Hamilton and the Obama-Era Legacy of Hope

Hamilton’s premiere in 2015 became a defining national moment. The story of the Founding Fathers was reinvented and told freshly through hip-hop, with a primarily Black cast performing the roles of men who had once excluded them from history. It was confident, ambitious, and painted the picture of an America that was able to honor its past while recognizing and correcting the prejudice and oppression that had stained its legacy. It was fun, brilliant, and deeply political all at once; it became impossible to ignore.

I have known every line to every song in the musical since I was six years old, when the soundtrack was everywhere—on the radio, in classrooms, in campaign ads, and in conversations about what America had, and could still, become. Hamilton has a unique grip on people across generations. It told a story that made the country feel alive—not a finished work, but something still being written. Hamilton wasn’t just about the past. It was about a country that still believed in progress.

That belief defined 2015. Obama had been president for eight years; same-sex marriage had just been legalized; and it felt like the United States was finally headed toward a more equal and open future. There was a sense that the fight for justice, while far from over, was moving in the right direction. Hamilton captured that feeling perfectly. Its success wasn’t just due to it being catchy or clever; it represented an America capable of changing. It was an anthem for a country that still believed it could be better.

The years that followed shattered that illusion. Hope gave way to division. The unity and optimism that had felt so close vanished almost overnight. The politics of possibility were replaced by politics based on resentment and fear. Watching Hamilton now feels like looking into a mirror that reflects a different country—one that believed, however briefly, that progress was inevitable. It’s hard not to miss that version of America.

What makes Hamilton powerful today is how out of place it feels. It was built on faith in ambition, collective action, and the idea that moral progress is worth striving for. Those values feel almost foreign in a culture that rewards cynicism and self-interest. American politics now runs on outrage, not idealism. Hamilton’s America was flawed but hopeful; ours feels paralyzed and scared. Hamilton reminds us that idealism once felt natural here, and this loss has cost us something essential.

Even so, Hamilton’s influence did not disappear with that optimism. It reshaped Broadway and changed what theater could stand for and the changes it could make. Shows like Suffs, SIX, John Proctor Is the Villain, and Project Mincemeat followed its lead, telling political and historical stories in ways that were bold and accessible. They spoke to audiences who were tired of escapism and wanted art that challenged them to think. Hamilton made that possible.

Its reach went even further. Schools across the country began teaching history through its lyrics. Protesters borrowed its words for signs and chants. “History has its eyes on you” became a political slogan. The show redefined true patriotism: not blind loyalty but rather the belief in the country’s potential to grow. Hamilton made history feel alive again, and it reminded people that loving America meant wanting to change it for the better.

But the world that gave birth to Hamilton has fallen apart. The political hope of 2015 has been replaced with exhaustion and distrust. The optimism that once defined the country has curdled into bitterness. Hamilton feels like the final spark of a political era that believed progress was something to sing about. And, that is why it still matters—Hamilton proves that the hope we lost was never naïve. It was real, and it was ours. Its music still carries that belief—the belief that the story of America is unfinished and worth fighting for—in ambition, courage, and unity. Hamilton was the last dance of an era defined by hope, but it also reminds us that we can dance again.