Life is ever-changing, but the music you love will always be there for you.
By Fiona Curran
I was 11 years old when I realized my music taste would be judged for the rest of my life.
I sat in the colorful fifth-grade classroom in April 2013, discussing my weekend. I just went to my first concert ever — Taylor Swift on her “Red” Tour.
My teacher, Mr. Swann, a 44-year-old man, rolled his eyes and told me, “She only writes about boys and love and break-ups.”
My cheeks burned. I looked down at my desk and just shrugged my shoulders. What was I supposed to say? He was an adult. Of course he knew more about what made a good song than I did.
For the first time, I felt ashamed of what I loved.
You’re on your own, kid
In 2013, my dad was deployed in Washington, D.C. and Qatar for the whole year.
I didn’t know who to talk to about it except my mom. But I didn’t want to worry her more.
I couldn’t talk to my sister, who was only 6 and didn’t fully grasp the gravity of the situation, but I still had to be there to comfort her. I couldn’t talk to my brother, who was only 8 and was working on confronting the situation in his own way.
My friends tried to take my mind off it, but they didn’t understand how I felt. They couldn’t be in class with me when the other kids told me my dad would never make it home.
I couldn’t talk to Swann, who would just make me feel weak.
I felt lost.
But I had my music.
It felt as though it was me and my pastel, flowery boombox against the world. I knew when “State of Grace” by Taylor Swift came on, I was in my safe space.
Nothing could bother me.
These things will change
I started middle school that fall.
My friends wanted to listen to new music. Cool music.
They decided Taylor Swift was not cool.
I’d been told this for the past year. But now my girl friends were also saying her music was basic and for little girls. At 11 and 12, we were not little girls.
I was embarrassed when Taylor Swift appeared on my iPod Touch. I couldn’t listen to Colbie Caillat’s happy, beachy music. Kelly Clarkson was old news and no longer relevant.
So I had to change. I would download new music; I would use Spotify instead of Pandora. Female artists didn’t have enough substance if I wanted to be taken seriously and be seen as smart by anyone.
So I listened to male bands only.
Matchbox Twenty defined my early teenage years. The band was composed of middle-aged men, meaning they must’ve known how to write a good song. They were a rock band, which meant they were more musically talented than any pop star could ever be.
The Script had great music beyond their radio hits, so I listened to them. I learned the words to every song and made myself believe their lyrics were so much more sophisticated than any female musician’s songs.
This still wasn’t enough.
Taylor Swift’s “1989” album came out in 2014. I was in seventh grade. I enjoyed it, and though it was a bit overplayed on the radio, it was fun. And I thought music should be allowed to just be fun.
But my friends disagreed. They thought it was pop trash. They wouldn’t be caught dead listening to it.
So I couldn’t be caught listening to it.
Then my friend introduced me to Panic! At The Disco.
I only listened to “emo” music for the next four years. I went to concerts for multiple emo bands. I’d be the biggest fan and make it my whole life because maybe these musicians would be cool enough. Maybe these men’s lyrics would be substantial enough for me to gain respect.
But I soon realized it was the opposite. My physics teacher still said my favorite songs could never compare to whatever Eminem created.
So I was stuck.
I kept up with the music Taylor Swift was putting out. When she came out with “Reputation” in 2017, I said it was just OK. When she released “Lover” in 2019, I said I didn’t like it.
Just one single glimpse of relief
When the pandemic hit in 2020, there was a lot of confusion. My family got the call. My dad might have to be deployed.
Again.
Fear captured me.
Again.
Everything changed.
Again.
I was about to start school far away from home. I’d have to start over.
Then, in July 2020, Taylor Swift released “Folklore,” an alternative album that summed up everything I was feeling. It was unexpected. The album made me laugh and sob. Her lyrics were pure poetry. It was fun but emotional.
It was all I had been waiting for.
I listened to the rest of her discography, the music that I’d ignored. The albums I pushed aside because I just didn’t listen to that music anymore.
And I fell back in love with it.
I want to be defined by the things that I love
I try not to regret the music I missed out on in those seven years. I try not to get upset that I let so many people’s opinions shift my perception of good music.
I try not to beat myself up over trusting a middle-aged guy’s opinion over my own.
I now know not to judge anyone’s music because I’m sure their favorite song has helped them out in ways that are unimaginable to me.
I now know that when it comes to the music I love, I only need to trust myself.