Confetti on a Sticky Note

Note: This is written in response to @ARMY_Spaceship’s reflection prompts on “reentry” after the BTS Permission to Dance On Stage concerts. My reflection attempts to capture the experience of attending the concerts on Days 3 and 4 with my daughter (Phoenix).

Our first concert was on Day 3, December 1, 2021. Maybe it was the adrenaline from the anxiety of navigating the lines (or lack thereof) and chaos to get to our seats in SoFi, but once we sat down, we were silent. We looked at the stage and looked at one another, but neither of us spoke. A few minutes passed before I asked my daughter, “Are you okay? You good?” She looked back at me, “I just need a minute.” I nodded, “Me too.” We continued to sit in silence, trying to take everything in. I looked at the massive screen playing BTS videos I’d seen hundreds of times, but for some reason, as I watched them here, it was like seeing them for the first time. I watched as people around us waved down friends and seatmates, finally, my gaze rested on the stage where BTS was set to perform. We were here. I turned to Phoenix and tapped her shoulder, “I can’t believe we’re here! What do we do?!” Phoenix smiled and shook her head. I suggested we get our ARMY lightsticks ready. This felt like something I could do, and I was grateful for this small act of preparation because it helped me get grounded. We checked the batteries and synced to the app. We chatted about whether we thought there would be any surprises during the concert, the setlist, and took pictures to document that we were, in fact, there because it still felt unbelievable.

Now here’s the thing. I’d heard from many ARMYs that going to a BTS concert can be a surreal experience. Some said that while you are present, you lose track of time, and you may even lose your ability to recount everything that happened. I’ll admit that when I first heard these claims, I wasn’t sure if they would be true for me. Surely, the person who documents everything, who thinks about archives for a living, and who writes down even the most mundane details of her day would be able to recount every detail of the very moments she’d been waiting for. I would recall every song, outfit, moment, and utterance. I would hold on to every single detail! Despite my intentions, that’s not what happened, not at all.

From the moment the concerts were announced, I started to plan how we’d get tickets, where we would sit, which flights might work best, hotels and food, tourist spots in LA. I even tried to plan how we would document our concert experience. Per my norm, I made sticky notes to keep track of what we needed to pack, gifts we were bringing to share, and possible photo opportunities. This doesn’t even count the notes left for my family at home (meals, pick-up reminders, errands, new pet routines). If you can’t tell by now, I have an incessant need to plan. I keep two paper planners, three notebooks for lists, and set countless reminders on my phone. But the truth is, my relationship with planning and list-making is complicated. While it's true that my lists and planners give me structure and help me to get things done, they can also feed my anxiety. My lists have helped me survive some tumultuous times: caregiving responsibilities, losing a parent, and a global pandemic. I started a new level of list-making this year when I put dry erase boards up in my room and filled them with lists to see all my research and writing tasks. In hindsight, this gave me more anxiety because, honestly, who needs to see all the things they've not completed at 2 AM when you are trying to get your bearings to get a cup of water. It’s tough to find the right balance, but one of the many things I’ve come to learn through my experience with BTS is the importance of giving myself permission to let go, to hope, to have joy. I guess if there was going to be one place to practice this lesson it would be at the concerts.

Here’s the thing, when the music started for ON and BTS appeared on stage, I lost track of everything. I also lost my desire to keep track of everything. All my plans to jot down what I was thinking, to take pictures of specific moments went right out the window.

I can only remember things in bursts now. The smiles of each BTS member were radiant whenever they addressed ARMY. Their level of synchronization in the choreography was surreal; at times, it didn’t look like their feet were touching the stage. All the YouTube videos had not prepared me to see them in real-time. The first song was ON, and BTS wore white. I thought back to interviews where they said this was a song they’d longed to perform in front of ARMY, and their energy did indeed show it. Black Swan live was like a painting come to life. I remembered the first time I heard the song: on a gloomy morning when I was trying to work up the energy to teach and push past my exhaustion. Witnessing the performance, I realized the depths of the emotions (fear, hope, release) in both the song and choreography in a new way. The first few notes of Blood, Sweat, & Tears brought tears to my eyes. I never thought I’d see them perform it live. This song was the first BTS mv I discovered on my own and one of the first that made me realize that what BTS was doing was pure art. When they sang Life Goes On, I thought back to where I was when the song came out: exhausted from the pandemic and trying to figure out if there really was such a thing as a new ‘normal.’ Their performance of Idol felt like a catharsis. I’ve written about how this song, in particular, has a special place in my heart. The energy of BTS coupled with tens of thousands of ARMYs shouting, “You can’t stop me loving myself!” was quite unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. This process of recalling old memories happened on both days, and while it might seem like it would be a distraction, I found that, if anything, it became my way of documenting the new and processing the past. I was looking back to look forward.

Similarly, my memory holds flashes of ARMY. At times it felt like ARMY was making the stadium vibrate. It felt like we were moving in unison. I expected to get chills from hearing BTS (and I did), but this was the first time it also happened listening to the joyous cries of the crowd. The energy was ecstatic, but at the same time, there was a gentleness in the way ARMY responded to BTS when they spoke. Whether it was the softness of the “oohs and aahs,” in response to something a member said, or the cadence of chanting a member’s name in response to their words or just in anticipation, I remember thinking that all of it felt like a private conversation amongst the dearest of friends. My daughter jumped the entire time during ‘불타오르네 (Fire)’ and sang along with every word in Korean. I watched her and remembered all she endured simply because she loved their music. Two people held one another tightly a few rows down during ‘Spring Day,’ gently swaying. Beside me, a mother and daughter grabbed one another and danced during ‘Permission to Dance.’ Confetti rained down upon us and it felt like magic. At first, I didn’t think we’d catch any, but it floated our way, and pretty soon, everyone around us was reaching up to catch it. I found myself singing and sobbing when they performed ‘My Universe’ thinking of the love and work that went into making this song a reality. When the concerts ended, and we met up with friends for pictures and rides, one of the first things people would ask, often with a hand over their heart, was: “How are you? How are you feeling?” And when they asked these questions, I felt like they really meant them to be answered because everyone who asked me would stop to bear witness to whatever the emotions came pouring out.

When I began to compile my reflections, I felt panicked and even a bit sad at first. My memories felt so disjointed. The flashes and bursts played in my mind like the old filmstrips I watched in school as a kid: some are still images with sounds, others are more fluid. I found that words escaped me as I tried to put them down in a way that would give justice to the concerts. Only in the past week in talking with friends and family have I come to realize why it’s been a challenge. These feelings of joy, happiness, and release are often hard to accept during chaos and sadness, and so much of the past two years have been just that. But what I do have are the feelings these two nights left me with: joy, hope, connection, and a longing to keep living in the present.

My daughter and I hoped we’d come back home with t-shirts and other memorabilia to remember these two days. We weren’t able to manage the lines for merchandise, but I’m not too upset that my plans to buy sweatshirts and pickets went awry. I’ve put a piece of the confetti we got on a sticky note. This is a reminder of what’s possible when I let go of my need to control and plan, just for a bit. It’s a reminder that I can be present. I can be attentive. I can feel alive.