Last fall I told Harvard’s English Department that I planned to offer a class this spring on Taylor Swift. No one objected; Harvard professors like me get lots of latitude in confecting electives as long as we also offer the bread-and-butter material our majors need. (Most of my work is poetry-related; I also teach our regular undergrad course about literary form, from Beowulf on.) I’d call my new class Taylor Swift and Her World, as in: We’d read and listen to other artists and authors (part of her world). But also as in: It’s her world; we just live in it.

I’ve been living in it ever since. I thought I’d be teaching a quiet seminar: 20-odd Swifties around a big oak table, examining and appreciating her career, from her debut to Midnights, alongside her influences, from Carole King (see her Rock & Roll Hall of Fame speech) to William Wordsworth (see “The Lakes” from Folklore). We would track her echoes and half rhymes, her arrangements and collaborations and allusions, her hooks and her choruses. We might sing along. We’d learn why “You Belong With Me” relies so much on its with (you don’t belong to me, nor I to you). We’d learn how the unease in “Tolerate It” speaks to its time signature (5/4). Maybe some English majors would get into songwriting. Maybe some Swifties would leave with old poems in their heads.

To be fair, almost all those things have now happened. We did sing along. Some undergrads learned to love the 18th-century poet and satirist Alexander Pope, or at least to pretend they did: Pope’s “Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot” depicts his exasperation with superfans, false friends, and haters in ways rarely equaled until Reputation. We cracked open Easter eggs, and we studied her rhythms. But we couldn’t fit around a table. At one point 300 students signed up for the class; almost 200 ended up taking it. We met in a concert hall on campus, with a grand piano at center stage. I gave what I hope were engaging lectures, with pauses for questions, and stage props: a melodica, or a cuddly stuffed snake (for the snake motifs on Reputation). We had theater lights, and balcony seats, and the kind of big screen few humanities classrooms now need.

And we had eyes on us from outside the room. One user on Twitter (now officially X) “leaked” our syllabus as if we had kept a Hollywood secret. Students put clips (with our okay) on TikTok. And we had reporters—daily, for weeks—asking to visit. We ended up inviting the Today show, whose camera-ready journalist Emilie Ikeda listened admirably to our undergrads. My teaching assistants, our students, and I spoke with the BBC. And with TMZ. And with Australian public radio. And with broadcast TV news in Boston, and Boise, and Sacramento, and NPR and RTE (Irish public broadcasting), and with journalists from Brazil, Chile, the People’s Republic of China, Ecuador, Finland, France, Germany, Greece, India, Mexico, New Zealand, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Singapore, Spain, and Sweden.

We learned, in other words, that Swift attracts attention: That attention amplifies things about her, even without her. Teaching the class sometimes felt like one more of Swift’s vaunted collaborations, another multimedia performance involving reporters, and students, and her. Journalists asked if Swift would visit. (She’d be welcome, but she’s got a lot going on.) They asked what I wanted students to learn. (How to think about works of art.) And they asked if Harvard resisted a course on a celebrity. (We read dead people too, like Pope and James Weldon Johnson and Willa Cather. Who were, in their own time, celebrities.)

If I had—and have—a thesis about Swift’s work as a whole, here it is: She’s excelled as a songwriter and as a performer by staying both aspirational and relatable. Swifties and casual fans see parts of ourselves in her, but we also see someone we wish we could be. Her first few albums made the pairing clear: Songs like “Fifteen” and “You Belong With Me” spoke to common high school crushes and heartbreaks. At the same time, they let listeners look up to her. Not only did she put into words what so many fans felt but could not express so crisply, she seemed lucky, even enviable, while doing it. She sang about senior boys who might stop you in hallways, “wink at you and say, ‘You know, I haven’t seen you around before,’ ” not about bullies who might shove you in bins; she wrote about feeling excluded by classmates, but also about her attentive, affectionate mother, who took her to “drive until we found a town far enough away / And we talk and window shop till I’ve forgotten all their names.” No wonder so many people—especially girls her age and younger—saw in her both a peer and an ideal.

When our class entered her pop era, her post-teenage stardom from 1989 on, my thesis hit a snag. We saw how the woman who clearly enjoyed the lights, who sang “we never go out of style” and dated Harry Styles, remained aspirational. But what made these versions of Swift relatable? One answer: Like any great writer in any medium, she has a talent for framing common emotions, for crystallizing nostalgia, lust, and regret. If we’ve felt them, she lets us feel them anew.

Another answer, though, arose on the classroom’s wood floor, or perhaps at its grand piano. Swift sings about life onstage, about her wish and even need to sparkle, bejeweled, whether or not she likes her dating life. Even when she tries to find some privacy, she can’t stop thinking that other people are watching, “drama queens taking swings” (“Call It What You Want”). Some nights she feels like a giant, or a monster, as she put it in “Anti-Hero.” She can look at the crowd but never in the mirror and knows she has to perform. She knows she needs us even more than we need her, even when she gets “tired of being known” (“Dorothea”): She’ll do many things not to feel alone. She can even do it with a broken heart.

So could we, I realized. So could I. At a college famous for being famous, in front of what—for most humanities teachers—counts as a crowd, I could layer my own need for approval, my wish that students would choose me (or my favorite writers), and my own impostor syndrome over Swift’s, and see that my dreams weren’t rare. I saw myself, not in her talents but in her anxieties, one more child for whom, as she put it lately, “growing up precocious sometimes means not growing up at all.” Some of our students, I think, could sympathize too, in the pressure chambers and dens of precocity that make up Harvard: They too might think—as songs like “Nothing New,” like “Castles Crumbling,” like “Clara Bow” imply—that no kudos would suffice, no A+ would be enough.

Fortunately I did not have to feel that way—much less to study Swift—on my own. Though I devised the syllabus with help from head teaching assistant MJ Cunniff, the teaching itself was a team affair: myself and MJ and nine discussion section leaders, from Harvard’s Music and American Studies departments and Harvard Law School and from Northeastern and Tufts and Brown universities. MJ gave a lecture that tied Swift to Sylvia Plath, prompting a passel of essays about her verse. Other discussion leaders explicated chord changes on guitar; explained the dialectology in “country” and “pop” voices; and unpacked the Swift–Kanye–Kim Kardashian spat, with videos.

As Swift does on her songs, we brought in guest stars too. The critic and songwriter Franklin Bruno explained why pop songs often (and folk songs almost never) have bridges. Bryan West, USA Today’s Swift beat reporter, flew to Boston to meet us. Dani and Olivia from the great fan podcast Taylearning conducted a survey for students, then visited us in person to break down the data. Fashion historian Chloe Chapin analyzed Swift’s outfits; law school prof Rebecca Tushnet demystified copyright.

Ours was hardly this year’s sole college class on Swift: If I teach it again—and I hope I can—I’ll compare notes first with professors of English, communication, economics, music, and more, from Ghent University in Belgium, the University of Texas at Austin, TCU, Westfield State, and the University of Kansas. I’ll also learn from the mixed reviews students gave me: A few dozen (to quote Swift’s “Cardigan”) said I was their favorite and they would gladly come back to (more courses with) me. A few dozen more students found me hard to follow (I could have used, should have used, bullet points on slides). In our final week we asked students to tell us—anonymously—their favorite and least favorite aspects of class. What did they consider the course’s best parts? Our out-of-town guests, and teaching assistants’ guest lectures. Apparently Taylor Swift and Her World reached its new heights when I sat down, shut up, and just listened. Like all classes, it didn’t belong to me; it belonged with the students who chose to be there. The artist who wrote “Long Live” for her band, who encouraged fans to make friendship bracelets, who knows how we need one another, might have approved.