Recently this article appeared in The Atlantic, all about why Taylor Swift is worthy of being the subject of a class at Harvard University. I have to say, I’m not all that impressed by the argument author Stephanie Burt makes. It’s not that I don’t think Swift deserves critical attention; of course she does. Certainly more people know more about Taylor Swift than they do about Jonathan Swift (hint: Gulliver’s Travels and A Modest Proposal), and for that reason alone, she is worthy of interest. But Burt seems to think that she’s doing something avant-garde, busting through genres as well as expectations, in offering the class.
I beg to differ.
For decades, many of us teachers have been referring to popular culture in an effort to make past literary works come alive for our students. How many of us compared the Romantic poets to John Denver, with his “back to nature” themes? Or Byron to the Beatles, as the first popular superstar (well, second, since Wordsworth also had to deal with pilgrims landing on his doorstep)? If you’ve spent any time in the classroom at all, chances are you’ve made analogies like these–and whether they are apt or not (please don’t argue with me about mine, because I’m retired now and I really don’t care any more), they succeeded in getting students to look at old works of literature with curiosity and some slight degree of affinity.
What Burt has done, however, is the opposite: she’s using the old stuff to shed light on the new songs that Swift has recently created. As she points out, “I would not be teaching this course, either, if I could not bring in other works of art, from other genres and time periods, that will help my students better understand Swift and her oeuvre.” There is nothing wrong with this approach, either. Interpretation and criticism go both ways, and the very act of exploring one work can shed light on the meaning and structure of another, very different, one. What I object to here is that Burt seems to think she needs to defend a mode of teaching that has existed since the dawn of pedagogy itself, most likely. Perhaps she’s out to blow up the canon; that, too, however, has already been done many times over. I guess my take on the whole subject is that there is nothing new under the sun. Not even Taylor Swift.
But here’s a counterargument to the article, one which may or may not be valid. Does Swift really need interpretation? Isn’t it pretty easy for people to understand and appreciate her work? It’s likely that people need more help understanding and seeing the value in Shakespeare’s works, or Charlotte Bronte’s, or Virginia Woolf’s than Taylor Swift’s songs–works which, separated from us by time and circumstance and perhaps even language itself, remain alien to us, despite the fact that we know they had enormous influence on the writers who came after them.
Still, I’m all for teaching Taylor Swift’s works (as long as we can avoid the trap of criticism, making sure we do not “murder to dissect,” as Wordsworth put it). What really bothers me, I think, is that I appear to be one of the few people on the planet who don’t really “get” Taylor Swift. I don’t dislike her songs; I just am not forcibly struck by them, or powerfully moved by them, either musically or thematically. And this despite asking my 25-year-old offspring to perform exposure therapy on me using a Spotify playlist. I realize this is probably a defect in me, a matter of faulty taste or lack of experience of some kind. After all, I felt the same way about Hamilton.
Now that the secret is out, I give all my readers permission to stop reading here. I am so clearly out of step with the times, so serious a victim of what I call “century deprivation,” that nothing I say is viable or important. I accept that designation, with what I hope is humility, bafflement, and only a small amount of FOMO, or rather COMO (Certainty Of Missing Out). As proof of the fact that I am completely out of step, I offer the following things I do find endlessly amusing. If I could, I’d offer a class on these clips alone, working to introduce students to media in its infancy and the role of comic relief in the twentieth century.
I’d start with this little snippet from the BBC Archives, in which Lt. Com Thomas Woodrooffe, reporting on the Royal Review of naval ships in 1937, inadvertently revealed that he had imbibed a bit too many toasts with his former shipmates earlier in the afternoon, as evidenced by his incoherent but hilarious commentary.
Then I’d move to this wacky clip from the dawn of television broadcasting, an almost-lost skit from the Ernie Kovacs Show. I don’t know why I find this so funny, but perhaps it has to do with the music behind it. I will freely confess that this little jewel was instrumental in getting me through a good deal of the pandemic three years ago.
And finally, here’s the Vitameatavegimin episode from I Love Lucy. I would often use this to teach my public speaking students how to give a persuasive speech using Monroe’s Motivated Sequence, a five-step formula that was often used in advertisements. (The five steps are: grab your audience’s attention, set out a problem, solve the problem, visualize the solution, and urge your audience to action.) Some of my students had never seen a single episode of I Love Lucy, which I found mind-boggling. I’d wager that most of them probably still remember this episode much better than they do Monroe’s Motivated Sequence, which is fine with me.
To all the Swifties out there, I apologize for being tone deaf. I fully understand your pain and disappointment, and I share in it. The clips above are offered as nothing more than a kind of peace offering or compensation to make up for my failure.
As my grandmother used to say, there’s no accounting for taste!