The lights went out and the audience fell silent. It was a cold January afternoon in 2007 and I was sitting in a packed auditorium in Providence, Rhode Island, nervously thinking about the week ahead. In just a few days, I would travel the world and enter a classroom for the first time as a student teacher, a dream that had been years in the making and that suddenly seemed overwhelming.
I had heard the cast recording of “Wicked” more times than I could count, but seeing it live was something else entirely. The musical, based on Gregory Maguire's 1995 novel, reimagines the familiar world of The Wizard of Oz from the perspective of Elphaba, the misunderstood and defiant Wicked Witch of the West. When Elphaba rose into the air during “Defying Gravity,” her voice seemed to echo my own doubts and aspirations. Not only did she reject the status quo for the sake of rebellion, she dared to imagine a world where she could exist on her own terms, despite being defined by those around her. Her defiance was bold and vulnerable, a refusal to allow fear or tradition to dictate her path.
Sitting in that theater, I felt something spark inside me. I wondered if he had that kind of courage. Could I walk into an unfamiliar classroom on the other side of the world and find my voice as a teacher? Could I challenge my insecurities, the expectations of others, and the boundaries I hadn't yet questioned? Elphaba's rise wasn't just a performance: it was a reminder that stepping into the unknown might be the only way to create something meaningful. I left the theater with my heart racing, not realizing what awaited me, but determined to get up anyway.
Teaching as transformation
That spark led me to become a student teacher in Townsville, Queensland, Australia, where I was pushed to grow in ways I didn't expect. Teaching and at the same time learning how to manage a classroom and create coherent and engaging lessons in a new environment was a humbling and daunting task. My cooperating teacher moved with ease: each lesson was a performance, delivered with such presence that she captivated her audience. Watching it left me wondering if I was cut out for this job.
But I kept coming back to Elphaba’s journey: “Something has changed within me; something is not the same.” Their defiance was not rebellion; It was the courage to imagine something better. Like her, I was still finding my voice, balancing the desire to push boundaries while staying safe.
Early in my career, I often played it safe, avoiding certain topics and adjusting lessons to fit administrative expectations. This election forced me to confront a difficult question: Was I challenging unjust systems, complying with them, or being complicit through silence? As a white, queer educator in predominantly white school districts, staying away from risks often seemed like the easiest and safest option. This privilege, however, is not shared by many of those who navigate these flawed systems with much less security. Every time I chose security, it came at a cost. I felt the tension of compromising my values, the uncomfortable awareness of what I had left unsaid or undone.
Those moments taught me a fundamental truth: courage is not always easy. It's complicated, uncomfortable and full of errors. Glinda's complicity came to mind, not through active harm but through silent omissions that allowed unjust systems to persist. However, those moments also taught me that challenge doesn't have to be great. Sometimes small, intentional decisions open the door to transformation. Elphaba's words stayed with me: “I'm tired of accepting limits because someone says they are limits.” His mindset helped me see a path forward, one that values boldness over compliance.
Education then and now
When I landed my first full-time teaching position, I still had room to explore. Those early years gave me the freedom to try new ideas, take risks, and learn from my mistakes. I experimented with lessons that prioritized curiosity and creativity, and saw firsthand the impact of engaging students with learning experiences that felt relevant and challenging.
But as time went on, I began to feel disoriented. Departmental and school-wide conversations were not about how to inspire students or make learning meaningful, but about how to track data and avoid the label of failure. As I moved to other schools and districts, teaching began to feel less like a profession based on relationships and creativity and more like a business about managing results. The introduction of national standards and corresponding assessments further strengthened the approach. Expectations became rigid and the creative freedom I was beginning to find (however hesitant) began to disappear and was undermined by mandates that left little room for flexibility and innovation. I remember thinking: is this what teaching is supposed to be like?
Almost 20 years later, I see how much and how little has changed in education. The panorama seems more polarized than ever. The emphasis on accountability measures persists, now compounded by rising waves of censorship. Book challenges, restricted lesson plans, and attempts to silence important conversations have not only made the classroom seem smaller, they have reduced the possibilities of what teaching and learning can be. Instead of becoming spaces where students take risks and explore new ideas that interest them, many classrooms have become less engaging, more cautious, and increasingly limited.
Defying gravity in practice
“Defying gravity” in education means rejecting the limits imposed by fear and systemic limitations. In a CTE teacher preparation course I taught to high school juniors and seniors, we wrestled with these ideas together. Using Bobbie Harro “The cycle of socialization”, we examine how fear, ignorance and insecurity shape our identities and the way we see the world. Through visual representations of their socialization, my students asked themselves: What is stopping me? What forces have shaped who I am? Who do I want to be as a future teacher?
These conversations led us to Harro's. “The Cycle of Liberation,”where students began to imagine practical ways to shape their future classrooms. Together, we explore what it means to raise awareness, disrupt oppressive systems, reframe dominant narratives, and build authentic relationships.
One student, inspired by her bilingual experience, designed activities that celebrated linguistic diversity to support multilingual learners. Another, affected by a Texas case in which a school policy disproportionately affected students of color over hairstyleproposed revising the district's policies to make them more inclusive.
By the end of the course, my students had come to understand that teaching goes beyond simply delivering lessons or grading assignments. It's about addressing complexity, embracing discomfort, and committing to growth.
A call to defy gravity
As Elphaba rose into the air, I felt a flash of possibility: an exciting feeling that the world could be bigger and freer if I had the courage. I didn't fully understand it at the time, but it planted a seed.
Nearly 20 years later, that spark has grown stronger and has guided me through the challenges, setbacks, and triumphs of teaching. I have learned that transformation is not a single dramatic act. It's a series of choices: stay curious when things feel rigid, meet students where they are, or question the systems that limit them. It occurs in the quiet persistence of trying again after failure, trusting that small changes can create lasting change.
Like Elphaba's rise, transformation requires belief in something that has not yet been fully realized. Every act of risk and resilience builds something better: for my students and the future they dare to imagine.
