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!
