The term “stan” originates from a 2000 Eminem song written from the perspective of an obsessive fan named Stan. It’s been reclaimed by groups of people, usually frequent Internet users, who idolize celebrities to a ridiculous extent. They stream their music all day long on as many devices as possible, wait in line for hours trying to secure concert tickets and gush about their idols online whenever they get the chance, often defending their name against any who dare to speak a negative word about them. Many of the biggest and most dedicated online stan communities focus on Korean pop groups and solo idols. Just a year or two ago, I would have counted myself among them.
I’m not a stan anymore, just a casual enjoyer. I still bump Blackpink in my earbuds on occasion. When one of my old favorite groups releases new music, I usually listen to it within a day or so of release. But I certainly don’t stay up until 4 a.m. waiting for an album to drop like I once did. I don’t have parasocial relationships with idols either. That said, I am still interested in their well-being, and I pass no judgment on anyone who still actively participates in K-pop stan culture. In fact, I’m grateful for my time as a stan because it gave me skills and interests that stayed with me even when I stopped tuning in to every single idol live stream and professing my love in the comments of their every Instagram post.
K-pop inspired me to develop a number of new artistic and creative outlets. Because I had few people in my vicinity who shared my obsession, I started journaling and scrapbooking about it, often creating many of the collage components myself. I honed my drawing skills by doing portraits of my favorite idols in various media, and it helped me evade the soul-crushing boredom and isolation of the early COVID-19 years. I also started doing dance and song covers. The former drove me to make new friends through outlets like my high school K-pop dance club once we were finally back in person. The latter helped me familiarize myself with the pronunciation of the Korean language, which would come in handy when I eventually decided to learn it.
My Korean language journey began in ninth grade as a casual, mostly Duolingo-based endeavor. Over the years, I tried other websites and even started taking classes in person, most recently at Smith last semester. I started with just my favorite song lyrics and everyday speech, the kinds of things that would help me if I were ever lucky enough to meet my idols in person. The more I learned, the more I wanted to learn, and I branched out from simple conversational speech to more complex grammatical concepts and topics like science, history and politics. I learned practical skills too, like how to ask for directions and buy public transportation tickets. Ultimately, a shallow interest in Korean because of K-pop developed into a deeper, intrinsic passion that has endured long beyond my standom phase. I still use K-pop song lyrics to remember vocabulary words on occasion, as well as songs and K-dramas to practice my listening comprehension.
My K-pop stan phase, and what came afterwards, taught me to think more critically about the world. I had become enchanted by the idols’ polished, seemingly flawless performances and their bubbly demeanors. But as I fell deeper down the K-pop rabbit hole, I realized that things were not quite as they seemed. Idols were worked nearly to death and barely given time to sleep. Many of them spent years severely underpaid and in debt to their companies for things like plastic surgeries they may not have even wanted to begin with. They were forced to infantilize themselves on camera in the name of “fan service” even though many of them were well into their twenties and forbidden from dating so their fans could remain hopeful (some would say deluded) about the possibility of a relationship with them. Appearances can be deceiving, and as I became increasingly disillusioned with the K-pop industry, I learned to question even the most polished work environments with the happiest-looking workers. Unfortunately, K-pop companies have deeply vested financial incentives to abuse their idols and keep it under wraps.
The Catch-22 of K-pop standom is thus: one wants to financially support their favorite idols, but often has to do so through predatory companies that restrict their personal freedom and keep them in harmful working conditions. For this reason, along with the fact that my interest in K-pop simply began to fade over time, I slipped out of standom. But I won’t lie and say that a good old BTS song doesn’t brighten my mood from time to time, and when a K-pop fancam graces my Instagram Recommended page, I’m likely to double tap it. Although I’ve largely divested from the abusive K-pop industry, I still indulge in some of its products in ways that generate minimal financial value for predatory companies. I allow myself to dip a toe back into stan culture from time to time, as a treat. And that’s enough for me.
