A superhero origin story.
Written from the inside out.
Impossible in life was just something that was not ready to reveal itself.
Photo by Zulmaury Saavedra on Unsplash
"If you make yourself more than just a man, if you devote yourself to an ideal, then you become something else entirely… A legend, Mr. Wayne."
I wasn't trying to become a legend. I was just trying to survive high school.
But somewhere between a friend who gave me a name that fit better than my own skin, a hoagie shop in Philadelphia, and the great crane heist — that's exactly what happened.
In some circles I was known as
Impossible in life was just something that was not ready to reveal itself.
Every superhero has an origin story. Mine starts at 140 pounds, lanky, socially awkward, wearing clothes that weren't the right clothes — using humor to find a place that wasn't quite there yet. I was Steve Rogers before the super serum.
Later I would find that imagination and a little bit of crazy would become my super serum.
Growing up, I was a character. Others had fond memories of me — their reflection could be different from mine. I just did not see it through their lens. I knew how to be in a room. I didn't know how to belong in one. I always felt alone.
My parents were traditional Indian parents doing their best. I was born in India — first generation in this country, which meant they were figuring it out the same time I was. Nobody handed them a manual for raising a kid between two worlds. They gave me what they had: the understanding that if you want something, go earn it. I found out later that the love behind that was never in question. But for a high school kid, that no your dad would say is loud and deafening. You will do anything to quiet that ringing in your head.
I decided that I needed to find a job. I needed to work.
The Hoagie Co. was the safe place where the sound in my head was quiet. It was not that I decided every day to be someone different. I would carry this philosophy throughout my life. Be Like Water — become what the current situation needed me to be.
I didn't know it then. But that was the skill. And it started with a name.
My friend Eric gave me that name.
Back then it was a different time. The language we used was simply what it was. I take comments neither as good nor bad — just another variable I consume and digest to become a better person. It is not the words but the intent behind the words. Eric had his own demons. But he watched over me. He was one of the many guardian angels that protected me from the shadows.
My real name is Shiren. My coworkers had a tough time pronouncing it right. They'd stumble over "Shi-ren" like it was some kind of tongue-twister. Around that time, Young Guns hit the scene — Emilio Estevez, Lou Diamond Phillips, the whole crew. There was a character named Jose Chavez y Chavez. Half Native American, half Mexican. They just called him Chavez. Eric thought it fit. I thought it was pretty darn cool.
So I took the mantle. Chavez was born.
What happened next is the part I didn't understand until much later. The moment I became Chavez — something shifted. Not outside. Inside. Chavez commanded attention that Shiren was seeking but couldn't quite reach. In the domain of the Hoagie Co., I was all powerful. Confident. I was honing my craft — yes, making hoagies and cheesesteaks. But what I was actually building was a work ethic. And something harder to name.
I was becoming.
Chavez wasn't an escape from Shiren. He was the version of me that already knew how to show up — the one I hadn't met yet. Like Spider-Man swinging through the neighborhood, leaving his worries behind. They always lingered. But out there, moving, he was free.
For the first time in my life, I felt powerful.
And I wasn't sure I deserved it.
You know that feeling. The moment something works and the first thought isn't celebration — it's suspicion. Like you snuck into a room you weren't supposed to be in. That feeling isn't weakness. That's the doorway. Walk through it anyway.
— Shiren, talking to you
I didn't get to leave the first person behind. Think Christopher Robin leaving Pooh. The love doesn't go. But you have to keep walking.
Looking back now, I can see the pattern. I had taken on mantles before Chavez. Each one picked up when the current version of me had reached his limit. Many were subtle. But Chavez — Chavez was a force of nature. He was the spider bite. The thing that didn't just change how I acted. It changed what I was made of.
The Hoagie Co. was manual work. Real work. I was carrying 50-pound bags of onions and lettuce. I was in the trenches — hearing people's stories, making their food, learning that connection doesn't happen in boardrooms. It happens in the in-between moments. The counter. The back room. The five-minute break where someone tells you something real.
I packed on muscle. But I also had a presence. Confidence.
About a year after I graduated high school, I went back. My gym teacher saw me and stopped. You got bigger. Three words. He wasn't talking about muscle. He was talking about presence. Chavez had done something to Shiren that no amount of wanting could have done alone — he made the outside match the inside that was always trying to get out.
Chavez wasn't just a name. He was a problem solver.
At the Hoagie Co. we had a crane machine. One of those stuffed animal grabbers that sits in the corner and takes your quarters. Every week a man would come, collect the money, refill the prizes. One day he looked at us and said — this lock is impossible to break.
Chavez heard that differently than Shiren would have.
It shot me back to the time I locked my dad's keys in his metal cabinet. He was furious. I spent hours trying different things, working the problem, refusing to quit — not because I was some master criminal but because my dad's anger was not something I wanted on my shoulders. I eventually got it open.
So when the crane machine man said impossible — Chavez took the challenge.
Weeks of trying different things. Different angles. Different approaches. Until one day the answer revealed itself. A paperclip. Flattened. Shaped just right. I slid it in.
The stuffed animals were ours. Shiren kept Chavez from stealing his plunder.
That skill would find its way again. A few years later I was working at Software Etc. — still going by Chavez. Someone broke into the store. Shattered the glass on the game cases. Took everything. The officials called it an inside job. And Chavez — the guy who goes by an alias — was a suspect.
My manager backed me. Told them Chavez didn't need to break the glass. He knew how to pick the lock. Same type of lock as the crane machine.
But my name had been dishonored. And that was not something I could leave alone.
I tapped into my superpowers. Thought through the scene. Worked the problem the way I always worked problems — from the inside out. While I may not be a criminal, I do think like one. I figured out how the store was robbed.
I don't go by Chavez anymore. The world would classify me as crazy — but it is a tool. And I keep the new persona in my head. Chavez was the last name the world would ever call me.
But Chavez never left. He became a cult of personality to Shiren. The force that lives inside the man — always there, always available, called up when the moment needs him.
Shiren has now stepped from the shadows. Not just watching — but being present.
The question nobody asks: which one is real — Bruce Wayne or Batman? Shiren or Chavez?
I'll ask you directly. What name are you not using? What version of yourself are you keeping in the back room because the front room doesn't feel ready for it yet? That version isn't fictional. It's waiting.
Before Chavez there was Sheik. Elementary school through middle school. That version of Shiren loved to connect, loved to dance, believed in something bigger than himself. The more people he connected with, the stronger he got. Not weaker — stronger. The opposite of Hancock. Where Will Smith's character lost his powers when he got close to others, Sheik got more alive. Those friendships still exist today.
Then came Sir Thomas More. High school into my twenties — my online presence, my name in the world before the world knew my name. I found it watching The Saint. Val Kilmer's character explains the alias simply: "I was named after a Saint who died for his faith." That landed somewhere deep. Sir Thomas More was where my faith and my hunger merged. Where conscience became the compass.
"When a man takes an oath, he's holding his own self in his own hands like water, and if he opens his fingers then, he needn't hope to find himself again."
I didn't understand it fully then. I understand it now.
Then Chavez.
Taking these mantles allowed me to safely transform myself. New circles. New personalities. Each one a controlled environment where a new version of Shiren could be tested, built, and brought back home.
Each name was not a disguise. Each name was an upgrade. A new mantle that let me grow more exponentially than the version before could have managed alone.
Here is what I know now that I didn't know at the Hoagie Co.:
Chavez is the one who tells Shiren — get back up. You can do this. He is Mickey in the corner telling Rocky he is not done. He is the force that moves when Shiren is standing still.
And Shiren? Shiren is what grounds me to my humanity. To my fear. To the people around me. Shiren is the one who connects. The Jiminy Cricket between right and wrong. The part that stays human when the force wants to run straight through the wall.
And every version of me — Sheik, Sir Thomas More, Chavez — was just Shiren becoming more self-aware of where he needed to grow. Each mantle removed a shackle that created walls for Shiren in life.
The mask isn't the lie. The mask is the rehearsal.
Every version of me was just Shiren
practicing who to become next.
You've been reading my story. But you already know yours. The mantle has a name. You've been carrying it in your pocket, waiting for permission.
This is it. Pick it up.
A brief history of the Hoagie — from my second home, Philadelphia.
Yo, youse gotta understand the history of hoagies, ya know? It's a real piece of Philly's Italian immigrant culture. Back in the day, when Italian folks were bustin' their humps at the Philly Navy Yard, they needed some grub to keep 'em goin'. And what did they love? Them "hoggies," that's what! The name started with these hardworking folks and their favorite sandwich, which eventually turned into "hoagies."
Now, some folks say it was called "hoggies" 'cause you had to be a real hog to take down such a massive sammich. But no matter how you slice it, hoagies are a part of Italian-American Philly lore. They're typically served cold and packed with Italian goodness. You got your Italian bread rolls, some salami, and provolone cheese, all comin' together to make a hoagie that'll make ya feel like you're in the heart of Italy right here in Philly! So, next time you grab a hoagie, remember the Italian immigrants who brought this tasty tradition to our city. Yo, Adrian, we did it!