#ham4pr

[fuckingcatalinawinemixer]

Excuse me while I fangirl for a second.

It's

My

Boy's

BIRTHDAY!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY LIN

[puertoricanswiftie]

#HamiltonPR Fun Fact

During the last performance, the standing ovation for Lin-Manuel when he stepped out as Hamilton was so long, he actually broke character and put his hand on his chest, which made everyone cheer even more.

When it ended, you could hear his voice slightly cracking as he went on to sing “just you wait, just you wait”

🇵🇷❤️

[thefederalistfreestyle]

it’s only a matter of time [x x x x x]

[fanciful-follies]

This lil OBC reunion is making me happy

Also congrats to Hamilton on opening night in Puerto Rico 🇵🇷

[vmsbucketofrice]

Lafayette & Hercules: We fought with him!

Laurens: Me? I died for him!

Washington: Me? I trusted him!

The Schuyler Sisters: Me? I loved him!

Burr: And me? I'm the damn fool that shot him!

Everybody: *looking around*

Alexander Hamilton: Pardon me, are you Aaron Burr, Sir?

Everybody: Oh, no fucking shit!

[lorethecat]

Tonight is Hamilton’s last show with Lin-Manuel Miranda in Puerto Rico, so of course I had to draw the man.

I realized halfway through this painting that I have never before in my life painted facial hair OOPS

[barcaavengers]

Ya girl has started her fangirling squeaks 12hours before she goes to see Hamilton and I can't sleep

[thefederalistfreestyle]

What “Hamilton” in San Juan Means to Puerto Rico (The New Yorker):

Last Friday evening, as spectators streamed into the Centro de Bellas Artes Luis A. Ferré, San Juan’s main performing-arts center, a man in a Colonial waistcoat, breeches, and cravat spoke into a microphone in the plaza. “We want everybody to join this fight for Puerto Rico to become the fifty-first state,” he said. He was joined by about a dozen demonstrators from the pro-statehood group Sociedad Civil Estadista, holding signs that said “We Want to Be in the Room Where It Happens” and “We Are Not Throwing Away Our Shot.” “Alexander Hamilton was a good man,” the speaker continued. “He was one of the Founding Fathers. He was an intellectual author of this nation. So thank you, everyone, and welcome to Puerto Rico.”

Across the plaza—and across the island’s political spectrum—a Ph.D. student named Zorimar Rivera Montes stood beside steel barricades wearing a backpack. “My doctoral dissertation is partly on ‘Hamilton’ and its politics,” she said. She didn’t have a ticket but was hoping that something would turn up. Rivera Montes was raised with an “anti-colonial upbringing,” she said, and supports Puerto Rican independence. The opening-night spectacle, she observed, was “laced with so many ironies. Hamilton was born in the Caribbean. And now we have his ghost coming back to the Caribbean. He was the founder of the American debt system, right?” She went on: “I’m very curious to see how a Puerto Rican audience connects to the story of Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton is big in the U.S., because that’s your forefather.” Her friend Gisela Rosario Ramos added dryly, “There’s a new Founding Father: Lin-Manuel Miranda.”

How did a bastard, orphan son of a whore and a Scotsman get dropped in a bruised-but-not-forgotten spot in the Caribbean, sixteen months after Hurricane Maria devastated the island? It all had to do with Miranda, the show’s Pulitzer Prize-winning author and star, who was returning to the title role on a tide of good will, for the first time since leaving the Broadway production, in 2016. In the wake of the hurricane, which knocked out the island’s power grid and caused some three thousand deaths, Miranda has become a tireless fund-raiser and champion for Puerto Rico, where his father was born and where he spent summers as a child. He released a charity single and helped raise forty-three million dollars in relief funds. He urged people to “keep Puerto Rico in your hearts” from the red carpet of the Academy Awards. And he currently appears in a Web series from the tourism outfit Discover Puerto Rico. Around the island, pretty much everyone referred to him as Lin-Manuel.

[. . .]

Luis Miranda was one of the driving forces behind bringing “Hamilton” to Puerto Rico. The original plan was to stage it at the University of Puerto Rico’s Río Piedras campus, driving money and attention to an institution that needed some love in a neighborhood far from the tourist center of San Juan.

But the well-intentioned plan fell apart just before Christmas, after talk spread of possible demonstrations over staff-budget cuts. A practice of restricting police presence on campus raised security concerns. The producers scrambled to move the show to Bellas Artes, a Lincoln Center-like facility in Santurce, a neighborhood described by one resident as “the hot-shit center of hip San Juan living.”

Luis Miranda told me that the last straw, for him, came when he ran into three students after a production meeting. “One of them says, ‘Oh, yeah, we have dedicated entire classes to discuss if this is good for the University of Puerto Rico or not.’ ” He blanched. “I’m listening to this discussion, and I’m thinking, Is this for real? I remember looking at one of the kids and saying, ‘You know what? We made the right decision to come to Puerto Rico. We made the wrong decision of going to the U.P.R. theatre.’ ”

Although “Hamilton” poured more than a million dollars into renovating the university theatre, there was still disappointment on campus. Sylvia Bofill, who teaches playwriting and dramatic history there, told me, “The impression of students was, they felt somehow it was going to be more approachable, that they were going to be able to see the play.” (A thousand of the ten thousand lottery tickets were set aside for students.) “I think, at the end, it was a loss both for the university and the production. It would have been great for the students to have a forum with Lin-Manuel to ask questions about the controversy.”

The day before the première, outdated “Hamilton” banners still hung around campus. Classes had not started, so there were more stray cats than students in the main quad. Near the theatre, I spotted a young woman with curly hair painting a bench with the word “humanidades.” She had specks of white paint on her cheek, and introduced herself as María Rosa López, a science student.

“It’s complicated,” she said, of the “Hamilton” drama. Her English was spotty, so her friend Christopher Pacheco, who was helping her paint, translated. “They should have consulted at least with the students,” he said. “The government is saying it’s the workers’ union’s fault. They didn’t want a protest here, so they moved the play. But they weren’t going to protest. It was just an excuse. The government wants to close the university down.”

When I asked why, López reverted to English. “They don’t want people to get educated.”

Pacheco added, “Education here is not good. They’re closing a lot of public schools.” Tuition has gone up, they noted, to a hundred and fifteen dollars per credit. “The costs have only gone higher, and the buildings are deteriorating,” Pacheco said.

A clocktower rang, and they returned to painting.

Around Bellas Artes, “Hamilton” fever had taken hold. At Lote 23, a food-truck park near the theatre, venders had seen cast and crew members stop by. The guy at the alcapurria stand knew the exact hours of their lunch breaks, and a woman who worked at the fried-chicken place had taken a selfie with Lin-Manuel two days earlier.

[. . .]

By six o’clock, the plaza was packed: camera crews, ticket-lottery winners, demonstrators, the Hamilton historian Ron Chernow, V.I.P.s in suits and cocktail dresses. Zorimar Rivera Montes, the Ph.D. student, pointed out David Bernier, a former candidate for governor of Puerto Rico. She was skeptical of all the hoopla. Like others I met, she had been irked by Miranda’s initial support for Promesa, the act establishing the financial-oversight board. He has since recanted and endorsed debt forgiveness over debt relief.

But something else was nagging at Rivera Montes. As she e-mailed me a few days later, after scoring a ticket, “The play is as catchy and fun as I remembered the soundtrack to be, but watching a celebration of the American Revolution on Puerto Rican soil felt nothing short of perverse. I find it is colonialist that we have to be thankful to Miranda for whatever crumbs of help he throws our way.”

I spoke to Dan Santiago, the pro-statehood speaker in Colonial garb. (He had bought it at a costume shop in Florida, where he relocated after the hurricane.) Hadn’t Hamilton fought to overthrow imperial rule? “That’s something that people talk about,” he said, “but what’s important in democracy is the will of the people. The independence movement in Puerto Rico doesn’t gain more than three per cent of the votes. I’m pretty sure that, when Hamilton wrote the Federalist Papers, he was trying to convince everybody that this new form of government was going to be the best thing for the colonies. And it was so good that it became the most powerful nation on the face of the earth. That’s the nation that we want to be part of.”

Suddenly, there was a screech from the middle of the plaza. It came from Gustavo Rosa, a seventeen-year-old from Toa Alta. He had been taking a picture with the show’s producer, Jeffrey Seller, when his high-school theatre director surprised him with a ticket. Immediately, camera crews descended on him.

“I’ve been taking musical theatre for seven years now,” he said, shaking. “I’m exhilarated. Oh, my God.”

[. . .]

Alternating between English and Spanish, he fielded questions about the ovation at the top of the show (“I felt my hair move”); about the security concerns at the university (“If there’s the slightest chance something goes wrong, I cannot have that on my conscience”); about his reading from the celebrity astrologer Walter Mercado (“I know the future, but I’m not going to tell you”); about his first visit after the hurricane (“To see an island without leaves—I never thought I’d see winter in Puerto Rico”). He said that “Hamilton” would bring people to Puerto Rico to spend money, “but they’re also going to see blue tarps, and they’re also going to see how much is left to be done.”

A reporter asked, “What spoke to you tonight, as you were standing there for the first time here in Puerto Rico?”

Miranda answered, in Spanish, that “Hurricane” had been particularly emotional—he hadn’t been able to get through it in rehearsal. The line about the silence in the eye of the storm had reminded him of what members of the Puerto Rican diaspora had felt during Maria, not being able to reach family and friends. “That quiet,” he said, slipping back into English. “That terror.” Then he said something everyone could agree on: “That’s the thing about this show: you put it at this angle, and suddenly you see different things come out.”

full article here