Welcome to DU!
The truly grassroots left-of-center political community where regular people, not algorithms, drive the discussions and set the standards.
Join the community:
Create a free account
Support DU (and get rid of ads!):
Become a Star Member
Latest Breaking News
General Discussion
The DU Lounge
All Forums
Issue Forums
Culture Forums
Alliance Forums
Region Forums
Support Forums
Help & Search
I famously and historically cannot stand Taylor Swift. Not her "vocals" nor her "dancing."
Link to tweet
I famously and historically cannot stand Taylor Swift. Not her "vocals" nor her "dancing." Never been willing to give her any flowers (though I always had to admit Trouble was a bop). Can barely hear her name without rolling my eyes. It's a whole thing. And then I read this.
The work I do requires me to constantly be asking myself: what changes peoples minds? What makes us revisit our long & deeply held beliefs? What shakes us out of our apathy? Shifts the way we distribute empathy and care? Makes us rethink who and why we love or hate?
And then I read this beautiful piece by Joe Garcia and it feels so clear that this can and often does: bearing witness to people, artists, humans who have the courage and talent to share the contours of their humanity and struggle and not so guilty pleasures with others.
This changed my mind. Not about the inalienable worthiness of folks inside and about the unjustifiable cruelty of human caging because thankfully I already knew that. But about Taylor Swift. My disdain for that lady was one I never thought I would pivot even an inch from.
But Joe Garcia in one article of raw and beautiful storytelling did what decades of an entire media and legions of Swift loyalists never could: it made me pause and rethink whether maybe I didn't have it all the way right. And he did it without even asking me to reconsider.
Incarcerated people, like all humans, shouldn't and don't have to mine their pain or justify their deep value to or for anyone. But I still feel so moved & grateful that art, people & platforms like this will change people's minds about things more fundamental than Taylor Swift.
The work I do requires me to constantly be asking myself: what changes peoples minds? What makes us revisit our long & deeply held beliefs? What shakes us out of our apathy? Shifts the way we distribute empathy and care? Makes us rethink who and why we love or hate?
And then I read this beautiful piece by Joe Garcia and it feels so clear that this can and often does: bearing witness to people, artists, humans who have the courage and talent to share the contours of their humanity and struggle and not so guilty pleasures with others.
This changed my mind. Not about the inalienable worthiness of folks inside and about the unjustifiable cruelty of human caging because thankfully I already knew that. But about Taylor Swift. My disdain for that lady was one I never thought I would pivot even an inch from.
But Joe Garcia in one article of raw and beautiful storytelling did what decades of an entire media and legions of Swift loyalists never could: it made me pause and rethink whether maybe I didn't have it all the way right. And he did it without even asking me to reconsider.
Incarcerated people, like all humans, shouldn't and don't have to mine their pain or justify their deep value to or for anyone. But I still feel so moved & grateful that art, people & platforms like this will change people's minds about things more fundamental than Taylor Swift.
Listening to Taylor Swift in Prison
Her music makes me feel that I’m still part of the world I left behind.
The first time I heard about Taylor Swift, I was in a Los Angeles County jail, waiting to be sent to prison for murder. Sheriffs would hand out precious copies of the Los Angeles Times, and they would be passed from one reader to the next. Back then, I swore that Prince was the best songwriter of my lifetime, and I thought Swift’s rise to teen-age stardom was an injustice. I’d look up from her wide-eyed face in the Calendar section to see gang fights and race riots. The jail was full of young men of color who wrote and performed their own raps, often about chasing money and fame, while Swift was out there, actually getting rich and famous. How fearless could any little blond fluff like that really be?
In 2009, I was sentenced to life in prison. Early one morning, I boarded a bus in shackles and a disposable jumpsuit, and rode to Calipatria State Prison, a cement fortress on the southern fringes of California. Triple-digit temperatures, cracked orange soil, and pungent whiffs of the nearby Salton Sea made me feel as though I’d been exiled to Mars. After six years in the chaos of the county jail, however, I could finally own small luxuries, like a television. The thick walls of Calipat, as we called the place, stifled our radio reception, but an institutional antenna delivered shows like “Access Hollywood,” “Entertainment Tonight,” and “TMZ.” I was irritated by the celebrity gossip, but it was a connection to the outside world, and it introduced me to snippets of Swift’s performances for the first time. Here and there, I’d catch her on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” or “Fallon,” and was surprised by how intently she discussed her songwriting. I didn’t tell anyone that I thought she was talented.
In 2013, when my security level was lowered owing to good behavior, I requested a transfer to Solano state prison, the facility with a Level 3 yard which was closest to my family in the Bay Area. I got the transfer, but my property—a TV, CD player, soap, toothpaste, lotion, food—was lost in transit. I shared a cell with someone in the same situation, so, for months, we relied on the kindness of our neighbors to get by. Our only source of music was a borrowed pocket radio, hooked up to earbuds that cost three dollars at the commissary. At night, we’d crank up the volume and lay the earbuds on the desk in our cell. Those tiny speakers radiated crickety renditions of Top Forty hits.
During that time, I heard tracks from “Red,” Swift’s fourth studio album, virtually every hour. I was starting to enjoy them. Laying on the top bunk, I would listen to my cellmate’s snores and wait for “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” to come around again. When it did, I would think about the woman I had lived with for seven years, before prison. I remembered bittersweet times when my sweetheart had visited me in county jail. We’d look at each other through security glass that was reinforced by wire. It didn’t seem fair to expect her to wait for me, and I told her that she deserved a partner who could be with her. But we didn’t use the word “never,” and deep down I always hoped that we’d get back together. When I heard “Everything Has Changed,” I had to fight back tears of exaltation and grief. Swift sings, “All I knew this morning when I woke / Is I know something now / Know something now I didn’t before.” I thought back to our first date, and how we had talked and laughed late into the night. We had to force ourselves to get a few hours of sleep before sunrise.
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-weekend-essay/listening-to-taylor-swift-in-prison
Her music makes me feel that I’m still part of the world I left behind.
The first time I heard about Taylor Swift, I was in a Los Angeles County jail, waiting to be sent to prison for murder. Sheriffs would hand out precious copies of the Los Angeles Times, and they would be passed from one reader to the next. Back then, I swore that Prince was the best songwriter of my lifetime, and I thought Swift’s rise to teen-age stardom was an injustice. I’d look up from her wide-eyed face in the Calendar section to see gang fights and race riots. The jail was full of young men of color who wrote and performed their own raps, often about chasing money and fame, while Swift was out there, actually getting rich and famous. How fearless could any little blond fluff like that really be?
In 2009, I was sentenced to life in prison. Early one morning, I boarded a bus in shackles and a disposable jumpsuit, and rode to Calipatria State Prison, a cement fortress on the southern fringes of California. Triple-digit temperatures, cracked orange soil, and pungent whiffs of the nearby Salton Sea made me feel as though I’d been exiled to Mars. After six years in the chaos of the county jail, however, I could finally own small luxuries, like a television. The thick walls of Calipat, as we called the place, stifled our radio reception, but an institutional antenna delivered shows like “Access Hollywood,” “Entertainment Tonight,” and “TMZ.” I was irritated by the celebrity gossip, but it was a connection to the outside world, and it introduced me to snippets of Swift’s performances for the first time. Here and there, I’d catch her on “The Ellen DeGeneres Show” or “Fallon,” and was surprised by how intently she discussed her songwriting. I didn’t tell anyone that I thought she was talented.
In 2013, when my security level was lowered owing to good behavior, I requested a transfer to Solano state prison, the facility with a Level 3 yard which was closest to my family in the Bay Area. I got the transfer, but my property—a TV, CD player, soap, toothpaste, lotion, food—was lost in transit. I shared a cell with someone in the same situation, so, for months, we relied on the kindness of our neighbors to get by. Our only source of music was a borrowed pocket radio, hooked up to earbuds that cost three dollars at the commissary. At night, we’d crank up the volume and lay the earbuds on the desk in our cell. Those tiny speakers radiated crickety renditions of Top Forty hits.
During that time, I heard tracks from “Red,” Swift’s fourth studio album, virtually every hour. I was starting to enjoy them. Laying on the top bunk, I would listen to my cellmate’s snores and wait for “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” to come around again. When it did, I would think about the woman I had lived with for seven years, before prison. I remembered bittersweet times when my sweetheart had visited me in county jail. We’d look at each other through security glass that was reinforced by wire. It didn’t seem fair to expect her to wait for me, and I told her that she deserved a partner who could be with her. But we didn’t use the word “never,” and deep down I always hoped that we’d get back together. When I heard “Everything Has Changed,” I had to fight back tears of exaltation and grief. Swift sings, “All I knew this morning when I woke / Is I know something now / Know something now I didn’t before.” I thought back to our first date, and how we had talked and laughed late into the night. We had to force ourselves to get a few hours of sleep before sunrise.
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/the-weekend-essay/listening-to-taylor-swift-in-prison
79 replies
= new reply since forum marked as read
= new reply since forum marked as read
I’m primarily a metal head but I think Swift makes good pop music. Good article, btw. 
I decided I like her after her latest radio release, Anti-Hero. Thanks for your post. 
Yes!!! Beautiful, classic song sung by Taylor! 
