What a lucky girl am I. Because of a story for Arrive magazine, I got to see Hamilton again.
The experience was completely different from the first one. The first time, I tried not to read too much about the play, wanting instead to see it without any pre-conceived notions. I let it unfold in front of me. I was surprised. Delighted. Tearful. Slack-jawed. It was wonderful.
The second time, I was pretty much off book on the thing. Ever since the cast album was released, I listened to it nonstop. It followed me into my sleep, knocking at my brain in between every REM cycle.
At the play, I could sing along with every character, if they’d asked. I was anticipating each word before it was spoken or sung. I willed the play to slow down — slow down!! — I didn’t want it to end. I cried, but not as much.
When it was over, I was exhausted. Up-down, up-down. The emotional toll was confounding. I felt like someone who’d just come off a cross-country road trip, riding in the back of a pickup truck without shocks. I also felt grief.
The next morning, I had a Hamilton hangover. I was not quite in reality. I worked — I had to — but I was distracted. It took a good 36 hours to recover.
I can’t describe, exactly, how this musical has affected me, but I will say this: it has. I am a more rounded person. I am learning more about our American history than I ever cared to before. I am learning more about hip hop than I ever cared to before. I am learning more about Broadway, the Bible, the American songbook. I haven’t been such a crazy fan of something since I was a teenager.
Now if I can just get some sleep.
