Defying Tragedy: Everyone may deserve the right to fly, but how?
I’m going to assume that as of today, everyone who intends to see the new Wicked film (Part 1) has seen it, at least once. Or maybe you’ve seen the Broadway show but haven’t seen the movie yet. Or maybe you’re a book snob, read the novel(s) by Gregory Maguire, and have no interest in seeing another’s interpretation outside the vault of your mind.
In any of these cases, we are cool. If you don’t fit into these categories, I still don’t think there are any real spoilers in this article, but this is your chance to bail out unscathed.
Here we go:
In the new movie Elphaba, she who would become the Wicked Witch of the West in L. Frank Baum’s The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, flies. She casts a spell, hops on a broomstick in the least campy, most genuinely impressive fashion possible, and high tails it out of Oz to close out the film.
Props all around: The number is iconic, and both Cynthia Erivo’s performance and John M. Chu’s direction are nothing short of legendary. That’s not what this is about at all.
A week or two after I saw the movie, I was watching one of those “1,001 Easter Eggs You Missed in Wicked Because We Are Smarter Than You” videos on YouTube and the host pointed out that the broom Elphaba enchants to make her exit is braided, apparently, entirely of mangrove roots. Sorry, but in most cases this would be a ridiculous nit of a detail, hardly worth noting – let alone making me feel bad for not paying close enough attention or being a manic superfan. But in this case I thought: “Hmm.”
What an odd thing to point out, unless there is a reason, unless constructing the broom from mangrove roots was a decision more than artistic flair. Ordinarily I couldn’t have cared less, but as it happens, I have some next-level insights about mangroves – and opinions, therefore. And this information suggests the broom design was maybe a conscious decision.
If so, I add my sincerest golf clap to the acclaim being heaped on this movie. And if you don’t know why it’s interesting, and especially relevant TODAY, as we embark on a new era in America, strap in and give me a few more minutes.
According to the Ocean portal of the Smithsonian Institute, “A mangrove is a woody tree or shrub that lives along sheltered coastlines within the tropic or subtropic latitudes.” There are more than 50 different species of mangrove worldwide, plus other species like the Buttonwood tree that are often associated with mangroves and located near mangroves but in fact aren’t mangroves.
None of that is interesting. But this is: While most of those 50-plus species of mangroves are not related to each other in any way, the scientific designation of “mangrove” is reserved for plants with the “unique capability of growing within reach of the tides in salty soil.” In other words, the defining characteristic of the mangrove is that it can survive – thrive, even – in an environment wholly unsuited to support it. Mangroves kick ass. They take root in a place, surrounded by forces that try to kill it every day. Twice a day, actually, when the high tide washes their root system with deadly salt water.
To be a mangrove, then, is to have developed adaptive strategies to counter one’s own hostile environment; and then to persist in spite of these circumstances, with courage and confidence, in perpetuity.
Or that would be the definition of a mangrove if you were inclined to anthropomorphize this particularly impressive type of marine plant.
Now, if one was so inclined, the next step might be to wonder, “Well, my environment seems to be a tad toxic lately – pretty much as far as the eye can see! Maybe there is a lesson or two I could learn from these impressive flora.” And I am not a doctor, nor do I have any special credentials to support or defend my psychological or metaphysical assertions. But I do happen to believe there are lessons to be learned. I will focus on the top two.
1. No man is an island; but mangroves can be!
If you’ve ever visited the Florida Keys, you’ve likely seen islands of mangroves, big and small. In fact, the "Keys" are derived from the Spanish cayo, which means “little island.” But if you thought these lush mangroves covered the thousands of islands alongside Florida, you’re mistaken. No, the mangroves are not ON the island; they ARE the island. Their crazy root system, which typically extends above the waterline, begins as a complex, tangled network sunk into the sandy, murky, brackish soil extending out from the coast. Just as the roots intertwine, so too do the trunks and branches, weaving together what resembles a healthy thatch of tropical growth that can stretch dozens of square feet to actual square miles.
To the outside world, the cayos look inviting, like tropical islands. In truth they are communities of trees sharing many important characteristics, bound together against an unfriendly world.
In Wicked, Elphaba begins life feared and ostracized. She hasn’t the bare modicum of support, even from her father – especially from her father. She arrives at Shiz University, an escort for her favored, damaged sister, and is immediately and simultaneously recruited and vilified. It isn’t until she forges important bonds with key faculty members to start, then the new “hot boy,” and finally the influential Galinda, that her inner strength ventures outward. It’s a dichotomy: She’s a singular character whose talents require friction against her environment to develop but require support and understanding to manifest.
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Elphaba is a mangrove. She could only become in the toxic environment in which she’s grown. But she could only thrive by deriving and harnessing strength from around her.
2. ?Pick your poison (and what to do with it)
Back to the Keys, where palm trees sway and Jimmy Buffet still plays, there are two common types of mangroves. (This is insight you gain when you are paddling a kayak around and through them.) There are:
Red mangroves aren’t actually red, and (you guessed it) black mangroves aren’t inherently black. Instead, the most important difference has to do with their fundamental survival techniques. Remember, saltwater kills plants; that’s a given. The salt in the water actually works to dry out, rather than feed and nourish, the plant like fresh water does. Said another way, the mangroves are rooted in poison. How do they survive the salt?
Differently, as it happens.
The red mangrove’s lush greenery is dotted with bright yellow leaves. They are yellow because they are in the active process of dying. The red mangrove takes the salt from the tidal waters and sends it directly to these sacrificial leaves. The leaves – predictably – die and fall into the water below, where fish and sea creatures feast on them because, ironically, they are salty and delicious!
Now when it comes to genus Avicennia, Black Leaves Matter. (I will not apologize; that is objectively funny.) The black mangrove pushes salt from the ocean water to the exterior of ALL the leaves through special pores or salt glands. As the water evaporates, the salt forms crystals, or a salty crust, on the underside of each leaf.
How interesting is that? Two plant siblings, sharing a common location and identical challenges – yet both survive, indeed thrive, in completely different ways! One embraces the doctrine of acceptable losses, unilaterally heaping poison on a small sampling of constituents. The other approaches the challenge by equally and dispassionately spreading the risk. (As I have worked decades in the insurance industry, this approach feels familiar and fair.)
Elphaba grew up internalizing her shame. She sacrificed pieces of herself: dressing differently, eschewing social situations, avoiding threats where she could to minimize exposure. When she comes into her own at school, she reversed direction. She embraced her uniqueness, gained confidence in her power to be successful, to make a difference. She began to see herself as more than just different; she was different for a purpose.
As you likely know if you’ve bothered to read this far, Elphaba and Glinda (she donated her “a”) find themselves in the tower in the Emerald City because Elphaba has crossed an important Rubicon. She has finally seen herself as someone who not only has the desire to effect positive change, but the power to make it happen. She is realizing her agency as a catalyst for good. (Yes, that’s an Easter egg for you, you're welcome!)
The thing is, her always-unfriendly environment has kicked up a few notches and her literal survival rests completely on her ability to do something mangroves cannot. She needs to get out of Dodge, and fast. The train is sidelined; the monkeys are as yet unreliable as transportation goes. She needs a conveyance to safety, something of her own enchantment. Well, there’s a broom. But not just any old broom: a broom apparently built from a local species of mangrove.
Listen, it could easily be a visual thing. Maybe the mangrove sensibility of the broomstick just looks primitive and cool. Up until now, the only real competing broom imagery in popular culture are the racing models employed by Quidditch players in the Harry Potter universe. And Elphaba would not be caught dead on one of those.
But maybe it wasn’t only a visual choice. Maybe these characteristics of the mighty, mysterious mangrove represent a deeper significance in Elphaba’s journey. And even more important, maybe they hold lessons for the rest of us.
I think it’s safe to say we are emerging from, and likely wandering deeper into, dark and contentious times. For many people – many families – the environment in which we live is as inhospitable as it has ever been. For months, maybe longer, I have wondered how we could even begin to change things for the better. It seems so daunting, the darkness: universal and pervasive.
But maybe I’ve been asking the wrong question. Maybe changing the environment isn’t the priority. Maybe, even if it’s only a first step, the question is, “How do I survive in a toxic atmosphere? How do I stay strong? How do I remain nourished for every new challenge tomorrow holds?”
I don’t know the answer to that one either. But I think if I had time to grab but a single talisman for the trip, I would feel good about grabbing one made from a mangrove.