Scroll for five minutes on TikTok and you’ll quickly find images of abandoned church buildings, blood-stained clothes and Christian billboards — just a few markers of the media’s newest coveted aesthetic: #southerngothic.
In only two years, the aesthetic has gone from being a niche Tumblr subculture to a mainstream craze, as the hashtag went from merely 9 million views on TikTok in 2021 to a whopping 121.2 million views as of last August. However, many of the Gen Z users who are contributing to #southerngothic’s rise in popularity neglect to reflect upon the implications of its Antebellum inspirations.
The most prevalent example of #southerngothic is the musical artist Ethel Cain, Hayden Anhedönia’s musical alter-ego. Cain’s 2022 concept album Preacher’s Daughter chronicles her rise and fall from her genesis as the daughter of a small-town preacher, to her untimely demise.
Her song “American Teenager” details Cain’s upbringing in Shady Grove, Alabama, and the bitterness of the South, which she finds an escape from in a love interest, Logan Phelps, as described in “A House in Nebraska.” Phelps leaves her in shambles and Cain loses her way until she meets Isaiah, which spirals into a love story that takes place in the nine-minute “Thoroughfare.” It all turns sour when he sells her into prostitution, kills and cannibalizes her, leaving her rotting in a fridge and wishing for her home in the last track, “Strangers.”
Yes, teenage girls on TikTok are obsessed with this story and its aesthetic, evidenced by the over 20,000 videos they’ve made on TikTok to Preacher’s Daughter’s songs. Although many of these listeners are not aware that #southerngothic’s history goes farther back than just the birth of Cain; the present-day aesthetic finds its origins in the Southern Gothic literary genre.
According to Lick-Wilmerding High School English teacher and massive Cain fan Rex Shannon, the Southern Gothic literary canon is characterized by its reconciliation with the legacy of slavery. Texts like William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom! and Toni Morrison’s Beloved are both examples of the genre in their representations of the ghosts left haunting the Antebellum South.
Southern Gothic literature from writers like Flannery O’Conner, Edgar Allen Poe and more follows in the footsteps of British Gothic, which was fascinated with the macabre and frightening. However, instead of exploring these elements on London’s streets, the genre presents social critiques of the changing culture post-Civil War in the new American South. Through protagonists that represent outsiders and those on society’s fringes — including but not limited to Black, disabled or queer characters — Southern Gothic unearths the disturbing underbelly of the South’s history that was irrevocably marked by slavery. Even though TikTok’s #southerngothic isn’t necessarily preoccupied with misfits — instead largely portraying beautiful, white women — it does contain this same idea of dirt and grime in each of its images.
But, what is it about the southern gothic aesthetic which draws such a large audience, primarily of people who’ve only ever been exposed to major urban centers? For many of Cain’s fans, the South is a distant realm that they neither understand nor have experienced. To us, it appears contradictory for them to proclaim her as their “mother,” begging the question ‘why love Ethel Cain?’
Firstly, Cain serves as a traditional American religious and cultural homecoming. In her song “Sun Bleached Flies,” she says, “What I wouldn’t give to be in church this Sunday / Listening to the choir so heartfelt.” While Cain’s relationship with the church isn’t at all idyllic or normal — re. cannibalism, prostitution, abuse — she relentlessly strives to draw closer to the God she was promised would love her. This desire to reconnect with the Southern Baptist religion that she grew up with echoes recent trends of an American return to evangelicalism.
Widespread book bans in Florida, the rise of nationalist politicians like Ron DeSantis and the creation of alt-right educational groups such as Mom’s for Liberty all signify efforts to restore an idealized vision of America, rooted in conservatism and damnation. For many longing for this evangelical resurgence, Cain’s music offers a comforting return to a bygone era when Christianity and life were synonymous.
Listeners resonate with her quest for this religious morality and spiritual assurance, finding solace and familiarity in her music. As a result, listeners find their values and identities influenced the more that they consume Cain’s music; many of her “daughters” proudly wear crosses even if they do not necessarily practice Christianity.
However, we also pose an alternate theory contributing to Cain’s stratospheric rise to popularity through #southerngothic: there has been a deep spiritual evacuation in the past 30 years.
Christianity in America, once regarded as the permanent moral authority, has seen a slow decline amongst younger generations. According to Axios, Gen Z is notably less likely to identify as Christians (27%) compared to baby boomers (54%). Anhedönia herself left the church at age 16 when she originally came out as gay to her mother; the declaration meant immediate ostracization from her Southern Baptist congregation — the close community she grew up in — and from her whole family.
In “American Teenager,” Cain asks the question, “And Jesus if you’re there, why do I feel so alone in this room with you?” Cain’s lyrics speak to a growing religious dilemma amongst young people in America when the realities of Christianity don’t match the narratives they were told when they were young.
Although for many, the fascination with #southerngothic may simply be with the aesthetic’s beauty. By focusing on beautiful stained glass windows or shadowed church pews, it becomes easy to avoid the more sinister forms of oppression that lurk beneath, like sexism and racism.
In all honesty, it’s easy to love the South through the lens of a pretty, brunette girl, embraced by the South, no matter whether it’s 1824 or 2024. Cain provides a romanticized image deeply intertwined with the praise and privileges historically accorded to white womanhood in the region’s fabric.
photo courtesy of Pinterest
From its inception, the South was built on Indigenous genocide, the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade and the systemic exploitation of BIPOC people — a history that is forcibly forgotten. Cain’s image conveniently overlooks these uncomfortable truths, allowing for a sanitized and romanticized view of the region that fails to grapple with its complex past and present.
As someone who preaches about the South’s beauty, we think it’s ironic that much of her music focuses on its sheer ugliness instead. However, the important distinction that Anhedönia makes is that you have to hold both together at the same time, forgoing a narrow view of the region and looking at it with criticality.
For fans like Shannon, the joy of listening to Cain is embracing the South’s contradictions. She pokes fun at this American sense of honor, like in “American Teenager” where she says, ‘The neighbor’s brother came home in a box, but he wanted to go so maybe it was his fault. Another red heart taken by the American dream.’ That’s awesome,” Shannon said. “It’s such an accurate depiction of how people actually feel.”
However, there is another element of her popularity that we don’t see talked about enough. For many — especially Cain’s predominantly white women audience — it’s as simple as the feeling of oppression that her music invites others to experience. By listening to her stories of abuse and misogyny within the confines of the Church, Cain’s life and struggles become an escape from the boring confines of one’s own. Their feelings of anguish seem legitimized by the despair that they can tap into through Cain’s lyrics.
“I think many people feel trapped in their own lives and circumstances and see stories like Ethel Cain’s as a mirror to how they feel, but their lives are still privileged,” Katie Flemming ’24, who first discovered #southerngothic in summer 2022, said. Cain is quite literally trapped — beneath the power of her father, under her dirty mattress and even in death. Her real suffering acts as a mouthpiece for many.
By all means, we’re not saying that people can’t enjoy Cain’s music — whether they connect with the deeper meanings or just enjoy the sound. Although, it is problematic that most of her fanbase doesn’t take the chance to examine the whole truth of the era they are romanticizing.
To be a fan of Cain, you also have to reckon with the legacies of the South that her music contends with; a truth that hasn’t permeated many fans’ brains. As a generation, Gen-Z is obsessed with images and aesthetics filtered through on TikTok, from clean girl to coquette, so we don’t find this thoughtlessness particularly surprising.
We challenge our peers to think a little deeper about the Southern stories they’ve become fascinated with. Although Cain can’t ever go back to that house in Nebraska before her life descended into trauma, fans can escape the cautionary tales that she describes to find some deeper understanding.
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