Personal Narrative – Confessions of a K-Pop Fan

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Confessions of a K-Pop Fan

It wasn’t so long ago that But it wasn’t so long ago that K-Pop was a fringe genre, popular only among (understandably) Asian-American teens and (more strangely) a subsection of weird anime fans. I was one of the weird anime fans. This is a story of my life as a beleaguered K-pop fan, coming to you in three parts. 

Part 1: Confessions

I heard it before I saw it, the rumble of the school bus as it turned the corner into my neighborhood. Panicking, I fumbled for my iPhone 4, switching Super Junior’s “A-Cha” (a banger) to my school-friendly playlist full of Katy Perry and Bruno Mars. God forbid one of the few kids on the bus somehow intuited my song choice from a hundred feet away. I was in eighth grade, and I was already living a lie. 

The year before, my life had shifted on its axis when I discovered Pink Jumpsuit Man. I had been watching fanmade Naruto music videos on YouTube when an act of divine algorithmic intervention introduced me to a song called “Lollipop.” Neon lights, loud beat, intricate (and for my Oklahoma Christian-fried brain, scandalous–with boys and girls together!) choreography. In the front was the most beautiful man I had ever seen–skinny with longish frizzy hair and a pink jumpsuit, he was doing much of the rapping in a somewhat grating high-pitched voice. I was immediately obsessed.

But obsession came with a price. My conception of school life was dominated by small-town stereotypes: jocks, tables of popular kids, nerds getting shoved into lockers. As a math-obsessed, insecure preteen, I was not going to let myself get shoved. I tried my best to prove my worth. I watched Jersey Shore. I scripted conversations to impress peers in English class. I had a closet full of layered tanks, a fresh pair of off-brand Converse, and swoopy bangs. What more could I do? Apart from a few trusted friends who also knew of the genre, nobody knew I liked K-Pop. I think. 

Part 2: Don’t Meet Your Heroes (3 years later)

After the release of “Gangnam Style,” I had spent the last two years of high school testing the waters of public K-Pop fandom. And that freedom allowed me to begin my missionary work, spending much of my upperclassman years as a color guard captain slowly recruiting the younger members into K-Pop fandom. One of my favorite hobbies was forcing them to sit while I performed choreography in an artsy twist on what otherwise might be considered a hostage situation. 

By 2015, a fairly new group called BTS had risen from obscurity and garnered enough of a fan club to have a world tour. I grabbed Elizabeth–one of my color guard recruits–had some cringy t-shirts printed (members’ names written in Korean, so they would know I could read it), and drove us to Dallas. My front floor tickets also got me access to a hi-touch, one of the unique events exclusive to K-Pop fan culture,  in which you get to shake hands with the members. Good news: I would meet my heroes. Bad news: they weren’t allowed to talk to us. It was a strictly handshake affair.

BTS was the perfect group for a prudish, sheltered, recently deconstructed white girl–two underground rappers joined a K-pop company to form a “hip-hop” group. So, BTS was a bunch of Korean teenagers from the edgy fringe of Korean society, rapping about the ills of the system and doing choreography Pink Jumpsuit Guy couldn’t have dreamed of–complete with a couple of curse words. On our drive down, my friend and I nervously chittered about the possibility that we’d sing the word “shit” along with the boys in their famous “Cyper Part 3: Killer.” 

The concert itself delivered. Waiting in the line that people had undoubtedly camped out for, girls in striped knee-high socks danced along to hits from albums such as 2 Cool 4 Skool, School Luv Affair, O!RUL8,2?, and Dark & Wild. And these boys were talented. Crazy lights, insane stage presence, and audience interaction like I haven’t seen since. Despite the cringy titles, their music is surprisingly earnest, speaking to themes of love and societal pressure that teens worldwide found meaningful. So when they screamed SHIT during “Cypher Part 3,” I screamed it too. 

At the end of the concert, an announcer ushered the chosen few (hundred) into an assembly line. I took deep breaths and practiced my memorized comments and was ready to high five the shit–wow, look what they’ve done to me–out of the members. 

First member: V. He hacked the “no speaking” rule by deciding to repeat the same line to all of us: “YEAHHH,” he screamed as he dapped me up. I forgot my lines. I kept it moving. Jimin–shorter than I thought, polite handshake, moving on. 

There was a definite rhythm: Shake, scoot down. Shake, scoot down. Shake, scoot down. On to RM, the only English-speaking member. I had promised Elizabeth that I would tell him of her existence since she didn’t get a hi-touch ticket. In the small space of my shake, I looked him straight in the eyes and said, “Uh I have a friend and she’s here but she didn’t get a ticket so like she’s still outside but she’s here.” Nice. He grimaced, I scooted down. 

And then, it was Jungkook–hot as hell. I reached out my right hand for the shake and was preparing for the scoot, but as I tried to extricate my hand from his, there was an extra beat. Shake…hold. Did that just happen? Scoot. 

Jin’s turn–shake, scoot. Suga: shake, scoot. Lastly, my favorite member, J-Hope. Taller than I thought and with his famously cheerful smile, I looked up at him and said “I love you.” This was apparently not the distinctive observation I thought it had been. Have you ever seen Spiderman 3–the scene where Peter’s strutting down some street in NYC, finger gunning the surrounding ladies? That’s what J-Hope did to my confession of love. Fuck. 

I busted out the door near J-Hope, Texas humidity immediately choking me, transported into the mass of sobbing teenagers recovering, as I was, from their handshake experiences. For years after, that hi-touch was one of the foundational stories of my life. 

Sure, I’d messed it up with J-Hope and RM. I told myself they’d heard worse and tried not to think about it at bedtime. But then, what to make of the pause with Jungkook? There was video proof, too–the entire event filmed from a strange CCTV angle and uploaded to YouTube, hands in perfect sight. I hadn’t imagined it, the slight hesitation before Jungkook let go of my hand. I wasn’t delusional enough to believe we were in love, but I thought maybe he’d sensed some kind of underlying chillness or wow, that’s a really cool fan-ness that I knew I possessed, only too ready to accept acknowledgement from my idol like some kind of deity. 

Until, that is, the day I pulled up the video to show a friend in college. Camera resolution had improved a lot over a few years, so the video was grainy in a way I didn’t remember. I had the bright idea to zoom in and–no, nope. What is that. Zoom some more. The image wasn’t great, but it was good enough to see me reach out, wrap my fingers around Jungkook’s entire (not small!!!) right hand, and hold on for dear life as he politely waited for me to get on to the next member.

Fuck.

Part 3: Modern Renaissance (10+ years later)

I am almost 30. The room is bright, air conditioner straining against the light that streams in from windows I refuse to cover. The music is barely audible over the chatter–ILLIT’s (pronounced eyelet) “jellyous”; I don’t listen to all of the fifth generation music, but I really like the products of what fan communities are calling the “Girl Group Renaissance.” On the left, students have turned 10 desks into a supercontinent and choose stickers for their KATSEYE and Stray Kids photocards. The empty space in the middle is home to three girls staring intently at the TV and  making their best attempts at the chorus’s notorious footwork. A boy from my eighth hour slowly opens the door. 

“What’s going on in here?” He looks shocked.

“Get OUT! K-Pop Club Members only,” screams one of the girls in the middle. Annoyed, they go back to dancing. The boy shrugs and leaves. 

They are in seventh grade. Our K-Pop Club meets every Friday during lunch and recess. We chat, watch music videos, give presentations to each other, learn dances, and do themed crafts. We came up with our events and schedule together. The social studies teacher from down the hall joins almost every week just to learn something new. They are loud and they often don’t clean up their food, but none of them have secret playlists.