The Silent Sufferers of K-Pop Parenthood
Yesterday was my fifth K-Pop concert with my daughter. At this point, I have to admit: I don’t understand the fandom, and I definitely don’t understand Korean. I wish OpenAI could figure out how to generate electricity from all that screaming, it could power every AI cluster on the planet. For every five concertgoers, there’s one poor soul like me, someone dragged along because their spouse can’t or won’t attend. I call us The Silent Sufferers of K-Pop Parenthood.
Last night, I found one of my kind. She sat next to me, phone fully charged, calmly reading The New York Times amid the chaos. With nothing to do, I resorted to what unresourceful Indian uncles did on trains twenty years ago , I “eaves-read” her newspaper. She was on Wirecutter, reviewing electric kettles. I almost tapped her shoulder and said, “Get the Breville. Then flip to the sports section.”
If there were a Hammurabi Code about reusing, my daughter would’ve failed it. It’s not in her vocabulary , much like most of the words in the songs she sings. But when she pulled out an old lightstick from a previous concert, my wallet whispered, “Thank you for not using me again.”
Of course, she didn’t have batteries. Before she could ask, I dispatched myself to the merch line — not to buy batteries, just to escape the absurdity. The merch lines are so long that you start believing democracy still has a chance if all these people ever voted. A minute later she called: “Don’t buy them! The person next to me gave me three AAA batteries!” I told her to check if her kidneys were still intact. Who walks around with spare AAA batteries and doesn’t want an organ in return?
The first question I ask The New York Times mom is how long the concert is. She says three hours — like she’s reciting a prison sentence she’s already served multiple times. She’s been to many of these, sits through all of them, just scrolling for three straight hours. She senses my uneasiness and hands me a plastic bag. Not a condom , relax! It was just two high-grade earplugs. I slide them in and instantly feel at peace: gentle, manageable, and breaking the sound barrier only by eighty decibels.
Even with the earplugs, I couldn’t sit still for more than twenty minutes. I paced, ran up and down the stairs, circled the sound crew twice, even wandered near the stage like a confused intern looking for the restroom. I was so restless that if this were a political rally, security would’ve detained me.
At the two-and-a-half-hour mark, hope springs eternal. Then the band calls timeout in the worst way possible. They sit down onstage, thank everyone, and ask us to come back. The crowd melts. The band restarts. My daughter beams. I even join her in some rhythmic dancing thanks to Donald Trump for teaching dads everywhere how to move their hands like robots to “Y-M-C-A.” Forget Mount Rushmore, put him on the face of the moon.
As the concert finally ends, I brace for the true test: getting an Uber in downtown L.A. Eventually, my driver shows up in a 5-Series BMW. This is Los Angeles, folks. In San Francisco, Uber drivers are mostly in Toyota Corollas picking up tech workers who are on their way to dealerships to pick up their Corollas after 100,000-mile service.
And here’s my closing note to all the parents who have no interest in K-Pop but still show up: you may not like it, but show up. Showing up is at least half the job. Kids have too many distractions on their phones if you don’t show up, they’ll start following “Instagram parenting” reels and end up solving The New York Times crossword.
Show up. Just bring a fully charged phone and some high-quality earbuds.