he’d become a global superstar. Hamilton was a musical celebration of America’s
history and diversity, recasting our understanding of the roles minorities play in
our national story, highlighting the importance of women who’d long been
overshadowed by powerful men. I’d seen it off-Broadway and loved it so much
that I went to see it again when it hit the big stage. It was catchy and funny, heart
swelling and heartbreaking—the best piece of art in any form that I’d ever
encountered.
Lin-Manuel brought most of his cast along with him to Washington, a
talented multiracial ensemble. The performers spent their afternoon with young
people who’d come from local high schools—budding playwrights, dancers, and
rappers kicking around the White House, writing lyrics and dropping beats with
their heroes. In the late afternoon, we all came together for a performance in the
East Room. Barack and I sat in the front row, surrounded by young people of all
different races and backgrounds, the two of us awash in emotion as Christopher
Jackson and Lin-Manuel sang the ballad “One Last Time” as their final number.
Here were two artists, one black and one Puerto Rican, standing beneath a 115-
year-old chandelier, bracketed by towering antique portraits of George and
Martha Washington, singing about feeling “at home in this nation we’ve made.”
The power and truth of that moment stays with me to this day.
Hamilton touched me because it reflected the kind of history I’d lived myself.
It told a story about America that allowed the diversity in. I thought about this
afterward: So many of us go through life with our stories hidden, feeling ashamed
or afraid when our whole truth doesn’t live up to some established ideal. We
grow up with messages that tell us that there’s only one way to be American—
that if our skin is dark or our hips are wide, if we don’t experience love in a
particular way, if we speak another language or come from another country, then
we don’t belong. That is, until someone dares to start telling that story differently.
I grew up with a disabled dad in a too-small house with not much money in
a starting-to-fail neighborhood, and I also grew up surrounded by love and music
in a diverse city in a country where an education can take you far. I had nothing
or I had everything. It depends on which way you want to tell it.
As we moved toward the end of Barack’s presidency, I thought about
America this same way. I loved my country for all the ways its story could be
told. For almost a decade, I’d been privileged to move through it, experiencing
its bracing contradictions and bitter conflicts, its pain and persistent idealism, and
above all else its resilience. My view was unusual, perhaps, but I think what I