‘2020, via Taylor Swift’, by Jaleh

‘From Brockwell to Berkeley’ is an ongoing series of snapshots from life on opposite sides of the Atlantic. It’s written by two close friends: Hannah (who moved from London to California in August 2020 to study overseas) and Jaleh (who remains in London).

Despite the weather, December is generally a kindly month — it’s chill, in both senses of the word. January is try-hard and judgy, but December looks on without disapproval as you consume so much Lindt that you morph into the shape of a bauble. I know the phrase ‘let yourself go’ is normally a criticism, but in winter I quite like its connotations — as if you spend most of the year guardedly clasping all the parts of you together, and December is finally the time when you can loosen your grip. And, most importantly, eat some Lindt.

It’s also traditionally a time for reflection: an opportunity to sift the year’s lessons from the losses, to consider how much time you’ve lost to Selling Sunset versus how little time you’ve spent looking at actual sunsets, to take stock — and indeed (if you’re my nan) make stock from the leftover turkey carcass.

I say all this, but for me this period of reflection consists mainly of looking at Snapchat memories from the Christmas before, which is unhelpful because they’re always so similar (although different coloured party hats distinguish one year from the next). But this time, the whole corona-downer has doused the season with a kind of enforced reflection — like brandy poured over a Christmas pudding, but way less fun. And much more resistant to burning.

There are a few reasons for this — a unique Christmas cocktail, if you will. Firstly, there’s the obvious one: the imposed global standstill, the entire world suspended mid-bustle like Sid the Sloth when he gets frozen in Ice Age. Then, there’s the season: dusk falls so quickly now that looking out of the window at any point past 3.30pm is an exercise in self-contemplation, a kind of existential face-off between real-you and mirror-you. Sounds a bit maudlin, I know. Is it obvious that there’s not much to do in tier 3?

And finally, there are the tides of our personal lives. After a semester Stateside, Hannah is coming home — I can imagine that it feels to some extent like a collision of selves (and I am valiantly squashing the urge to do a Hannah Montana/ Miley Stewart pun here, even though it would really work).

It may surprise you to learn that I, too, have undergone a fundamental shift in my identity — perhaps less significant than moving continents, but definitely more surprising. For years, my dislike of Taylor Swift was one of those things I hung my personality on, right up there with my unlikely love of Sean Paul and my spiritual alignment with Jasmine from Disney’s Aladdin — the original animated version, of course. (If you are reading this and thinking that I need to gain some depth of character, I don’t disagree with you.)

Before, I was quietly snobbish and disapproving of Taylor Swift. I found her songs and her aesthetic annoying; I thought her all-American, country sweetheart brand irritating if not problematic; I baulked at the slightly gaslighting energy of ‘Look What You Made Me Do’. I didn’t understand when people I liked appreciated her music. I cringed whenever her songs came on the radio.

But I’ve had her two most recent albums, ‘folklore’ and ‘evermore’, on repeat for weeks; I’m knee-deep in songs about small-town nostalgia, old flames, and metaphors about cardigans. Maybe it’s the confluence of sound and season — the folky atmosphere of the music suits the streets here, all bare trees and pavements darkened by rain. Maybe I’m more attuned to nostalgia now — the future is so uncertain that the past seems like a comforting place to spend your time. But I think it’s probably more that these albums are stripped of the high production and showbiz sensibility which I found so off-putting, leaving the core elements of what made Taylor Swift a star: her talent for lyrics, melody, and storytelling.

Obviously people are multifaceted, and allowed to change their minds. And I should’ve learned that my strongest opinions are often the first to soften (the hardest iron is the most brittle, and all that). Hannah knows this better than most — she was there seven years ago when I vowed never to wear culottes, and since then I’ve owned four pairs. She doesn’t judge me for it, though — she’s a December baby, after all.

‘From Brockwell to Berkeley’ will continue when Hannah returns to California for the new semester. In the meantime, read the rest of the posts.

Originally published at http://jalehbrazell.wordpress.com on December 19, 2020.