This was originally posted in a Facebook group. September 17, 2007
Ever since I was a little girl, the Wizard of Oz has been enchanting to me. I love the story about the witches, both innocent and wicked. The Wicked Witch of the West has always been my favorite out of the four witches for some unknown reason. Whether it was the fact that she was green and had a broom, or the army of flying monkeys. There was just something about her I seemed to identify with. I never fully understood the connection between the Witch and me until my senior year of high school.
It was fourth quarter and we had one last book report in College Prep English class. To make it easier on the seniors, the book report was to be an oral presentation on a book of our choosing. I chose the book I had been waiting for, Wicked: the Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, her side of the story of what happened in Oz.
The morning of my oral report I got ready as normal but spent a few extra minutes in front of the mirror. I have been told that I have a witch-like demeanor about me, so when looking in the mirror that is what I see and this day was no different, except that those around me would see it for the first time.
I pulled up to the school wearing a simple black dress, nothing out of the ordinary, but with a broom at my side. I walked up to the front doors and without hesitating, yanked them open and stepped inside.
Almost instantaneously conversations hushed and people stopped and stared. It seemed as though time had stopped. No one knew quite how to react. My entrance to the school had shocked them, no one could have imagined that a girl would show up to school with emerald green skin.
I merely smiled and continued walking as the stares followed and joined with whispers. The whispers grew louder as I reached the cafeteria, yet I merely grinned wider with each comment and each reaction. I had gone to this high school for three years and was hardly ever noticed, but today, today was my day. Every hall I went down, every room I entered people noticed me, talked about me. I just soaked it all in, enjoying it all.
In the breakfast line, a girl mockingly told me that Halloween wasn’t for a few months. As I turned to the hall where my locker was, a bunch of boys nearly jumped out of their skin. A few of the kids I had classes with began humming the Wicked Witch theme, others sang, “Ding, dong the witch is dead”. When I met up with my friends, they said their usual greetings and continued the conversation. My green-tinted skin didn’t phase them, because they were my friends, and liked me no matter what.
When the warning bell rang, we parted and I made my way to College Prep. I was again met with odd looks and mutterings. When the English teacher made her entrance she grinned and exclaimed, “It seems we have the Wicked Witch of the West with us today.” She was definitely my favorite teacher.
It was finally my turn to give my report and I wasn’t the least bit nervous. The Witch and I were so alike it was easy to become her, because I understood her. I told of her tragic tale, and how her name was lost to the world. Elphaba was just a sad misunderstood girl, who was tragically born green. But it was because of her skin that she was judged and shunned. I spoke of how we, having only known the Wizard of Oz, assumed her to be wicked because we only knew one side of the story, and we willingly accepted that without asking about the other side.
Silence filled the room once I was done, and I took my seat. Others in that class may not have learned anything, but I did; I understood why I had always liked the Wicked Witch of the West, Elphaba. We are both misunderstood and judged upon our outward appearance and treated cruelly by those who feared and didn’t understand us.
The comments and stares followed me all day long, but they didn’t bug me. I was proud to be Elphaba, and for once proud to be me. I never once looked down and felt as though I were flying. Going to school green taught me that I was Elphaba. I had walked a mile in her shoes and realized they were my own.
To most of us a witch is an ugly wart infested old hag with an evil cackle, but I have realized that she is the forgotten heroine with a beautifully tragic story. She was different and it was the death of her, because those around her could not accept her for who she was nor could she call upon others for help. Even now, we call her Wicked because once upon a time some one told us so and that she died because she was. I now know that Frank L. Baum was wrong about both of these things; she was not Wicked nor is she dead. She lives within me.
The best thing about this is the next year in the dress code they mentioned body paint, and how it is not allowed!
By Broom & Bubble 
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