Taylor Grow
When I tell people that I love Taylor Swift, I receive an eye roll or some kind of disgusted grunting noise in response. But here’s the truth: even though Miss Swift is inane, my god, she is brilliant.
I have a friend, let’s call her Charlotte. Charlotte had a boyfriend, we’ll call him Victor. Charlotte and Victor had a healthy relationship, but recently they hit a bump. The change started when Victor sent a cowardly text that left her heart-broken. To get our minds off things, Charlotte and I went for a drive.
As I mentioned before, it is a simple fact that I love Taylor Swift. I think her music is addictive, and I think her lyrics are relatable, so much so, that even when I have no way of understanding the manner in which John Mayer hurt her, I find myself cursing a man I’ve never met who has broken my fragile Nashville heart. I cannot assert that Charlotte possesses the same emotional tether that binds my heart to each of Miss Swift’s angelic words. However, Charlotte is a slave to Top 40 music and she holds “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” in very high regard for its catchy beats and easy lyrics.
Over winter break, Charlotte and I drove to Max & Erma’s, where we frequently dine during our month-long college vacations. I had recently purchased Taylor Swift’s new album “Red” and suggested that we listen to it. The final chords of track 6, an upbeat song called “22,” echoed through the car. Next, the slow sounds of “I Almost Do” began weeping out the speakers. Charlotte, who was in no state to endure such a melancholy ballad, quickly skipped the track, and then we heard the familiar start of “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together.”
I thought about switching the song, unsure if a break-up song was appropriate background music for someone who had, only days earlier, received a devastating text message. Charlotte hesitantly reached towards the control panel, but instead of switching the track, Charlotte set her delicate fingers on the volume dial, looked at me, and said, “I need this.” I nodded. She turned the dial until the music hurt my ears. Smiling, I accelerated to 80 mph on the 55 mph road.
We were speeding, rushing through the damp darkness of a rainy pre-winter night, shouting the lyrics of a song we never really considered as anything other than noise. Charlotte improvised, “we hadn’t seen each other for two weeks when you said YOU DIDN’T LOVE ME!”
In that moment, Charlotte was empowered.