Aaron Burr has received remarkably unfair treatment from history.
This is not because he shot Alexander Hamilton.
He absolutely did that.
The unfair part is that historians continue describing him as uniquely ambitious, opportunistic, self-promoting, and ideologically flexible, as though these qualities somehow disappeared from American public life after 1804.
Aaron Burr would fit seamlessly into modern America.
In fact, he might be one of the few Founding Fathers who required absolutely no adjustment period.
Most historical figures featured in this newsletter experience some degree of culture shock. Theodore Roosevelt discovers screen time reports and begins looking for a lake. Thomas Hobbes spends an afternoon on Reddit and immediately starts drafting a new edition of Leviathan. Patrick Henry encounters self-checkout and contemplates a second revolution.
Aaron Burr would simply ask for the Wi-Fi password.
The man was built for this.
Most Americans know exactly three things about Aaron Burr.
First, he served as Vice President under Thomas Jefferson.
Second, he shot Alexander Hamilton in a duel.
Third, Lin-Manuel Miranda has done irreversible damage to his public image.
This is unfortunate because Burr was one of the most fascinating figures of the early republic. He fought in the Revolution, practiced law, served in the Senate, helped create one of the most effective political organizations in New York, and spent decades maneuvering through the vicious world of early American politics.
He was intelligent, charming, ambitious, and exceptionally difficult to categorize.
Which was precisely the problem.
The founders lived in an age that increasingly demanded ideological tribes. Federalists. Democratic-Republicans. Jeffersonians. Hamiltonians.
Burr belonged primarily to Team Aaron Burr.
This made everyone nervous.
One of the recurring complaints about Burr was that nobody could quite determine what he believed.
Hamilton distrusted him intensely. Jefferson distrusted him almost as much. Both men spent years accusing one another of threatening the Republic, yet they found surprising common ground when discussing Burr.
They thought he was ambitious.
Not ordinary political ambition.
Dangerous ambition.
The sort of ambition that treats principles as optional accessories.
Hamilton famously described Burr as:
"A dangerous man, and one who ought not to be trusted with the reins of government."
Modern readers often assume this was merely partisan mudslinging.
It was.
But it was also revealing.
Hamilton was not accusing Burr of incompetence.
He was accusing him of opportunism.
The charge has aged extraordinarily well.
The funny thing is that Americans claim to dislike opportunists.
We say this constantly.
Then we spend enormous amounts of time rewarding them.
Modern public life increasingly revolves around personal brands.
Politicians build brands.
Journalists build brands.
Professors build brands.
Athletes build brands.
Entrepreneurs build brands.
People who review breakfast cereal on TikTok somehow build brands.
Every public figure is now expected to maintain a carefully managed identity across multiple platforms while simultaneously insisting that identity is completely authentic.
Aaron Burr would understand this immediately.
In fact, one suspects he would wonder why it took so long.
The founders generally viewed politics as an extension of ideas.
Burr often treated politics as an extension of relationships.
This distinction matters.
Hamilton wrote essays.
Jefferson wrote essays.
Madison practically wrote essays in his sleep.
The entire founding generation was obsessed with arguments.
Burr was obsessed with people.
He cultivated networks. Built alliances. Remembered names. Made connections. Organized supporters. Raised money.
Long before anyone had invented the term, Burr understood that influence was social.
The modern internet has spent twenty years rediscovering this lesson.
Imagine explaining social media to Hamilton.
He would immediately begin composing a seventeen-part thread about monetary policy.
The thread would be brilliant.
Nobody would read it.
Meanwhile, Burr uploads a thirty-second video titled:
"Three Things Hamilton Doesn't Want You To Know."
It receives six million views.
Hamilton becomes furious.
Burr gains followers.
The cycle repeats.
One of the most remarkable things about Burr's career was his ability to survive political disaster.
Most politicians experience a scandal and disappear.
Burr treated catastrophe as a networking opportunity.
After losing influence in national politics, he did not retire quietly. After killing Hamilton, he did not vanish into obscurity. Even after becoming entangled in what many contemporaries viewed as a conspiracy to create an independent empire in the West, he continued reinventing himself.
The man possessed an almost supernatural refusal to stay canceled.
This quality alone would make him terrifyingly effective in the modern media environment.
Every week some public figure announces a comeback.
Aaron Burr practically invented the genre.
His personal motto might as well have been perpetual reinvention.
Indeed, one of the most revealing quotes associated with Burr is:
"The rule of my life is to make business a pleasure, and pleasure my business."
This sounds less like an eighteenth-century statesman and more like a man selling online courses from a rented Lamborghini.
One expects it to appear beneath a photograph taken from the deck of a yacht.
Perhaps the greatest irony is that Burr and Hamilton were perfectly designed for the modern age.
Hamilton would become the policy intellectual.
The podcast host.
The newsletter writer.
The man producing forty-page position papers that only twelve people finish reading.
Burr would become the influencer.
The networker.
The charismatic media personality.
The individual who somehow turns every controversy into an increase in engagement.
History suggests which strategy would be more successful.
Hamilton won immortality.
Burr would probably win the algorithm.
The rise of personal branding has transformed politics in ways the founders never anticipated.
Voters increasingly know politicians as personalities before they know them as policymakers.
Followers matter.
Visibility matters.
Recognition matters.
The distinction between celebrity and statesman grows thinner every year.
This would have horrified Madison.
It would have fascinated Franklin.
And it would have made perfect sense to Burr.
After all, he spent much of his life demonstrating that attention is a form of power.
Modern America simply found ways to measure it.
The most impressive aspect of influencer culture is its ability to transform authenticity into a performance.
Every public figure must appear genuine.
Every public figure must appear relatable.
Every public figure must appear spontaneous.
Entire teams of professionals now work tirelessly to manufacture spontaneity.
Aaron Burr would admire the efficiency.
The man spent decades navigating elite political circles while presenting himself as accessible, personable, and universally agreeable. He understood that likability often accomplishes what arguments cannot.
The modern internet has elevated this insight into a business model.
Historians often portray Burr as a warning.
A man whose ambition exceeded his principles.
A politician who cared more about advancement than ideology.
A public figure who understood attention could be converted into influence.
Looking around modern America, one occasionally wonders if the warning label fell off.
Somewhere, Aaron Burr is staring at influencer culture, personal brands, monetized authenticity, subscription platforms, lifestyle podcasts, and social media engagement metrics.
He is not horrified.
He is not confused.
He is not even particularly surprised.
He is merely annoyed that someone else thought of it first.
— John Handcock