On Anpanmen, Arcadias and the Mikrokosmos
Note: I don’t know why I’m choosing to put this out into the universe except for this feeling that I should. I wanted to document my journey so far and build a monument of my adoration, if you will, to seven people who are incredibly important to me. Perhaps as a consequence, the words below have been subjected to countless revisions, abandonment, and constant worries of imperfection but also mockery. Tumblr is the haven for a fan, but the uncomfortable rawness of exposure runs deep and has had me backtracking multiple times. Regardless, I’m putting this up here because I want to see this monument, my labour of love, on a tiny corner of the internet. So this is me being vulnerable and brave about seven boys who make me vulnerable and brave. Deep breaths…and here we go.
I learned the hard way that life was a product of cumulative disruptions to the perfect plan. In my naiveté, I handed my blueprint for an idyllic existence to the Fates, only to have them brand it with a gigantic REJECT, hurl it into a dumpster and set it on fire. To atone for my transgression, I would have to carry an Atlas of a burden in my heart, the recurring memories of the faults and mistakes I was running from. Inadequacy, guilt and self-pity played house in my head, sometimes crashing as great waves that nearly drowned me and then as gentle ripples that lapped against my soul. Save for the happy days of denial, my existence reeked of failure. I wasn’t enough.
And then one day, a tall boy with deep dimples and kind eyes stepped in. Without a word, he carried my burdens with me and brought along six lovely friends who did the same. With them by my side, I would begin to own the hurt and the pain I carried and reconcile with my mistakes. I would learn to be better, for myself.
Rediscoveries & Premonitions of Love
In January 2016, amidst commonplace chats about life, superheroes and timelords, a friend told me she was spiralling into an alternate universe with seven Korean boys at its core. She went on and on about a song called I Need U, a baby called Kookie and how wonderful a group known as BTS were. Soon enough, I began receiving a flurry of messages about them, pictures I never asked for, and semi-continuous reminders to watch music videos, vlogs and interview compilations. I quickly tired of this but reluctantly gave in to her requests and listened to a song or two; I instantly concluded that my refined tastes were above “manufactured K-Pop”. And no amount of budding softness for Rap Monster was going to change that. My friend dejectedly took the hint and stopped talking about them, except for a rare update about the incredible things they achieved – I offered polite congratulations and nothing more. Some part of me was truly happy for them, but they would never be for me.
Nearly five years later, I met BTS again. This time, I would fall in love with them.
Perhaps I had needed those five years to really be able to see them when we met again. To appreciate who the seven of them were, their craft and what they meant to people. In the time before I had last seen them, I had had a begrudging tryst with an anxiety disorder, fallen in love with cinema, lived away from home, explored other cultures and felt rooted in my own. The horizons of my world expanded, and dominant narratives made less sense. At the tail-end of those five years, a raging pandemic wreaked global havoc. I was physically safe but didn’t fully escape the brunt of the Big Bad Virus. I was grateful for what I had, yet anger, guilt and powerlessness swirled around me, allowing me only laboured breathing. But reinforcements would soon arrive. In the form of seven chaotic dorks.
I was a Carpool veteran, but something was different this time around. As the video began playing, an intrigue fused with a familiar comfort rushed into my brain. Rap Monster, I learned, was now RM. With every second that passed, this silver-haired, deep-dimpled, yellow-sweatered nerd boy tightened his hold on my heart. He exuded maturity and humility, had an adorable full-bodied laugh and rolled his R’s in a delightfully sexy way – as soon as he threw on the gold-rimmed sunglasses and rapped a verse of MIC DROP, I was a goner. I continued to ogle at RM shamelessly, but the others simultaneously began to catch my attention. In the next row sat a giggly, red-jacketed boy I identified as Jimin (from my friend’s endless declarations of undying love), a slender boy with a bright smile and a brighter laugh, and a cutie who effortlessly hit high notes while sitting (!?). Someone called “Worldwide Handsome”, a nonchalantly cool but soft-looking rapper dude, and a pretty, floppy-haired boy took up the last row. Together, they felt comfortably regular and endearingly boisterous to me, with their laughter, inside jokes and magical synchronicity. I immediately wanted to root for them. In the next two hours, I watched Carpool thrice, moved on to interviews, and learned their names. Before bed, I sent out a disclaimer to close friends: one day in the near future, I would wake up a fan of BTS. I didn’t have to wait too long – I would become one by the following morning.
Crossing the ARMY Rubicon
The early days were a euphoric blur. The descent into fandom rabbit holes was familiar territory to me, I had been a fangirl for half my life by that point. My days were primarily devoted to the joyful tasks of diving into BTS’ immense collective discography, lyrical analyses and practising fan chants. My nights were spent decoding the Bangtan Universe, choking with laughter over Run BTS, and feeling soothed by In The Soop. While I was more than happy losing my sanity to all things BTS, a part of me was in a bit of a bind. I had been obsessed with genius detectives and timelords, superheroes and the Wizarding World for a long time; I felt deeply for fictional people, and I was proud of the label “fangirl”. But with the seven of them, years of internalised misogyny and prejudice reared their ugly heads.
Given that boybands and their fans have been looked down on for ages, I worried I would be considered vapid and infantile, with no taste in “real music”. BTS were not only a boy band but also Korean, a “novelty” K-Pop supergroup whose fans had a reputation for being the worst, so I was afraid to commit. But in my own world, I floated blissfully in a deep affection for them. I revelled in learning who Namjoon, Jin, Yoongi, Hobi, Jimin, Taehyung, and Jungkook were, their talents, idiosyncrasies, and personal and collective histories. They became peace, security and safety, friends who laced their fingers through mine and told me that things would be hard, but I would be okay.
In public, it was a different story. My heart soared when I heard their names, saw their albums on store racks, and when their music was played. Except, all of this was under a carefully constructed façade of neutrality. As for ARMY, they were an amorphous, gargantuan purple cloud that I never thought I could be a part of. I looked at them with awe and faint distrust, torn between respect and an inability to connect with how loud their love was, their doggedly protective nature, and unrelenting devotion. In my eyes, they were wholly worthy of their name, but it only felt absurd when it came time for me to adopt it, like it didn’t belong in my person. I was afraid that if I let slip my adoration for the boys, my love would suddenly be exhausted and that fandom gatekeepers would ask me to prove my worth to love them. With the fear and doubt I carried, I felt like an outsider, especially when Bangtan loudly and publicly declared their love for their beloved ARMY.
The thing about love, at least I’ve found, is that it refuses to be contained for too long. As the days went on, funny things began to happen. My love for BTS drowned out the clamour the resident misogynist in my brain raised. Small but public declarations of my affection for them impulsively made their way out of my mouth. Calling myself ARMY no longer felt odd; the initial sheepishness soon gave away to pride. The sneers, scoffs and confusion that came my way mattered less to me every day. The universe soon intervened, and little by little, I began to spot ARMYs in the real world, and we connected over our mutual admiration and adoration for the boys. We would collectively lose our minds when new music was released, watch online concerts together and endlessly talk about what these seven boys meant to us and how they became our light in the frightening shadows. When it came to trusted friends who knew nothing about BTS, I was now a slightly annoying apostle, sometimes leaving careful but otherwise unapologetically obvious tidbits to pique their interest, and indulged the questions that followed with barely-contained glee. I became a part of a community that fiercely loved and protected seven people who unabashedly loved us back. I did it more quietly than others, but our Mikrokosmos made me happy.
Sarang, Saram & Kim Namjoon
I’ve always had a soft corner for the sensitive nerd boys, so the fact that I was drawn to Kim Namjoon came as no shock to me. Here was a hulk of a man-boy who bought baby shoes because he thought they were cute, cooed at tiny crabs, cuddled with sea creatures, and made friends with trees; the endearing clumsiness was an added bonus. I didn’t just adore him, I was Namswooning (coined by @bananagoose0613 on Twitter). He had a kindness, a sensitive wisdom to him and with his fondness for books, museums and nature, he oddly felt like a parasocial realisation of the boy I hoped to meet one day. I loved all seven of them equally, but in Namjoon I found an extraordinary solace, a stability I hadn’t known I was looking for.
Finding Mono had been like finding a soundtrack to the angst and melancholia my heart carried. He understands, my million-mile-a-minute brain sighed, as Namjoon’s reassuring, calm voice shushed my anxieties. His voice, words and stories felt like a soothing balm; he wanted to cross the bridge to the real him, rely on himself to be happy, and love himself even in the face of failed expectations. I had wanted all of this too, and when the complexity of self-love dawned on me, I couldn’t remember a time I had loved myself. I had wanted to love who I was in the present, but at the cost of burying the baggage I carried. In trying to silence the power of my past, I was doing the opposite of what self-love entailed, acceptance. Forgiving myself wasn’t synonymous with a lack of accountability, but it also meant that mistakes I made didn’t need to chip away at my worth.
An ARMY friend (the one who tried so hard back in 2016) once told me about a Twitter thread she had seen, “Figure out if Twitter discourse is inane or not – imagine explaining it to Namjoon; if it sounded ludicrous, you had your answer”. I found this highly amusing, but my brain soon began using a version of this in daily life. This imaginary Namjoon in my head became a guide, motivating me, asking me to be kinder to myself and helping me breathe through the anxieties that lived in my brain. Jin, Yoongi, Hobi, Jimin, Tae and Koo would occasionally pop in to give Namjoon company. I began to identify and unravel the patterns of my wounds, but the new voices in my head also led to the questioning of my more upsetting idiosyncrasies and the hurt I had inflicted on others because of my own pain. In seeing who Namjoon was and who BTS were, I began to see the insensitivity and unkindness with which I treated those I love, and I wanted to change that.
Occasionally, you come by those rare people who make you want to sit up and deeply respect them – Namjoon is such a person to me. Namjoon’s place among the seven members of BTS is not for the touchy. But as leader, he exists from a place of kindness and care; he has an unfailing willingness to help and accepts it. He motivates, respects and honours his team. Of course, he has over a decade of experience, but time doesn’t always amount to character. Through the insurmountable pressures and undeserved pain the seven of them are dealt, an extra helping of which he is sometimes served as leader, he protects and prioritises his members. In his love and light, I want to be and do better.
Into the Magic Shop: You Got Me, I Got You
I’ve often wondered if I had constructed a grand delusion for myself. One in which seven boys in Korea loved me, cared for me and believed in my strength despite only knowing of my existence as a droplet in an enormous purple nebula that was ARMY. It was unfathomable that the relationship between seven boys and their fans was so full of sincere, passionate and enduring love, with an us-against-the-world thread running parallel to the devotion and affection. Becoming a part of the fandom at the height of BTS’ popularity only left me with more questions about the bond. Until I discovered the years of baggage, collective pain, and the exhilaration and joys BTS and ARMY shared. And while I cried for the boys and laughed with them, I felt the low growl of a protective lioness thrum in my chest; since then, she has often erupted into deafening angry roars on more occasions than she has wanted to.
It’s not as though I wouldn’t have gone on with my life if I hadn’t clicked on the Carpool video. I had known myself to be resilient enough. But I might have been a miserable keeper of my anxieties and burdens for longer, layering more pain and hurt over time in the absence of the epiphany. Somewhere in the whirlwind of learning who the boys were, coursing through their discographies and the endless crack videos, a part of my tired brain I was constantly fighting heard their voices tell me, “Don’t worry, stop running. Breathe”. The Atlas of worries still stood tall and felt heavy, but I was worthy of my own love and respect. In showing me their vulnerabilities, BTS taught me to be compassionate to myself. My mistakes were a part of my story but didn’t need to define me. On some days, I still struggle with what I should have been, my worth and the grief of my clear path having disappeared; I wonder if I’ve simply painted a sheen of acceptance on my baggage. But I believe in their belief in me, so I try again. Because on the days I want to disappear, I know the Magic Shop waits for me.
I’ve found that regret is a constant companion of some ARMYs, gripped by the shame that they weren’t by BTS’ side right from the beginning. For a good part of my first year in the Bangtan-ARMY universe, I was worried I was late to the party. Beneath the excitement of discovering who they were, I was constantly worried that I would wake up one day to find myself pushing them out of my life because that was what adults did. I was terrified that it would all be taken away from me because I wasn’t by their side when they fought off merciless hate, unjustifiable disrespect and almost impossible barriers. But I needed to be me so I could love them, and as the adage goes, we meet BTS when we need them the most.
It may sound delusional, but I am secretly convinced that the universe conspires to protect BTS, ARMY and the bond we share. Of course, the mechanics of fandom are more complex when K-Pop is called into question, but given that so many people around the world have responded to BTS’ message, their music and the vulnerability they weave into it, this relationship is different. In them, I find brothers who cheer me up with silly faces when I’m down, friends who understand me, lovers with whom I want to talk into the night, teachers who offer me sage advice when I’m agitated, and leaders who help me grow and strengthen my convictions – my love no longer has a name. The mischief, silliness, chaos, vulnerabilities and joys I share with the seven of them resonate within me every day and bring a safety, security and comfort that anchor me with stability when my personal storms hurl me around. Feeling so deeply with and for BTS unlocked a freedom that allows me to hold, respect and embrace my emotionality. I want to hold their hands and walk with them for as long as they want me by their side. They’ve got me. They’ve got ARMY. They give me strength, protect me and love me – why wouldn’t I do the same for them?
So I’ll be here then, watching them go from one deserved rise to another, eyes shining with pride, heart glowing with love and screaming myself hoarse –
