Why I'm over the rainbow Wicked made Wizard of Oz popular again
Like Ariana and Cynthia, I'm an overly emotional theatre kid at heart who visits the land of Oz not to escape my problems, but better navigate my 20s.
If you’ve ever conversed with me, it’s probably not a shock that I’m a theatre kid. I have such an expressive face that today, my Starbucks barista said she couldn’t look at me as the customer in front of me was asking for a gingerbread latte but without the gingerbread syrup or else she’d burst into laughter. By default, my eyebrows knitted together and lips curled into a suppressed smile without my knowledge or permission. So, if that’s my involuntary, silent communication – you can imagine it paired with a verbal story and Italian hand gestures.
Simply put, I’m not subtle and never have been. And as we’ve seen from Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo’s press interviews this week, being over-emotional is pretty much in a theatre kid’s DNA. My obsession with theatre, however, ironically started with a movie. Perhaps the most camp, theatre-kid coded movie musical out there: The Wizard of Oz.
I don’t even remember what initially drew me into the movie. Perhaps it was the vibrant colors, Judy Garland’s velvet, whimsical voice, or the catchy songs, but I do remember watching the movie on loop – adopting the characters behind the screen as some sort of extension of my own imagination and even family. I felt drawn to the land of Oz, fittingly associating Dorothy’s adventure with the feeling of home, childhood, and optimism.
Dorothy was the first of many characters I’d come to emulate, and while I never got the chance to formally play her on stage (despite my persistent pitches), I find myself following her script as strictly followed the yellow brick road (sorry I had to) more than ever in my 20s. I just didn’t realize it until last week – thanks to my Instagram algorithm.
Because of the Wicked movie musical, which yes, I am absolutely over the rainbow about, popular culture has become Popular (Wicked version) – inciting a resurgence of Wicked and Wizard of Oz inspired merch. Along with rushing to text my mom the link to the Marc Jacobs collab, I also quickly turned on my TV to return to Oz.
Buried beneath my covers, goosebumps gently grazed my arms as the flickering of my pumpkin candle replaced my phone’s usual harsh blue light. The opening instrumentals tickled the depths of my brain, and my surroundings seemed to melt away. I both felt like a child again and was still keenly aware that I was 24 and giddy to be in bed at 10:00pm on a Saturday watching as the black and white Kansas appeared on my TV screen, knowing it would soon be filled with saturated color.
As Judy Garland began to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow, I started to listen to the lyrics in the context of a 24 year old, rather than letting it function as my usual nostalgic touchstone. The song functions as Dortothy’s longing for more – to explore who she is beyond the dull depths of farm life.
Of course, after a long, fantastic journey in Oz, the movie ends with the iconic “There’s no place like home” line as she clicks those ruby red shoes three times. I used to be slightly confused as to why Dorothy spent the whole time wanting to go back home after opening the movie with an emotional plea to be far beyond it. However, when I watched this time I was mostly struck by the fact that Glinda knew how Dorothy could go home the whole time and didn’t tell her.
Instead, she sent a 12-year old farm girl on a dangerous journey through a mysterious land, knowing that lions, tigers, and bears (oh my!), flying monkeys – which were way creepier than I remember – and a Wicked Witch were just waiting to capture her. Sure, Glinda helped Dorothy and her friends when they were really in a pinch, but she sat back for the majority because “she had to figure out her power for herself?” Bullshit!
Watching for the first time in years without my childlike filter, my first thought was “I’d be pissed.”
But actually, no I wouldn’t. Because it happened– or rather, is happening to me.
At 18, my mom watched me move to North Carolina to attend Wake Forest University. Wake was a 24 hour drive and three hour flight away from my hometown of Houston, TX. Plus, it was practically the only corner of the world where we had no friends or family nearby. During my four years, I shed many tears, crossed University blvd at questionable times (sorry, mom!), and longed for home.
All to get through it, graduate, and then move to New York City. While there are no flying monkeys in New York City, there are lots of rats – both literally and metaphorically. Still, my mom helped me apartment hunt, pack my bags, and move even farther from home.
“This is going to be so great,” she always said at every opportunity, sealing her affirmation with a kiss on my forehead and tight hug that left her floral scent lingering on my clothes.
My lust for growth was, like Dorothy, rooted in the desire for the vague, but technicolor elsewhere. I almost didn’t care what or where it was, I just had this idea that I would become different if I was in a different setting.
But I was still the Christina I had been in Houston and in North Carolina. An anxious, type A workaholic with serious imposter syndrome. The only difference was that I now had a nagging voice in my head telling me I wasn’t smart enough, kind enough, or brave enough. I started to viciously doubt my intellectual capabilities, if I was a good enough friend/ girlfriend, and cowered away from sharing any opinion or partaking in any confrontation. Ironically, nobody was affirming my negative thoughts, but I held onto my alternate reality stronger than any positive comment or experience. Rather than finding home in my new city or even emotional homeostasis.
When playing Bananagrams started to shift my mindset, I realized that like when Dorothy enters Oz, my life became less black and white. Maybe not physically, but I was less stringent in my thinking. The absence of one aspect did not make me, by default, its opposite. Just because I wasn’t making six figures and/or a star journalist didn’t mean I wasn’t successful. Having free space on my social calendar wasn’t an absence of love in my life. And not being the loudest voice in the room didn’t make me a coward. Similarly, just because I was in New York didn’t have the simple power to transform parts of myself I wanted to leave behind. Swapping bustling highways for New York City’s grid system didn’t give me more direction, but rather something else to navigate. And it didn’t mean I had lost myself or even my home.
Having free space on my social calendar wasn’t an absence of love in my life.
It was in my power — and mine alone – to ditch what I wanted to leave behind and embrace the challenges that would come with realizing my full brain, heart, and courage in my new home.
All the while, no yellow brick road or street signs are my guidepost. There’s no Emerald City that illuminates my path. But I still have my Glinda to guide me when I do need the reminder – my mom. My mom who can tell me all day long (and who often does) that I’m smart and kind and brave enough, but knows I won’t truly believe it until I know for myself. My mom who trusts that I can walk a lot of miles in uncomfortable but stylish shoes and still, like Dorothy, only unlock my true power when I start embracing the different colors of myself and of life. My mom who is, and always will be my home.
It was in my power — and mine alone – to ditch what I wanted to leave behind and embrace the challenges that would come with realizing my full brain, heart, and courage in my new home.
Simply put, Glinda’s words wouldn’t have meant anything to Dorothy if she didn’t believe them. And therefore, she nor her friends would have had the transformative power to embrace brains, heart, courage, and home. The words we tell ourselves are powerful. And I, like many young twenty year-olds, often fall victim to ones of self doubt and negativity. While unfortunately no magic spell or kind intention or encouragement matches their strength, we all have the capability to get our minds back to a positive home base. For me, it was building community, readjusting my framework, and making room for color in my black and white thinking.
While I may never be able to permanently melt the Wicked thoughts in my head or teleport to Houston by clicking my heels, I know I have the power to readjust and come back home and truly believe my mom’s encouragement. This is going to be great. I can be great — wonderful.