(March 23, 2007) — People of the world, I have a confession to make. My name is Yelena Akopyan. I’m 18 years old, I’m of Armenian and Russian decent, I was raised my whole life in Los Angeles California and I like country music. Now wait a second, hold on! Before you take that rusty hammer and nail me to a cross, let me explain! It wasn’t my fault really. It happened before I knew it. It started out innocently enough when I discovered a unique branch of punk called folk punk. My fondness for the violin, banjo, mandolin and the ukulele was growing by day, but I didn’t think anything would come of it. I knew plenty of cool kids who liked similar music. I mean, Johnny Cash! Who doesn’t like Johnny Cash?! There’s nothing wrong with Johnny Cash! As the days went by, however, my friends started noticing a difference. I began to act sullen and detatched when my friends pointed out my peculiarity, and although I knew some of my friend dabbled in country-ish music, I noticed stares and whispers when I walked into a room. “It’s none of your business!” I wanted to yell. “I can stop anytime I want!” I just couldn’t get enough of the intoxicating sound of the steel guitar! I couldn’t admit that I had a problem. So, last Wednesday, when I found myself at the Hollywood club the El Rey, listening to a five minute harmonica solo by Conor Oberst and an anonymous bearded man in a red plaid shirt, I took a look around me (and the people from various southern states I had met that night), and I realized, “Wow. It’s true. I really do like country music.” It was a hard thing to come to grips with, and at first I definitely felt really really uncool. But now that I’ve accepted it, I’ve realize that there’s nothing wrong with liking country music. Perhaps the most distinct thing about western music is not the unusual instruments, but the potent lyrics and impressive songwriting. Looking at students’ Myspaces or online profiles, in places where one is to write about the kind of music they like, I can’t recall the countless times I’ve read the statement “Anything but country,” and agreed. But with my new profound outlook, I realize that the same way I’ll criticize someone who claims to hate rap because all they’ve heard is 50 Cent, I know country isn’t just the broken heart, pick-up truck, 50-gallon-hat two-steppin-Garth-Brooks-cliché we’ve all come to believe.