"You are the cause of my euphoria": A BTS Love Letter

This is the part in the romantic comedy when I realize I’ve been wrong about them the whole time. 

They were right there, for so long, and I just didn’t see it. I was foolish and I was prideful and I locked my heart away in the name of artistic integrity and I was wrong about all of it. 

And now I’m just a girl, standing in front of a KPop group, asking them to keep making music and videos and art and concerts.

There are people in my life who love fiercely and bravely, without shame or pretense. I want to love like that. So this is my love letter to BTS. 

They've been around since 2013, but didn't come into my life until the end of last year, when my roommate Ali showed us their Tiny Desk concert, shortly after her own love began to develop. For weeks (months?), she sent me and K memes and clips, showed us episodes of Run BTS. And I was definitely charmed. Of course each member is gorgeous and talented, and the few songs I heard were catchy. But in my hipster head, it was K-Pop. I was raised on Queen and Mozart and the Beatles. My iTunes is full of Tom Waits and Spoon and Fiona Apple. “Real” music. I thought of K-Pop as pastel bubble gum corporate nonsense, with a fandom of screaming teenage girls, in a world I had no connection to. 

This is the part of the story where I admit that I was a fool.

I don't know how or when the switch happened. I can't point to the exact moment when I fell in love. But somehow the memes Ali was sending me started to get under my skin, and I thought, "Well, I just want to learn their names." 

Famous last words. (This is literally a joke in the fandom. We all start by just wanting to know their names.) And then I fell hard and fast. 

First of all, before I get any further into it, anything I have to say, this Esquire article says better, so feel free to just read that. Or this older article from Entertainment Weekly. But for my own personal thoughts, read on.

KPop is an intense industry in Korea—there are trainee programs that churn out pop groups every few years and promote them while training the next ones. The idols and groups that populate the stages of Korea are marketed products. And part of the reason I love BTS so much is because while they occupy that space of being products, they also seem to subvert and defy the industry in many ways, just by being so deeply and genuinely THEMSELVES. 

Wait. 

Lemme introduce you to the boys. 

From left to right: 

Suga (Min Yoongi, Yoongi, solo work under Agust-D). Rap line. Probably one of the best rappers of our generation? Dry humor exterior, deeply caring interior. (Check out the music video for his solo track Daechwita, with cameos by fellow BTS members Jin and Jungkook.)

J-Hope (Jung Hoseok, Hoseok, Hobi). Dancer, rap line. Human sunshine. Everyone, including me, saw him during Carpool Karaoke and asked “Who’s the guy in the middle?” 

Jin (Kim Seokjin, Seokjinnie, Jinnie, “World Wide Handsome”). Vocals, visual. Oldest of the group. Caring older brother, king of dad jokes. 

Jungkook (Jeon Jungkook, Kookie, JK, “Golden Maknae”). Vocals, dancer, visual. The youngest of the group, or the “maknae.” Good at almost everything he tries. 

RM (Kim Namjoon, Namjoon, Rap Monster, “God of Destruction”). Rap line, incredible lyricist. Leader of the group. (Also spokesperson and translator, since he’s the most fluent in English.) 

Jimin (Park Jimin, Jiminie). Dancer, vocals, visual. Astonishingly talented dancer. Besties with V. 

V (Kim Taehyung, Taehyung, Tae). Vocals, dancer, visual. Breathy and ethereal vocals, incredible fashion sense. Besties with Jimin.

The seven boys have practically grown up together—they each joined the trainee program as teenagers, and Jungkook was only 14 when he started. When they debuted in 2013, their ages ranged from 16 to 21. And after all those years together, their friendship is so deeply evident in all of the HOURS of content available to watch (concert footage, Run BTS, Bon Voyage, In the Soop, V-Lives, fancams, BTS bombs, and memes and clips from all of the above). They care so much about each other and it’s my favorite thing. (Leader RM has said that the members think of each other as something between friends and family, and the editor of the Japanese magazine CREA once said "BTS love each other so much they don't know what to do.")

And the music. Oh dear readers, the music. I came to BTS in a weird sort of backwards way—I became a fan just from watching other content, and listened to hardly any of their music for weeks. And then I listened to “Love Yourself: Tear” front to back and it was over.

I could spend a bunch of time listing all of their record-shattering stats on Billboard and album sales. I could go into detail about KPop trainee programs and their vigorous schedules and how hard these boys have worked to get where they are. I could tell you how quickly they sell out stadiums. I could tell you about all the social media records they've shattered, and then shattered again. But you can Google all that. 

Instead I’ll just extol the hard-hitting synchronization of the dance rehearsal for No More Dream. (This video is from the year they debuted, so Jungkook is only 15 here.) Or the enthusiasm and passion in the dance rehearsal for On. The stunning vocals and desperation of the track House of Cards. The lyrical sensuality of the choreo in Blood, Sweat, and Tears. The classical beauty of the music video for Black Swan. The dark sexiness of Jimin performing Filter live. The playfulness of the dance rehearsal for Baepsae. And good night, the enormous, over-the-top intensity of Dionysus at the 2019 MMA awards. (The entire performance is like 40 minutes long—start at 29:14 to see Dionysus; FLASH/STROBE WARNING from 34:16 - 36:05.) 

The boys in BTS are also big ole goofballs, which is effing delightful. But even more beautiful to me is the genuine love the members BTS have for not only each other, but for their fans. It’s evident in their TinyTan videos like this one for Dream On. In the way they always thank ARMY (what BTS fans call themselves) in every album and every concert and every interview. And words fall short for the hope and beauty I feel watching the music video for Life Goes On. It feels like a such a gift. It’s this lovely poignant look at this pandemic-driven moment in history. Watching it, I felt so deeply that we belong to each other, we human beings, and that the future holds beauty for us all. (Also, the music video was directed by BTS’ own golden maknae, Jungkook, because he’s wondrous.) 

I think part of the reason I love BTS is because watching them reminds me of what it’s like to be with a bunch of theatre kids. It makes me feel the same way I did hanging out with cast-mates in Yellowstone during Playmill summers, or talking in the parking lot after a show at a theatre somewhere, or sitting at a cast party and laughing about everything that went wrong during the run of a show, or messing around in the greenroom before curtain or backstage. Watching BTS perform feels familiar too—sharing the stage with people you care about, doing what you love together, hyping each other up and celebrating each other's success, and having moments to shine yourself, and having SO MUCH FUN while doing it. 

I also love that they’re challenging some toxic masculinity in the rest of the world just by being themselves. In Korea, men and boys are much more physically affectionate with one another—arms around shoulders, hugs, shoulder rubs, sitting on each other’s laps, etc. There’s even a name for this kind of affection…“skinship.” A lot of this kind of behavior is coded as “homosexual” or “girly” or “weak” in America, and therefore unacceptable for many straight men. (One time in college, two guys I knew accidentally brushed hands while passing food to one another and one of them recoiled and said emphatically “No contacting man-flesh!”) By comparison, members of BTS share beds when they travel and cuddle up on couches together and slap butts regularly. A lot of Americans/non-Koreans see this and make assumptions about sexual orientation, but these KPop boys are literally just being their affectionate selves. 

And while we’re on the subject of breaking gender norms, GIVE ME BOYS IN MAKEUP ALWAYS. Have you seen these boys rocking lipstick and eye shadow?! Life-changing. For concerts and photo-shoots and occasionally everyday life, the boys don lace and chokers and bracelets and earrings and eyeliner and I am here for all of it. 

The K-Pop industry isn’t without its issues. Despite all of the makeup and same-sex touching, Korea is still homophobic. There’s an obsession with personal appearance that pushes folks into disordered eating. The trainee programs for idols can be grueling and overly controlling and downright abusive. The music industry in Korea can be exploitative (see "fan service"). There are legitimate reasons to criticize Kpop as an industry. But sometimes our reasons for dismissing KPop (and BTS) have more to do with internalized bullshit that doesn't hold up to any real scrutiny. That Esquire article I linked above really said it best: 

I originally intended to convert you all with this blog. But you're under no obligation to love or even be interested in BTS. Like Ali said to me once, people come to the boys if and when they’re ready. It took me a while to come to them. There’s a whole wealth of knowledge, an entire vocabulary, a slew of inside jokes that you learn as you become an ARMY. You may make a few incorrect assumptions because of your American perspective at first, like I did. (This article is a helpful guide in giving context to Korean media.) If you do come to the boys, be forewarned that they will probably come for you, one after another. You’ll cycle through a specific phase of love for each of them. 

One of my other original intentions in writing this blog was to defend myself and my love for the boys, to get ahead of the shaming or teasing I anticipate (perhaps falsely). But I don’t want to do that either. I just want to love them. Fiercely and bravely. 

Yes, BTS can be a distraction from the woes of our current timeline (pandemic, lack of COVID-safe theatre work, financial worries, recent breakup). But BTS is more than that. They offer hope and light and music and love in a world that’s uncertain, pandemic or not. I know it's cheesy, but I thank the universe that I'm alive on earth at the same time as BTS, and that Ali found the boys and then shared them with me. 

I love BTS because of their talent, their humor, their individual quirks, their attractiveness, their friendship. We stan a group that stans their fans and each other. When we see BTS performing on stage, or doing an episode of Run BTS, or traveling for Bon Voyage, we’re watching people spend their time with people they love and belong to, people who work hard at their jobs, and people who humbly show gratitude for the people who have given them what they have. 

I love BTS because they have what so many of us long for—to love our jobs and be good at them, a chosen family who can laugh and work together and encourage each other along the way. 

And by loving them, I find myself a part of a chosen family, too. One of millions of ARMYs who love these boys, fiercely and bravely, and are lucky enough to be loved back. 

"Keep this in your wallet if you are a pansy fan-boy."

Recent discovery: Mark Hamill autographs. They are the best. He is the best. I love these so much.

Additional discovery: There is an entire Twitter account dedicated to Mark Hamill autographs. Because Mark Hamill autographs are the best.

Walmart stake out

I had a homework assignment last week to go to a public place and write what I was observing all around me in an unusual form. Inspired by my beloved X-Files, I did a stake out.

Note--At 9:38 pm, I was approached by a police officer and asked to move out of the handicapped parking spot. My explanation that I was doing a homework assignment did not impress him.

Observation Log
Saturday night, June 4, 2016
Orem, Utah Walmart
Stakeout location: a handicapped parking spot just north of the market entrance (where I am illegally parked).

9:03 pm
I am Dana Scully, sitting on watch duty, badge hidden, red hair framing my face. I’m looking for stories. I’m an emotional voyeur, watching the faces of the people walking in and out of the Walmart, waiting to see if their faces will tell their secrets. Trying to remain somewhat inconspicuous, laptop notwithstanding. Carts roll with a metallic rumble across the pavement, the white noise of the I-15 in the deep background. In the summery dusk, potted flowers wilt in front of the store entrance. It’s warm, in the upper 70s. My allergy pill is wearing off.

9:06 pm
Older couple. 50s or 60s. Both wearing striped shirts. His is white, hers is pink. A silver car rolls by, windows down, classical pop piano blaring. A guy in his twenties walks past my cracked window; he’s too thin, angular jaw and long brown hair. He’s got a goatee and he’s talking with concern to someone on a cell phone, one hand in his pocket.

9:09 pm
Students from Utah Valley University push each other around in one of the carts—the kind that has the plastic seats for kids. They’re laughing hysterically, and in my 30-year-old wisdom, I think fondly of the days when I could be obnoxious in public without feeling obnoxious. Sirens suddenly ring out from Sandhill Road behind me. A fire truck and two ambulances. Their alarms change in pitch as they get closer, closer, then farther, farther.

9:11 pm
Inside the lobby, vending machines stand side by side with two redbox kiosks and a “treasure shoppe,” one of those rigged arcade games where you use the claw to try and get a stuffed animal. Two kids—I imagine them siblings—stand side by side to try their luck. I wait to see if they’ll win, but of course they don’t. Growing up, I always begged for quarters whenever I saw one, and my parents never let me try. My mom finally gave in at a Denny’s when I was 11 or so, and with one swift, smooth movement, I gripped a white puppy and let it fall into the slot. My mom was astonished, but I don’t know why. I always knew I could do it.

9:14 pm
This is the second person I’ve seen walk out of the Walmart with a limp. I feel like an a**hole for taking a handicapped parking spot.

9:15 pm
Two boys in their late teens stand next to the potted plants. They chat, with false shows of bravado. One’s got mismatching socks. They take turns pulling out their phones and scrolling through. Displays of masculinity so absurd, they’ll crack into a thousand pieces if you bump up against them too hard.

9:17 pm
I hear a wolf whistle…once…twice. It’s not aimed at me, but I’m enraged by it anyway. I could give whoever whistled the benefit of the doubt (maybe they’re just signaling a friend), but these teenage boys by the potted plants have got me all caught up in toxic gender constructs.

9:19 pm
A flashing yellow light signals a line of carts being returned by machine to the overhang. I wish they’d had that machine when I worked at Walmart, walking through the parking lot with an itchy yellow vest, Idaho sun high above me. Age 19, working full-time with two other roommates. We’d get snowcones on our way home every day, then sit in the warm living room, discussing episodes of House.

9:21 pm
Spotted! Returned Mormon missionary! Modest khaki shorts, navy blue t-shirt with a compass on it, the words “Arise” written across it. Hair tidy and militarily short. Glasses. He’s carrying two bags, and I feel certain that if the doors weren’t automatic, he’d hold them open for you.

9:23 pm
In the few minutes I’ve looked down to type, I missed it—the moment that shifts between dusk and twilight. I wait to catch it every summer evening, but it always happens in the moment I blink, or look at my book, or get distracted.

9:24 pm
Orem, Utah is mostly white. Lower middle-class and blue-collar folks frequent the Walmart the most. People speak in that regional accent peculiar to the Rocky Mountains. (“Mou-ins.”) I hear an occasional phrase in Spanish, a sentence or two in Arabic that makes me glance up. Two brothers, each pushing a shopping cart, in what sounds to me like heated debate, but it could be the media informing my interpretations.

9:27 pm
A middle-aged woman in her Sunday best strolls by, holding an unopened game of Monopoly. I begin to make up a story about her. Her college-aged children are in town, and she ran out at the last minute to pick up a game to play, to keep everyone awake and together at the kitchen table. Or maybe she’s teaching Sunday School tomorrow, and she’ll use the fake money as an object lesson. Or maybe she’s found some craft on Pinterest, and she’ll spray paint each of the pieces and glue them to a frame.

9:37 pm
My allergies are getting the better of me. I’ll wander into the store myself now, make my way to the pharmacy. One package of Allegra D. One of the white, lower-class Mormons in Orem, Utah.

Monday boost

Are you struggling to get this week started? Is the weight of all your responsibilities bearing down on you? Did you wake to find that you slept at a stupid angle and your displaced rib is giving you enormous amounts of pain?

I feel that.

But luckily, there's a remedy. I found one cute baby video and it led me down a rabbit hole of others. Here's some stuff to warm that cold heart of yours.


Singing baby loves you!




There's something so strangely beautiful about this.




May we all be filled with this kind of wonder at the small things in life.




If this doesn't make you smile, you have no soul.




My favorite moment is the very end, when she wonders what just happened.

The Art Assignment: Stacked Books

Almost two months until my birthday, and I'm almost done with my "9 Things To Do While 29." One of those goals is to complete three "Art Assignments." The Art Assignment is an online PBS show hosted by Sarah Green, where she interviews different artists, gives some art history knowledge, and gives viewers an assignment to create a piece of art on their own. Each assignment has specific inspiration and instruction.

So here's my first one! This is called "Sorted Books." You can watch the video about the assignment here. The idea behind it is that you can get a glimpse into someone's life and personality by examining the books they have in their personal library. The artist, Nina Katchadourian, selects books and stacks them to form "found poems" or short sentences. You can see some of her brilliant work here. The instructions are simple:

1. Choose a person you know or would like to know better
2. Take a look at/through their library
3. Make 3 stacks of books to develop a portrait of the person
4. Upload it to your social media platform of choice using #theartassignment
5. Fame and glory (your work might be featured in a future episode)

I decided to work from Jacob and I's own library, but to only use books that Jacob has contributed--books he owned before we were married, or books he has purchased since then for himself. I used my iPhone to photograph the stacks I created, so they aren't exactly high quality, but they get the job done. I decided to photograph the books on our bed, since our bookshelves are in our bedroom, right across from where we sleep, and because the bed is the place we do the most reading--together and separately.

Ladies and Gentlemen, The Bible! 

The Given Day

The Way it Spozed To Be

The Ancestor's Tale

How We Are Hungry

Armageddon Summer

Paradise Lost

Where I'm Calling From

All Who Go Do Not Return

With Good Reason

Crucial Conversations

Who Am I? 

I Am A Strange Loop

I'll Seize the Day Tomorrow

I feel a little uncertain about whether or not this assignment really does give an accurate glimpse into the life of a person. It's such a selective glimpse, and such a constructed glimpse. It's difficult to distill someone's entire personality into three stacks of books. These stacks sort of represent certain aspects of Jacob, certain ideas he thinks about, but these stacks are mostly using Jacob's books to represent what occurs to me...the ideas and constructions that I see.

Still, it was a fun assignment, and I'm excited to do more!

Another Reason to Love Salt Lake City

I have just discovered my new favorite place. To write. To eat. To hang out.

There’s this little café on the corner of 900 East and 3300 South. It’s an old house, transformed into a little cafe called "The Greenhouse Effect Coffee & Crepes." It’s full of local art, and local artists. The crepes are divine, and there’s a “Take a Book, Leave a Book” shelf among the tables and chairs. The people here have dreadlocks and hemp jewelry. There was a group smoking hookah on the porch, and there are skateboarders out back. Right now there’s a guy tuning a guitar on the couch. Another guy is drawing at a table near me. A few other people are writing. I can hear someone playing hand drums outside. All the men have beards and all the women have gauges. People are BAREFOOT and TATTOOED and PROFANE and BEAUTIFUL. Many of them seem to know each other--like this is a regular place to come and go from.

It’s this tiny corner of Ashland, Oregon, of Haight-Ashbury, of Berkley. A hub of modern philosophers and mystics. Phrases I’ve overheard in the last ten minutes include:

“…but it’s Schrodinger’s cat all over again…”
“…it’s like this old school hip hop with rock…”
“…the layers of meta are so deep at this point…”
“…we had been partying, and I was really hungry, and all the Christmas potluck was gone except for the ginger snaps…”
“…I don’t care who fires the first f***ing missile, because whoever wins will be the world leader of the biggest cinder…”
“…the missing link for everyone’s psyche…”
“…there really is an Elizabethean collar for cats…”

I almost feel like I don’t belong—like I'm not actually hip enough to be here. Because I'm straight-edge and introverted and don't converse easily with strangers. But I am barefoot and wearing a peasant skirt and I do henna tattoos and I love the earth. But whether or not the people who come and go here are to be my tribe, I’m in love with this café. I’m going to come often to this café. I’m going to share this café with my husband and my sisters and my friends and my co-workers.

And I’m going to write a novel in this café.

Through the looking glass, or "Mythical Egin," or "Guys, Brigadoon is in Idaho"

During the summer of 2009, Jordan Tait let me borrow his Honda Trail 110 from April to August.

Me with the Honda Trail (and my regular bike), back when I wore shorter shorts. 

During that summer, I got in the habit of joyriding among southeast Idaho's back roads. The Honda topped out at around 45 mph, but it was fast enough to make me feel alive in the afternoons when I should have been in grammar class. I never paid attention to where I was going--I just took corners when it pleased me to do so, and wandered until I was ready to go home, then made my way back. I suppose you could say I got lost, but I was never really trying to get anywhere, and my internal compass always led me back to Rexburg.

In the summer months of 2012, I drove a Kymco People 150 scooter. It was an automatic, so it was easier to steer, and topped out at 50 mph, so I could feel 5mph more alive while joyriding through Rexburg's surrounding countryside. I got used to several routes, and my favorite area to ride was around Hibbard.

There was one afternoon when I started out in Hibbard, but just kept wandering. I found myself in an area where I'd never been...there were more trees than usual, and flocks of birds rose up from the fields and lakes nearby. Maybe it was something about the angle of the light, or the time of year, but it seemed enchanted.

In retrospect, I don't know how I found out I was in the Egin area. But it was MAGICAL. I came home and told Jacob that I'd discovered a mythical land where everyone waved at you and had a pet goat. I kept passing people in their yards, watering their gardens in the late afternoon light. It was that time of day when the sun is lowering, and the air cools, and the bare earth beneath your feet is still warm from the noon heat. Every person I passed raised an arm in greeting. And there were a bizarre number of pet goats. It seemed like I saw a goat on a tether in every other yard I passed.

But it was the ferris wheel that truly won me over. I was already charmed by the friendly people and the tethered goats, but as I turned a corner, I passed a yard with a huge metal structure in front of it. It was a ferris wheel. A FERRIS WHEEL. Like, a small one with six cars or so, that looked like it had just been made at home, in some guys' welding garage. Maybe it was unsafe or structurally unsound or something, but the whimsy of it completely enchanted me.

I've tried to find Egin a few times since that magical afternoon, but I've never succeeded. In this modern age, I realize that I've got GPS and Google Maps and all kinds of tools at my disposal to re-find Egin, but I kind of don't want to use them. It would take away from the mythical nature of it. Besides, it wouldn't tell me exactly where in Egin I was wandering that day.

Maybe Egin is like Brigadoon...it only appears once every hundred years or so. Maybe the conditions have to be just right; like, the light has to be at a certain angle, and it has to be at a certain time of year, and you have to be on a motorcycle or scooter or something.

I keep looking. Every now and then I drive out in that direction, instinctively following tree-lined streets, looking for goats and ferris wheels in the front yards. But maybe it can't be recreated. Maybe it was a moment in time, and everything was magical and it can never quite be the same way again. Maybe I'm Gatsby, reaching for the green light, trying desperately to "recreate the past."

But whatever. It's pleasant driving around the backroads outside of Rexburg, turning corners by impulse, waiting to stumble upon something magical.

A poem

Dug this out of the archives a while ago. I've been too busy/too tired/too writer's-blocked/busy-reading-instead to blog much lately. So here's this.

Fields

I drove fourteen miles today

through the same potato fields

I passed the summer I drove Jordan Tait’s

red Honda CT 110,

skipping grammar class

to wear my father’s old leather jacket

and go joy-riding.

That same year, between sessions of April’s

general conference,

we rode his motorcycle—a real one—out to

Barney Dairy Road

stopped and wandered through the same graveyard

that Jacob Chapman and I would eat cereal in

years later.

Just talking.

I’m surprised the car has made it this far today.

Riding out here between sessions

of April’s general conference.

This car is rusting away at the edges

and like so many things, it seems about to die.

Every day I think “This week, this month, this year,

it’s going to die.”

And every week, every month, every year,

it rustily carries on.

You press the gas pedal and the damned thing

just keeps going forward.

There was an afternoon in these fields

when Shaun Scrivner and I drove and drove and drove

I remember some old potato bunker

roof gone

that we climbed around in.

I sometimes wonder if I dreamt it

Lately, most memories seem like that.

Too surreal to have actually happened.

You get out of the habit of making things extraordinary.

You get too old to unthinkingly say yes.

We go through days when we are

as ships in the night and when I drive,

I imagine—I keep picturing—

that I’ll see Jacob, meet him in a field somewhere

between the cemetery and that roofless potato bunker

and he’ll play the guitar

and I’ll keep saying yes

and we’ll pull everyone out of the cave behind us.

So many things keep going.

Ted, the car, marriages.

And every few years, I sit in the driver’s seat of a car
and write a poem that feels important.

Inspiration: Romance in Black and White

love is more thicker than forget

more thinner than recall

more seldom than a wave is wet

more frequent than to fail

it is most mad and moonly

and less it shall unbe

than all the sea which only

is deeper than the sea

love is less always than to win

less never than alive

less bigger than the least begin

less littler than forgive

it is most sane and sunly

and more it cannot die

than all the sky which only

is higher than the sky

e.e. cummings