I should not have read Wicked the first time I found it lurking on the bottom shelf of the library. I was just too young. Dark jokes and innuendos flew far above my teenage head, leaving only contrails. The sex scenes intrigued me, but I didn’t understand what they meant to the characters, not really. Most of the pre-Dorothy narrative bored me. And the politics, the driving force of Elphaba’s young life, which made the land of Oz tumble and groan, meant nothing to me. I barely understood the politics of my own world; how could I get invested in the reign of the House of Ozma?

Growing up, I considered myself apolitical, but I look back now and realize how uninformed I was, how shaped by my sheltered environment my thoughts were. The only news I heard came from Fox News and my local station. I simply thought that the world functioned as they said it did and that I heard the plain truth. Obviously everyone thought about world issues just like Steve Doocey and Gretchen Carlson did, because nothing else existed.

Fox and Friends every morning, then to school, where I took classes with only forty-five other kids. Most of my teachers did double duty as youth ministers or chapels for the sports teams, a common occurrence in Georgia, and their religion often leaked into their lesson plans. My seventh grade science teacher prefaced the evolution section of the textbook with the statement, “I don’t believe in this, and I don’t think any of you do either, and that’s good, but I am required by law to teach this. Don’t worry, I won’t spend too much time on it.” A male history teacher, popular for not being afraid to proudly proclaim his pro-life stance, once denied discussing Hinduism with an Indian student in his World Religion class. In front of her classmates, he allegedly said, “I’m sorry, but I will not discuss this with you. You are going to Hell and I don’t want to save you if you don’t want to be saved.”

As should surprise no one, this school didn’t have very progressive views on gender equality. At sixteen, my most pressing, liberal concern rose in the fact that girls could never move furniture, play harder P.E. sports, or attend weightlifting. We had to wait, walk, and go to Health class, instead. Girls who wanted to do more were automatically the radical feminists of the school. As one of those girls, I can testify that we didn’t know anything about feminism. Once, at a restaurant with some Quizbowl teammates, I remember saying that I considered myself a feminist, “but, like, I don’t hate men, so not a real, crazy one.” The girl I spoke to laughed and said, “Oh, I definitely hate them. Especially my brother.” She served as my personal pinnacle of progressivism for years.

The second time I started reading Wicked, I didn’t finish it. I had seen the musical in Atlanta the spring before, I had sung “Defying Gravity” in a pageant, and I had finally bought the entire book series. When I first searched for the books, I didn’t know that there would be a plurality of them. I expected to put one item in my cart, and instead found four. How much larger could the world of Oz be? The witch lived, she died, so who else could possibly exist worth continuing the series?

I wouldn’t find out for years. My reread of Wicked coincided with the beginning of my first year of college. I moved three hours from home to get a new experience, and I can only describe my first semester as a long period of shock. In my first Biology class, I thought I would beat everyone when the professor asked if anyone was from out of town. I wanted to raise my hand and say, “I’m from Albany. That’s at the bottom of the state.” Then, a classmate said she came from Nigeria, and I stopped being so impressed with myself. Day one, and I had been humbled.

Most of that school year followed that pattern. I had never seen so much cultural diversity, and I had never heard so many different opinions. Some were right-leaning, some left, some a central blend, overall just very pleasant people. Fox never graced a campus television that I saw, and away from the creeping, controlling shouts of Brian Kilmeade, I heard so many facts based on science rather than on religion or morality.

For context, this budding awareness of the world around me started just two years after the rise of the #BlackLivesMatter movement, and one year before the 2016 election. Debates flew around classrooms like gnats in South Georgia. The opinions would bite just as hard, too. As a naive and oddly confident young woman just learning about politics, I would often share thoughts on Facebook – I don’t recommend this if you aren’t looking to fight half of your family on a public forum.

And this led to Thanksgiving, where my dad called me a commie. He turned to my uncle as I left the room, hoping I wouldn’t hear, and said that he hadn’t wanted me to go to a college far away, because I would be out from under his influence and turn into “one of those fucking liberal brats.”

I hurried out of the room and hid elsewhere in the house, my bravado crushed in close quarters.

I busied myself with extra classes, including Honors courses, and with multiple jobs. They distracted me from arguments with my dad and family friends, but also prevented me from reading for fun. My Wicked Witch of the West bookmark did not move through the green pages of Wicked for three years.

And then I made it to my last semester of undergrad. I planned my courses with care, so that I only had fun electives and interesting minor classes to take. With what felt like more free time to myself, I restarted the book. I wanted to know Elphaba, the witch, from the beginning again. I needed to live in Oz with her and let my feet sink into the marshes of Quadling country as I read about the secrets of her birth. My heart broke when she went to Shiz and didn’t have the supporting family I’d been blessed with. I blushed at the voyeuristic shows at the Philosophy club, knowing that the college students could have easily been my classmates.

I won’t jinx my future self and say that I understand everything, but I think I get Elphaba’s radicalism. I often feel the same helplessness she did as she argued Animal rights with classmates and other citizens who simply did not care. She turned to militant activism because she saw no other way to contribute to her cause. I raced through the book this time, wishing I could be on her side, wishing I had her bravery and her power. I finished it heartbroken because she never got to see her impact.

The rest of the series hinged on the political unrest Elphaba left on Oz. She left a legacy, despite never feeling she accomplished anything. She inspired major change. In the weirdly near-apocalyptic world I live in, I feel pressure to do the same. I may not have the means to go underground and become a spy and saboteur like she did, but I feel a responsibility to fight for people being attacked and punched down. I can utilize what privileges and skills I possess and put them to work for others. I have to do what I can and pretend no one else will.

At the end of the day, Elphaba Thropp is a fictional character facing fictional problems. I can’t help her fight her battles, and she can’t help me with mine. The inspiration I draw from her and her legacy doesn’t shrivel, though. Instead, I see our similarities, and I see people in the real world that embody her spirit, and I try to fight like she would, like they do. In the so-called witch, I see the people that author Gregory Maguire saw and felt for. They are the people I want to one day fight with.

Happy Growing.