The lights dimmed, and the audience fell silent. It was a cold January afternoon in 2007, and I was sitting in a crowded auditorium in Providence, Rhode Island, nervously thinking about the week ahead. In just a few days, I’d travel across the world and step into a classroom for the first time as a student teacher—a dream years in the making that suddenly felt overwhelming.
I’d listened to the “Wicked” cast recording more times than I could count, but seeing it performed live was something else entirely. The musical, based on Gregory Maguire’s 1995 novel, reimagines the familiar world of The Wizard of Oz from Elphaba’s perspective, the misunderstood and defiant Wicked Witch of the West. When Elphaba soared into the air during “Defying Gravity,” her voice seemed to echo my own doubts and aspirations. She wasn’t just rejecting the status quo for the sake of rebellion, she was daring to imagine a world where she could exist on her own terms, despite being defined by others around her. Her defiance was bold and vulnerable, a refusal to let fear or tradition dictate her path.
Sitting in that theater, I felt something spark within me. I wondered if I had that kind of courage. Could I step 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 limits I hadn’t yet questioned? Elphaba’s ascent 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 pounding, unaware of what lay ahead, but determined to rise anyway.
Teaching as Transformation
That spark carried me into student teaching in Townsville, Queensland, Australia where I was pushed to grow in ways I hadn’t expected. Teaching while still learning to manage a classroom and create cohesive, engaging lessons in a new environment was humbling and daunting. My cooperating teacher moved with ease: every lesson was a performance, delivered with such presence that she captivated her audience. Watching her left me questioning if I was cut out for this work.
But I kept returning to Elphaba’s journey: “Something has changed within me; something is not the same.” Her defiance wasn’t 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. These choices forced me to confront a difficult question: Was I defying unjust systems, complying with them or complicit through silence? As a white, queer educator in predominantly white school districts, stepping back from risks often felt like the easier—and safer—choice. This privilege, however, is not shared by many who navigate these flawed systems with far less safety. Each time I chose safety, it came at a cost. I felt the tension of compromising my values, the uneasy awareness of what I’d left unsaid or undone.
Those moments taught me a critical truth: courage isn’t always straightforward. It’s messy, uncomfortable and full of missteps. Glinda’s complicity came to mind, not through active harm but quiet omissions that allowed unjust systems to persist. Yet, these moments also taught me that defiance doesn’t have to be grand. Sometimes, small, intentional choices open the door to transformation. Elphaba’s words stayed with me: “I’m through accepting limits ‘cause someone says they’re so.” Her mindset helped me see a way forward, one that values boldness over compliance.
Education Then and Now
When I secured 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 I 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 weren’t about how to inspire students or make learning meaningful, they were about tracking data and avoiding the label of failure. As I moved to other schools and districts, teaching began to feel less like a profession built on relationships and creativity and more like a business for managing outcomes. The introduction of national standards and corresponding assessments tightened the focus even further. Expectations grew rigid, and the creative freedom I was starting to find—however tentative—began to disappear and was chipped away by mandates that left little room for flexibility and innovation. I remember thinking, is this what teaching is supposed to look like?
Nearly 20 years later, I see how much, and how little, has changed in education. The landscape feels more polarized than ever. The emphasis on accountability measures persists, now compounded by rising waves of censorship. Book challenges, restricted curricula and attempts to silence important conversations have not just made the classroom feel smaller – they’ve narrowed the possibilities of what teaching and learning can be. Instead of becoming spaces where students take risks and explore new ideas that matter to them, too many classrooms have grown less engaging, more cautious and increasingly constrained.
Defying Gravity in Practice
To ‘defy gravity’ in education means rejecting the limits imposed by fear and systemic constraints. In a teacher preparation CTE pathway course I taught to high school juniors and seniors, we grappled with these ideas together. Using Bobbie Harro’s “The Cycle of Socialization,” we examined how fear, ignorance and insecurity shape our identities and the way we see the world. Through visual representations of their socialization, my students wondered: What’s holding me back? 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 envisioning actionable ways to shape their future classrooms. Together, we explored what it means to raise consciousness, disrupt oppressive systems, reframe dominant narratives and build authentic relationships.
One student, inspired by her dual-language experience, designed activities celebrating linguistic diversity to support multilingual learners. Another, affected by a Texas case where a school policy disproportionately impacted students of color over hairstyles, proposed revising district policies to be 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 engaging with complexity, embracing discomfort and committing to growth.
A Call to Defy Gravity
When Elphaba rose into the air, I felt a flicker of possibility—a thrilling sense that the world could be bigger and freer if only I had the courage. At the time, I didn’t fully understand, but it planted a seed.
Nearly 20 years later, that flicker has grown stronger, guiding me through the challenges, setbacks and triumphs of teaching. Transformation, I’ve learned, isn’t a single dramatic act. It’s a series of choices: staying curious when things feel rigid, meeting students where they are or questioning the systems that limit them. It happens in the quiet persistence of trying again after failure, trusting that small shifts can create lasting change.
Like Elphaba’s ascent, transformation requires believing in something not yet fully realized. Each act of risk and resilience builds toward something better – for my students and the futures they dare to imagine.
