benin. Their legendary battle prowess astonished European invaders in the latter days of the 1800s. According to my grandfather Henry Hamilton, these ladies were among the world's best warriors. I love my grandpa. He made sure I knew my African-American heritage. Even though I seem like a biracial man with my light brown skin, curly Black hair and light brown eyes, I identify as purely African-American. Just like U.S. President Barack Obama. I'm just a tall, well-dressed brother who's a little lighter than average, just like the leader of the free world. Just a private joke on my part. Although my responsibilities are manifold, I'm not a world leader. But I am a leader.

At an early age I became aware of the fact that I was different. And not just because I was a mixed guy growing up in the Ladera area, a predominantly African-American middle-class neighborhood of metropolitan Los Angeles. I could see things that nobody else could see. For example, I remember how one day, my old neighbor James Cantwell died. He was a really nice old Black guy in his early seventies. The guy taught me how to play baseball. He was good friends with my grandfather Henry Hamilton. In fact, they met as students at Morehouse College in the City of Atlanta, Georgia, a long time ago. My grandfather went on to become a civil engineer after participating in the civil rights movement. Mr. Cantwell became one of the first African-American police officers in Los Angeles after the end of legal segregation based on race in the United States of America. He retired from the Los Angeles Police Department after an exemplary career spanning nearly three decades. Like my own grandfather, he was a father figure to me and a great role model. I am good friends with Cantwell's son Matthew, who works as a corrections officer in Santa Barbara, where he lives with his Puerto Rican wife Lola. Mr. Cantwell's death rattled me to the core. I loved the old guy to death and with the innocence of youth, I thought he would live forever.

I mourned his passing, as did the whole neighborhood. He was so lively and energetic. How could he die of a heart attack in his sleep? I refused to accept it. However, it was the grim reality. Or so I thought until the Ghost of Mr. Cantwell appeared to me during gym class three days after his death. I stared at the old man's ghost, stunned. Mr. Cantwell's ghost smiled at me and greeted me politely. I started screaming and basically had a fit before passing out. I was taken to the hospital, which sent me home. My mother was extremely worried, as you can imagine. When I told her about Mr. Cantwell's ghost, she told me that I must have been hallucinating. She dismissed my rants about my old neighbor's ghosts as the wild imaginings of a grief-stricken young man. I thought she was right, I almost believed her explanations...until Mr. Cantwell appeared to me again the following night. He told me that he'd been murdered, and that it was up to me to expose his murderer. This time, I didn't tell anyone about what I had seen or what he told me. Instead, I promised him solemnly that I would investigate his death. The old man's ghost smiled at me sadly. He told me that he hated being a ghost and longed to move onto the afterlife, to be with his wife Debra who died many years before. I wanted to help the old man, and so I did.

I went into his old house, where I ran into his son Matthew. The grief-stricken Matthew was a pitiful sight. The tall, brawny young African-American guy I grew up worshiping because of his friendly nature and athletic prowess was a shell of his former self. Losing both parents before he reached twenty was tough on him. He was studying Criminal Justice while attending the University of California at Los Angeles on an athletic scholarship for football. Matthew Cantwell aspired to be a police officer just like his dad. In later years, he would switch careers but that was a while from now. I tried to comfort him as best I could. Matthew and I sat in the dark, talking. He told me about his life at UCLA and how much he loved playing football for the flagship school of the University of California system. He showed me pictures of Cindy, a sexy Jamaican gal he was dating. I nodded appreciatively. She was a pretty lady. Although I seldom discussed my sexual feelings with anyone in those days, in later years I would come to the conclusion that I was bisexual. Sexually and emotionally attracted to both women and men. I found Matthew really handsome, but I didn't tell Matthew this, of course. He seemed straight as an arrow and there was no way he'd handle my revelation too well. Anyhow, while we talked, Matthew told me about Gordon Everett, the real estate agent who kept pressuring his father to sell the house. The Cantwell household had been in the family for generations. It once belonged to Matthew's grandmother, Mr. Cantwell's mother-in-law.

Anyhow, the persistent real estate agent was the only clue I had. So I began investigating him. I learned a lot about realtor Gordon Everett. According to many African-Americans living in Los Angeles, he was a really shady character and a proponent of gentrification. He pressured Black folks to sell their houses and sold them to affluent Irish, Italian and Dutch folks. He was white-washing much of Los Angeles all by himself. Mr. Cantwell was one of a few African-American home owners who told him no. In fact, I found out that Mr. Cantwell was suing Gordon Everett at the time of his death. Okay. I knew the rich white guy was shady but I couldn't prove he had anything to do with Mr. Cantwell's not so natural death. Frustrated, I turned to my grandfather for help. Grandpa surprised me by telling me he knew what I was up to. He told me that many people in our family had exceptional gifts. Some could interact with supernatural forces. Others could glimpse other worlds. And some could do even more extraordinary things. To demonstrate, Grandpa Hank looked at a bottle on his kitchen counter and made it fly to his hand, crossing a distance of ten feet on its own through levitation. I stared at the old man, astonished. Grandpa told me he possessed telekinesis, the ability to move objects with his mind.

According to him, our family was descended from the legendary Amazons of Dahomey. Fierce warrior women among whom the ancient African deities who lorded over the great Kingdom of Dahomey ( modern-day Republic of Benin) often selected their mortal brides and concubines. Supernatural blood flowed through the veins of men and women of the Hamilton family. I asked Grandpa if my mother had powers too. He told me mom denied her supernatural heritage a long time ago and embraced the secular world, but yes, she did possess a power. Grandpa told me my mother could heal people, and even animals, with a simple touch. I was really surprised to hear that. In hindsight, it made perfect sense. My mother is one of the best surgeons at the Saint Vincent Medical Center, the oldest hospital in Los Angeles. Sometimes, her ability to heal people did surprise me growing up. In hindsight, a lot of things made sense. I had two dogs growing up, a pair of Dobermans named Lucky and Marquis. My mom and I loved those dogs. We raised them the natural way, meaning we didn't believe in unseemly practices like neutering or docking. One day, Lucky got hit by a car. I cradled his dying body in my arms and went to my mother in tears. Mom took him in her arms, and told me not to worry. The next day, Lucky was miraculously healed. At the time, I didn't even question what my mother did. I was so happy that my dog was alright again. Little did I know that my mom effectively brought him back to life!

Armed with the knowledge that my grandfather Henry Hamilton passed onto me, I grew more confident in my supernatural abilities. I soon found out that seeing ghosts wasn't my only ability. I could do other things as well. While investigating Gordon the realtor, I snuck into his house. I found a box containing some suspicious pills. I found out they were a form of performance enhancing drug which could be lethal to folks with a heart condition but basically harmless to healthy young guys. I called the police, and they came to investigate. A case was officially opened, and an autopsy was performed on Mr. Cantwell. I told the old man's ghost how sorry I felt that they were digging up his grave but he told me he didn't mind. The autopsy revealed the presence of the performance enhancing drug in the old man's body, which had been dead only seven days. Gordon the realtor was led away in handcuffs. As for me, I had my picture plastered all over the Los Angeles Times. I was the young man who solved a murder case all by himself. And I was barely a senior in High School!

My mother, grandfather and I had a long talk the night after I basically solved the case. My mother told me she was hoping I wouldn't inherit any of the family super powers. Grandpa Hank scoffed at that, saying that my powers were part of my heritage. My mother Theresa Hamilton looked me in the eyes and tried to hold back tears. She told me she felt having super powers was a curse. Even though she used hers to help people. I looked my mother straight in the eyes and told her my powers were a blessing. And I endeavored to use them to help people. My grandfather looked at me proudly, and told me I was officially a man. My mother offered me a sad smile, and kissed me on the cheek. Then she went to her room and we never talked about my having super powers again. Later that night, Mr. Cantwell's ghost appeared to me. And he wasn't alone. There as an old Black lady's ghost with him. I smiled at them both. Mr. Cantwell thanked me for allowing his spirit to move onto the afterlife. At long last he was reunited with his darling wife Debra. I nodded gravely, and told him I was happy for them both. They smiled and vanished in an explosion of blinding white light. I went to bed that night with a smile on my face. Not bad for a week's worth of work, eh?

That was almost a decade ago. In the years that followed, my grandfather taught me how to hone my powers. I discovered I could do other things like walking through walls, and I could become invisible. My mind and body were attuned to both the supernatural world and the normal world. Thus, I could break the laws of nature. I mastered my powers. I enrolled at the University of California at Santa Barbara. I reconnected with my old buddy Matthew, Mr. Cantwell's son, who relocated to Santa Barbara after graduating from the University of California at Los Angeles. I also explored other aspects of my life and personality. At UC-Santa Barbara, I met a tall, handsome young African-American man named Theodore Morrison. He was a transfer from Lincoln University, the prestigious African-American school. Theodore played soccer for UC-Santa Barbara, and he had a pretty Hispanic girlfriend named Maria Mendoza. Yet he was destined to become my first male lover. Like me, Theodore was bisexual. Unlike me, he had explored his sexuality thoroughly. I was still a virgin at nineteen when we met. Theodore introduced me to a world of passion. We saw each other discreetly for sessions of passionate lovemaking. I really cared about him, but he just wanted casual sex. We broke it off after six months. Six really passionate months during which I felt alive like never before.

After Theodore ditched me, I focused on my academic work. I also discreetly solved a few murder cases and foiled a few major crimes using my supernatural abilities. I was the police's anonymous, invisible helper. I was happy that I was doing really well academically and I found fulfillment while using my powers to fight the good fight. However, there was a void in my life. One day, I met a young woman I simply couldn't forget. A six-foot-tall, curvy and big-bottomed, deliciously dark-skinned young Black woman with neatly braided long Black hair. Amelia Thurgood. Daughter of Alabama State Police sergeant Amos Thurgood. A civil engineering student at the University of California at Santa Barbara. I was smitten with her from the moment we bumped into each other inside the campus library. My whole life, I've felt attracted to Black girls but for the most part I felt them cold. I was a mixed guy with a Black mother and white father. I never knew my dad. Yet because my highly educated mother sent me to a mostly white private school, I talked 'white' according to most African-Americans I met. On top of that, I played hockey and baseball in high school. I was a pretty good golfer. And I made friends more easily with white guys and white gals than African-Americans even though I lived in a mostly Black, middle-class neighborhood. To the Black women I met, I wasn't Black enough.

Also, my mother Theresa Hamilton wasn't a fan of today's young Black women. She often told me terrible tales of promising young Black men who lost it all because they had an abusive mother, a controlling girlfriend, or shady lady friends. Although she's African-American, my mother doesn't think much of Black women. Mom has mostly white female friends. These days, she dates a middle-aged Asian-American lawyer named Anderson Chang. He's twice divorced, and has two sons with an Ethiopian-American woman who lives in Berkeley. My mother is not fond of Black men or Black women. She always encouraged me to date white girls while I was in school. My last relationship with a young white woman, Annabelle Windsor, didn't end too well. My tall, blonde-haired and green-eyed Irish-American girlfriend broke off our relationship because she didn't want to marry me, even though she mainly dated Black men and Hispanic guys while at University. Wow. It seems I wasn't white enough for white society and I wasn't Black enough for my fellow African-Americans. What was I supposed to do?

To say that I had issues when I met Amelia Thurgood would be an understatement. I had more baggage than an international airport. I was a neurotic, biracial guy with a Black mother who hated her own race. I'm also a guy who happens to have identity issues due to both bisexual feelings and the possession of super powers. No, I'm not insane. I'm just...different. Talk about baggage! Amelia seemed to take a liking to me, and we began seeing each other. I quickly learned that she was as different as can be from the young Black women my mom warned me about. Amelia attended Tuskegee University in the City of Tuskegee, Alabama, where she pledged the legendary Alpha Kappa Alpha sorority before transferring to the University of California at Santa Barbara.

The gal was vivacious, and totally lovely. I learned that she had been a cheerleader both in high school and college. Hmm. A sexy Black cheerleader. Wow. Amelia was proud of herself as an African-American college woman living in the Age of Obama. Amelia told me that although she dated white guys, Asian guys and Hispanic guys in the past, she wanted to share her life with an educated Black man who would appreciate her. Just like her father appreciated her mother, Tuskegee catholic schoolteacher Nicole Kendrick Thurgood. Amelia came from an intact, loving household made up of hard-working African-Americans. She was so lucky. Amelia told me how much she admired strong Black women like Oprah Winfrey, Michelle Obama and Serena Williams. One time, while hanging out at a café on campus, I sheepishly told Amelia I had a slight crush on Serena Williams, whom she kind of resembled. Only Amelia was hotter than Serena Williams in my eyes, with a bigger booty too. Amelia grinned and kissed me on the lips. It was our first kiss.

After that, I officially asked her out. We dated for about six months before she began pressuring me for a more intimate relationship. I was really nervous. The time had come for me to tell this young Black woman I cared about the hidden truths about me. I told her about my family issues. Dead white dad. Racially insensitive Black mother. Adoring grandfather. Oh, and I'm bisexual, to boot. That cause her eyebrows to raise. I promptly told her that I'd only been with one guy and he was a sad disappointment. I definitely preferred women emotionally and sexually. Amelia stared at me without saying anything for about a minute. My heart thundered in my chest. What was she thinking? It's in times like these that I wished I could read minds. Amelia pursed her lips, and I knew she was about to say something. I sat there, trying not to fidget. What would her answer be? Would she dump me? Amelia did the last thing I expected, even with all my brilliance. My sexy African-American goddess leaned over and kissed me. Then she whispered into my ear that she was bisexual too. I thanked heaven for its blessings as I shared a passionate kiss with the young woman who would eventually become my darling wife.

That's it for me, folks. I hope you enjoyed this story. I love my life and I love my wife. I still haven't had the conversation with my Amelia about my super powers. Then again, maybe I won't have to. Lately, I haven't been able to walk through walls. I still see ghosts from time to time. I told my grandfather about this and Grandpa Hank told me that in some blood lines, the super powers did a slow but steady fade out over time. Maybe it was my long-dead biological father's purely human DNA countering the divine blood I inherited from my ancestors, the legendary Amazons of Dahomey, who consorted with ancient African Gods in the Republic of Benin in the old days. I don't know. And honestly, I don't care. Even if my powers vanish entirely over the next few years, I'm glad I got to have them. I helped a lot of people, from all walks of life and all ethnic backgrounds. I helped many restless spirits find their eternal rest and put them at peace. Yeah, I've done some good. Besides, maybe it's a good thing my powers are fading. I'm about to embark on an adventure even scarier than having super powers. My Amelia told me last night that she's pregnant. I'm going to be a dad! Honestly, I can't wait. I'm buying two cans of paint, one blue and one pink. Just so I'm ready whatever the case may be when our brat comes into the world. I love my Amelia. And I solemnly pledge to be there for her and our unborn brat for many years to come.