MAHism2025: prose, poetry, peculiarities…

Thee Hat sits atop this puddle of water; trying (as it might) to hold down a heaviness of emotion, stinging stark comparisons, imagery that won’t be silenced, a past and future catching up with us all. The film adaptation of a musical stage play. The musical adaptation of a novel. Art imitating life. All spanning from a story that deserved to be told. Proof that things done in the dark of night do indeed come to light; these things may be some variation of brown and nude…but, sometimes they are green (and on fire). It is the music of digestible birth, a swallowed-down death, a chewed upon school lesson, a dream not deferred. This water is reflective indeed. So, this is what we do for the entirety of this film – reflect. Who is this seemingly wicked witch? And why is everyone so darn glad that she’s…dead?

Water mostly suffers gravity. What makes it rise? Pressure. Unless, of course, you are Galinda (the good witch; please don’t forget the guh). Where in the hell is Oz anyway? I was recently asked if I’d ever visited the ‘Land of Oz’. Apparently it’s right up the road from me in Beech Mountain, NC; complete with a yellow brick road and hanging willow trees. I initially thought the question was asked out of some weird humor or contempt. Afterall, my eyes are not blue or green. They are the color of brown – like old blood, like fallen leaves (and their season), like afterbirth. Do I look like I’ve been to Oz? Maybe to him I do. And so, we come upon the idea of the onlooker’s gaze in comparison to our own. How is it shaped, molded; what is it’s conversation with itself and others? The gaze is quite possibly Elphaba’s Achilles heel. It marks her as different even at her conception. It says: I will be seen…but so will you; in all your intentions, agendas, quirks and secrecy. Elphaba was born to a mother wearing red and a fellow who came in the drunk of night. Was she conceived out of love or lust? I don’t suppose it matters whilst your mother is rightfully married to the prominent governor of a whimsical town. Here, the lines between age appropriation become fuzzy. For, indeed we are portraying grown folks’ business; no matter how said business might affect the resulting offspring (green or otherwise).

“Chemical warfare is the only way to describe what happens when cheap perfume, body splash, body spray, underarm deodorant, curl activator, hair spray, and pissy Pampers collide.” -Sista Souljah, The Coldest Winter Ever–

It has been said that prophets are born with their amniotic sac intact. Glinda is introduced to us in a pink bubble that seemingly only she herself can venture to burst. This imagery, again, is interesting as it brings in the ideals surrounding conception, birth, and how one (specifically, the female form) is held. Her answers to the townspeople’s inquiries are not really prophetic in the traditional sense of the word however. She did not conjure them through a dream, or a lightening bolt of revelation… She simply told a story of sight both within and out of friendship. Glinda is in a sense, allowed to burst her own bubble with the inner tap of her glittering, dainty scepter, hence becoming the one left to tell the story. The glowing sounds of the townspeople both keep her afloat and allow her to land safely, on higher ground. Elphaba is left in a puddle of (perhaps) her own amniotic fluid; I suppose the sac could not survive the poking of the broomstick. She is seemingly held by…no one. Instead, her wooden likeness is literally set ablaze. Her burning is celebrated. It’s quite sick when you think about it – enough to turn one green. I connect with lyrics and quotes based on extant resonance. And I distinctly remember the following line of the film’s opening theatrical tune of [No One Mourns The Wicked]: 🎶 through their lives our children learn / what we miss when we misbehave 🎶. Elphaba becomes a lesson on the importance of being remembered fondly; and the dire implications of the contrary.

Elphaba’s mother (Melena) dies following the birth of Elphaba’s younger sister Nessarose. Prompted to chew milk flowers by her husband, Melena’s second born was indeed of Mr. Thropp’s desired complexion but also premature and paraplegic. What results is a comparable doting over Nessarose, placing Elphaba in a servitude stance that leaps over the basic big sister role(s). Elphaba is packing weight and no one is teaching her how to use it…. Until she travels to school with Nessarose and is noticed by the school’s principal Madame Morrible. Conveniently rhyming with ‘horrible’. And we are brought to the gaze of usefulness: to be used or utilized; these are a colored daughter’s options. It is perhaps Madame Morrible’s job to recognize potential in the pupils of Shiz Academy. But we are familiarly reminded of the history of exploitation. I must admit though, my own naivety and hopefulness would not let me believe that this sort of ‘taking advantage’ existed in the whimsical ethers. Yet and still, we adjust our gaze to the realities of a fantastical place such as an academy of even higher learning in a place called Oz. Madame Morrible sees this heaviness that Elphaba is carrying, but not until she sees how it transmits…as passion, as power, as impetuously raw, and useful. She takes Elphaba under her weathered wing and Elphaba is granted admittance into Shiz Academy (with room and board). Even in Oz, there are transactions. Even in Oz, there’s yucky pandering. Even in Oz, a woman of power has the title of Madame. Even (perhaps especially) in Oz, the idea of being ‘chosen’ comes with a bill.

“How can you tell she is not you? ” -Alice Walker, A Poem Traveled Down My Arm–

Toni Morrison states, “We speak, we write, we do language. That is how civilizations heal.” And in this film, the idea of language is profound. The animals can communicate in the same language as Glinda and Elphaba. In fact, the academy’s eldest professor is a goat and life science instructor by the name of Doctor Dillamond. What is profound shall likely be placed under attack. And thus, language comes under attack at Shiz academy, in the classroom, in the library, within the mouths of creatures and finally atop the hill in Emerald City. The femme gaze tries as it might to counterattack. We see this in the silent, animalistic movements of Elphaba at the ball. And we are relieved and emotionally pulled toward these movements as Glinda joins her archnemesis turned friend on the dancefloor. Frustration, rejection, genuine concern for self and others can finally be transmuted into tears flowing down Elphaba’s cheeks. The eyes see, the ears hear, the body moves in response. And we are reminded that whether within the walls and gardens of an academy or atop a verdant hill, this is indeed a man’s world but it wouldn’t be nothin’ without the animalistic movements of a femme, paired with the knowledge of a forgotten tongue, and a passionate need for activism. We are briefly introduced to the Scarecrow, Lion and Tinman as well. Through the female gaze and within the framework of ever important language, the foreshadowing in Wicked (part 1) lends a nod to the academia-impaired Prince Fiyero as the Scarecrow, a rescued feline as the Cowardly Lion, and the love-missed Boq as the Tinman. They all, as in The Wizard of Oz, are in search of something – smarts, courage, heart. However, they do not appear to be as aware of this need as are their femme-fellows. Go figure. Wicked differs from the majority of fairytale-esque films and media adaptations in that its female prototypes exhibit power. Glinda’s power lies in her ability to hone in on the embodiment of prestige, popularity, pretty privilege and ambition. She’s a natural born influencer. Elphaba is just raw, unadulterated (pardon the pun), flick of the wrist and flick of the tongue…power. Though both venture to journey towards the Emerald City, and even must await an invite, or a plus-one guest beckoning; neither Elphaba or Glinda are your typical ‘ladies in wait’.

👸🏾 We listen. We don’t judge. 👸🏾

“The front of my head feels like a house, and the thoughts reside within different set places that I can rearrange like furniture, but mostly I don’t. I come from a furniture-dodging tribe. We tiptoe around the pieces as they remain in place. I’m thinking that way again. Strange, the small things that make us proud.” -Alice Randall, The Wind Done Gone–

As I watched Glinda and Elphaba enter into the Wizard’s den, I could not help but to ponder on this: to be used as an agent of war (knowingly or unknowingly) is a special kind of hell. And so, we are finally met with thee masculine gaze as the scene turns industrial, robotic; sharp edges and erected plans abound. The matriarchs of my family would often say, when we were coming up in corporate America (or the likes) and hit a snag at work, “Did you have to meet with the white man at the top?” And we knew exactly what they meant. This meeting has a sort of finality to it, a resolve, a truth, a lifted veil. Will one be pleased with the outcome? Before answering that question, another arises: can this Wizard read? Like, at all? He looks upon Elphaba with a sort of bewildered wonder. And the onlooker thinks: who’s been awaiting whom? She is shown his plan of Emerald City much like a business deal; a mini rendering of The Land. The idea of color becomes prominent once again as Elphaba and Glinda ponder suggestively on what color the brick path should be. Does the white man at the top seriously want them to pick out the supporting color palette for his already emerald city? Ridiculous. Perhaps they are to choose window coverings, bed linens and the countertop stone too. I was told recently that women are currently, “drunk with power”. To that I say, how power looks on one might be quite telling of what power has done to the other. To that I say, what one does with power is very telling. To that I say, we are our father’s daughters and we can read (even between the lines). Choosing the right book? Now, that is another story.

“Pay attention to the shape of things. Really pay attention to the shape of things. You just might be an Evergreen.” -Shimah Easter, In The Way–

Cynthia Erivo’s roles as Celie in the Broadway production of The Color Purple and as the slave-freeing ‘Moses’ in the film Harriet both follow a sort of parallel climb up a top-slim mountain. The paths are surely due to merge eventually. Such is the same for Elphaba. As Araminta Ross transforms into Harriet, she coaches another runaway slave while on the ‘road to freedom’ and accosted by would-be slave catchers, “you know your master better’n the lines in your hand; be him!” And the fair-skinned lady is not only able to pass as free and white, but as a young man with town stature. She’s asked if she is perhaps related to Luther Grant. To which she replies, “well yes sir, he’s my daddy”. I can’t help but wonder if the hat she tips off to the fellas as they are granted passage across the bridge, possibly belongs to her daddy too. We see, we resonate, or we are repulsed. We grow, and realize that even the repulsions are a part of our fabric. You see…blame is much easier to hold than responsibility. Responsibility is a heftier pulling-together, for it is evergreen – keeping its color throughout the year. I end with a snippet of the late Nikki Giovanni telling of the importance of choosing what to pick up…and what to lay down. On all the paths back home to oneself, I hope you don’t neglect to pick up love and that your gaze be forever, forever, ever… Evergreen. 💚♥️💚♥️💚

Maguire, Gregory. (1995). Wicked: The Life and Times of The Wicked Witch of The West. (D. Smith, Illus.). Regan Books. United States.

Jon M. Chu (Director). (2024). Wicked: Part One [Film]. Universal Pictures.

Nikki Giovanni. Radio interview: The Breakfast Club 105.1. 11 November 2020.