Miss Americana: Taylor Swift's New Documentary Tells My Story, Too
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Taylor Swift’s new documentary on Netflix, Miss Americana
Content warning: Sexual assault and discussion of an eating disorder. No photos per these topics.
In Miss Americana, Taylor Swift tells her own story, and she also tells mine.
Her experiences are my experiences. They happened on a different latitude, but no less close to home as she discussed sexual assault, unflinching perfectionism, and the desire to just be seen as a “good girl.” As one of the millions of young people who grew up with Taylor Swift, her new documentary with Lana Wilson on Netflix struck a powerful chord --
In my heart, which aches for someone who has given so much to all of us and it all still wasn’t enough to protect her from the harshness of growing up, as a woman, in this world.
In my mind, which explodes with respect for the emotional intelligence and autonomy Swift has attained in her otherwise completely unreal human experience.
In my soul, which swelled with pride as Swift, apologizing for getting on a passionate political “soapbox” toward the end of the film, shakes off the word “Sorry” in her own house, that she bought with her own money, from her own songs, about her own life.
After recounting events from the 2009 VMAs, which you can google on your own time, Swift bluntly explains how the experience essentially solidified her biggest fear: that she didn’t belong there.
That [was a] catalyst for a lot of psychological paths that I went down. And not all of them were... beneficial.”
Before, she wanted to write great songs and perform well, and be perceived as a good and unoffensive artist when giving interviews and speeches. After, You’ll never be enough snuck into her mind, as it often does for (arguably most) women, and gave simple fixes to life’s unending criticisms.
I “caught” anorexia from the ProAna/Mia diet blogs in the mid-2000s. Like most girls, teasing about weight and appearance was common, and all of us wanted to be the size 0 - 2 that we saw glamorized in glossy pages. My parents were fatphobic and shamed my peers without considering how it might affect me. After a few months of reading these seemingly supportive blogs, I became “a vegan,” which I write in quotations because truly, it wasn’t for the animals.
I was outwardly justifying what I was becoming: a slender, waifish version of someone who was once strong enough to land a roundoff back-tuck on a grassy field.
To this day, twelve years later, I might see a photo of myself and wince. Then, I say the same thing Taylor Swift repeats to herself in Miss Americana, “No, we don’t do that anymore.”
If the national commentary wasn’t about how skinny Taylor Swift had become, it was about how many “men” she had “run through like a train.”
Remember: This is before Tinder. This is really before you could meet someone online, hook up with them, and never talk to them again, over and over, even if you were just bored.
This is a woman who dated, fell in love, experienced heartbreak, and had the audacity to love again.
I had no fewer than 12 romantic relationships, publicly committed and apparently plentiful enough to be deemed “slutty,” in high school alone. During that time, older boys manipulated me. Girls talked about me behind my back. Untrue stories were circulated about my behavior which impacted my reputation such that teachers would take me aside to speak privately.
It was humiliating. I couldn’t understand - I wanted to love and feel loved. As a woman, I was supposed to find prince charming who would love me for me and solve all my self-confidence deficiencies. How was I supposed to do that if I wasn’t actively trying?
Watching the world slut-shame who I thought represented the “every girl,” our patron saint who spilled her guts so we all could be healed, was very confusing. Taylor Swift doesn’t speak much about her romantic relationships in her documentary and frankly, I’m glad. As a Swiftie, I applaud her personal boundaries and want her to have as much privacy as possible.
What did we think - that our fragmented perspective of Taylor Swift made what the tabloids saw her whole picture?
Despite the heckling, the slut-shaming, the public doubt of her talent (singing and songwriting, damned be the awards that say otherwise), and the tearing apart of what little privacy Swift had, she still showed up for work every day. She still played sold-out tours, hugging crying strangers before concerts and bearing witness to at least one proposal right in front of her, as if her witness was the ultimate marriage blessing.
Taylor Swift still showed up, shared her soul, and kept her word with her fans, even though the world was steadily turning its back on her.
All of us have days when we don’t want to go to work. All of us call in when we aren’t really “sick” because we know deep down, we’re a different kind of unfit for public life. We might let down ten people, or a hundred people, or even a thousand if you have a very important job.
And yet, Taylor Swift continued to reinvent herself, to contort around her trauma, and to make the most of what she still could, in order to continue doing what she loved. She took interviews. She engaged with fans on Tumblr. She took millions and millions of photos whenever (and also not) asked of her.
Fans and stalkers waiting outside Taylor Swift’s NYC apartment, from Access Online
That day in court, where Swift counter-sued the man who sexually assaulted her during one of those photoshoots, is legendary for me.
When I was seventeen, I was date-raped by an adult man seven years my senior who pretended like everything was okay. The circumstances put me at a disadvantage and I was the only one present, the only one who knew, and the only one who made the decision to be in the compromising situation in the first place.
In Taylor Swift’s situation, there were seven eye-witnesses and photographic evidence. She took the “proper” (patriarchal) protocols and yet, that man felt entitled not only to her body but to her hard-earned money because the consequences cost him his job. Because he sued, she had to endure dehumanizing questions about an event that happened years prior. Why hadn’t she screamed? Why didn’t she stand further away?
With no eyewitnesses and a man, who to this day, still denies that what he did was a nonconsensual sexual assault, there is no hope for me. And there is still no hope for millions of women in this world without the financial means or the emotional support or the evidence to make their case to a misogynist system.
But, when Taylor Swift won the countersuit and talked about it openly, a small sliver of hope could be seen on the horizon. As the #MeToo movement grows and men stand trial for their actions, the sliver of hope grows. Despite the world looking at her and doubting her truth, doubting she had any right to safety or privacy or justice, she got it.
Our society has structured stardom in a way that turns people into beacons, their voices amplified louder than almost anything we’ve heard in recorded history. The massive followings who act on the words of the famous and influential have immense power to create change in our systems.
What we fail to realize, as the press drones on about what Taylor Swift wore to dinner last night or what celebrity they position her in a feud with, is that these experiences are a part of her everyday life. Being sexually assaulted is a part of the fabric of who I am, and no matter how much “healing” I’ve done, or how much healing any of us do from the traumas we experience, it all becomes a part of how we live.
Capture from the Netflix documentary Miss Americana
As the world “canceled” Taylor Swift in 2016, I was painfully reminded of being the most hated girl in school.
The year I accidentally had the most popular girl in school - someone who I’d considered a friend - expelled on account of her having been passing out Xanax to fellow classmates. I went to the guidance counselor, scared for my friends that they didn’t know what they were doing and might get hurt, and her name slipped as I was retelling the story.
The very next day was the first day of the I Hate Amelia Club and the most difficult year of my life.
Taylor Swift exists in the immense bubble of superstardom that she does because of us. Because of the people who love her, the people who hate her, and all the people who consume her. She exists in this fishbowl because of an industry that commodifies artists and transacts dreams with multi-year sentences.
I was afraid that year. That we’d lose Taylor Swift. That she wouldn’t recover from this. That she might turn to substance abuse or self-harm or one of the arguably logical responses to such extreme dissociation of identity. Honestly, I’d understand if she did.
But, that wasn’t what happened. Taylor Swift didn’t crumble under the weight of it all, like most of us do when our world falls apart.
Of course, she disappeared for a year. Wouldn’t you if you had the chance?
When she came back, she had not only reinvented herself, she’d finally begun to feel like herself. Swift took something so detrimental and transformed herself in the face of tragedy. She stood up for herself when no one else would and fought for her sanity, her passion, and her reputation.
I can’t express how much this transformation inspired me. If she could take all this pain and heartache and turn it into self-development. If she could shed her skin even when she was already raw, so could I. reputation solidified this truth, in Swift’s calling-out of her own shortcomings, of examining who and how she is as a person, and in uncovering the truth beneath the pain of endlessly trying to please.
If Taylor Swift can do it, so can we.
Taylor Swift at the 2018 American Music Awards, courtesy of Netflix
Until 2014, I followed my parents’ political views and considered myself a conservative.
I talked shit about President Obama and I will repent for that forever. I called myself a ‘libertarian’ and thought ‘socialism’ was a system for handouts and entitlements (a word I also didn’t understand until more recently). By the time I was waking up, I’d already voted in two elections and kept my political views to myself, just like I’d be taught because it “wasn’t polite” to push your views on others.
Learning to talk about politics confidently and graciously is hard.
No one really taught me how to speak up for what I believed in - and especially, no one taught me to go looking for more information so I could develop my own belief system.
Those of you who know me know I’m a Floridian transplanted to Tennessee. Despite the sand in my blood, Tennessee is my home state and Marsha Blackburn is a demon in women’s clothing.
Seeing what Taylor Swift encountered from her team as she sat fighting for her right to speak up brought me to tears.
I thought about how my parents get quiet and awkward if I bring up any of my political views - even the ones as basic as “climate change” and “body autonomy for women,” as if I’ve just said something offensive. I thought about how it’s taken years to just feel comfortable articulating my views, backed up by facts, prepared at any minute to be trolled or berated for what I think are simple, imperative concerns.
I can’t even imagine what it’s like when someone says to your face, “I have this idea that would halve the amount of people that come to your shows.”
How derisive. How conditioned. How fearful. How self-serving. How damaging. To threaten someone’s career, and in Taylor Swift’s case, everything she’s built in her entire adult life.
In the face of that pressure, she still stood up for what she believed in.
This act inspired me to say, “fuck that” to feeling like I couldn’t share my views openly. That I couldn’t share them before they were polished and ready and troll-proof. That I couldn’t have discussions with friends, family, colleagues, even strangers about politics in which my concerns - for women, queer folx, poc, the economy, healthcare, the planet (and so much more) - could be articulated with authenticity and through my unique lense.
She inspired me to volunteer in my local election, because even though Tennessee is represented by a conservative Senator, my city has a highly progressive female mayor who can create immense local change in her new seat.
I understand why Taylor Swift was silent all those years - and hopefully, all of our conditioned and coerced silence can be broken down. Together, we can change our American democracy.
Screen Shot of Taylor Swift’s Instagram Post
Before watching Miss Americana, I wouldn’t have written this piece. I would’ve told myself to not make this about me. No one wants to hear what I have to say about this.
I want to hear what I have to say about this.
I have cried and laughed and lived for Taylor Swift’s music. I’ve never been to one of her concerts but watching the incredible spectacle that was reputation on Netflix brought me to tears at her commitment, her talent, and how relatable she still is, despite all the fireworks and fame.
In Miss Americana, the audience experiences long, quiet scenes. There’s less dialogue than I originally expected. The narrative is direct, just Swift in her own voice and her own words. There are no side stories, no interviews with friends and family to speak on her behalf. There’s no shock and awe as the days and years of Swift’s career unfold.
Every time the world has turned on Taylor Swift, I have wanted to reach out and clasp hands with her - as I do now with my close girlfriends. I have wanted to tell her, “Me too.” “I believe you.” “I’m so grateful that you exist and that you’ve made it your life’s work to tell our story. All of our stories.” “I believe in you.” “No matter what happens, I’ll still be here.”
Because truthfully, as a fan, I will be.
I’m still reeling from one of Swift’s final comments in the documentary, where she discusses reinventing herself.
Everyone’s a shiny new toy for like two years. The female artists that I know have reinvented themselves 20 times more than the male artists. They have to or else they’re out of a job... This is probably one of my last opportunities as an artist to grasp onto that kind of success. So, I know as I’m reaching 30 I’m like, I want to work really hard, while society is still tolerating me being successful.
Taylor Swift turned thirty at the end of 2019. I’ll turn thirty in a few short years and I’m scared to death. I’m not ready for all this adult stuff, either.
No matter what Swift does with her future, I hope she continues to discover what she loves. I hope she continues to excavate all of the parts of herself that were given to her and conditioned into her identity, and tears them out like an invasive weed.
Taylor Swift doesn’t just ‘deserve’ the spot in history she’s carved for herself. She created the category under which she’ll be remembered forever.
Because Taylor Swift didn’t just tell her story in Miss Americana. She told my story in greater honesty and tenderness than I could’ve imagined for myself. And I bet that she told parts of your story, too.
