“It’s not like I hate K-Pop.

“In fact, I am a fan of their fashion! Well, some. My cousin, Mia, showed me this particular girl group who wear avant-garde pieces—spikes, studs, skulls—and while I don’t believe I can rock those clothes on the street, I still admire them for their fashion-forwardness. And they’ve great skin! Really. Sometimes I feel like they’re made of porcelain. From afar, these stars look like mannequins.”

He nodded, totally focused on me. For some unknown reason, he appears to be really enjoying my story. For someone who met a crazy, loud girl for the very first time—and on Disney California Adventure, mind you—he looks like he’s really interested in what I am saying.

“Wait a minute,” I said, a bit cautious for the first time. Yes, it took me approximately 15 minutes before I realized this stranger could be dangerous. “Tell me the truth—are you one of those thugs who lull gullible, retarded tourists into a false sense of security, then sell them as slaves to rich sadists? Like from that movie, Taken?”

He gave me a hearty, I’m-totally-innocent laugh. “No, I’m not. That sounds like a really cool job, but unfortunately no.”

“Yeah. You know, no offense, but you really don’t look like a goon or something.” I said.

“None taken,” he replied. “Hey, why would anyone be offended if they’re told they don’t look like a thug?”

I hesitated. “Well, for starters, you don’t look that manly to be a thug. In fact, you look like one of those K-Pop celebs—all smooth, shiny, and dashing. How old are you?”

“I’m 21.”

“Hey—that’s the name of the girl group I told you about earlier! Those Korean girls are curiously fond of the word “eh” for some reason.” I said, remembering 21’s songs. I’m not even kidding! I mean, what’s up with “eh” on every song?

“Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed. “I haven’t even asked your name yet! I’ve already introduced myself, haven’t I?”

“Yes, you did. I’m Kevin.” He offered his hand, and I felt my cheeks redden. How could I be so stupid? I got so carried away with my annoyance for Mia; I can’t believe I forgot to ask for this guy’s name.

Two weeks ago, I’ve been invited by my aunt and uncle to come stay with them for a month here in Anaheim, California. After days of being like a lawyer and defending my “case” to mom and dad, I was allowed to go. I was so excited. I’ve been overseas before, but this is my first time in America.

And then there’s Mia. I missed her so much, and she’s really cool. She’d always been the artistic one in our family—jeans with paint splatters, geeky glasses, and beautiful sketches on her notebook (which is Moleskine, by the way). I remember her fondness for do-it-yourself stuff, and in the past, she had involved me in her projects. I was so excited to dye, sew, and decorate a studded, ombre, denim shorts (she told me in her e-mail we’d be doing this as soon as I arrived). My vacation in America would definitely be, I thought, fashionable and glamorous.

But 3 days passed, and all she made me do was watch Korean variety shows with her. I thought, “Okay, this could be fun.” We had a game of “who’s that” and “what did he/she say?” and she seemed to be enjoying translating dialogues and introducing Korean celebrities to me (it doesn’t matter, by the way—I can’t remember their names because they all sound alike). 

The next day, I was looking forward to the d-i-y project. I brought my old, denim shorts to her room, and I was surprised to see her still watching something from her laptop. A music video, I think.

“Hey, aren’t we going to make the shorts to—”

“The shorts will have to wait!” she interrupted. “My new bias group just released their music video. Come watch with me!”

Still not letting go of the shorts (hey, it’s not like they have hour-long music videos), I sat down and watched with her. And then we watched it again. When I asked her why we watched the music videos of 2 songs twice, she told me one’s in Korean, and the other in Chinese.

“Are you sure? They’re the same singers—”

“Oh, man. You’re one of those nasty, bigoted racists, aren’t you?” she accused.

I told her I am not, which is the truth. I’ve always been a believer of equality for all. In fact, I am a feminist (though not the “let’s-not-shave-our-underarms” kind). I’ve voiced about how women should be treated equally countless times in our school during debates. I’m like, Rosie the Riveter—except I’d still wear heels while welding because they’re so fab.

“Well, for someone who’ve seen them just now, they all look alike.” I said, trying to explain my side.

“Whatever,” she said, giving me a bratty, I-know-better-than-you expression. “Besides, it’s perfectly normal for us fan girls to watch a newly-released music video over and over again.”

“Don’t you get tired of it at some point?”

She paused. I’m willing to bet she’d say she doesn’t. “Well, sometimes. But I can’t stop watching it ‘til I’ve ‘dissected’ the whole thing. I’ve to breathe in what they wore at every part, their hairstyles…”

And then she watched the whole thing again, this time rewinding the video every time all the members dance together in a single frame. She told me she had to focus on them individually.

I wanted to go out of her room and go shopping or read instead, but my feet are frozen to the floor. I totally didn’t want to hear another batch of you’re-a-disgusting-racist remarks again. She’d scream, pinch me, and even cry—I’m totally not kidding—whenever her “bias” appears on the screen or do something y, i.e., his lips. Or flash his tummy—which is totally devoid of abs, by the way—or s. I’m starting to think of her as a , erted, crazy fan. When I told her this, she actually thanked me.

This went on for two, horrible weeks and eventually, I gave up on the shorts. I was forced to sit down and “spazz” with her, pretending I love K-Pop. It made her extremely happy. She kept on saying, “Ha-ha, now I claimed your soul! You’ll be forever bound to K-Pop.” I actually considered telling my aunt and uncle about her declining sanity, but eventually decided against it. It would do me no good if the asylums reject her. So to fully convince her I’m a K-Popper, I told her I’m developing a crush on a certain singer—forgot his name just now, although it sounds like que-kiam—because he looks manlier than all those K-Pop guys combined.

Then one morning, to my surprise, she asked me if I want to go to Disneyland the next day.

“Oh, aren’t we supposed to continue that variety show we watched yesterday?” I told her. What I really wanted to say—actually, scream—though was, “ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THAT’S PRACTICALLY ONE OF THE REASONS WHY I AGREED TO GO HERE. NOT WATCH SOME FREAKIN’ K-POP SHOW WITH YOU.”

She sighed. I was scared she might actually cancel the trip. “I know, but the subbed video won’t be out ‘til the day after tomorrow. I figured it would be nice if we can go out for a change.”

“I’ll go and prepare my stuff.” I said. I can’t help smiling from ear to ear.

I lost my control when we arrived at Disneyland. Apparently, she had ulterior motives when she asked me yesterday.

“I thought this was going to be a K-Pop-free thing!” I screamed at her. “You never told me there’d be a Korean boy group here!”

She was totally confused. “But I wanted to surprise you... I mean, you like K-Pop now and—”

“I DON’T LIKE K-POP, OKAY? I HAD TO PRETEND I LIKE THEM BECAUSE YOU KEPT ON CALLING ME RACIST.”

“Hey, that’s nasty!” she said, realization dawning on her face.

“Oh yeah? Can I help it if I don’t appreciate what I don’t understand? Do you even know what their songs mean?”

“How dare you!” she spat, her pronunciation laced with venom. “Of course I do!”

“Really? Word for word? Without Googling its translation first?”

She let out an exasperated gasp. “If you don’t want K-Pop, then fine. Tour this place by yourself!”

“Oh, that sounds lovely. A day without freakin’ K-Pop damaging my freakin’ ears!”

I was so angry, I decided ice cream could help. I found an ice cream cart and bought a Mickey Mouse ice cream sandwich. A guy buying an ice cream at the same time noticed I was looking totally pissed, and decided to risk his life by talking to me despite the smoke coming out of my nose.

“Hey there. Smile! You’re in the Happiest Place on Earth.”

I gave him a long, cold stare. When he realized I was as cold as the ice cream he was buying, his smile faded. I, too, had a realization—I was being an .

“I’m sorry. You see, my cousin left me because I pretended I like K-Pop. I had to—she kept saying I’m racist and…”

“Do you know what your name means, Kevin?” I told the stranger after we bought Mickey Mouse pretzels. For the first time, I noticed how charming this man is: tall, great nose, and even though there’s something off with his chin at certain angles, it still contributes to his over-all appeal. He’s wearing a semi-loose, V-neck tee, which looks good on him. In fact, I love the simplicity of his get-up. Only the baseball cap—which covers his face awkwardly, by the way—prevents me from giving him a perfect 10. Oh, and of course, I love how sympathetic he is.

“No, never checked it out before. What does it mean?”

“It means ‘handsome child.’ Which suits you, if only for one, teeny-tiny thing…”

“What is it?” he asked, offering me the mustard dip.

“You’re freaking pretty.” Kevin raised an eyebrow at me while munching his pretzel. “Even with that cap on, it’s totally more suitable to call you pretty than handsome. In fact, you remind me of another thing about K-Pop artists—male K-Pop artists—that totally gets into my nerves. They’re prettier than most girls I know!

"I mean, do I really need to watch people who remind me of how ugly I am? You can let them wear wigs and I’m sure no one will notice they’re guys!” I added.         

“Hey, you’re not ugly,” he said, looking me in the eyes and sounding all sincere and serious. “In fact, I find you cute. Crazy, but cute.”

It’s my turn to raise my eyebrows. “Of course you’d say that. I’m sure you feel like you need to speak in behalf of your race.”  

“I’m not Korean. And I meant what I’ve said.”

“Shoot, sorry!” I said. “See? I’m not really good at identifying Korean, Japanese, or Chinese people.”

“I’m Chinese. Apology accepted.”

“The boy group I’ve told you about earlier, the one with Chinese members—do you know them?”

He gave me a non-committal shrug. “Yeah. I heard they’re quite famous.”

“Apparently, that’s true. Mia told me they broke records or something. Well, there’s this member, Tao, I think—he’s really hot in a creepy, serial killer way. He knows martial arts, though I’m sure they made that up or something. Because that’s how showbiz works, right?

“Well, we watched a show where he did this thing called bbuing-bbuing. I swore I cringed. I had goosebumps all over my body, and no, it’s not because I found what he did ‘cute.’ And she swears these are straight guys! They’re straight, even if they have this thing called “shipping,” wherein they pair one guy with another. They even combine their names—HunHan, BaekYeol, Taoris…

“I’m not a homophobe, okay? I love gays and I’m all for their rights. But these guys do “fan service” and it’s hard to think of them as heterouals. I guess I just want my men brusque is all.”

Kevin’s eyes were filled with amazement at my speech. I feel like he’s starting to see me as some form of an entertainment—a unique clown inside Disneyland for free. “I guess it’s a cultural thing. The west and the east have different perceptions on what can be regarded as manly and effeminate,” he said.

I sighed. “I guess you’re right. It’s just that how can I expect a man to protect me when what he does is bbuing-freaking-bbuing? Would he bbuing-bbuing the muggers until they’re filled with disgust and decided we’re not worth mugging?”

He shook my hair while laughing. “You’re really crazy, you know that?”

To be continued...