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It took until Elphaba was six years old to understand what was wrong with her.
She’d heard a thousand times that she was “green,” and was smart enough to know it was a bad thing, somehow.
Yet, every time she heard the word in a different context, it was positive. Maybe the problem, wasn’t with green— maybe everyone just hated her.
She remembered the day it all clicked into place.
“Dulcibear?” She had asked, gathering all the courage she had.
“Yes, child?” The Bear replied.
“What is green?”
She laughed: “You’re green, my dear.”
Elphaba frowned, furrowing her brow in confusion. “Father says the grass is always greener on the other side.”
“That’s often true. Why do you bring it up?”
“I don’t know what it means.”
“Well,” she explained, calm as always. It was magical, almost, how easily the Bear could put her at ease. She wished Dulcibear could be her parent; she was certainly kinder than Father. “When grass is really healthy, it’s green. The greener the grass, the better. So when you look into someone else’s fields and their grass is greener, you may think their fields are better. But the grass always looks greener the further you are from it. It’s just a complicated way of saying people always want what they can’t have.”
“But what is green?”
“Hmm?”
“You said grass should be green. And that I’m green. I’m not grass,” she protested.
“Look over to those trees?”
Elphaba did so.
“The leaves are green.”
Elphaba furrowed her brow, worried she may never understand. Was she stupid and green (whatever that meant)? Father would surely never learn to love her if that was the case.
“Do you notice any similarities between leaves and grass?” Dulcibear asked, voice growing increasingly more intense.
Elphaba couldn’t help but shrink back a little, reminded of her father when he flew into one of his rages.
Dulcibear’s face softened. “It’s okay; there’s no right or wrong answer.”
Elphaba nodded anxiously. “I– um, they- they’re both plants?”
“Anything else?”
She shook her head, trying not to cry. She didn’t want to be dumb.
“Do you notice anything about their color?”
She shook her head. That was another word— color— that she’d never quite understood.
“What about the rows of the tulip field over on the hill? Do the rows look different at all?”
She hesitantly shook her head.
Dulcibear frowned. “Wait here, child.”
Elphaba did as she was told, staying in the small garden pavilion where they had been spending their afternoon. She regretted ever asking anything— she should have just gone along with it for the rest of her life. It was better than giving everyone another reason to hate her.
It felt like forever until Dulicibear returned, several large fabric sheets clutched loosely in her jaw.
She dropped them all on the table in front of Elphaba before using a paw to spread them out so each was easily visible.
“Do you notice a difference between any of these fabrics? Don’t touch, just look.”
Her voice was gentle, but Elphaba still flooded with shame and fear at being told off. “I-I um. I–” She looked closely. “I– no? I- I mean, some of them are lighter than the others? I’m sorry.”
Dulcibear shook her head. “Oh, no, my child. You’ve done nothing wrong, nothing wrong at all.”
“I’m sorry,” Elphaba managed out beyond the lump in her throat. “I- I’m sorry, I shouldn’t cry. Father– Father says crying is for babies.”
“You’re only young, my dear.”
Elphaba shook her head, tears spilling over. From her earliest memories, Nessa had already been born. Her little sister was young, therefore Elphaba was not. Elphaba was strong. She was mature. She was an example for her baby sister. She was older; she was basically an adult. Six was an adult age, she’d been told. It was more fingers than fit on a hand, after all.
Dulcibear moved forward, pressing her body into Elphaba’s, and she wrapped her arms as far around the great Bear as she could, hiding her face in the soft, warm fur. The tears didn’t count if no one could see them, right? That was why Father always told her to leave the room when she lost control of herself like this.
“I’m sorry I don’t know what green is,” she mumbled.
“Hush; don’t worry about that, child. It’s not important.”
But I’m green. Am I not important, not even to you? Am I never going to know myself?
Dulcibear let her sob and shake until she’d worn herself out.
Only then did the Bear pull back. “Child, I want you to know you’ve done nothing wrong. You’re not in trouble.”
She nodded, not sure why she didn't believe it.
“But I’m going to have to tell your father about this.”
Her head snapped up: “Please no!” She cried, tears flowing anew. “P-please don’t! He’s going to be so mad at me, please!”
“He won’t, child. I won't let him, I promise. This isn’t your fault. It actually… explains a lot.”
Elphaba didn’t know what that meant.
Dulcibear sighed. “Look at the fabrics again?”
She did.
“This one,” Dulcibear put a paw on one further from Elphaba, “is red. And this one,” she moved her paw closer and Elphaba could help but flinch back just slightly. Dulcibear gave her a long look before continuing. Elphaba once again hated her inability to read Animal facial expressions. “This one is green. Red and green are two colors. Do you know what a color is?”
Elphaba hesitated.
“Be honest,” the Bear said gently.
She shook her head, ashamed. She’d heard the word many times, but had always been too afraid to ask.
“Colors… are things most people can see. Here– can you see that the fabric is darker than the table?”
She nodded.
“So you can see when things are light and dark?”
She nodded. She wasn’t that dumb.
“And you see the wood grain pattern on the table?”
She nodded. “There’s lines and swirls.”
Dulcibear nodded. “When you can tell things apart by how light and dark they are, that’s usually because they’re different colors. Most people can see certain differences that you can’t. There’s nothing wrong with that, you’re just a little different.”
She frowned. “Am I one of the differences everyone else can see?”
Dulcibear hesitated for a small moment before nodding.
“That’s not fair! I’m already different enough!”
Dulcibear smiled. It didn’t feel like a happy expression. “No such thing, my child. The world can never have enough differences. That’s what makes life so beautiful. Do you think I’m too different because I walk on all fours?”
“No,” she said immediately. “But that’s different; there are lots of Bears like you. I’m the only one like me.”
“How do you know that?”
“What?”
“The world is a very large place, Elphaba. There could be someone out there like you. And if there isn’t, then that just makes you special.”
“I don’t want to be special.”
“You can’t help it, my child. Someday you’ll learn to love it about yourself.”
Elphaba doubted it.
She followed miserably behind Dulcibear, the knot in her stomach growing with every step closer to Father. She didn't let herself cry again. She couldn’t let herself cry again. Father would be so mad at her.
Soon, they were at his office door. Dulcibear used her snout to knock.
“Yes?” Father called out.
“It’s Dulcibear; I have Elphaba with me.”
There was a loud, angry sigh from the other side of the door. “Is this really important?”
“Yes, sir, it is.”
Another sigh. “Come in.”
Duclibear raised herself up to use her chin to turn the doorknob, pushing the door open.
She entered, and Elphaba trailed behind, curled in on herself as much as she could be.
“Great Oz, Elphaba, straighten up!” He snapped. “You’re the Governor's daughter, have some self respect. What will people think of me if they see my daughter acting this way in public?”
Dulcibear tried to defend her: “Sir, she’s only a child–”
“When I want parenting advice, I’ll ask for it,” he snapped.
Dulcibear went quiet.
Elphaba straightened up, uncrossing her arms and raising her head up high. She didn’t look at her father.
“Now— what’s she done this time?”
“She’s not done anything wrong, Governor. I believe Elphaba is… colorblind.”
She said the word like a disease. Elphaba wondered if it was.
“What?” He asked.
“I don’t think she can see colors at all.”
“But that would mean she doesn’t understand…”
He didn't finish his sentence, but Dulcibear still nodded to confirm.
Elphaba thought she could fill in the blank: She doesn’t understand what’s wrong with her.
Father looked… upset. Not angry, how he usually was, just sad. Elphaba was filled with the urge to comfort him, but fear held her back. It was never smart to speak out of turn when Father was in the room.
He hated her, she was sure of it. He’d made it clear enough throughout the years. She couldn’t complain, it was her fault after all: she was born wrong.
She wished she understood what green was. Maybe she could find a way to stop being it.
ooOOoOoOOoo
Elphaba was fourteen when was called into her father’s office.
By then she was well aware of what separated her from everyone else.
Her skin was a shade she couldn’t differentiate from many of the darker ones she saw around Munchkinland, but somehow everyone else knew she was different. And they hated her for it.
She never told anyone she didn’t understand what that meant.
Only Father, Nessa, and Dulcibear knew. No one else; Father had strictly forbidden the sharing of such information— apparently she was enough of a freak already. Elphaba couldn’t disagree.
She dealt with it as best as she could: by covering as much skin as possible and holding her head high. She wore all black so she could dress herself without risking embarrassing her father any more than she did simply by existing.
She pretended it didn't kill her to be loathed by everyone for something she wasn't even capable of perceiving. That it wasn't uniquely isolating to be hated for a reason she could name yet had no hope of ever coming close to understanding. That she didn't cry herself to sleep knowing she was too stupid to see the only thing anyone else saw about her.
She knocked on the door to Father's office after receiving the summons, shaking slightly but doing her best to hide it: she was a Thropp, after all— disgrace or not she needed to maintain a certain act of composure. She had to provide something to the family name.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and saw him standing behind his desk, gazing out the window at the rolling fields of Munchkinland.
He turned to her, face impassive. It was better than angry, she supposed.
He lifted a small box off the table. “Come for a walk with me, I want to show you something.”
She nodded obediently.
He led the way out of the office, and down the corridor, out to the front entrance, and into a carriage.
The ride was silent and tense.
Elphaba was desperate to fix both of those things, but she didn't dare to. An air of awkwardness was better than one of hostility. In the confines of a carriage, Father wouldn’t hesitate to draw the curtain closed and discipline her however he saw fit. She desperately wanted to avoid that; her body still ached from a few days ago.
It felt like forever before the carriage rolled to a stop, and Father got out without a word.
She found they were at Nessa’s school— Nessa was allowed to go to real school instead of private tutoring, because Nessa wasn’t green.
Whatever that meant.
All the kids were outside, playing together. A few children were gathered around Nessa, passing a ball around as a part of some game Elphaba didn’t understand. She supposed there was no point in learning, seeing as no one would ever want to play with her.
Her and Father stood a bit away from the schoolyard, on a hill. They weren't exactly hidden, but no one seemed to notice them.
Her father reached into her pocket, pulling something out and handing it to her. She barely managed not to flinch— such an action was unbecoming of someone of her status.
“Put these on.”
Elphaba took the object from his hand, careful not to touch him in the process. He didn’t like coming into direct contact with her freakishness— even her punishments were always creatively dolled out without skin-to-skin contact.
She examined the thing– things– and found that they were gloves. She put them on without question, though she wasn’t sure what good they would do when her face was still exposed. Besides, all the people in their town had seen her many times, it wasn’t like there was anyone to hide her disfigurement from.
Still, questioning Father was, ironically, out of the question.
Once they were on, Father handed her another object— the small box he’d had on his desk.
“Open it.”
She did, and was shocked to find a pair of spectacles inside. Two large circles, connected by a swooping asymmetric curve across the bridge.
“Put them on.”
She slowly did so, gasping when she did.
She didn’t have the words to describe what she was seeing. Every single thing was suddenly… different. Brighter. More beautiful. Things she’d always thought were the same were now somehow different from each other. She wished she had the words to figure out why.
She nearly cried, but managed to hold it together.
“Thank you, Father—”
He cut her off: “Quiet. I want you to look at the children down there. Look at Nessa.”
She did so, unsure what she was meant to be looking for. She was too giddy to even mind his snappish tone. It was only normal for the two of them, after all.
“Good, now let's go home. You may keep the spectacles.”
He turned abruptly and walked back to the carriage. Elphaba found she couldn’t follow, too busy staring at the sudden beauty surrounding her.
“Elphaba!” He snapped, voice filled with an all-too-familiar rage.
“Sorry, Father,” she said, hurrying toward the carriage. She had to be good; Father had given her a great gift. She needed to prove herself worthy of it.
The ride back was equally silent, but Elphaba hardly minded. She stared at the window and watched the landscape slowly pass them by. Fields and fields of flowers— where every row was different from the ones next to it in a marvelous repeating pattern— were suddenly the most lovely thing she’d ever seen. She couldn’t believe she’d found them boring before.
Is this what color is?
They arrived back at the mansion much too soon for her liking.
“Follow me,” her father commanded.
She obeyed, still staring around in wonder. The entrance carpet was beautiful; she’d never noticed that before. She was sure these spectacles had come from the Wizard himself— surely no one else could pull off such a miracle.
She was led all the way back into her room, where she found a few minor changes. For one, there was a large family portrait on the wall. Well— a portrait of Father and Nessa, at least. No one wanted to look at Elphaba, much less paint her.
Additionally, there was a large object covered by a cloth.
“Remove the covering,” Father ordered.
Elphaba obeyed. Tears instantly rushed to her eyes, and she brought a gloved hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp. She felt nauseous.
“Good. You see it now too.”
With that, Father exited the room. The door closed loudly, and Elphabab heard the familiar grind of him pulling the deadbolt shut from the outside.
She couldn’t even focus on that, too horrifically caught up in what was in front of her: a large mirror.
In it, Elphaba could finally see the similarities between herself and the grass. She suddenly knew what green was.
It was unspeakable.
Down at the school, everyone else had been one of a few colors— because she was now sure that was what she was seeing: color. Most looked like some shade of dirt or wood. Some looked more similar to the clouds. She turned to the portrait of Nessa and Father. They were both normal colored, the way everyone else had been.
No one looked like her. No one was as monstrous as she was.
She pulled off her gloves, and sobbed when she saw they were the same miserable color as her face. Panicking, she pulled off her sweater, discovering that her arms were the same color. Her entire dress came off next until she was only in undergarments and every inch of skin she inspected was still green.
She collapsed to the floor with an ugly sob she could only half muffle. Ugly, just like everything else about her.
Why would Oz allow someone— no, something like me to be born in it? Father should have just killed me as a baby; he always says he wishes he did. I’m… I don’t even know what I am. ‘Abomination’ is too kind.
She couldn’t stop crying. All the joy from earlier was gone— shattered into a thousand pieces like she was shocked the mirror didn’t do simply from the burden of bearing her reflection. The wonder of the Munchkinland tulip fields was replaced with stomach curdling horror at the site of her own face.
She’d spent her entire life wishing she understood what ‘green’ was. She thought if she understood why everyone hated her, she could fix it— she could make up for it, if nothing else.
She was so, so wrong. She wished she’d never seen herself in color.
The grass is always greener on the other side, she thought, somewhat hysterically.
Green was so much worse than she ever could have imagined.
She was so much worse.
She cried until she had to run to her attached-bathroom and throw up. She thanked Oz that Father locked her away so much; she was sure she wouldn’t have such amenities otherwise.
When she was confident her stomach was empty she crawled back to bed.
The mirror had been cruelly positioned so that she could see herself from nearly everywhere in the room, including in bed.
She hid under the blankets and sobbed until she lost consciousness. It was one of few mercies life had ever granted her.
If she thought she hated herself before, waking up the next day would be a whole new level of misery.
She kind of hoped she didn’t.