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.

A Man Who Loves Life Openly

Some people move through life with a permanent layer of irony protecting them from sincerity. They are too cool to appear excited. Too guarded to appear vulnerable. Too curated to appear real.

Lin has always struck me as the opposite.

He loves things openly.

Music.

Stories.

Words.

History.

People.

Art.

Community.

You can feel it in conversation. You can hear it in his work. You can watch it spill out in interviews, performances, tweets, collaborations, and spontaneous interactions with strangers.

That kind of joy is contagious.

And I think it explains why his work resonates so widely.

People often analyze Hamilton through the lens of innovation. The structure. The language. The blending of hip-hop and musical theater. The historical reinterpretation.

All of those things matter.

But beneath the technical brilliance is something simpler:

It was made by someone who genuinely loves creation.

That energy transfers.

Children feel it.

Adults feel it.

Audiences feel it.

Artists feel it.

And over the years, Lin has continued channeling that same enthusiasm into countless projects. He has written music that millions of families now associate with childhood memories. His songs echo through living rooms, car rides, kitchens, and bedtime routines all over the world.

In my own house, those songs have become part of the soundtrack of parenting.

I’m personally a Moana man.

With all due respect to the Family Madrigal.

There is something deeply moving about watching your children sing lyrics written by someone you once met in such an ordinary context. Life has a strange way of collapsing distances like that.

One moment you’re standing outside the machinery of culture.

The next, someone you casually met years ago is helping shape the emotional vocabulary of an entire generation.

The Thing I Admire Most About Lin

But as much as I admire Lin’s creative achievements, that’s not what I admire most.

What I admire most is how consistently he uses his platform to support other people.

Fame often narrows a person’s field of vision.

Attention becomes addictive.

Public identity becomes a full-time maintenance project.

The world starts revolving around preserving relevance.

And in that environment, generosity becomes increasingly rare.

Especially genuine generosity.

Not performative support.

Not strategic alliances.

Not carefully calculated acts of public kindness designed for visibility.

Real support.

The kind that happens when someone uses their influence to elevate others with no obvious personal benefit.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anyone do that more consistently than Lin-Manuel Miranda.

He amplifies fellow artists constantly.

He celebrates emerging creators.

He recommends books, music, plays, poets, filmmakers, performers, and writers with the enthusiasm of someone who genuinely wants others to succeed.

There are people who climb mountains and then pull the ladder up behind them.

Lin seems determined to do the opposite.

He keeps reaching downward.

Keeps extending a hand.

Keeps inviting people into the room.

And perhaps that instinct comes from understanding how difficult creative life can be.

Artists spend enormous stretches of time working in obscurity.

Creating without guarantees.

Believing without evidence.

Trying to sustain momentum before the world validates their effort.

Most creative projects fail quietly.

Most artists spend years wondering if anyone is paying attention.

A single encouraging word during those years can matter more than outsiders realize.

A recommendation.

A mention.

An introduction.

A show of support from someone established.

Those moments can become turning points.

Lin seems to understand this intuitively.

Dear New York and Grand Central Station

Which is why, years later, when I invited him to participate in Dear New York, he immediately said yes.

Dear New York has always been rooted in the same belief that guided my work from the beginning:

People matter.

Stories matter.

Human connection matters.

The city itself can often feel overwhelming—millions of strangers rushing past each other beneath skyscrapers and schedules and obligations. But underneath the chaos are countless small moments of tenderness, longing, humor, grief, resilience, and hope.

That is the heartbeat I’ve always tried to document.

For this particular project, I asked Lin if he would stop by Grand Central Terminal and play the Steinway Concert Grand.

His response was immediate agreement followed by relentless expectation management.

“I’m not a pianist,” he insisted.

“All I can do is noodle on the keys.”

He repeated versions of this warning multiple times.

As though he genuinely feared disappointing people.

Which, again, tells you something important about character.

Truly arrogant people rarely attempt to lower expectations.

But Lin kept emphasizing that he was not some concert pianist arriving to deliver a masterclass.

He was simply someone who loved music.

Someone willing to sit down at a piano in one of the busiest transit hubs in the world and share a few moments with strangers.

And this morning, that’s exactly what happened.

The Morning Grand Central Stopped

He noodled.

He sat at the piano and wandered through melodies and ideas and fragments and feeling.

And somehow, in the process, he transformed an ordinary morning commute into something unforgettable.

People stopped walking.

Heads turned.

Crowds gathered.

Phones emerged.

Smiles spread.

Tourists and exhausted workers and hurried travelers suddenly found themselves participating in a shared moment.

That is one of the great powers of art.

Not merely entertainment.

Interruption.

Art interrupts routine.

It breaks the hypnosis of productivity.

It reminds us that we are alive at the same time as other people.

For a few minutes inside Grand Central Station, strangers became an audience.

Then something more than an audience.

A temporary community.

Connected not by background or politics or profession, but by collective surprise.

And perhaps that is what New York does best.

The city can be brutal.

It can exhaust you.

It can isolate you.

But it also produces collisions that feel almost cinematic.

You walk downstairs for coffee and accidentally overhear a conversation that changes your perspective.

You sit beside someone on the subway whose story stays with you for years.

You enter Grand Central expecting another ordinary commute and instead encounter Lin-Manuel Miranda casually bringing joy to strangers through a piano.

Cities are built from moments like these.

Tiny unscheduled human encounters.

The kinds of experiences algorithms cannot manufacture.

The kinds of memories that become stories people tell years later.

Why Authenticity Still Matters

And watching Lin interact with people today reminded me once again of that original afternoon eleven years ago.

Because despite all the accolades and accomplishments and cultural influence, he still approaches people with warmth.

Still treats strangers like fellow humans instead of interruptions.

Still seems genuinely delighted by connection.

That quality matters more than talent.

Talent impresses people.

Character impacts them.

The world is full of brilliant individuals who leave emotional wreckage behind them.

Genius alone is not enough.

What stays with people over time is how someone made them feel.

Whether they were generous.

Whether they were present.

Whether they noticed others.

Whether they lifted people up.

Lin has spent years doing exactly that.

And I think the reason people respond so strongly to him is because audiences can sense authenticity.

Not perfection.

Authenticity.

He still seems fundamentally accessible in spirit.

Not distant.

Not hidden behind celebrity mythology.

Still recognizable as the young father standing outside his home holding a newborn child.

That image matters to me.

Not because it predicted fame.

But because it captured something timeless.

Love.

Wonder.

Gratitude.

Those are the things worth preserving.

The Meaning Hidden Inside a Photograph

In many ways, photography itself is an attempt to rescue fleeting moments from disappearance.

Every photograph quietly asks the same question:

Will this matter someday?

Most of the time, we cannot know.

At the moment I took that portrait of the Miranda family, I had no idea it would later carry historical curiosity.

I was not documenting a future icon.

I was documenting a family.

And perhaps that distinction is important.

Because fame tends to flatten people into symbols.

We stop seeing human beings and start seeing reputations.

Brands.

Achievements.

Public identities.

But before every celebrated figure became culturally significant, they were simply someone sitting at a kitchen table, worrying about bills, falling in love, raising children, struggling creatively, hoping things would work out.

Remembering that protects us from turning admiration into dehumanization.

Lin-Manuel Miranda is not meaningful because he became famous.

He is meaningful because he remained human while becoming famous.

That is far rarer.

And perhaps that is why moments like this morning felt so special.

There was no sense of performance in the emotional sense.

Yes, music was being played.

Yes, people were watching.

But the atmosphere felt generous instead of transactional.

He was not extracting attention from the crowd.

He was giving energy to it.

There’s a difference.

Some public figures consume oxygen in a room.

Others create it.

Lin creates it.

People around him seem lighter.

More playful.

More inspired.

More willing to engage.

That is not an accident.

It is the cumulative effect of years spent approaching the world with curiosity and appreciation.

And in a cultural moment increasingly dominated by cynicism, outrage, and self-promotion, that spirit feels increasingly valuable.

Joy is not shallow.

Encouragement is not naïve.

Supporting others is not weakness.

These are serious acts.

Necessary acts.

Especially in artistic communities.

Because every creative ecosystem depends on people who are willing to champion one another.

No artist survives entirely alone.

Behind every successful creator is usually a hidden network of people who offered support before there was obvious reward.

Teachers.

Friends.

Collaborators.

Mentors.

Family members.

Peers who believed early.

Peers who shared opportunities.

Peers who opened doors.

Lin has become one of those people for countless artists.

And I suspect many of them will someday tell stories similar to mine.

Stories about small moments.

Unexpected kindness.

Encouragement during uncertain seasons.

Simple gestures that ended up mattering enormously.

Because that’s often how influence actually works.

Not through giant speeches.

Through accumulated acts of generosity.

A message.

A recommendation.

An invitation.

A willingness to show up.

Small Acts That Change Lives

Eleven years ago, Lin-Manuel Miranda sent a DM to someone he didn’t really know.

A small gesture.

Friendly.

Uncomplicated.

That message led to a conversation.

That conversation led to a photograph.

That photograph became part of a memory I now carry with enormous affection.

And today, years later, another small act unfolded inside Grand Central.

One man sitting at a piano.

One city pausing briefly to listen.

Hundreds of strangers carrying that moment back into their lives.

That is the thing about kindness and creativity.

Their effects ripple outward in ways we rarely get to measure.

A child hears a song and decides to write.

A struggling artist receives encouragement and keeps going.

A commuter has a difficult morning interrupted by unexpected beauty.

A random photographer takes a portrait that later becomes a reminder that character matters more than fame.

None of these moments look historic while they are happening.

They just look human.

And maybe that’s the point.

The Kind of People Who Leave Light Behind

The older I get, the less interested I become in mythology.

I’m more interested in consistency.

In decency.

In people who remain recognizable across time.

People who succeed without losing tenderness.

People who continue noticing others after the spotlight arrives.

People who keep reaching behind themselves to lift others upward.

Lin-Manuel Miranda has become many things over the past decade:

Composer.

Actor.

Lyricist.

Producer.

Cultural phenomenon.

But underneath all of those labels, he still seems to be the same person I encountered years ago in Washington Heights.

A husband.

A father.

An artist.

A deeply enthusiastic human being who loves stories and people and possibility.

And today, in the middle of Grand Central Station, he once again shared that enthusiasm freely.

Not because he had to.

Not because it benefited him.

But because some people move through the world trying to create more light wherever they can.

Thank You, Lin

Thank you, Lin.

Thank you for the music.

Thank you for the encouragement.

Thank you for supporting artists with such consistency and sincerity.

Thank you for remaining grounded while the world built monuments around your name.

And thank you for being such an important part of Dear New York.

This city is made meaningful by people who continue choosing connection.

People who pause long enough to notice one another.

People who understand that art is not merely about performance, but about generosity.

People who leave rooms, stations, neighborhoods, and lives a little brighter than they found them.

This morning, in the middle of one of the busiest places on earth, you reminded hundreds of strangers of something easy to forget:

Human warmth still matters.

And sometimes all it takes to transform a day is someone willing to sit down at a piano and noodle on the keys.