Every year, CJ E&M, the Korean entertainment powerhouse, hosts a multi-day Hallyu convention in dozens of locations around the world. Known as KCON, this convention attracts thousands of individuals for three days, and it is packed with booths, festivals and concerts. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Hallyu, the term refers to almost everything that encompasses modern-day Korean popular culture (e.g. K-pop, cosmetics, food, etc.). Growing up in the United States, KCON was a primary way for me to stay connected to my cultural roots, and I looked forward to attending the event every summer. However, in the last few years that I’ve attended KCON, I noticed a new pattern in attendance: the convention attracts more non-Korean individuals every year. A closer look at the popularity of K-pop and Korean culture as a whole provides an objective answer to this phenomenon, but subjectively, I found myself harboring mixed feelings about the rapid spread of Hallyu.
As a small country located in between Japan and China, two incredibly influential nations, South Korea has always struggled to position itself in a place of familiarity in the United States. This is why Koreans take immense pride in their motherland and always teach their children to share their culture with others. When K-pop initially gained popularity in the mid-2000s, I was very excited that my country was being represented online and in the media. Unfortunately, I quickly learned that my culture was not being portrayed in a positive light. Rather than appreciating my country’s music and culture for what it is, I found that K-pop idols were being fetishized and their fandoms were being mocked. Whenever I mentioned my interest in K-pop to my friends, their immediate reaction was often disgust towards the looks or dance moves of certain K-pop stars.
Despite this negative reputation, K-pop continued to gain popularity, and today, there are international fandoms for groups such as EXO and BTS. Though I am extremely grateful that South Korea is becoming better known with the rise of these groups, I am also very hesitant that K-pop’s popularity will come with a negative effect. This time around, the music and culture as a whole is heavily appreciated internationally, but the line between cultural appreciation and appropriation is fading. Known as the “koreaboo” syndrome, some international fans of K-pop adopt the language, culture and beauty standards of South Korea. The notion of a “koreaboo” is problematic because the adoption of Korean culture is often not done respectfully: instead, it borders on being offensive and obsessive. Instead of taking interest in the historic or traditional aspects of Korean culture, koreaboos identify with the superficial connections to K-pop, K-dramas and K-beauty. This leads to those of other ethnicities claiming that they are “Korean” and representing my culture as such. For example, white models for well-known consumer brands such as Nordstrom market Korean beauty products, and YouTubers of all races create content for Korean fashion and mukbangs, or food-eating channels. As a Korean-American, I cannot help but have mixed feelings about the social implications of such a rapidly growing phenomenon.
Of course, I’m not arguing that all K-pop fans are koreaboos. K-pop is a huge part of my culture, and I’m so glad that I have the opportunity to share it with others. However, I hope that rather than watching another K-beauty tutorial or reading a fetishized K-pop fanfiction, K-pop fans will dig deeper and look into some of South Korea’s other cultural elements. There is so much that my country has to share—art, history and language—and I assure you, exploring these cultural elements will be 10 times better than watching another problematic K-pop YouTube reaction video.