reminder that the general rule of thumb is that things can be sent to [name] c/o [address of theater where they’re working]. (although it sure looks like Oak has a Hamilton mailbox in that pic he posted. you’ll be able to mail him at the Imperial Theatre soon!)
current fanmail addresses are…
for Broadway company [name] c/o Richard Rodgers Theatre 226 West 46th Street New York, NY 10036
& the address for LMM fanmail is: Lin-Manuel Miranda 4768 Broadway Unit 743 New York, NY 10034
& for the Chicago cast: [name] c/o PrivateBank Theatre 18 West Monroe Street Chicago, IL 60603
& for the Angelica tour (for now!): [name] c/o Orpheum Theatre 1192 Market Street San Francisco, CA 94102
“No Niggers.” That’s the message residents of Chicago’s West Loop community found spray-painted on two of their sidewalks Thursday evening — just one day after someone scrawled “KKK” on traffic barriers about a block away.
The racist graffiti was discovered Thursday night on Monroe Street. The sidewalk on one side of the street said, “No Nigger.” The other sidewalk said, “No Niggers.” Read more. (5/6/17, 12:45 PM)
The future site of Knickerbocker Village. The now defunct Hamilton St. (Lung Block) is on the left and Monroe St. is on the right. The rear of the new St. Joseph’s Church and its twin steeples can be seen on the right. The skyscrapers in the background are (left to right), the Cities Services Building (most recently the AIG building and 70 Pine St.), the Bank of Manhattan Trust Building (40 Wall St. - now a Trump Building), and the Singer building, located at the corner of Broadway and Liberty St., which was sadly demolished in 1968.
On July 27th, 2015, Nicole Clark, a 19-year-old Rochester
trans woman of color, and her mother were brutally assaulted at the intersection of
Monroe Avenue and Goodman Street. For several years, the transgender
community has protested violence at this corner, and we are outraged that a blatantly transphobic attack happened here.
As of now, the police have arrested Abigail Hallowell and charged her
with second-degree harassment. The other two suspects remain at large.
Yesterday (August 6) there was a huge rally to support Nicole and show support for the trans community in Rochester. #itwasahatecrime was one of the tags used for the event.
Warnings: Implied child abuse, lots of tea, spoilers
and if you’re still bleeding you’re the lucky ones
Rain pattered on your windows as you flipped idly through the pages of a book. It wasn’t all that interesting, but you had nothing better to do tonight. Mrs Whitely upstairs had gotten sick, and her coughing distracted you from the book. Subconsciously, your mind wandered back to last month, the first time you’d met Credence.
You pulled your jacket tighter around you as you hurried past the small crowd of people standing on the front steps of the bank. You had no interest in hearing from the New Salem Philanthropic Society today. You patted your pocket to check if your wand was still there. Your grip tightened around the hilt as you pushed through the mass of people on the sidewalk. Someone laid a hand on your forearm and your hand twitched on your wand. “Ma'am? Excuse me, ma'am?” You looked up to see a young man about your age holding onto a sheaf of papers with the New Salem logo on the top. “I don’t want one,” you said brusquely, pulling your arm out of his grip a little harder than was necessary. He shrank back quickly, looking down at his feet. You made to leave as guilt prickled in your stomach. After a moment of indecision, you turned around and looked at the young man once again, who glanced up at you in surprise. “I’m sorry,” you both said in a rush, eyes trained on one another. After a second of silence, you breathed out a laugh and asked, “What’s your name?” The young man looked conflicted before answering, “Credence.” You hummed and looked at him, at Credence, more critically. He was trembling almost imperceptibly. His knuckles were white from his grasp on the papers. His jacket was well-worn at the elbows and threads were fraying at the hems. It was no wonder he was shivering. A stab of pity went through you. You were glad you hadn’t hexed him, you couldn’t bring yourself to make his day any worse. On a whim, you spoke up. “Hey, did you want some tea?” Credence’s eyebrows furrowed. “T-tea?” Nodding, you smiled brighter at him. “Yes, tea. I’ve been told I’m good at making oolong in particular.” Credence almost- almost gave you a smile, before his face fell minutely and he glanced down at the leaflets he was holding. “I’m sorry, I can’t leave until after this is over. Two hours. Sorry,” he hastily added another apology. You felt your heart fall but tried not to let your face show it. “That’s okay, you can drop by afterwards if you’d like. It’s at 40 Monroe Street, about ten minutes from here. Just knock.”
True to his word, Credence had turned up on your front stoop exactly two hours and ten minutes later. You two had talked a bit, drank some tea, and he’d left. All in all, it took no more than thirty minutes. A couple of days later, he’d showed up again, this time looking slightly more nervous. “I- I brought something,” he said, thrusting a box at you. You blinked down at it. Green tea, most likely the first one he saw on the shelf. Chuckling to yourself, you stepped out of the doorway to let him in, making sure your wand was entirely tucked under the hem of your shirt. “You know nothing about tea, do you?” Credence opened his mouth and quickly shut it, sitting awkwardly on the sofa in your front room. “Not really.” And so you spent the next half hour talking about tea.
You and he repeated this pattern every couple of days. He’d knock (sometimes bearing gifts, sometimes not), you’d invite him in and make drinks, you’d have a polite conversation, and he’d leave. He never stayed longer than thirty eight minutes. You almost considered tracking down some Veritaserum just to get to know him better.
Some days he didn’t talk at all. For the last couple of nights he’d visited, he hadn’t said a word, just sank onto the couch and stayed there, staring at the teacup you’d set in front of him, watching as the steam stopped rising and the tea went cold. You’d both sat in silence before he’d stood up and quietly excused himself. Truth be told, you were kind of worried.
You sighed and set the book down. You weren’t going to make any headway on it tonight. As if you’d summoned him, there were a few soft knocks on your front door. Not even bothering to check the peephole, you threw open the door to find Credence standing there, just as you’d expected. You could feel your face splitting into a smile as you opened the door wider and motioned him in. “Hello Credence! I was just thinking about you!” you exclaimed, hurrying into the kitchen and flitting around making the tea. You tried your best to hide it, but the stove may have lit itself, and if the tea took a little bit less time than usual, neither of you were going to point it out. You were pretty sure you saw the faintest hint of a smile cross Credence’s face, but it vanished too quickly for you to tell. “Hello,” he said quietly, hands folded in his lap. “I hope you weren’t worried, I was just… busy, I guess.” You smiled over your shoulder, the teapot seizing the opportunity to slip out of your hands and pour itself while neither of you were paying attention. Turning back to the teapot, you swore softly as you spotted it settling back down on the dimmed burner. Here was your magic, being more competent than you were.
Ten minutes later and Credence still hadn’t touched his tea. By now, you had passed worried and were starting to get offended. “Is it not good?” you asked, ending the silence in the room. Credence startled, blinking hard before answering. “No, it’s- I’m not very thirsty.” You frowned. You didn’t have to be a Legilimens to know that was a lie. Carefully, you reached out and touched Credence’s knee. He twitched at your presence, but otherwise remained perfectly, frighteningly still. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you noticed that his hands were balled into fists so tight his knuckles were whited, forming peaks and valleys across the backs of his hands. "Credence? Are you alright?“ you asked gently. He sniffled. You couldn’t tell, but you thought you saw a tear trace its way down his cheek. He sniffed again and furiously wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m fine, just… overemotional.” You frowned deeply at him, unconvinced. His hands were still curled into fists, holding onto the hem of his coat. A bolt of unease ran through you. “Credence. Show me your hands.” His eyes widened in fear before he shrank into the back of your sofa, hands subconsciously clenching tighter. You rose from your armchair and kneeled down in front of him. “I’m not going to hurt you,” you said, watching as his dark eyes fixated on you.
Slowly, slowly, his hands uncurled on the wrists of his jacket. Shaking, he held them out towards you, the backs of his hands facing up. You reached out and delicately turned them palm up, gasping softly at the angry red lines crossing his skin. Running your fingertips lightly over them, you resisted the urge to grab your wand from the kitchen right now and stitch the cut skin back together, to fix whatever terrible manner of thing had happened here. As you started to turn your head to look for your wand, the light caught over scars, ones that looked just like the welts across Credence’s palm. Bile rose in your throat. You didn’t trust yourself to speak for a moment, trying to regain your composure. “What- what happened?” Credence swallowed, looking unseeingly at your thumbs as they traced over the lines carved in his hands. When he spoke, he did so so softly that you struggled to hear him. "I, my mother is displeased with my efforts. I am not trying hard enough.“ His hands twitched. Your throat tightened. Let the International Statue of Secrecy be damned, you thought, you were not leaving him like this.
Not bothering to get your wand, you conjured up your memories of a healing spell, the strongest one you knew. It was probably overkill, but to hell with it. Your eyes fell closed. You skimmed your fingers lightly over Credence’s hands. ”Vulnera sanentur. Vulnera sanentur,“ you whispered, feeling the flowing warmth that came with a healing spell well done. You ignored Credence’s wet gasp as you continued working your thumbs over his palms, making sure all the cuts were closed up. The welts went down. What you couldn’t fix were the scars. Anger welled up in your chest and you forced it down just as quickly. The space it left, though, was rapidly filled by nervousness. You opened your eyes and stared at Credence’s hands for a moment longer, not daring to look up. “Y/N?” Credence asked shakily. You swallowed down your sudden fear and looked into his face.
Wonder and fear in equal measure warred for control of his expression. “How- how did you do that?” You took a deep breath and sat on the couch next to him. “Accio,” you mumbled under your breath, your wand shooting into your outstretched hand. No sense hiding it now. “I’m a wix,” you sighed, rolling your wand between your hands. “I know magic.”
Credence remained dead silent for a long time, too long. It felt like an eternity before he opened his mouth and began to speak. “You can do magic?” You nodded mutely. Abruptly, Credence sat forward, his eyes looking almost hungry. “Teach me.” You sat back, surprised by this demand. “Later, if I can. For right now,” you said, aiming your wand at his forgotten and cold cup and muttering a warming spell under your breath, “you should have some tea.”
In March 1955, photographer Ed Feingersh followed Marilyn around New York City for a week - Marilyn Monroe, deep in conversation with Redbook editor Robert Stein at Costello’s restaurant on E. 44th Street.