Taylor Swift’s new album, 1989, is quickly approaching record level sales. The New York Times called the album “timeless,” one that sets her apart from every other pop artist of our time. Rolling Stone compared Swift to Prince, referring to her versatility and constant growth as an artist.
Even before these rave reviews, I was a T-Swift fan. It’s something I haven’t publicized about myself, but I’ve seen her on every tour. For the Fearless tour, I donned a pink Hobby Lobby T-shirt decked in glittery iron-on patches and a subpar paint job. For the Speak Now tour I arrived in a limousine. One might call me a super fan. (I would like to note, however, that I never had a notebook/wall decal/coffee mug with her face obnoxiously printed on it.)
My love for Taylor Swift has been the source of constant internal conflict. My coveted high school status of weird, snarky, silently condescending art kid would be jeopardized if my passion for pop melodies blended with triumphant ballads was ever discovered. Even now, I disdainfully scoff at the Iggy Azalea and occasional Ariana Grande that my friends assault me with; but few things make me happier than Taylor Swift’s awkward flinging of appendages that she calls dancing. Resisting acceptance of my love for Taylor Swift is a small instance of a larger problem: I probably care too much about what other people are thinking. Which, of course, is only natural in an environment that has been cultivated by Instagram likes, lyrics that never reference girls with flat butts (ugh), and distinct rejection of anything too basic/hipster/srat/insert other slang that trivializes peoples’ interests and generalizes whole groups. Taylor Swift gets it. She took a huge risk on an album that is nothing like her previous successes. She exists as a force that is unfailingly herself in spite of constant criticism. That’s inspiring to someone who has hidden a secret love of a pop sensation because she thought it wasn’t cool enough for her outward perception .
