I wish to lay to bear a crime most treasonous and vile, a crime committed without a thought by so many of the more brazen undergraduates at Harvard College. The rude tendrils of these boors have, like kudzu, ensnared our mighty towers with treacherous speed, and the former glory of our quadrangles is all but eclipsed by their perfidy. We must thrust off this shadow.

My outrage, of course, concerns the aversion of the Harvard student to what we call country music. As an aesthete, I can think of nothing more agreeable than the honeyed strains of “She’s Got It All,” off Kenny Chesney’s 1997 gem, I Will Stand. I like his earlier stuff. As such, it pains me when perusing the Facebook profiles of my classmates, I so often encounter some permutation of the following phrase: “ill listen to nething, cept country ;-).”

To such offenders: first, I find your syntax loathsome, and the misspelling “nething” is as uneconomical as it is egregious.

Second, why must you insist on sinking your horrid little fangs into the hand that feeds you? Country is the soundtrack of America—at least for the proud 32 percent of us who stand behind our President. I still use Toby Keith’s “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue (The Angry American)” to drown out Senator Carl Levin (D-MI) when watching the Senate Committee on Small Business and Entrepreneurship on C-SPAN. When Mr. Keith growls, “We’ll put a boot up your ass/It’s the American way,” I can’t help but grin.

Here at Harvard, I see a climate of hatred for country music enthusiasts. People here flock to the treasonous saccharine-pop of Belle and Sebastian and the narcoleptic groaning of Iron and Wine, without even considering Big and Rich or Brooks and Dunn, both venerable duos in their own right.

For these misguided souls, some words of wisdom: knowing the Wikipedia entry on Goethe by heart and listening to terrible techno do not an international student make. Take off that Union Jack belt buckle. You’re from Illinois.

And for those miserable creatures in thrall to the most vile abomination known as “a capella,” I have nothing but disgust. If I didn’t like Eagle-Eye Cherry’s “Save Tonight” when Kiss FM 108 Radio played it eight times an hour in 1997, why would I like it when performed by a second-rate barbershop quartet? So no, I don’t want to go to the next “jam,” and your lack of instruments makes me uncomfortable.

All I ask is that we let the stars of country into our communal Crimson heart. Instead of listening to the insipid independent rock of Beck—how I hate him—or the philistine shouting of “Them Franchise Boys” at your parties, embrace the take-no-prisoners drawl of Tim McGraw. He’s more rugged, more direct and not nearly so French.

Perhaps a country-themed final club—“the Armadillo”?—or secret society akin to Yale’s Skull and Bones—less psychosexual initiation rites, more hay—is the step we need. After all, Harvard students seem to love that which that spurns and excludes them.

At any rate, I urge you, reader, to give America’s heritage a chance and go purchase Kenny Chesney’s greatest hits, if only for the life lessons therein. Perhaps he will “broaden your horizons” in ways N. Gregory Mankiw never could. The man has written fifty songs about drinking coconut rum on the beach and sold 25 million records. Your investment banking ambitions can’t hold a candle to that.

James M. Larkin ’10, a Crimson editorial editor, lives in Matthews Hall.