But I aināt goinā back because Iām telling your story
My earliest memory takes place in a bodega on Dyckman Street in Washington Heights. I am three years old, and walking hand in hand with my Abuela Mundi. Abuela Mundi isnāt biologically my āabuelaā grandmother, but she lives in my house, feeds me, tucks me in and walks me to and from nursery school. She took care of my father when he was a kid in Vega Alta, Puerto Rico his parents never stopped working, and when I was born, she came to take care of me and my sister our parents never stop working. Itās a hot summer day; thereās an open hydrant on Beak Street and I can see the top of the Cloisters across the park as Abuela and I walk down Seaman Avenue. Dominican and Puerto Rican flags hang from nearby windows.
The bodegaās glass door is covered in Corona ads and half-scratched decals. Merengue plays on the stereo as Abuela Mundi exchanges a wink and a smile with the man behind the counter. We walk past aisles of plantains and canned goods to the storeroom in back, where we see Abuela Mundiās true passion: three gleaming Vegas-style slot machines. For the next few hours, it will be my special job to pull the machineās arm as Abuela feeds it quarters, watching rows of fruit spin around and line up just so, hoping for the lucky spin that will make her rich and change her life. She wins some quarters and sinks them back into the machine. The bodega man gives me candy, Iām pulling the arm for Abuela, music is playing and life is good.
If In the Heights has any particular genesis, itās the memory of this day and so many others like it. I grew up in Northern Manhattan, and if youāve ever even driven through the neighborhood, you know that music comes out of every corner. Salsa horn lines wail from fire escape windows; bachata guitar lines blare from pimped-out car stereos. As a teenager, my father was the president and maybe the only member of the Puerto Rico chapter of Debbie Reynolds Fan Club, so we grew up on a bizarre diet of Juan Luis Guerra, Marc Anthony, Fiddler on the Roof and Camelot. Meanwhile, my friends and I obsessed over hip-hop music: I remember poring over Fat Boys albums and forcing my school bus driver to teach me the words to āBeefā by KRS-One.
I wrote the first incarnation of In the Heights my sophomore year at Wesleyan University. In the winter of 1999, I applied to put up a new show in the student-run ā92 Theater. At the time, I had one song and a title: In the Heights. I was given the theater for the weekend of April 20-22ānow all I had to do was write a show. I barely slept, I barely ate; I just wrote. I put in all the things Iād always wanted to see onstage: propulsive freestyle rap scenes outside of bodegas, salsa numbers that also revealed character and story. I tried to write the kind of show Iād want to be in. Two remarkable things happened. One, we broke box-office records for the ā92 Theater that yearāit was insanity. Two, I was approached by John Buffalo Mailer son of Norman, a senior at the time. He loved the show and said, āMy friends and I are starting a production company when we graduate, and we want to help you bring it to New York.ā I said, āThat sounds awesome,ā went to the cast party and promptly forgot about his offer.
Fast forward to the summer of 2002, when I meet director Tommy Kail for the first time in the basement of the Drama Book Shop. John Mailer has made good on his promise and has founded Back House Productions with Tommy, Anthony Veneziale and Neil Stewart. Iāve just graduated, and Tommy is breaking down what he likes about Heights and what he would do if he directed it. Two thoughts occur to me. The first is: āThis guy is smarter and understands the show better than anyone Iāve ever met.ā The second is, āCrap. I have to completely rewrite this show.ā
Over the next year, while I teach seventh grade English at my old high school by day, Back House hosts at least five readings of Heights in its various, pupating stages. Producer Jill Furman comes to a reading, enjoys herself and joins us on the journey. Rent producer Kevin McCollum comes to a reading in June 2003. He digs the music, he digs the bodega and he wants more. His producing partner, Jeffrey Seller, concurs, and the hard work begins.
Fast forward to January 1, 2007. Iām house-sitting for my parents tonight, writing this essay in exactly the same room I wrote the first draft of In the Heights. Iām not alone in this endeavor anymore: Iām sure our brilliant book writer, Quiara Hudes, is up late tweaking dialogue, and our arrangers, Alex Lacamoire and Bill Sherman, are orchestrating the latest music at Alexās house. Somewhere Tommy is working on script notes, and Andy Blankenbuehler is refining and tightening his incredible choreography. The payoff for me will be in late January, when my Abuela Mundi comes to see the show for the first time. Thereās an Abuela character in the show now, Abuela Claudia. She plays Lotto every day, hoping for the lucky numbers that will make her rich and change her life. I donāt know what Iāve done to deserve the luck Iāve had, but while Iām here, Iām pulling the arm for Abuela, music is playing and life is good.
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