On the 6-hour drive from my dorm room to my parents' house, I used to scream-sing Wicked, and upon arriving home, could barely greet my parents because, well, that note at the end of Defying Gravity wasn't going to scream itself and I'd taken a real good whack at it, on repeat. Six hours of this kind of behavior certainly takes a toll on your ability to talk, and I may or may not have gotten a speeding ticket as a result of my commitment to my role as every single cast member. I also attempted to paint my face green "just to see if I'd look as good as Idina” and, along with a few of my equally obsessed sorority sisters, died my hair black, which was definitely a mistake. 

My collegiate Elphaba obsession is not really the point here. The point is that even though scream-singing is strictly reserved for solo road trips, I’ve always been a naturally loud singer. I’ve been told to pipe down about a million times, and I’ve heard it enough that I learned to be embarrassed when someone could hear me (hence the glorious treasure of a long car ride with the soundtrack of my musical obsession du jour). During many church services, my insides have wrestled between desperately wanting to participate as fully as a full voice can, and desperately not wanting to bother anyone. It sends our souls into a dark place when we realize we’ve been annoying people. “Annoying” cuts deeper than a lot of other descriptors because it's dismissive, callus, demeaning of our worth, equating our humanity with a buzzing fly you can shoo away. So I spent a lot of years avoiding that descriptor, avoiding being a bother, avoiding being noticed.