Chapter Text
There was something freeing in knowing to be unlovable: when you are loved, people begin to have expectations. And expectations often lead to delusion, together with anger and frustration. Elphaba knew it well, she’d seen it with her father. He expected her wife to outlive the delivery of Nessarose, and when she died giving birth to their second daughter, he didn’t know what to do with all those emotions that he could only smash his anger and frustration on his first daughter.
Elphaba came to know about the freedom of a life alone at a very young age. Not a single adult in her life made her feel wanted or deserving, and—inevitably—she began to build her own world with her own priorities and needs.
She didn’t need love.
She didn’t need recognition.
Her world was simple as that: Elphaba and the awareness of a life of solitude.
Except for the eventuality in which she would meet the Wonderful Wizard of Oz, the only one she considered capable of doing what no one seemed to be: understanding further the surface. See beyond.
He was like that, Elphaba had no doubt.
The color of her skin was part of the bitterness that pervaded her life: she wasn’t any color ever seen on someone’s skin, she wasn’t any color present in her family. And so she came to be a stranger in the house she should’ve been able to call home.
She had no friends, no boy and no home. She was almost free.
“Constance rejects any form of frivolity to indulge her desire for freedom…” Elphaba read her book aloud absorbedly. She half-smiled to herself and picked up a crayon she used to underline her favourite passages in books.
The air was slightly chill that evening, she was wrapped in a black knitted poncho Dulcibear had made for her latest birthday: the only gift she’d received that year, together with a bookmark made up with leaves by her sister Nessarose.
The backyard was quite desolate during that time of the year, the carpet of withered twigs seemed like a vast stork nest and the naked trees were so thin that they lost the purpose of maintaining her father’s so pursued privacy.
Elphaba nonetheless enjoyed being there, in the back of the house, unaware of the surroundings, knees deep in the fantasy world that captured her at the moment.
Frivolity. Frivolity.
That word got inexplicably stuck in her head, she sensed its meaning running through her veins and leaving her skin tingle. She rolled one sleeve up to relieve her goose-bumped green skin. The origin of all the clashes she had with her peers, the root of her father’s disdain and her sister's embarrassment.
An attribute so shallow, the skin, something that enveloped the body and made it look, a mere show for the ones who could see, but that didn’t let escape anything of what was beneath. An external, apparently superficial characterization that Elphaba couldn’t help but feeling stronger than a hurdle.
Now lost in her thoughts, Elphaba diverted her attention from the book and to the backyard, following the gentle roll of the leaves on the ground and the occasional shift of a bird from branch to branch.
Frivolity.
To the umpteenth ring of the concept in her mind, she felt the severe urge to exorcise what made her uncomfortable by writing a letter to the one person she knew would look beyond her physical appearance.
Dear Wonderful Wizard of Oz,
My name is Elphaba Thropp, and I live in Munchkinland. I am sixteen years old and currently homeschooled.
As I sat reading in the backyard today, I found myself thinking about the future. In a few years, I’ll finally be old enough to travel on my own, free from the constraints of my father’s rules. And when that day comes, my first destination will undoubtedly be the Emerald City.
Your city, Your Almighty.
You see, there is something about me that I wish I could change—something I know you, with your infinite wisdom and power, might understand.
My skin is green.
It has been since the day I was born. People stare, whisper, and judge, as though the color of my skin says everything they need to know about me. They don’t see my mind, my thoughts, or my ambitions. They see only the green, and that’s all I ever become to them.
Your Almighty, I don’t want to live like this forever. I want to be seen for who I am, not what I look like. I believe you are the only one in all of Oz who can help me. Is there a way to change the color of my skin? To make it like everyone else’s?
I know it’s a bold request, but I feel you are the only one who might understand what it’s like to carry something you cannot change—something that makes you stand out in all the wrong ways.
If you can help me, I would be forever grateful.
Yours sincerely,
Elphaba Thropp
Dear Miss Elphaba Thropp,
First and foremost, I want to thank you for your letter. It is a rare privilege to hear directly from the citizens of Oz, especially someone as insightful and eloquent as you. Your words touched me deeply.
Now, about your request: did you know that green happens to be my favorite color? It is a shade that symbolizes life, growth, and resilience—qualities I already sense in you, Elphaba. While I understand your feelings, I must tell you that I wouldn’t change green for anything in the world. I believe it holds a power far greater than you realize, and I want you to see it too.
However, I also understand that such acceptance does not come easily. It requires time, reflection, and, most importantly, purpose. And so, I have a proposition for you, one that will benefit not only you but all the people of Oz. You have two years before you can embark on your journey to the Emerald City, and in that time, I would like you to help me with a very important task.
I am launching a new column in the Weekly of Oz, one I believe will inspire countless readers. I have named it The Emerald Perspective , though we can rename it if you think of something better. This column will invite the people of Oz to share the things they wish they could change about themselves. Your role will be to respond to their letters, helping them see the beauty, strength, or potential in what they perceive as flaws. You, Elphaba, are uniquely suited to this role. Who better to guide others toward self-acceptance than someone who knows the struggle so intimately?
This is not just a task—it is a chance for you to explore your own feelings and perhaps come to see yourself in a different light. I believe that by helping others, you may find the perspective you need to embrace your own uniqueness. You have a voice that deserves to be heard, and I trust you to use it wisely.
I eagerly await your response, and I look forward to the possibility of working with you. Remember, Elphaba: the world is full of colors, but none shines as brightly as green.
Warm regards,
The Wizard of Oz
Dear Reader and beloved Citizen of Oz,
Prepare yourself to achieve a brand new vision of what makes you more insecure. Leave the uncomfortable feeling of inadequacy and meet Oz’s Emerald Perspective!
Let yourself be guided by the openness of the infinite Oz’s scenarios. You might be surprised to find love and care to share with the most important individual that there is: you.
With care,
The Wizard Of Oz
(Send to Emerald City Palace Of The Wizard Of Oz)
Galinda was absently browsing The Weekly of Oz when she came across the Wizard’s announcement of The Emerald Perspective . Her hand lingered on the green page, tracing the sparkling gold dust that coated it.
The curves of the font were captivating, and she suspected she was more drawn to the aesthetics than the actual concept. Which, if she was being honest, she didn’t quite grasp.
She shrugged and turned the page, resuming her perusal of the magazine.
“Galinda Upland,” came her father’s voice from the doorway. Galinda raised her head to see him smiling in amusement, one hand resting on his hip. “Shouldn’t you be sound asleep by now?”
She slowly raised The Weekly of Oz to hide her face behind it.
“Must I remind you that tomorrow is a school day?”
“Believe me,” she mumbled. “I remember it very well.”
Another day of struggling through tests and keeping up appearances awaited her. If she closed her eyes and drifted off, she would fall into that cruel, time-shrinking sleep, only to wake up in the morning she was dreading.
“There’s something you want to talk about?”
Yes .
“No.”
“Everything’s fine with the new professors?”
No .
“Yes.”
“And everything’s fine with the new classmates?”
No .
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it perfect? Good night, sweetheart. I’m proud of you.”
Would he still be proud if he knew the truth? If he knew the secret embarrassment she felt for herself, the way her goals seemed bland and impossible whenever she stepped outside her house? At school, she wasn’t the smartest, she wasn’t destined for grand achievements, she wasn’t even the third best. How could she possibly dream of becoming a sorcerer when this was her reality?
Galinda slid under the sheets until she was covered up to her head. A heavy sigh escaped her lungs. Tonight, all she wanted was to not have to swallow the lump in her throat. But she couldn’t even wish for something as simple as falling asleep with dry cheeks.
“Another foolish idiocy for weak-minded people,” Frexpar spat. “Where is Oz headed?”
The pilot edition debuted with an entire page of the Weekly of Oz dedicated to its introduction. Elphaba had less than thirty seconds to savor the sensation of pride, before her father’s biting remark came to extinguish it.
“I would like to have legs that actually move,” Nessarose said quietly, almost dismissively.
Elphaba flinched, her appetite vanishing as her focus shifted to her half-nibbled meal. Her sister’s wish struck like a blow to her chest, sending her heart plummeting to her stomach. Tears stung her eyes as a wave of helplessness overcame her. Nessarose’s reality—being confined to a wheelchair—was not a frivolity.
“Oh, my darling, you are perfect the way you are,” her father cooed, his tone a sharp contrast to his earlier harshness. “You’re capable of anything because you are a special girl. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
But those words only deepened Elphaba’s misery. They rang hollow, a sentiment that, while meant to comfort, merely underscored the weight of her sister’s struggles.
Struggling to keep up with school lessons was usually erased by Galinda’s beauty: the embarrassment of merely a discreet score could disappear in front of the compliment of a peer on her striking outfit, or the perfect waves of her golden hair.
Those comments made her gloat with pride and kept her satisfied until she was alone in her bedroom, looking at her reflection in the mirror, desperately searching for the image she offered every day to the world. Desperately searching for what people were fussing over.
What if those features that the world seemed to find so appealing weren’t enough to make up a person?
She constantly felt unfocused, distracted, lost in her mind. Lost while looking for herself. And frustrated when she couldn’t find herself standing inside the canonical walls she erected in her head. She was nowhere to be found.
But the reality was that Galinda wasn’t invested enough in the quest. She purposely skipped mental doors she knew concealed aspects of humanity she simply couldn’t afford to have.
So when she ran out of options, when she clearly probed every respectable corner of her mind, she just began again following the same pattern that, predictably, didn’t bring her anywhere useful. If possible, made her even more confused and dissociated.
And that evening, while roaming her figure with her dark, scrutinizing eyes, she felt the vibration of anger running from her extremes and gravitating to her chest, where they settled uncomfortably. Her limbs started shaking. She clenched her fists.
Her pink gown wrapped around her delicate frame in layers of sheer, flowing fabric, started to feel like a lie. The excessive frills and delicate embellishments, meant to exude elegance, only seemed frivolous and pretentious. A desperate attempt to contain the chaos within her.
And yet, the ruffles and silks failed to mask the storm behind her eyes, the restless uncertainty clawing at her chest.
Suddenly, what was made to soften, to hide, began to stress every little detail of herself she found tiresome.
When she finally broke eye contact with her reflection, her eyes fell on The Weekly of Oz, and her mind remineshed curves of gold on a deep green page.
There was something freeing in rejection: you were sure you’d never had the obligation to answer anyone’s demands, your action never truly harmed a soul if there was no one close enough to be stricken.
But for once, Elphaba was chosen and she was determined to do the best job she was capable of.
In the middle of the first week she received the first letter. She was embarrassed to admit it even to herself, but she had spent those few days waiting by the window for the Munchkin boy who served as a postman for her neighbourhood.
She still was at the window, nervously biting her nail, when his gingerish, curly hair jumped into her sight.
“Do you have something for Elphaba Thropp?” She shouted while running to meet him.
“Didn’t know dinosaurs could have correspondence,” he responded with an evil grin that made his crooked teeth on full display.
Elphaba was quite accustomed to the ugly comments and the grimaces, but nonetheless she felt a tight squeeze at her chest.
“You probably don’t even know how to spell half of the words you speak. I suggest you limit yourself to doing your job.”
The freckled skin of his cheeks immediately turned pink as he flared his nostrils. Offended by the retort to his unmotivated attack, he simply handed a little stack of letters to Elphaba and stormed away as soon as she picked them.
“He should write for my column and ask for a change of attitude,” she murmured to herself while sliding the letters in her hands like fanned playing cards.
All the letters were addressed to Frexspar Thropp.
She frowned and rescanned the envelopes, her hands almost stumbling in the impetuosity of the action.
Closing her eyes in frustration, she threw her head up and whined.
What would the Wizard think of me? He would think that I’m a complete, utter failure, as he’s probably intuited by my stupid letter.
Maybe it was too soon to hope and find something addressed to her.
Elphaba slowly retraced the cobbles of the alleway, clumsily kicking a pebble. Once in the house, she closed the door behind her, and threw the letters on the console in the entrance.
The thought of being a failure to the Wizard’s eyes hurt worse than knowing her father hated her since the day she was born.
She would retreat in her bedroom, trying really hard to not destroy any furniture with the hasty powers she could already feel arise inside herself. The last time she had such a dashing delusion she almost knocked down her own door.
The thought that the column was formerly a Wizard’s idea didn’t cross her mind once.
So, drowning in her helplessness, she landed on her bed with a loud thud, face right between two pillows.
Maybe the fact that the perspective announces herself as green happens to be a turn off…
Insecurities had the best on her, and the excessive loudness of her thoughts partially covered the light tapping that was happening on the window.
“Miss Elphaba Thropp,” she heard coming from the window, followed by a muffle chirp.
Elphaba raised her head from the pillow and put her glasses on. There was the jumping silhouette of a collared dove.
Slightly surprised, Elphaba rolled down the bed and reached the window in two long strides.
“Hello,” she greeted, tentatively.
“Hello, Miss Thropp,” said the bird. “I have some letters for you,” the bird jumped a little to the right and bowed to collect a few letters with the beak. “From the Emerald City Palace.”
“Are you positively serious?” she breathed out, the excitement starting to tingle from the tips of her fingers. The bird seemed unfazed by the emotions of the girl.
“I’ll be the one bringing you the letters for the column, so would you mind keeping an eye on this very window every now and then?”
“Okay, thank you, Mr.—?”
“I’m Joyfren. Just Joyfren.”
“Thank you, Joyfren.”
He flew away without another word, and Elphaba had to admit that joy only resided in his name.
Maybe being a postman—or, postbird—was something that pushed living creatures to be rude. But, in all honesty, she didn't mind since she finally received her first three cries for help.
The thought pumped in her veins in the subform of panic: what if she wasn’t up to par?
She started struggling between her insecurities and her pride. Her brain was playing a strategic board game in which every move turned the tables on her own perspective of herself. She felt weak and powerful at the same time.
Letters in hands, she took the paper knife from her desk and crawled in bed, trying to put herself in the maximus confort she was capable of.
Elphaba didn’t anticipate the trouble that caused her reading those stranger’s insecurities. And, maybe, neither the Wizard thought about that comprehensively: how could a teenager answer the dark and deepest thought of a regretful adult in their mid-sixties?
She tried to stick with the challenge even if her first thought was to ask the Wizard to shift the column in that weekly, glittered magazine for teenagers that she abhorred so much.
“I can do it. I don’t need to be downgraded,” she encouraged herself. “I’m more mature than most teenagers, I’ve read a lot, I read a lot… about everything.”
Both the letters lingered in her hands, twisted and folded and then reopened. She let out a sharp breath.
“I can deal with adulterers and alcoholics,” her gaze automatically diverted to her mother’s green bottle.
Those were categories where her father loved to place her mother, when he felt particularly aggressive with the words. It wasn’t a surprise if maybe Elphaba carried inside her the rotten genes of her mother.
Rotten or not, that idea made herself soften her morals and helped her try and meet those people in a middle ground, where judgment wasn’t the first solution.
So, she collected all her strength and knowledge, and created a simple graph, a track for her mind to follow. The keystone was simple: is there anything I can do to change perspective?
“It was good, Miss Upland. But I need you to be more specific.”
“It is important to show how you come up with the solution.”
“The arguments are valid. I only wish you put a little more effort on going deeper while making your point.”
“Some bold lines would’ve been appreciated.”
All those comments resonated in Galinda’s mind. She felt in a tunnel channeled only by her professors' corrections.
They all wrapped up to a concordant reality: Galinda Upland couldn’t help but be shallow.
While roaming through the corridors of her school, she could feel a sense of not belonging. Her mediocre study career made all her efforts to look aesthetically perfect completely essential.
All that expensive, pink organza was ideal to hide behind. And she felt safe with the awareness of how well she was concealed.
Some students found her unreachable and unapproachable, which helped her restrict her act to the simple appearance. Others were particularly sociable and at all intimidated by Galinda’s perfect looks, and they were those who put her to the test.
“Hi Galinda! Are you joining our book club this evening?”
For Oz’s sake, I hope not.
Galinda hated herself for having her first thought going into scanning the imperfections of the girl she was facing. She could’ve used a little blush for her pale cheeks. Also a little touch of lip balm would’ve helped those lips that were desperately asking for some hydration.
“I didn’t know about a book club at all,” she answered nonchalantly.
“I’ve left an invite on everyone’s desk this morning,” the girl answered, handing her a copy of the flyer anyway.
Oh, right. The paper she fidgeted during lesson until it crumbled into pieces.
“Must’ve missed it,” she smiled, picking up the paper. Maybe she could also use a manicure . “I already have plans for this evening, maybe another day?”
“Sure,” the girl responded, her voice uncertain. “Galinda, your presence could do some good to the initiative.”
“My presence?”
“Yes,” obviousness dripping through her features. She was pretty, even if apparently she was not interested in makeup and nice clothes. “You’re very popular.”
Galinda let those words sink in, until they reached her core. “I am.”
“So, if not today,” the girl started with a hint of hope in her voice. “Maybe next time?”
Galinda smiled in spite of herself. “Maybe next time, yes.”
Elphaba’s routine was meticulously organized: mornings were devoted to writing for her column, while evenings were reserved for studying to further her intellectual growth. Dulcibear was the only one to know about the correspondence between Elphaba and the Emerald City.
“Just one more year, Dulcibear,” she said, clasping the bear’s soft paws. “One year, and I’ll finally travel to the Emerald City to meet the Wizard.”
Dulcibear’s fond expression betrayed a glimmer of pity behind her dark, button eyes, but Elphaba’s teenage excitement made her oblivious to it.
That day, Joyfren didn’t find Elphaba in her room and left a letter on the windowsill, victim of the weather. Faith wanted Dulcibear to find it on the porch stairs.
Elphaba unfolded the parchment. Inside, there was a crumpled sheet folded without following any symmetry.
I’ve always been self-conscious about my teeth, especially my incisors. They’re too big compared to the rest and seem to dominate my entire mouth. Even when I barely part my lips, they’re impossible to hide.
I hate them.
Sometimes I wonder if I could file them down, like nails, to make them smaller.
Elphaba raised her eyebrows, taking a deep breath to steady herself. She reminded herself of the first rule when responding to insecurities: no judgment.
In the end, she wasn’t so different. She also had issues with her physical appearance.
“Well,” she muttered to herself, “skin is our largest organ, and teeth are… less noticeable. Usually.”
Still, she couldn’t help but imagine this girl’s incisors as overly prominent—perhaps protruding enough to rest on her lower lip, like a rodent’s. The thought made her smile. She’d always found rodents quite endearing, after all.
Shaking off the mental image, Elphaba focused on the task at hand.
Her brain was already composing a response when she flipped the letter, expecting it to be finished—only to discover more on the back. The flowy, feminine writing of the first part had been replaced by a hasty scrawl, like chicken scratch, running unevenly across the page.
Lately, I wonder if I could file down a lot of things about myself.
Like this urge I have to please everyone. I’m a people pleaser. I live for the approval of others. I would erase myself in front of basically every human being I encounter.
Everyone but myself.
I look in the mirror and I see nothing. It happened last week, at the hair salon: I was searching for something in my reflection, and I'd only seen it when the hairdresser commented on how beautiful my features were with the brand new curls he had made.
And it’s happened right now: I’m alone, in my bedroom and I cannot find myself in the mirror, I see this emptiness in my eyes and I’m scared.
Elphaba muttered a “sweet Oz” while the girl was going deeper with her condition.
Am I supposed to feel like this? Am I unable to see myself except through the gaze of others?
A sudden knock on her bedroom’s door made Elphaba gasp. She hurried to hide the letter under her books.
“Come on in!”
“Elphaba,” her father started while crossing the doorstep. “I wanted to inform you that tonight I will have guests, so—“
“I’ll stay in my room, don’t worry about it.”
He nodded sternly. “Thank you.”
And with that and his usual sneer of light disgust, he closed the door.
She felt a fire inside ready to be thrown directly to the mousey girl. She was going to shake some sense out of her, using the passion that was pervading her.
Elphaba picked up a brand new paper sheet and started writing down her response to the girl.
There was someone, somewhere, who was struggling with appearance in a completely different way Elphaba herself was, but at the same time she felt an instant connection with those words.
Her handwriting was dirtier than usual, the words were less calculated and the syntax was winking to the stream of consciousness. She didn’t feel the need to reread it, but she knew she couldn’t make that exchange public.
So when the postbird flew to her window the day after, she made sure to have a little gift for him—a green mini-scarf she commissioned to Dulcibear—and be clear about her request.
“Joyfren, I hope not to bother you,” his half lidded eyes said that it was a bother already. “But I need a favor for this one.”
He encouraged her to go on with an imperceptible nod.
“I need you to bring this to the original sender.”