Before Hamilton: A Small Afternoon With Lin-Manuel Miranda

A Message From Someone I Didn’t Know

Eleven years ago, I received a direct message from someone named Lin-Manuel Miranda.

At the time, the name meant very little to me.

I had never heard of him before. He had around 30,000 Twitter followers back then, which in today’s world sounds quaintly modest for someone who would eventually become one of the most recognizable creative forces on the planet. I knew he had created a critically acclaimed Broadway musical called In The Heights, but my understanding of theater at the time was shallow enough that the title barely registered in my mind. Broadway existed in a separate universe from my own. I admired artists from afar, but I was not fluent in that world.

Still, something about the message stood out.

It was warm.

Unpretentious.

Friendly in the effortless way that genuinely kind people tend to be.

He told me to “holler” at him if I ever came up to Washington Heights.

The Day We Met

A few weeks later, I did exactly that.

Not because I was trying to meet a celebrity. Not because I imagined some great collaboration. Not because I thought I was stepping into the orbit of someone who would someday redefine American musical theater.

I went because I needed a Spanish interpreter.

At the time, I was collecting stories. Much of my work has always revolved around human connection—finding people, listening deeply, sitting in the sacred space where ordinary lives reveal extraordinary truths. I was heading into Washington Heights to speak with residents and document their experiences, and I thought perhaps this friendly theater creator might be willing to accompany me.

So I reached out.

Lin replied that he wouldn’t be able to help.

Not because he was busy with rehearsals.

Not because he was unavailable.

Not because success had placed him behind layers of handlers and scheduling assistants.

He couldn’t help because he had just arrived home from the hospital with his newborn son.

“Oh really?” I asked.

The First Miranda Family Portrait

And somehow, through a chain of random decisions and tiny coincidences, that became the first portrait I ever took of the Miranda family.

It was not a planned photo shoot.

There were no stylists.

No magazine assignments.

No publicists.

No branding strategy.

Just a young family standing together in the soft light of a new chapter.

A father holding his son.

A mother glowing with exhaustion and joy.

The invisible electricity that surrounds people whose entire lives have shifted overnight.

When I look back at that image now, what strikes me most is not the future hidden inside it.

It’s the complete absence of spectacle.

Because at that moment, there was no global phenomenon named Hamilton.

There was no Pulitzer Prize.

No Disney adaptation.

No sold-out arenas.

No cultural mythology.

No endless headlines celebrating genius.

There was simply a husband, a wife, and a newborn baby.

And a guy telling me he was working on “some play about Alexander Hamilton.”

“Some Play About Alexander Hamilton”

That line still makes me smile.

Some play about Alexander Hamilton.

Four months later, Hamilton would premiere off-Broadway at The Public Theater.

The rest is history.

Watching Someone Stay the Same

But I’ve always treasured this tiny intersection I had with Lin before the rocket ship took off.

Not because I got to watch him become famous.

And not because proximity to success somehow makes any of us more important.

I treasure it because I got to see who he was before the world started projecting things onto him.

And more importantly, because I got to watch how little he changed.

That’s rare.

Success changes people.

Sometimes subtly.

Sometimes dramatically.

Sometimes fame magnifies the best parts of a person.

Sometimes it amplifies insecurity.

Sometimes it creates distance between someone and the ordinary rhythms of life.

And perhaps most dangerously, success can convince people that they are no longer required to remain curious, generous, or grounded.

But every interaction I’ve had with Lin over the years has felt remarkably consistent with that first afternoon.

He remains deeply enthusiastic.

Deeply appreciative.

Deeply human.

The same guy enamored with his newborn son.

The same guy enamored with his wife.

The same guy enamored with life itself.

That last quality may be the most important.

Continued on the next page