Subpar
Being (almost) cancelled
It was a typical Wednesday morning. I sat at my desk in my home office, getting ready to leave for work. The day before, I had quickly uploaded an Instagram reel and promptly forgot all about it.
“Oh no,” I groaned.
“What?” My partner replied, peeking over my shoulder.
“Oh shit, oh fuck,” I held my phone out to him, “the reel I posted yesterday has 90,000 views,” I pulled my thumb down on the screen to prompt a reload, “and it’s climbing fast.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied softly.
I turned back around to my desk and opened the comments section, 500 strong and counting. People were mad, and not just any people, my people: ARMY. As my eyes moved from comment to comment, waves of shock moved through me. My heart was beating hard and fast through my chest, and I began to lose feeling in my arms.
“Some theorist you are,” read one comment.
“This bitch has a degree and thinks she’s better than BTS,” read another.
“GTFO of ARMY this is not what real fans do.”
Overwhelmed and seeing that anyone coming out in support of me was being attacked, I turned off the comments. I scrambled to collect my things, and before I knew it, I was driving to work in a panicked daze.
In my mind, when creating the reel, I was articulating a layered and nuanced commentary on some key tensions bubbling away beneath the fandom’s surface. Firstly, that BTS were away in the military, which was the cause of great anxiety—for their absence—and great desire—for their fated return to ARMY. Secondly, there was a divergence from what many fans, myself included, were familiar with regarding the overarching concept, sound, and artistry of BTS’ music. The pandemic was a time when they released their first all-English tracks that skyrocketed in the United States, resulting in ARMY nearly doubling in size. Because of these two factors, and because the K-pop industry is notorious for its rigorous training and promotion schedule, questions were raised about BTS’ plans upon their return. Would they come back and go straight into making music? Had they already prepared something? The concern that I spoke to was one I had discussed in private with fellow fans, but few were willing to say in a public forum: Do BTS genuinely want to come back and quickly release music, or are they doing it out of obligation? Will the pressure to perform and deliver results in releasing music that is of a different, perhaps lesser quality regarding lyricism, concept, and artistry? Of course, much of this is subjective and unknowable, but what I had noticed was ARMY’s inability to publicly talk about what they dislike about the group for fear of persecution. All the while, BTS continue to overdeliver in terms of music and parasocial content—even during their hiatus—at the potential expense of their own wellbeing and artistry. That is not the BTS I signed up for, and I do not feel comfortable with being complicit in the K-pop machine that trades in the bodies of idols as objects of romantic desire, ready to go above and beyond in the service of their fans, any more than I already am.
In the mind of the user who posted a Tweet not-so-subtly directing ARMY to come to my page to cancel me, and all those who heeded her call, I said something quite different. Everything BTS has made since the release of Map of the Soul: 7 at the beginning of 2020 is subpar. Their solo releases, even their pandemic artistic endeavour, BE, are no good. I did not sign up for this BTS, so instead of leaving the fandom, I am going to stay here under false pretences and make videos to hurt their public image. Further, as a white Western woman, I am imposing my colonial standards of music upon BTS and fail to see their intrinsic and inherently Korean worth. Lastly, I am using BTS as a means to promote myself and make large amounts of money from their name without actually liking them, and as such, I am a bad fan. A fake fan.
“Rich coming from someone who boycotts them but still makes clout money off of them … what a Subpar way of doing things😴”
My cheeks flushed red, and my whole body shook throughout my work shift. My manager chatted away about her upcoming holiday to Japan. My work tasks were complex and needed to be completed quickly. My hands couldn’t stay away from my phone, and I couldn’t keep myself from checking on my account. By turning off the comments on the reel, I had redirected angry ARMY to my other posts.
“You should kys.”
Block user, delete comment.
“Clout chasing anti whore.”
Block user, delete comment.
“Wallea, you need to start over,” my manager’s voice barely audible in the background.
I message my friend, but she doesn’t reply.
I message my partner, he says to ignore it, that it happens to all the best podcasters he follows.
My world gets smaller and smaller as my panic continues to rise. Silence rings in my ears, and it feels as though my body might leave the earthly plane. I cannot feel my arms, and I definitely can’t feel my feet on the ground.
I’m all alone.
Messages fill my inbox from followers. I open some to see support. I open others to see vitriol. I see the messages continue to flood in, and I don’t know which I should open. I don’t know who I can trust.
I restrict all access to my account. No comments, no story shares, no messages. Nothing.
But they still found me.
On an X thread, my publications are put on public display. People pour over my words and tear them to shreds. They dig into my mother’s academic history and speculate how I’m riding on her coattails. They discover I am descended from a Cherokee chief and ridicule me for exploiting the connection. They pull up the books I have written with other ARMY and make stories of how I used them for my own gain. They were using my academic identity to destroy my reputation and frame me as the ultimate coloniser of fandom.
Watching myself from outside of my body, like a camera suspended from the ceiling above my desk, I turned off everything that could be turned off. I did everything but make my fan account private and take the video down.
I was not hiding; I was protecting my peace.
In the silence, I could finally feel my feet on the ground.
“You enjoy getting r△p€d by your father r△ci$t BTS △nti”
I cried when I saw the comment appear in my notifications a day after the attacks began. It was my breaking point. I was feeling safe and secure on my personal Instagram, knowing no one could contact me, but they still found a way. It was a complete and violent rejection of my ARMY identity.
I showed my partner the comment, and he became upset.
“Don’t show me anything like that or I’m going to lose it,” he said with clenched fists.
I got up from my desk and moved into the bedroom, where I cried on the edge of the bed.
He came in soon after, soft and empathetic.
“I’m sorry,” he held me, his chin resting on top of my head. “I just don’t know how to make it stop. I can’t protect you against this. Can’t you just delete your account and focus your work on something other than BTS?”
My internal monologue went into overdrive.
This is what my research and writing is on. This is what I’ve been building for six years. This is what I love. If I do that, then who am I? Not an academic and definitely not a fan.
But that’s not what bothered me most.
I sighed.
“If I do that, then I am guilty, and they have won.”
Towards the end of 2024, I was almost cancelled online. This series of essays critically reflects on that time and draws upon various scholarly thinkers to explore performative fan identities and the digital panopticon—the invisible surveillance structure that keeps fans in line and perpetually enforces unseen power dynamics. It’s memoir, it’s criticism, and, above all, it’s an attempt to understand what I was actually part of.