Taste—who has it, who doesn’t, and how to get it—is the internet topic du jour. With countless TikToks, essays, and posts debating who has taste, whether algorithms are making us lose our taste, and if taste slop is the final death knell of ‘good’ taste flooding our feeds. This societal fascination may feel recent, but obsession with it has influenced my entire life. Aged 20 studying fashion journalism at university, I decided to create my own publication, named Polyester. Sick of being told that feminine aesthetics and working class culture was in poor taste and unintellectual, I started Polyester to rally against notions of ‘good’ taste and to champion the things I love—which so often fell into the categories of bad taste or low culture.
Enter The Polyester Book of (Bad) Taste, a new essay collection edited by me (Ione Gamble) featuring essays from Polyester contributors like Tavi Gevinson, Ramisha Sattar, Nicola Dinan and many more. Tasked with defining what taste means to them and how we can nurture our own taste in increasingly hostile digital environments—the resulting book, I hope, is a rallying cry to trust your own taste. To love the things we love whole heartedly in an irony-pilled cultural world, and to resist the internet's lure of microtrends and monotonous culture.
When thinking of people that are shining beacons for having faith in your own bad taste, comedian Cat Cohen was of course one of the first people that popped into my mind. The word icon gets thrown around too easily these days, but Cat really is one. From her unapologetically femme sense of style, to the fact she can be seen popping up in some of the best films of the past few years, and her self effacing sense of humour—there's few people with such a singular sense of self. It was surprising then, when I asked her to contribute to The Polyester Book of (Bad) Taste, to discover this hasn’t always been the case.
Below is Cat’s amazing essay chronicling her teen years as an evangelical Christian and how it prevented her from discovering her true taste when so many of us do, in our teen years. I hope you love it as much as I do. —Ione Gamble
“Jesus Took My Taste” by Cat Cohen
He wanted me bad. Why else would he have said it? ‘You’re such a fast typer.’ Could he have made it any more obvious? I was standing at the front of the class, logging into my laptop with lightning speed, when I realised he was talking to me . . . Such. A. Fast. Typer. My face went red- hot as I began to present my portion of the geography PowerPoint on countries or states, or whatever the fuck you’re meant to absorb in geography when you’re fourteen, desperately horny and saving yourself for marriage.
I couldn’t believe he had addressed me directly and with a compliment at that! He was right: I was a fast typer. I practised often, up late at night crafting the perfect AOL chat away messages – chock- full of moody lyrics from songs I’d discovered while watching early seasons of The O.C. on the floor in my bedroom – [‘**LoV3 wiLL get u DoWn**’ ~Interpol //
‘say yes’ – Elliott Smith <3 // ‘plz don’t worry Lover’ – Death Cab for Cutie]
But Matthew didn’t know about any of that. Matthew wasn’t online. He didn’t know about Marissa Cooper or Conor Oberst. He didn’t know about Chrismukkah, or which version of ‘Hallelujah’ sent Seth Cohen sailing off into the sunset. And he certainly didn’t know I was completely in love with him. But on that day in 2006, in Geography class, it was undeniable. He had noticed me and the speed at which I could flick the keys. It was only a matter of time before I actually had a boyfriend. C+M = <3 Xo
At fourteen, not only was I boyfriend-less, I hadn’t even had my first kiss! And not for lack of trying, honey! Humiliating. From the beginning, I fell in love with boys early and often – carving the name of my first crush into a bar of Dial antibacterial soap during bathtime at age six. Keeping a list of my crushes in a Winnie the Pooh- themed diary, which I frequently updated, crossing out one name and replacing it with the next. Goodbye, Alex, Hello Max – the same names popping up repeatedly over the years, my fixations emerging from crusty lines of white- out. At my Baptist elementary school, I daydreamed of sneaking into the hallways to ‘French Kiss’. At birthday parties, I played ‘2 Become 1’ on my Spice Girls’ CD, encouraging all the girls to ‘Slow Dance’ so we could all see what it would be like.
What I wanted seemed so simple – to touch and love and be loved in return. But as the years passed, it became clear the boys I admired did not feel for me with quite the same fervour, or indeed with any fervour at all. I watched other girls get asked to walk around the track during recess or chat on AIM in the evenings. </3 I became infatuated with longing, leaning into the pain I felt, taking solace in the music of other wounded souls from the indie bands played on The CW Network. Those were my people! The rejects, the writers, the artists on the brink . . . I discovered romantic poetry, two roads diverged in the suburbs of Houston, Texas, and I took the road most travelled – desperately trying to fit in with my peers during the day, while developing my own taste in the evenings. By the blue glow of the family computer I could be my moody teen self – discovering new bands on Tumblr, teaching myself the chords on Ultimate- Guitar.com, wailing like Damien Rice in the wee hours before bed. But at my preppy, conservative Christian school it wasn’t cool to be ‘emo’ or to like indie rock. It wasn’t cool to care about anything. There were very clear
rules. We all listened to country music – George Strait, Toby Keith, Tim McGraw. We all wore Hollister miniskirts, Lacoste polo shirts and James Avery cross necklaces. I may have been half Jewish, but my Catholic side was absolutely rocking a massive Ichthys on a leather rope around my neck when my friends invited me to church.
It seemed innocent enough – I had slept over at my best friend Megan’s house and when we woke up on a Sunday, she asked if I wanted to come along to her Presbyterian church. I had been raised going to the occasional Catholic Mass to appease my grandmother, but I had yet to encounter the realm of the evangelicals. There may be endless denominations of Christianity, but in my little teenage world there were basically two – the Catholics I knew who went to services out of duty, adhered to tradition, appreciated the ceremony and forgot about it by Monday, and the Evangelicals – the hip Jesus lovers who made it their mission to convert you by inviting you to go bowling and get free pizza. And I love pizza! Plus, it didn’t hurt that my famous crush Matthew
went to Megan’s church. After one Sunday with the Presbyterians, I was hooked.
I can’t stress this enough – in Texas, in 2006, it was cool to go to church. We went skiing every winter! We went on beach getaways to Jamaica disguised as ‘mission trips’! The youth group leaders were young and attractive and wore interesting hats. There was a guy who did backflips during worship services! And it didn’t hurt that the Church exposed me to a group of boys who didn’t go to my school – boys who didn’t know that I’d never been selected to walk around
the track at recess, to be a girlfriend. And these boys could be new crushes. The new stars of my emo- music scored day-dreams. And of course, there was Matthew. Why did I like Matthew? He was tall. I cannot think of another reason. He was tall and everyone loved him. Yes, he had only spoken five words to me, but I figured if I was around enough, he would eventually fall under my Victoria’s Secret Love Spell. And the key to Matthew’s heart? The Lord. He was no doubt the most devout boy at church. Always leading Bible study, giving testimony. I knew to get his attention, I had to be the perfect Christian good girl. Never mind that at home each night before bed I was furiously masturbating (sin), lusting after Ashton Kutcher (sin) and occasionally sipping a Keystone Light on the weekends (sin). I would persevere, keep going to church and become his bride.
There was no middle ground after all – at youth group, we were all indoctrinated to save ourselves for marriage – some couples even choosing to wait to KISS until the wedding. Call the police!!! I know it sounds wild, but these insane beliefs are easy to ignore when you’re enjoying free pizza on the ski slopes of Colorado with your best friends.
Over time, however, it was impossible to resist the brain-washing. I became more and more indoctrinated – casually shouting out ‘the blood of Christ’ in prayer before each meal I ate, discussing the merits of dressing modestly so as not to tempt our male peers when walking past Abercrombie & Fitch in the mall. Instead of spending nights on Tumblr scrolling through photos of Amy Winehouse or Lily Allen, I spent my free time at Bible Study discussing my ‘sin issues’ with a bunch of girls who were trained to encourage me to
‘pray about it’ in the face of any uncertainty. I managed to retain my sense of humour, but soon, the ideals I once mocked became beliefs I espoused. I bent and twisted my teenage rage into something palatable – into something that would make me fit to wed someone like Matthew. And all this conforming landed me in a bizarre subculture I had never been drawn to – I was now living outside the lines of popular culture. Instead of listening to The Strokes, I was listening to
contemporary worship band Shane & Shane – playing their song ‘Psalm 188’ on repeat in my car. Writing ‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good/ His Love endures forever’ in my little AIM Away instant messenger box. Instead of reading Ginsberg or Kerouac, I carried a copy of ‘Redeeming Love’ by Francine Rivers – the story of an 1800s prostitute who is given a second virginity after being ‘saved’ by a godly man – around the school cafeteria.
I remember swanning about the library with my hot pink, monogrammed Bible, hoping Matthew would catch a glimpse of what I was holding. If he knew God was my true passion, he would totally pursue my heart. The whole operation was so misguided – aiming to become Christian enough that the hot Christian guy would abandon his morals and fuck me. Then again, how could he resist? Remember how fast I could
type?! Then one day at lunch, Megan dropped the news: Matthew had a girlfriend. Apparently a beautiful, very holy, pure and true girl he met at summer camp, who lived in Dallas. He was taken. Our love story was over as quickly as it had started. Sure, I could find another Man of God to idolise, but no one was as tall as Matthew.
I kept attending church throughout high school – it was
the hub of my social life. I got more and more involved, while feeling more and more distant from myself. I was resentful of the teens in other cities who seemed to be living authentically, teens who had blogs and listened to Kate Nash with their friends. Teens who had taste! I felt my years of self- discovery had been robbed by the Church. Instead of emulating Kate Moss, I was emulating Christian camp counsellors who had
‘Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing’ scrawled on the outside of their prayer journals. I wanted to be photographed at Glasto, bitch!!!
High school is painted as the time to feel like an outcast, a rebel, but I felt almost too aligned with my peers. I had no spine, no backbone, no courage to wear anything other than the assigned uniform of oversized T- shirt and Nike shorts. I was destined to be a lover of art, a maker of history! I was not destined to be a wife at twenty- one! I wanted to feel like
a punk, not an acolyte. I wanted to be angry and outrageous, rejected and misunderstood. Instead, I was obsessed with behaving, with being a good girl. Even with Matthew out of the picture, I kept thinking if I was holy enough, knew enough about scripture or prayer, I would be picked, I would be chosen. I would be loved.
It was only when I graduated from high school and left
Texas that I began to unravel the dangerous ideals that had been instilled in me through seemingly innocuous Christian art. I finally met people who listened to ‘Bright Eyes’ instead of ‘Switchfoot’. People who would rather discuss Patti Smith than John Piper. I slowly became someone I liked being, but resented those years wasted on shitty art that brainwashed me
into thinking I needed to make myself smaller and more subservient to be loved. I couldn’t help but feel like Jesus took my taste, took those formative years of self- discovery away from me. Discovering what you like is a lifelong process, but some things never change. Matthew is still married to his high-school girlfriend and I still listen to The O.C. soundtrack.
Cat Cohen will next be seen off Broadway in Broad Strokes, opening at the Lucille Lortel Theatre on July 27, 2026.
