Part 3 Wicked: Ways A Makeover Becomes A Metaphor For Assimilation And The Quiet Reshaping Of Identity.

The Politics of OZ: An Editorial Analysis of the Film Wicked Part One from the View of a Black Woman

By Felicia Brookins• 7 min read

A Casual Editorial on Colorism and Beauty Politics: Beauty Makeovers and Cultural Erasure

“I Want to Make You My Project”

When I watched the film Wicked Part One and heard the character Glinda tell Elphaba, “I want to make you my project,” it landed in my gut with a hard thump. On the surface, it is packaged as a playful promise of transformation. A little sparkle here, a little polish there. Movie magic.

But beneath that shimmer sits a familiar truth for Black women about beauty politics, colorism, and the relentless pressure to erase parts of ourselves just to be considered acceptable.

Let’s be honest for a moment. Black women have been someone’s “project” for centuries.

As a Black woman, I could not help but recognize the cultural echo in that scene. Society has long tried to fix, soften, refine, and improve women whose beauty does not fit the preferred mold. The makeover in Wicked is meant to feel enchanting, but in real life it often reads as cultural erasure. That realization creates a tension inside my beautiful Black body. And tension, as we know, is where truth lives.

That is exactly where this editorial begins.

The Makeover That Was Never Just a Makeover

Glinda’s makeover scene may be one of the most politically charged moments in the film, whether audiences realize it or not.

She promises to fix Elphaba’s hair, teach her how to talk, show her what shoes to wear, help her become popular, improve her voice, adjust her posture, and refine her mannerisms until she becomes socially acceptable.

Sounds helpful, right?

Not so fast.

Let’s start with the hair.

In the film, Elphaba wears braids, a style that represents history, resistance, and identity for Black women. Braids are never just a fashion choice. They are a language. A lineage.

Long before modern beauty standards existed, African tribes used braiding patterns to signal status, community ties, skill, and heritage. During slavery, braids became maps. Enslaved Africans braided escape routes into each other’s hair. Seeds, shells, and tools were hidden within the strands, small acts of genius preparing the way toward freedom.

Symbolism like that does not fade. It evolves.

Our braids carry ingenuity, memory, and culture. They are artistry formed by hands that refused to forget where they came from.

So when Glinda metaphorically swoops in with her wand, ready to correct what she perceives as a flaw, it mirrors an experience many Black women know intimately. The pressure to abandon hairstyles rich with meaning simply to satisfy someone else’s definition of professionalism.

What the world labels messy or unpolished is often the very thread connecting us to one another.

Hair is never just hair for a Black woman.

Help or Erasure?

Glinda’s intervention is not merely aesthetic. It is ideological.

What is disguised as help feels more like an invitation for Elphaba to shrink. To trade what is culturally hers for something more digestible.

But here is the thing about assimilation. It rarely announces itself as oppression. It shows up smiling.

Once the hair is handled, Glinda moves on to teaching Elphaba how to talk. Now we are stepping onto territory Black women and Black people navigate daily.

Code switching.

Switch the tone.
Flatten the dialect.
Round the edges.
Sound less threatening.

These are not optional adjustments. They are survival strategies.

Authenticity becomes negotiable when acceptance is on the line.

The Politics of Presentation

Then come the shoes.

At first glance, it seems trivial. Shoes are just shoes, right?

Wrong.

Presentation has always been political for Black women. Fashion choices are scrutinized, policed, and interpreted as character statements. Too bold? Tone it down. Too colorful? Try neutral. Too expressive? You might intimidate someone.

Translation: be smaller.

But Glinda is not finished yet. She sets her sights on popularity.

And now we reach the heart of it.

Popularity in this context is not social. It is conditional belonging. A membership card society suggests Black women must earn through performance.

Smile through microaggressions.
Mute your brilliance.
Do not be difficult.
Definitely do not be angry.

Glinda’s version of popularity rewards conformity.

History tells us that acceptance offered at the price of identity is not acceptance at all. It is negotiation.

Shrink to Fit

Next comes the trifecta: voice, posture, and mannerisms.

Black women have long been told our laughter is too loud, our presence too big, our expressions too animated. Sit smaller. Speak softer. Be grateful you were invited into the room at all.

All of these so called improvements point toward the same destination. Social acceptability.

And let’s tell the truth plainly. Social acceptability often means proximity to whiteness.

This is not about helping Elphaba.

It is about controlling how she is seen.

Friendship or Colonization?

Let’s call this what it is.

This is not friendship. It is the colonization of identity.

It reflects a historical pattern in which Black women were pressured, sometimes subtly and sometimes aggressively, to change their hair textures, speech patterns, clothing, and physical expressions to blend into white spaces.

The film quietly pulls back the curtain on another truth: approval becomes synonymous with beauty.

There is a telling moment when Elphaba attempts to toss her hair the way Glinda taught her. When Prince Feldspur notices, he remarks that she has been “Glinda fied.”

That comment reaches far beyond cosmetics.

It gestures toward what happens when assimilation reshapes communities. When white approval becomes the measuring stick, everything starts to look the same.

Culture fades.
Originality disappears.
Erasure becomes normalized.

And suddenly, difference is treated like a flaw instead of a strength.

Why This Still Matters

Fantasy has always been a safe container for difficult conversations. Stories allow us to examine power without immediately raising our defenses.

What Wicked Part One reveals, intentionally or not, is that the pressure to transform is rarely about beauty alone. It is about who gets to belong without changing and who must reinvent themselves just to be tolerated.

For Black women, the message has been repeated across generations: you are impressive, but you would be even better if you were just a little less… you.

Yet history also tells another story. One of resistance. One of women who refused to shrink.

The tension remains, but so does the defiance.

And perhaps that is why this narrative resonates so deeply. Because every attempt to reshape identity is eventually met with the same quiet rebellion:

No.

I will not disappear to make you comfortable.

#DefyingGravity