The Life of a Showgirl: Why It Is Important to Hold Our Favs Accountable
By: Gabrielle Bernabe
This week, I want to talk about Taylor Swift’s recent album and open a broader conversation about critique—specifically, why certain themes should be examined before they reach a point of no return. In an increasingly conservative social climate, it becomes harder to excuse dog whistles or potentially harmful rhetoric when the consequences feel closer to home.
Let me be clear: this is not an attempt to label Swift a bigot, nor is it an attack on fans who enjoy her music. Music is both a vessel and a harbor for emotion. Because of that, it is worth examining what may be overlooked. Swift’s fandom often praises her for being meticulous and intentional with her lyrics and symbolism. One prominent example in this album is her repeated reference to her fiancé, Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs.
With that in mind, let’s look at Swift’s latest project, “Life of a Showgirl.”
The opening track, “The Fate of Ophelia,” feels musically familiar—very much in line with what listeners expect from Swift. The concept, however, is where things become interesting. In the song, she suggests that his [namely Travis] love saved her from suffering Ophelia’s fate. While there is room to critique how the lyrics frame her as dependent on him (“and if you’d never come for me // I might’ve lingered in purgatory… no longer drowning and deceived // all because you came for me”), the more layered issue is her decision to align herself with such a significant literary figure—a nod to the long-running joke among fans that she resembles an English teacher archetype.
Ophelia, of course, is a tragic character in “Hamlet” by William Shakespeare. Manipulated as part of a larger political and emotional scheme, she ultimately loses both her sanity and her life. Her proximity to Hamlet and his family directly contributes to her downfall. This makes Swift’s comparison curious. If she is Ophelia, then who occupies the role of Hamlet? The irony lies in the fact that Ophelia’s closeness to her love is precisely what leads to her demise. Romantic reinterpretations may imagine a happier ending, but within the logic of the original text, that outcome is nearly impossible.
The second track, “Elizabeth Taylor,” framed as a letter to herself, is conceptually strong. The title invokes Elizabeth Taylor, an icon known as much for her romances as for her talent. The refrain—“Elizabeth Taylor // tell me for real // do you think it’s forever”—captures the vulnerability of wanting permanence after cycles of heartbreak, an homage to the older versions of herself that have been hurt in the past.
Love evolves across different stages in life, often teaching difficult lessons. Swift’s brand has long centered on relationships that begin intensely but end publicly. As a result, there is a noticeable thread of possessiveness running through the album. Lines like “all my white diamonds and lovers are forever // don’t you ever end up anything but mine” read less as romantic devotion and more as anxious insistence. The second half of the line feels as though more of a threat, insinuating that now they are together, he cannot leave or be anything other than hers or associated with her. The reference to wealth underscores her empire, while the second half of the lyric borders on territorial. It can feel less like partnership and more like ownership—a dynamic that risks diminishing Kelce’s own established career.
The third track, “Opalite,” is where the critics of the album argue race enters the conversation. The song begins with uncertainty about the relationship’s longevity, balanced by hopeful refrains such as “When you know you know // and when you don’t you don’t.” While simple, the lyric lacks the layered depth often associated with Swift’s strongest writing. Later, she offers “life is a song // it ends when it ends,” which gestures toward metaphor but does not fully commit to it.
The chorus draws the most scrutiny: “You were dancing through the lighting strikes // sleepless in the onyx night // now the sky is opalite.”
Kelce’s public dating history prior to Swift consisted of Black women. Some critics interpret “onyx night” as a reference to those past relationships, positioning “opalite”—a lighter, man-made stone—as Swift herself. The implication, intentional or not, places race in contrast. That contrast becomes more pointed with the later lyric: “you had to make your own sunshine // now the sky is opalite.”
Even if unintended, imagery carries weight. If “onyx” and “opalite” are racialized metaphors, the comparison risks implying replacement or elevation rather than simple transition. The irony deepens when one considers that opalite is man-made. If Swift is aligning herself with that stone, the metaphor becomes self-conscious—perhaps even self-critical—suggesting a persona constructed by industry forces.
Beyond the chorus imagery, another lyric drew attention: “ … she was in her phone.” Some listeners interpreted the line as a subtle jab at Kayla Nicole, who dated Kelce through the years 2017 and 2022. Nicole later dressed as Toni Braxton from her hit “He Wasn’t Man Enough for Me” for Halloween, dancing to the song’s routine. Coincidence? Perhaps. But the timing was notable enough to invite speculation. Moments like this blur the line between love song and public dig, raising questions about insecurity and the narratives being subtly reinforced.
This brings us back to the larger question: What is Swift attempting to communicate through this album? What is she saying about love, identity, and competition? And how should audiences—especially those who pride themselves on close reading—engage with those messages?
Loving an artist does not mean abandoning critique. In fact, thoughtful critique is a sign of investment. If fans celebrate intentional symbolism when it flatters, they must also examine it when it unsettles.