Welcome Back Everyone. Later than I’d hoped because, truth be told, I haven’t been feeling the best!
December is always a complicated month for me. For most people I know, it’s a time of joy, family, and celebration, but my relationship with Christmas has always been more complicated. Growing up, Christmas wasn’t the idyllic scene of laughter and love we seen in movies. My mum, though well-meaning, carried her own burdens. As kids, her highly strung nature turned Christmas into a source of stress. When we became teenagers, her withdrawal into depression left our Christmases feeling dark and isolated. In adulthood, they evolved into days dominated by criticism, tension, and, far too often, explosive conflicts, most of which ended with the police being called.
This year marks my second Christmas away from her. It’s bittersweet. Her absence has brought me a profound sense of peace, but it’s also a reminder of what’s missing. For so many, the holidays are a time to find comfort in home and family. For me, stepping away from that dynamic has been the only way to find solace.
Yet, I do my best to create joy and warmth for my son. He deserves to feel the magic of the season, even if it isn’t always authentic from me. Whether we spend the day with family in Crosby over a nice meal or stay closer to home with friends or even alone, the goal is the same: to give him memories full of love and positivity. After all, isn’t that what Christmas should be about?
But I can’t help feeling out of step with societies image of the season. Christmas is marketed as a time of togetherness, love, and reunion. Rarely do we talk about those who feel lonely at Christmas, the ones who find the season difficult, painful, or alienating.
Before I became a mother, I used to work through Christmas to avoid going home. Support work, bartending, anything to keep myself occupied. In recent years, I’ve found meaning in giving back, delivering gift bags to the homeless, Christmas gift give aways for families in need or donating coats and jumpers. There’s something healing in those acts of kindness, in being a small light for someone else in the dark. This year, aside from my kids’ Christmas gift giveaway, I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe I’ll find a new way to connect with the spirit of the season.
On a brighter note, let’s talk Wicked! Has anyone else seen it? As a lifelong lover of musical theatre, I was thrilled to see the new film adaptation. Cynthia Erivo’s portrayal of Elphaba hit me in a way I wasn’t expecting. It felt deeply personal.
Growing up, Idina Menzel’s Elphaba was iconic to me. She brought so much heart to the role. But seeing Cynthia as Elphaba, as a Black woman, re contextualised the story. Suddenly, Elphaba’s struggle against prejudice, isolation, and judgment became an even more poignant metaphor for the experiences of racially marginalised communities. Her green skin wasn’t just a symbol of difference, it was a mirror of my own brown skin and the challenges that come with it.
It took me back to a poem I wrote when I was ten, grappling with my first experiences of racism. It was called:
‘Sometimes, I sit and think,
I wonder if my skin were pink’
Watching Wicked, I saw my ten year old self in her story. The fear of being different, the resilience to keep standing tall. Like Elphaba, I’ve had to fight to claim space in rooms designed to exclude me. I’ve learned to turn pain into power, just as she transformed her supposed “wickedness” into strength.
Her story, like mine, is one of voice, identity, and change. It reminds me that even in a world that misunderstands or fears us, we have the power to control and own our narratives. To challenge the lies. To demand better.
This December, as I navigate the complexities of the season, I’m holding on to that lesson. Like Elphaba, I’ll keep fighting to live, to love, to be. And maybe that’s the real magic of this time of year, not the perfect family gatherings or the picture-perfect traditions, but the courage to create our own meaning, in whatever way feels true to us.
I hope you have all had a restful holiday period. Thank you all for being here. I’ll leave you with a remake of my original poem this version inspired by Wicked and specifically Cynthia’s portrayal of Elphaba.
Elphaba Felt Like Home
Sometimes, I sit and think,
I wonder If my skin were pink,
Would the whispers soften, would the eyes unblink?
Would I walk into rooms unburdened,
Without the weight of history turning
Every breath I take,
Turned Into a political stake?
At ten, I knew what hate could do,
How the world spins lies that paint us blue.
Evil, aggressive, too much to take.
The threat of my being, is this world’s mistake.
They called her wicked, but I seen her heart,
A woman like me set apart
For daring to live, to love, to be.
Elphaba felt Just like me.
Her green was my brown,
A skin that bore the frown,
Of a world afraid of me fixing my crown!
Born with a gift they called a curse,
A song in her throat they made a verse,
Of fear and loathing.
Her story unfolded just like my own,
A truth that’s never been fully known.
She stood in rooms where she didn’t belong,
Voices rising like a battle song:
“Other. Strange. Unfit. Beware.”
They couldn’t see her brilliance there.
Her magic, like mine, a force untamed,
Both feared and hated, yet never ashamed.
I saw her fight, I saw her rise,
Refusing to dim, despite their lies.
To walk the world with pride unbowed,
To own her story, to stand out loud.
Now I work in rooms built to exclude,
Where my voice disrupts their quietude.
Teaching them to see, to feel, to know,
The pain and power in what we show.
Elphaba taught us the strength to stand
When the world denies the touch of your hand.
Her green was my brown, her song my fight,
Her struggle my story, her truth my light.
Sometimes I sit and wonder still,
If my skin were pink, would they bend their will?
But I tell myself, it’s not too late
To challenge the lies, to change the fate.
Because wicked isn’t wicked when the world is all wrong,
When the powerful twist the weak into their song.
Elphaba felt like home to me,
Her story, my mirror, her strength set me free.
Brodie Arthur 
Leave a comment