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As a young teenager, I remember sitting in the back seat of my parent's car, rolling my eyes at the noise coming from the radio speakers. On the airwaves being sent directly from Texas and Florida and behind the overbearing static sound, I could make out the TAN, TAN of the ending of the rancherai song my father was singing and enjoying. My mother would be next to him singing and whistling along, ignoring the static sound that was louder than the music and that would invariably give my teenage self a headache.ii My sister and I, two teenagers growing up in a small town in Eastern Oregon and adoring European bands like Duran Duran, Depeche Mode, and The Cure would complain, or should I say whine about the "music" our parents were so willing to hold on to even through the static.

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This is an author-produced, peer-reviewed version of this article. The final, definitive version of this document can be found online at Feminist Teacher, published by University of Illinois Press. Copyright restrictions may apply. DOI: 10.1353/ftr.2011.0033