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I’m not much for high fashion, but The Devil Wears Prada helped me recognize one of my nastiest habits: dismissing things I don’t understand.
In the film’s most famous scene, Miranda Priestly eviscerates her assistant Andy Sachs. At first, it seems she’s mocking Andy’s frumpy outfit—but it’s Andy’s willful ignorance that really offends Miranda. Andy dismisses an entire industry—the craft, the creators, the culture—as if it’s beneath her. And cruel as Miranda is, she’s right.
Miranda explains how Andy’s “lumpy cerulean sweater” didn’t arrive in her closet through independent choice. She traces its color from Oscar de la Renta’s 2002 collection through Yves Saint Laurent, eight other designers, department stores, and finally to “some tragic Casual Corner” clearance bin.
“You think that you’ve made a choice that exempts you from the fashion industry,” Miranda concludes, “when, in fact, you’re wearing a sweater that was selected for you by the people in this room.”
As I write this, I’m wearing a blue button-front sweater. I like it. It’s comfy. And I got it at Costco. In the past, if someone tried to explain its fashion lineage to me, I’d roll my eyes just like Andy.
But those eyes are open now.
Andy’s dismissal is an attempt at sophistication. In reality, it’s armor for her self-image. A journalism major from Northwestern, destined to cover “serious” topics, Andy has decided fashion doesn’t make the cut. And it’s easier to dismiss something than admit you don’t understand it.
My Country Music Problem
“I like all kinds of music,” I’d say, “from rock to jazz to hip-hop.” Then I’d pause for emphasis: “But I hate country.”
Although, there’s a funny thing about liking “all kinds of music.” If you really do, you’ll realize they’re all intermingled. There are only so many notes. Only so many arrangements. Each genre bleeds into the next.
Ed Sheeran was sued for copyright a few years ago, and his defense didn’t require Johnny Cochran. He sat in court with his guitar and rattled off dozens of songs from different genres using the same chord progression.
The jury watched him move from rock to pop to country without skipping a beat. The boundaries between genres are like lines on a map, drawn by marketers, not musicians.
I knew this was true, but even still, I couldn’t bring myself to wade into the muddy waters of the Chattahoochee.
So what was it? What did I hate about country music?
I’m ashamed to admit it wasn’t just the sound—it was the source. Somewhere along the way I’d decided country music was southern, redneck, uneducated, and unsophisticated. It could even be, gasp, Republican.
I was no truck-driving redneck Republican!
But what happens when your rock & roll love takes you to The Band? You’ll hear The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down and wonder what genre it belongs to. You’ll hear Tom Petty’s Down South and wonder the same thing.
The Eagles, The Allman Brothers, Creedence. Shoot, don’t get me started on The Grateful Dead.
Like Andy with fashion, I thought country was beneath me, so I dismissed an entire musical tradition. Engaging with it might have complicated my identity.
I Blame Chris Stapleton
I didn’t realize my problem wasn’t with country music, but with my preconceived notions of country music. Eventually, I got a wake-up call, and that wake-up call came in the form of Starting Over.
That’s right, I blame Chris Stapleton for my awakening. Like cerulean blue, he was undeniable.
And he was just one part in a whole cast of country characters.
I’d been too busy feeling superior to notice that Billy Strings was doing with bluegrass what Led Zeppelin did with blues—making it awesome.
And with Chris and Billy leading the way, I started listening. And eventually, something came across the speakers that stopped me in my tracks. A new voice, but a familiar tune.
“He’s the one who likes all our pretty songs,
And he likes to sing along.
And he likes to shoot his gun.
But he don’t know what it means.”
I knew those words, every one of them. But not like this.
The song I grew up with had been stripped down and rebuilt. What was once raw and raging was now slow, aching, almost tender. It was In Bloom—but reimagined.
Sturgill Simpson plays country, bluegrass, psychedelic rock, and apparently he’s got a thing for grunge. He’d lived in the Pacific Northwest in the ‘90s, influenced by the same bands I grew up with. He even got super depressed for a while, and started using drugs. Just like my heroes.
That was my Nirvana moment.
In Bloom was Kurt Cobain biting his thumb at the fans who jumped on the bandwagon but had no clue where it was going. Simpson didn’t dilute that meaning; he deepened it. In truth, the country artist has more in common with Cobain than with Rascal Flatts—genre be damned—and that was the second crack in my armor.
Simpson explained to Rolling Stone Country, “When I was 13 and Nevermind dropped, it was like a bomb went off in my bedroom.”
Same!
I hadn’t been rejecting a sound. I’d been rejecting a caricature of that sound. If Nirvana could live inside country, then maybe country was closer to my kind of music than I thought.
Dismissal as a Defense
It’s more common than you think.
“I’m not into sports.”
“I prefer takeout to cooking.”
“I get along with cats better.”
On the surface, these sound like simple preferences. But often, they’re using the bailey and the motte—a medieval strategy of defense applied to modern arguments. Imagine a castle: the bailey is the open field around it, exposed and vulnerable. That’s the big, sweeping claim we make from a distance: “country music sucks!” The motte is the fortified tower at the center, protected by thick walls. When challenged, we retreat here: “Well, it’s just my opinion, but I don’t enjoy country music.” The strategy works because we can venture bold claims but always have a safe retreat when pressed.
When we say, “I don’t like X,” what we often mean is: “I don’t understand X.”
It’s easier to dismiss something than to step up and admit ignorance. That’s why Andy is shaken after Miranda’s cerulean monologue: deep down, she knows her dismissal was a dodge.
NASCAR, Wranglers, boots, buckles, and pickup trucks—anything that felt too “country”—got written off, while head-banging metalheads and pant-sagging hip-hop got a pass.
I was up in my motte, reluctant to change.
All that emotional labor, just to protect an outdated version of myself? A kid that didn’t vibe with Garth Brooks? Every art has ridiculous elements. But we only see them in the ones that threaten our identity.
And for what it’s worth, Simpson never hid behind the fortified motte of country music. In 2015, while playing Roy Orbison’s “Crying,” he noticed a fight in the audience. “How the f*ck could you guys possibly be thinking about fighting when we’re singing this song?” He later said, “I can’t wait ’til all these flannel shirt, bearded motherf*ckers figure out I ain’t like them.”
Like Cobain, Simpson wouldn’t pander to fans who fundamentally misunderstood him.
On the bandwagon, no clue where it’s going.
Dip Your Toe
There’s a difference between informed criticism and dismissive ignorance. Cobain was famously critical of other grunge bands, but his criticism came from deep knowledge and a desire to push the genre forward. That’s criticism that elevates.
When you hear some cliché rhymes with a dash of country twang over trap beats, criticism is warranted.
What Andy was doing—and what I was doing with country music—wasn’t criticism. It was protection. Dismissal without understanding.
The creators—designers, musicians, innovators—aren’t playing this game. They’re too busy making things. Artists are often the most accepting people you’ll meet.
It’s consumers who build hierarchies of dismissal. Categorizing, ranking, because engaging requires vulnerability, and vulnerability is terrifying. It’s safer to be the kid in the back of the bus, rolling your eyes, up in your motte.
Social commentary has its place, but it often acts as a shield, keeping us from deeper engagement with things we don’t understand. We become Andy, wearing our frumpy sweaters like badges that say, “I have better things to think about.”
But the moment you stop dismissing is the moment you start learning. My country music revelation didn’t just give me a new genre to enjoy—it made me question other things I’d written off. What else was I missing because I was busy protecting my image?
You don’t have to move to Alabama to see this truth. You can dip your toe, spend a night at an SEC tailgate, hear some Hank Jr. on the speakers, let go—and see if you don’t wake up with just a hint of southern drawl.
Culture pulls you in if you let it.
And you should let it.
Being seen clearly when you dislike the view can sting. But maybe that sting is exactly what we need—pushing us from dismissing the cerulean to understanding why it matters.
Even if you bought it at Costco.
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