hamilton

dear one,

finally, at long last, after months of requests from you, i have started reading your book hamilton: the revolution and am making good progress.

the more i read, and the more complexity that develops between and within characters, i feel like i understand hamilton's unique appeal to you. i know your friends like it, too, but it seems to me that it has exactly what you, in particular, need, in the form best suited to you right now. the fact that it is a musical, of course, but also the yearning, disappointment, and death, cleverly told, deeply humanized, and fully adult — yet not too adult for fourth graders to relate to.

at your age, it is important to begin understanding the larger world independently. to glimpse different life paths, greater and lesser sufferings, the limitations that society puts on people, the limitations we put on ourselves, and our inability, often, to see who we are, what we are doing, and where we are headed.

your dad and i have both found much solace in the arts since childhood and you have that same deep need. as i read your book and connect with you through our shared fascination with hamilton's story (as told by chernow), lin-manuel miranda's invocation of it, and jeremey mccarter's narrative describing miranda's invocation, i feel a sense of you stepping into your growing independence and recognizing the supports that will be out there for you in the world: literature, visual art, music, and perhaps most of all, theater. 

thank you for inviting me into hamilton's world. i hope we will always be able to connect through stories.

xo

:)

fun one,

last night we were lying on your bed goofing around and i made you laugh so hard you got hiccups.

i love laughing with you.

xo

hello again

little bear,

it's been a long time since i last wrote. you are not so little anymore. you are 10 years old, a long-haired boy, an actor, a drummer, a daydreamer.

i had almost forgotten about these writings. reading them over again brought back floods of good memories, despite how hard things were at times.

i want to come back to you here, but everything will be different. you are different. i am different. the world is different.

or maybe it's not so different after all.

dad was out working tonight and you came into my office shortly after going to bed, saying, "i need you." your old bedtime mantra.

"what's going on?" i asked.

"i'm scared of dying."

"go back to bed and think about something else," i said. "i'll be in in a few minutes."

then i grilled myself, yet again, about whether my pragmatic response, which has become my norm, was more tough love or lack of compassion.

when i arrived bedside a little while later, i couldn't see anything in the dark. i reached out and found your foot. you laughed. i laid down next to you and you said, "i'm thinking about something else now." and you were fine. i kissed you and said all the usual bedtime stuff as i backed out of your room thinking maybe i'm not so heartless after all.