The Politics of Oz: What Wicked Part One Reveals About Colorism, Power, and Belonging in the Wicked Series

A Cultural Editorial from the Perspective of a Black Woman

By Felicia Brookins• 6 min read

Fantasy has always been a safe place to wrestle with uncomfortable truths. Behind the spectacle, the costumes, and the magic, the genre often tells stories about the real world with surprising precision.

Wicked Part One follows this tradition beautifully.

Beneath the shimmer of Oz lives a sharp commentary on propaganda, beauty standards, identity, and the policing of marginalized voices. The film quietly reminds us of a truth scholars have argued for decades: those who hold power often control the narrative.

Today’s cultural battles around diversity initiatives, book restrictions, and speech are not new conflicts. They are modern versions of an old pattern. And Wicked places that pattern directly in front of us without ever breaking the spell of its fantasy world.

The wicked series also serves as a lens through which we can examine these ongoing societal issues.

To fully understand the film’s political weight, we must look closely at the moments where beauty, race, power, and belonging are placed under a microscope.

The earliest example arrives quickly and it stings.

When Humor Isn’t Harmless: Microaggressions in Plain Sight

During their first encounter, Prince Fiyero tells Elphaba, “I didn’t see you. You must have blended with the foliage.”

On the surface, the comment floats by as casual humor. But many viewers immediately recognize something deeper.

Microaggressions often disguise themselves as innocent observations while quietly echoing old stereotypes about darker bodies being invisible, less present, or less worthy of attention. To the speaker, it may feel harmless. To the recipient, it rarely is.

Let’s be honest. It is dismissive.

Elphaba’s reply, calm yet defensive, carries the emotional labor many Black women know intimately. There is a familiar exhaustion in having to respond gracefully to ignorance while managing the sting beneath it.

This experience aligns with what scholars describe as misogynoir, the specific intersection where racism and sexism meet the lives of Black women. Within many communities, colorism further deepens this wound, training women to brace themselves against jokes, backhanded compliments, and remarks that reopen generational scars.

Elphaba’s instinct to explain herself mirrors what countless darker complexioned women navigate daily. She answers with composure, but the weight behind that composure is unmistakable.

And then comes the contrast.

Beauty Privilege and the Currency of Whiteness

When Glinda learns a prince is arriving, she does not simply prepare herself. She performs beauty.

She flips her blond hair, straightens her posture, and steps forward with the quiet expectation of admiration. Predictably, admiration follows.

Her confidence is not arrogance. It is the natural outcome of moving through a world designed to reward her appearance.

Elphaba walks through that same world already judged.

This dynamic feels painfully familiar because we see it constantly. Certain women can leverage charm and culturally approved beauty to command attention, soften rules, and open doors without resistance.

What we witness here is often called racialized beauty capital. Features historically centered by Western media have long functioned as social currency.

Meanwhile, bodies that fall outside those standards are forced to negotiate their acceptance.

But beauty is only one side of privilege.

The other side is freedom.

Who Gets to Break the Rules?

When Fiyero encourages students to abandon expectations and sneak off to the Ozdust Ballroom, his rebellion reads as charming. Adventurous, even.

For someone else, the same behavior might be labeled reckless or threatening.

This is the quiet machinery of power at work. Systems often protect some while exposing others to harsher consequences for identical actions.

Not everyone moves through institutions with the same margin for error.

Some mistakes become funny stories.

Others become permanent labels.

Wicked makes this imbalance impossible to ignore.

The Subtle Art of Social Manipulation

One of the film’s more revealing threads is Glinda’s influence over Boq. Aware of his affection, she persuades him to escort Nessarose to the dance under the appearance of kindness.

But look closer.

This is not generosity. It is social strategy.

Privilege often grants individuals the ability to shape outcomes without ever appearing forceful. Manipulation becomes so normalized that it is mistaken for charm.

Another telling moment arrives when Glinda publicly gifts Elphaba a hat she herself dislikes. Framed as a thoughtful gesture, the act carries the unmistakable scent of performance.

Was it kindness, or was it reputation management?

The question matters because it opens a broader conversation about interracial friendships and social power.

Who is allowed to manipulate without condemnation?
Who must remain endlessly sincere just to be accepted?

Glinda gains social credit.
Elphaba accepts the hat in pursuit of safety and belonging.

One acts from amusement.
The other responds from necessity.

That difference is everything.

The Ballroom: Belonging on Trial

Elphaba enters the Ozdust Ballroom dressed with pride, hopeful that she has finally stepped into the circle.

Instead, the room tightens around her.

Conversations stall. Eyes linger. Judgment travels faster than music.

Her outfit, meant to signal participation, becomes a spotlight magnifying her difference.

Many Black women recognize this moment instantly. It plays out in corporate offices, academic institutions, creative industries, and technology spaces alike. The sensation of being quietly evaluated never fully disappears.

And yet, culture has a strange habit.

Traits dismissed as unprofessional or excessive suddenly become desirable once detached from the people who created them. Fashion, language, and aesthetics are frequently celebrated only after being repackaged by more socially accepted messengers.

But the ballroom delivers its harshest blow when laughter erupts as Elphaba begins to dance.

She tries to stay strong. Tears follow anyway.

It is a devastating reminder that courage does not always shield us from cruelty.

Silence Speaks Too

Perhaps the most uncomfortable moment is not the laughter.

It is Glinda’s hesitation.

She watches.

History has shown that neutrality often sides with comfort rather than courage. Too frequently, Black women are left to endure public humiliation under the assumption that strength is our natural state.

Solidarity, it seems, can be selective.

Yet when Glinda finally joins Elphaba on the dance floor, something remarkable happens. The very movements once mocked become instantly acceptable.

The crowd follows her lead.

Nothing about the dance changed.

Only the messenger did.

This is privilege in its purest form the power to transform rejection into admiration simply through proximity.

Glinda did not invent the moment. She legitimized it.

And that raises a difficult question:

How often is value determined not by the brilliance of an idea, but by who delivers it?

The Authority to Define Belonging

If Glinda’s approval can reshape the room within seconds, what does that reveal about who society trusts to define beauty, desirability, and worth?

Acceptance frequently hinges less on expression and more on permission.

Again and again, Black women watch their ideas gain traction only after being echoed by someone deemed more palatable.

It is not merely frustrating.

It is structural.

Wicked Part One ultimately reminds us that belonging is rarely neutral territory. It is negotiated, contested, and often controlled by invisible hierarchies.

Yet the film also offers a quiet form of hope.

Elphaba continues to show up as herself.

And perhaps that is the film’s most radical message of all.

Authenticity may not always grant immediate acceptance, but it remains the first step toward rewriting the narrative.