Hello! So for this fic, I'm experimenting with first person point of view, as well as race and how it mattered in the eighteenth century. I am Asian American, so I felt safer using the ethnicity I knew best, rather than risking it with any other.

Disclaimer: I don't own Hamilton.

My name is Liann Jin, and this is the story of how I died. Well, not really. This is the story of how my past life died. Okay, that didn't really make sense, so I'll start at the beginning.

My father and mother were immigrants from Hong Kong and Taiwan, respectively, and I consequently grew up on a healthy diet of secretive swearing in Cantonese (This is the courtesy of my father; my mother knows only Mandarin, thankfully), classic discipline in the matter of education (this brings back bad memories), New York Chinatown, homemade steamed buns, and my parents' inherent distrust of "foreigners." ("But mom," I had asked upon first hearing this, "Aren't we technically the foreigners?" Apparently, no. Fortunately for me, I was more than a little suspicious of this notion, and investigated the matter thoroughly, making my first few "American" friends, whom I adored for the wonderfully exotic blonde-ness and blue-eyed-ness. I was a precocious child, to say the least.)

Anyway, as I grew older, children of my age would crowd around me and ask what it was like to be like Mulan. I was confused; I wasn't Mulan! Of course, later, my parents would explain to me why people automatically assumed I was like Mulan, and taught me how to be offended when people asked me that question.

In school, I had my first encounter with native English-speakers. I was introduced to the looming class by my teacher, whom I admired immensely for her beautiful purple nails. This admiration disappeared however, as soon as she pronounced my name wrong.

"Class, this is Lie-Ann Jine. I ex-pect you to wel-come her ver-y warm-ly." She spoke as if to a deaf person, that is, pronouncing letter, and every syllable seperately, just...like...this...in...the...most...ann...oy...ing...fa...shion... Needless to say, I was not a fan of Mrs. Allen by the time class ended for lunch.

At lunch, I took out my stinky tofu. A girl a few seats down (I sat a few seats away from everyone, just to be safe) sniffed the air, turned green, and shouted to all the world, "Lie-Ann Jine just FARTED, and it SMELLS!" (First grade was a learning experience—I never brought stinky tofu in for lunch again.)

A group of children gathered to my corner quickly, hooting and giggling. "Haha! Lie-Ann just FARTED!" A few of them repeated gleefully.

Having only just been introduced to English, I proceeded to shrink into my seat and mutter, "I am called myself the Liann."

Of course, the little devils thought my atrocious state of grammar was hilarious, and continued to laugh to their nonexistent heart's content. Fighting tears, I ran to the bathroom, pursued by a band of soulless brats, flushed my lunch down a toilet, vowed never again to eat stinky tofu, and spent the remainder of lunch sobbing in an unoccupied stall.

Again, first grade was an experience.

Second grade, on the other hand, was when I discovered the magic of imaginary friends.

Of course, acknowledging my imaginary friends, Vera, Chuck, and Dave, did not help my reputation, and my already limited popularity was destroyed. But they were second-graders. They didn't know any better. What really annoyed me was that their parents started to call the school to complain because of my "dangerously malodorous lunches." (Seriously people! Just because it smells bad doesn't mean it's poisoned!) The school in turn called my parents who ignored them, and sent me to school the next day with noodles that smelled of old socks. (It was, however, delicious, sooo...) Naturally, I retreated to the bathroom once more to rid myself of this ethnic shame that hung around me like a cloud of doom.

My childhood was filled with many tragic stories like this. Grade after grade, year after year, dragged on, and still, it was the same problem. Throughout this time, I, embittered by my contact with people, through myself into my studies, and soon, I had no friends but my imaginary ones. Pretty soon, they left, too.

But when I got to fifth grade, I discovered something new.

It was a typical July day, sweltering hot in New York city. I was wearing a T-shirt, jeans and my hair in a pathetically skimpy braid. At the time, I was busily engaged upon the task of staring discreetly at the male eye-candy of the fifth grade class. His name was Jason DuPont, a tall blonde, blue-eyed boy, the one every little fifth grade girl dreamed of "dating." (No, really; I heard a girl named Violet Chastley, a long-time tormentor, profess her undying love for Jason to the bathroom mirror. It would have been rather comical, actually, if I hadn't come into the bathroom for the exact same reason.)

Then my heart stopped (figuratively, not literally) and I began freaking out internally. He looked at me! My mind soared, and I felt like I was flying. Then "vain" me took over.

Play it cool, girl, I told myself, so I did. I plastered what I imagined a cute smile on my face, and began to strut over to him ostentatiously.

I smiled. "Hey."

Then I heard laughter behind me. Violet Chastley, in all of her redheaded, blue-eyed pomp and splendor had begun to catwalk over (well, the best a fifth-grader could, anyway), but had doubled over, clutching her stomach, with tears running down her cheeks. Then I heard more laughter, turned, and saw all of my dreams that had lasted all of twenty seconds crushed. Jason DuPont stood, leaning against one of his friends for support.

"I—I know you," he choked out, "You're that Chinese girl that brings in stinky lunch!" Everyone within earshot looked and saw the spectacle.

It was like a nightmare. Everywhere my eyes darted, I saw only enemies, and no friendly faces, sympathetic to my plight, so I did what I do best: I ran.

I ran far away from that place, with Violet Chastley and all of her clownishly hooting friends, and ended up in a place I didn't recognize. I found a library, always my refuge when things didn't come out the right way, and cried myself to sleep.

And that, dear audience, is my love life in a nutshell.

"Ermm...hello there," said a voice uncomfortably. "Can I help you?"

I rubbed my sleep-encrusted eyes. "Huh?" I asked. Clearly, I was not at my most eloquent.

The young man backed away quickly from my morning breath. I yawned, oblivious to his efforts.

"Are you alright?" He repeated, a little further away. "Do you need me to escort you to your parents?"

I blinked. "What are you wearing?" I inquired. (Look, my brain had just gone through an emotionally traumatic experience. Stop judging.)

"I'm—I'm sorry?" he said, clearly taken aback.

I giggled. "Why are you wearing that? It looks like you came straight out of a musical!"

"A what now?"

I shrugged, unwilling to explain the intricacies of theater.

"What's your name?"

"Alexander Hamilton!" He cried, straightening up instantly.

"O—Okay? I'm Liann Jin."

"What? Where are you from?" He took a breath. "Where are your parents?"

"Chinatown." I answered promptly.

Hamilton looked confused. "Where?"

"Y'know, that one place where tourists flock to?"

He went a little pale, and then flushed a deep red. "You mean...the Holy Ground?*"

"The what?"

"You know, the Holy Ground, where all the tourists go."

"I...guess?"

He blushed again and gulped. "Al—alright then. I suppose I could take you." He said reluctantly.

"Could you? That would be really nice."

"Alright..."

*So, the Holy Ground was a notorious red-light district in New York back then...if you still don't know what I'm talking about, look up the Holy Ground, in New York.

One more thing: remember to review...please?

Okay, bye!

-Rainlight2427