BTS is a K-Pop group that has been making waves in the West as “the biggest boy band in the world”. Debuted in 2013, BTS has been on a steady power crawl toward global stardom ever since, achieving numerous accolades and accomplishments in both hemispheres. As it relates to the West, and as a testament to this blog post, BTS won Artist of the Year at the 2021 American Music Awards after having swept several categories four years in a row. The release of their three English songs—“Dynamite”, “Butter”, and “Permission to Dance”—and their subsequent music videos in the past couple years have introduced for the group a potential migration toward a broader, more generalized Western audience. With the heavy presentation of Americana and other American iconography in their English-based music videos, BTS is perhaps further capitalizing off of their success by using these themes to appeal to a monolith of the West.

Before I move on to examples, I want to delineate Americana into two terms: music, and culture as a whole. This article describes Americana music as “a combination of several American genres: blues, gospel, country, bluegrass, and rock and roll”; beyond music, however, Americana includes “anything that’s representative of American culture” and is additionally quoted as possessing a nostalgic quality that “[romanticizes] the American dream.” Although BTS has collaborated with, and drawn inspiration from many American artists, for the purpose of this blog post I will only be focusing on the latter definition’s implication of material objects, rather than music.

“Dynamite”, the first of their English releases, has influences from the 70s and 80s of American pop culture. From Michael Jackson to the classic teen coming-of-age movie, “Dynamite” features a very retro feel. The choreography of the video derives “several iconic poses and hook steps from the King of Pop”, with members dressed in 70s fashion. An included screen cap recalls the heavily poster-laden walls of Ferris Bueller’s room from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off , an 1986 American film starring Matthew Broderick. With nods to Route 66 and the prolific “Got Milk?” ads, “Dynamite” is packed with icons from America’s disco era and beyond.

BTS in “Dynamite”

Michael Jackson

The All-Together Separate-Lees, May 1976. SenseiAlan. Playboy Magazine.

BTS in “Dynamite”

Screencap from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off”

Jungkook in “Dynamite”

Sticking to the theme of throwbacks, “Butter” jumps another decade in time to 80s and 90s Hollywood. Although this music video is comparatively light-handed in pop culture references, there are strong allusions to the bright, neon colors and tracksuits that were a hallmark of fashion at the time. The design and costumes in “Butter” are reminiscent of movie sets, with film lights, “directors’” chairs, and even the trademark orange and teal color scheme prominent in many Hollywood movies. In line with movies, vocalist Kim Taehyung, also known by his stage name V, has cited Reservoir Dogs and Cry Baby as the inspiration for his slicked-back look, which was modeled particularly after Johnny Depp, because “’Butter’ felt like a teen musical to him.” Some of the best teen movies, or coming of age movies, include titles like The Breakfast Club, American Graffiti, and Sixteen Candles.

Suga in “Butter”

80s Fashion

Jin in “Butter”

Screencap of Johnny Depp in “Cry Baby”

V in “Butter”

Arguably the most ostentatious out of the three in regards to fashion, “Permission to Dance” evokes familiar themes in the American Southwest. At its center is a diner, called a “cultural icon” by this article, as the setting of many films, novels, and other American works of art. Combined with the vast array of featured clothing like Cowboy hats and boots, fringe, embroidered paisley, chaps, and the debatable, yet extremely American, fashion faux pas of double denim, “Permission to Dance” embodies “the free spirit and rugged sense of adventure” possessed by the Hollywood cowboys, like John Voigt’s character in Midnight Cowboy, on which their costumes are based off of.

BTS in “Permission to Dance”
From left to right: Jungkook, J-Hope, Jin, Suga (front), V (back), RM, Jimin

V and Jungkook in “Permission to Dance”

John Voigt in “Midnight Cowboy”

BTS in “Permission to Dance”

When it comes to media, it’s important to remember that entertainment is an exportable product that is just as marketable as any other consumable good. In the wake of BTS’ international success, it only makes sense that they’d try to reach stages far flung from their native South Korea, and to engage with fans from all over the world. But as their popularity can attest to, there’s no need to appeal to audiences in the West—they already have. Rather, a “[celebration of] community on a wider scale”, that this article claims as the message of “Permission to Dance”, goes beyond English lyrics and Americana themes, which were of little consequence to long-time, dedicated fans. The diffusion, and distinction, of culture is one of the defining traits of BTS’ popularity: it is treated as something that should be embraced, instead of assimilated into the Western mainstream.

Earlier in the year, as a preliminary approach to Geography with Professor Glassman, we covered the emergence of a racialized North America. Our first official unit went over the Transatlantic Slave Trade and how different factors such as common language, community, and knowledge of the land affected enslaved Africans and Indigenous peoples; the former having none of those things characterized a drastically different relationship with European settlers, yet both groups were equally vilified and constrained within the foreign invention of race. With previous schooling, I was familiar with early North American history, but more so with timelines and events rather than why these events happened and the ideologies behind them. The common underscoring of the tragedies that befell Indigenous communities was twisted and mangled in order to fulfil the deluded European idea of Manifest Destiny. The Portmanteau biota is a theory that many factors such as disease, warfare, famine, and many others colluded together to wreak devastation through Indigenous communications. Some of the most sinister include viewing small pox as means of “thinning out” Native populations in order to “make room” for Puritans, and John Locke’s labor theory and notion of waste; Locke thought that Natives were wasting their land, and that the subsequent clearing of said land (through colonialism and genocide) was God choosing European settlers as His people. This ultimately led to early beginnings of capitalism and a hardened stratum of race evolving out of ethnic chauvinism, as well as the white American principle of using their supposed God-given right to mistreat others for private gain.

In tandem with learning about the history of Indigenous struggles, we also became acquainted with current manifestations of such struggles. We focused on the #IdleNoMore movement, which has been described as a mounting of frustration surrounding Indigenous communities in Canada, and how, thirty years later, justice is far from being properly served. This notion is especially pertinent after reading Indian Horse. Despite Indian Horse being a work of fiction, it depicts very real horrors that plagued children in residential schools, and the racism and trauma that followed the main character, Saul, even after he got out. Indian Horseis a complicated and personal account that is modern, yet timeless in its grief. Having both of these perspectives, from a bird’s eye point-of-view to the more biographical level, is important in developing a multi-faceted understanding of extenuating issues, so that we can hope to facilitate intelligent conversations.

References

Indian Horse

The UBC Rose Garden is one of the most recognizable attractions on UBC’s Vancouver campus. With stunning views of Bowen Island and the Strait of Georgia, many UBC alumni capture their graduation photos in this beautiful, flowering space to highlight the last of many special university experiences. The garden is also a preferred choice among newlyweds-to-be to tie the knot.

I arrived in Vancouver in late August of 2021 and took the included photograph on my very first visit to UBC. In the final days of summer, I caught the tail-end of the blooming season of the garden’s diverse flora. I grew up two-hundred miles away in Seattle, a place that seems to me like Vancouver’s evil twin. With very similar climates and cultures, I didn’t worry too much about feeling out of place once I got here. While that was mostly that case—Vancouverites use umbrellas, whereas their Washingtonian neighbors hardly ever do—university life was a completely different beast. The garden was a gorgeous, open space that miraculously wasn’t chock-full of students, unlike many other UBC locations. I frequented the garden in my early days on campus because it was quiet, and it felt like a place where I could be alone. I had never had a roommate before, nor had I ever taken a class with more than thirty people. The garden helped ease my transition to university and dorm life, and embrace it for its differences.

The importance of the Rose Garden, and urban gardens in general, is the role it plays in creating clean, beautiful public spaces were everyone feels welcome. Growing up in Seattle, as I have mentioned, made me no stranger to housing crises and struggles facing the unhoused. Tent cities all across the I-5 corridor are a constant reminder that Washington has a long way to go to make housing affordable. I am not as familiar with the topic and how it relates to Vancouver, but from what I understand, Vancouver has “the least affordable housing market in North America” (Grigoryeva & Ley). In addition to the massive inflation of prices, food insecurity affects almost twelve-percent of households in British Columbia—a figure that has only risen since 2008 (Holmes et. al).

I believe that it is crucial to allow people to enjoy the city they live in without feeling ostracized by issues that are majorly beyond their control. The UBC Rose Garden created a new sense of identity and belonging for me as an incoming transplant with its free and open access. Having more gardens, especially gardens with an added focus of growing produce and foodstuffs, builds community regardless of personal background and provides a connection to the outdoors and an outlet to everyday causes of stress or even loneliness. Gardens are often prided for their beauty, a careful combination of nature and human intervention; however, beauty doesn’t have to just come from flowers and picturesque views, but from cultivation and growth among flourishing communities.

UBC Rose Garden, August 2021 (Hill)

References

Grigoryeva & Ley

Holmes et. al

Chapter three of Thi Bui’s The Best We Could Do focuses on the troubled relationship between Thi and her father, Bo, that began in her childhood. Thi distinguishes hers and Bo’s connection to their memories through contrasting elements, such as earth and water. Bo “practiced leaving his body”, while Thi “practiced being brave” in the given panel. Thi’s use of the word brave juxtaposes Bo’s seemingly flighty instinct that borders on escapist. The depiction of astral projection represents Bo’s abandonment of the past; in the dreamscape panel, he floats in front of an image of himself as a mountain, which shows his isolation from his memories, and takes on the immovable, stagnant traits of earth to show his stubborn refusal to reflect on those memories. The natural contrast between earth and water manifests in Thi and Bo and how they cope with their pasts. Where Bo is far off and detached in his dreams in a dark and nebulous mountain range, Thi is seen swimming through her less fantastical home, drawn in simple lines and lighter colors. Water is a mutable, connective element, and it evokes the common saying, “Water is thicker than blood”, where water of the womb—family—is strong than any “blood pact” made among friends. The discussion of family and generational trauma takes precedence in The Best We Could Do. In her dream, Thi is immersed in it, in water and her home, and becomes more grounded and self-aware of the influences her family has had on her life. Bo, who lacks connectivity and the ability to confront his past, is left high and dry, seeking to be free from it. Thi seeks to “[be] free in it”. Despite the fundamental difference in the substances that make up their personalities, they both dream of freedom, to an extent, which perhaps underscores a basic understanding and lays the groundwork and framing of the beginning of the fourth chapter where Thi says, “Me and Bo, we’re okay now”. Forgiving those difference offers to amend the hurt and fear between them, and lends to core themes of healing and forgiveness.

References

Bui, Thi: The Best We Could Do

The Reluctant Fundamentalist’s inability to inhabit any one given genre is perhaps its biggest hallmark. Through this oscillating lens, Hamid challenges his readers’ capacity for perspective, to consider the life-changing events and cultural alterations that came of 9/11 as though looking through a kaleidoscope. This is best exemplified by Hamid’s purposeful broadening of “otherness” as it applies to Changez during his trip to Greece in chapter two. For Changez’s classmates, his otherness is all encapsulating; they have no consideration for the particulars of his life, but only recognize that he is “exotic”. Simplifying Changez down to “exotic”, for which he is solely valued, in a book that focuses on the complexities and difficulties that come with his position in the world is meant to be a jarring, simple-minded contrast on behalf of his classmates. In Greece, Changez’s differences were constantly pointed out to him. While his classmate, Chuck, was doing an impression of him, Changez noted that “[his] mannerisms…were somewhat exaggerated” compared to Chuck’s other impressions of their classmates. Erica called his politeness “unusual”, and it can be argued that Erica, due to her “worldly” appearance in the form of her tae kwon do hobby and Chairman Mao shirt, that she likes Changez purely because of his differences—and perhaps because of his foreignness. Changez’s classmates view him as “other” on the basis of race and the different lived experience he had because of his race; however, Changez perceives his own differences on the basis of class. He is critical of the cushy lifestyle that his classmates got to have while simultaneously being without refinement, restraint, or respect. The only reason Changez was on the Greece trip in the first place was “thanks to [his] sign-on bonus from Underwood Samson”, as opposed relying on a trust fund. His classmates, of course, were unaware of Changez’s economic status, and I think Hamid did this on purpose so as to distill their treatment of him as a reflection of how they perceived him and his race. But the juxtaposition of these two defining factors is interesting to consider, especially when it relates to the overall theme of perspective in The Reluctant Fundamentalist.

References

Hamid, Mosin: The Reluctant Fundamentalist

Last week in class, we read literary scholar Tim Gauthier’s mouthful of an essay, “’I Can Spin Some Bullshit If You Want’: Narrating (and Bridging?) The Civil-Military Divide in Phil Klay’s Redeployment”. Gauthier prefaces his essay with a detailed summary that focused on some of Klay’s main ideas in Redeployment, such as the refusal of both the soldier and the civilian to understand each other, the fact that civilians aren’t exposed to war and, inversely, that soldier “mythologies” aren’t exposed to public scrutiny, and empathy. Gauthier identifies empathy as being Klay’s main goal of his collection of short stories; Klay suggests that soldiers and civilians recognize their respective otherness, but, despite this, Klay calls for “mutual responsibility,” in Gauthier’s words. As you can probably guess, trying to give a summary of a summary is a little clumsy. While reading Gauthier’s essay, I got so lost in his own account of Redeployment that I forgot he had a point of his own to make, and I almost missed it: at the end of it all, just an analysis on the way Phil Klay uses the word “bullshit”. It sounds crass, in my opinion—but also in the opinion of someone who is unused to expletives from high school teachers, let alone as the leading argument of a literary scholar in the professional setting. Gauthier, however, emphasizes how the use of “bullshit” is intentional and important—via “negotiation” as he says—in dispelling the “falseness” or “charade” (Klay) that lies at the crux of delusion in the civil-military divide. What I got from Gauthier’s summary, the subsequent activities, and this blog post, in addition to Redeployment’s overarching message, is that one, it’s hard to keep track of who said what (and that it’s in vain to try to make it smooth), and two, that scholars can latch onto the smallest detail in a given writing and make an argument out of it. I think this is important to keep in mind for the upcoming literature review assignment. According to Dr. Luger, Marita Sturken’s Tangled Memories seems to be a hot topic among scholars, so there is probably no stone left unturned, and you can fall down any number of rabbit holes, even if it so happens to be a singular world.

References

Gauthier, Tim: “I Can Spin Some Bullshit If You Want”: Narrating (and Bridging?) The Civil-Military Divide in Phil Klay’s Redeployment

Klay, Phil: Redeployment

Sturken, Marita: Tangled Memories

With today’s highly politicized world and rapid-fire technology, we have the unique opportunity to watch the real-time shift of the cultural memory surrounding the War on Terror. Most of us in this class, myself included, weren’t alive immediately before or after 9/11, let alone old enough to remember any first-hand accounts. As young kids, we had no choice but to receive the narratives passed down to us by—for some—a distinctly Western or American perspective. But with the advent of the Internet and social media and the volatile nature of both, it became difficult to keep track of culture (trends, fads, memes, etc.) because what entered our scope of attention was shoved out with more incoming information, whatever it may have been. Our culture morphed into something that wasn’t easily defined by what it was, but more so by what it wasn’t. It is vastly easier to identify the things that rub us the wrong way than those that are deemed the norm and thus fall under our overworked radar. Sanne Frandsen cites Molly Andrews in Considering counter-narratives: Narrating, resisting, making sense defining counter-narratives as “…the stories which people tell and live which offer resistance to, either implicitly or explicitly, to dominant cultural narratives.” To answer Dr. Luger’s third prompt about cultural memory, counter-narratives in the West have piled one on top of another in order to grab the attention of an audience. This frantic “vying”, as Sturken writes, comes from “divisions and conflicting agendas” as more and more of these counter-narratives come to light. We are trying to amend previously held assumptions. Sea Prayer is a video essay affectionately addressed to the narrator’s son, Marwan, recounting the memories of a war-torn Syria, from which their family had to flee. Butterfly: From Refugee to Olympian – My Story of Rescue, Hope, and Triumph is a similar account of another Syrian refugee, Yusra Mardini, who, along with her sister and two others, swam over three hours to bring a sinking boatful of refugees to the coast of Greece. And My Name Is Khan, a movie about a man’s journey seeking retribution for the death of his stepson as he advocates for Muslims in a post-9/11 America. The titular line “My name is Khan” is followed by “and I am not a terrorist.” These are examples I have personally watched and read, but there is surely more out there. The underscoring theme of all these narratives follows the resilience and triumph of refugees and people of Middle Eastern descent in the face of overwhelming villainization and hatred, and the effect is distinctly human. In contrast, Redeployment depicts cruel and brutal imagery; killing dogs both on and off the battlefield is not something Americans want to hear of their soldiers who they believe are fighting for their freedom.

The goal of counter-narrative is a disentanglement from our stagnant beliefs. The prevalence of counter-narratives varies in their given genre, but in the context of war and innocent lives, the responsibility for truth is especially important. We have to hold ourselves responsible for our dominant narratives no matter where they came from.

References

Andrews, Molly: Considering counter-narratives: Narrating, resisting, making sense

Frandsen, Sanne: Counter-narratives and Organization

Hosseini, Khaled: Sea Prayer

Johan, Karan (director): My Name is Khan

Klay, Phil: Redeployment

Mardini, Yusra: Butterfly: From Refugee to Olympian – My Story of Rescue, Hope, and Triumph

Sturken, Marita: Tangled Memories