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Two months ago, I woke up to the anxious eyes of my husband.
He rubbed my back gently, then told me.
Jonghyun, the lead singer of my favourite South Korean pop band, SHINee, had been found unresponsive in a rented studio apartment in Seoul.
He killed himself by burning coal briquettes in a frying pan, which produce carbon monoxide. In the smoky apartment, Jonghyun’s body was found lying next to a bed. He was just 27, another member in that awful club that already harbours the likes of Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Amy Winehouse.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” I sobbed into my pillow. “I can’t believe it.”
I stayed in my bed in Vancouver, where we were for the holidays, for two hours, crying harder over this celebrity than I have in a very, very long time. Harder than when my beloved cat, Boxer, died. Harder than when my grandpa and uncle passed. I went through the entire tissue box, rubbing my nose raw, then moved on to the toilet paper.
I imagined how lonely he must have felt. How I’d never hear his voice again — a beautiful, unique sound that flitted between a jazzy falsetto and low-key growl, and one that had comforted me through many quiet nights during grad school. I imagined SHINee coming to an end just shy of their 10th anniversary — an eternity in the K-Pop industry.
“I was broken from the inside,” begins Jonghyun’s suicide note, released by his close friend on Instagram. “The sadness that was slowly eating me finally devoured me.”
This file photo taken on December 21, 2017 shows family members and friends of late SHINee singer Kim Jong-Hyun crying as they carry out his coffin during a funeral at a hospital in Seoul. Kim, a 27-year-old lead singer of the hugely popular K-pop boyband SHINee, took his own life in a Seoul hotel room on December 18, with his death sending shockwaves through fans around the world.
I’ve experienced death multiple times. I’ve said goodby to my mom, two grandparents, an aunt, an uncle, two cats and one high school friend. That seems like a lot, at 27.
I’ve felt deep loss, and cried until my whole body ached. So why did I feel this way about Jonghyun? How was it possible that the level of anguish approached what I felt when my mom left me?
Almost two months later, and still feeling crappy, I thought there must be something wrong with me. It’s not cool to mourn the death of a celebrity for too long. You’re allowed one or two social media posts. A sentimental night where you play their albums or films on repeat And then it’s done — the world moves on and you move with it. Celebrity deaths are not something for which you take bereavement leave.
But I knew this wasn’t going away. I wanted to know what it was I was grieving, and what it means to grieve someone I never met. So I went looking for answers.
“I think it’s legitimate, your grief,” said Jacque Lynn Foltyn, a professor of sociology at National University in California who has studied celebrity deaths for years. “First of all, there’s the loss of a person, even though you may have never met him. Then there’s a loss of his art, and his future art, which is your loss. It’s losing a part of yourself, actually. A part of your future expectations because his future productions are gone.”
Foltyn said death naturally brings up all sorts of emotions and philosophical questions, but it takes on a particular poignancy if a beloved celebrity perishes — especially if they are young, beautiful and die unexpectedly.
Oftentimes, a celebrity is a person’s “first love” as they come of age, said Foltyn — the pop icon you had on your wall as a teen, someone through whom you could impart your desire and emotions from a safe distance. Losing them is like saying goodbye to someone who shaped who you became.
“It’s something about the nature of celebrity, that celebrity is something we are encouraged to consume,” said Foltyn. “That person can be a deep object of longing, and perhaps an idealized self. Something you wish for yourself.”
Social media only amps up the way we connect with our celebrities, said Foltyn. We “like” their photos on Instagram, and feel we know them by the behind-the-scenes looks we get of their pets and homes.
“Celebrities don’t just work through agencies anymore,” said Foltyn. “They connect to people on a personal way through Twitter and Instagram. It encourages a sense you’re part of their social world and circle.
It’s the same way we carry on our online relationships with friends and relatives, in many ways.
“When you think about it … a lot of our relationships are somewhat mediated through digital technology.”
Two days after Jonghyun died, I went to a vigil for the first time ever. I didn’t even really understand how they worked.
In the cold at 6 p.m., about 100 people — mainly girls, but a couple guys, too — gathered outside a theatre in downtown Vancouver where SHINee played last March. Around the world, similar vigils were being held. They were timed to line up with Jonghyun’s funeral procession in South Korea.
In groups of three or four, the organizer — who said she was “here for hugs” if anyone needed one — ushered us to an area where we could lay flowers, candles and letters. A small patch of concrete outside the theatre quickly grew into a colourful tribute of red roses and blue cards.
Fans of K-Pop star Jonghyun lay flowers, candles and cards at a vigil outside the Orpheum Theatre on Dec. 20, 2017 in Vancouver. South Korean investigators ruled the 27-year-old died of suicide just two days before (photo from Facebook by Pearl Tran).
Surprisingly, I didn’t cry when it was my turn. I felt something catch in my throat, but suppressed it. Even though I was there, suffering with everyone else, I felt uncomfortable showing emotion. I spent maybe 30 seconds in front of the memorial before shuffling out of the way.
For the next hour, I watched everyone else have their turn. One woman crouched over the shrine as she wept openly. Another tried to read aloud a letter she wrote but her voice was shaking so hard she had to stop. Strangers hugged each other, crying.
I realized for the first time there were other people like me feeling the same grief I was. Suddenly, I understood the public mourning for Gord Downie and Prince. It had seemed so strange to me, only a few months ago, to lament a celebrity’s death like this — and yet here I was.
“Public grieving is a statement about loss and coming together in a group to say this person’s life had meaning,” said Foltyn. “It’s very comforting for a lot of people. But some people will stay away, because when you’re in a situation like that, the emotion of those around you is going to affect you, too, and that’s very potent.
“That can be very good for you, but it’s also very scary to be around other people that are grieving.”
Fans of K-Pop star Jonghyun lay flowers, candles and cards at a vigil outside the Orpheum Theatre on Dec. 20, 2017 in Vancouver. South Korean investigators ruled the 27-year-old died of suicide just two days before (photo from Facebook by Shereen Rodriguez).
Many, many times during this, I scolded myself for the stupidity of mourning someone I had never met. Going to the vigil showed me, at least, that I wasn’t alone in my sadness. And it gave me the chance to talk about his death openly for the first time with people who understood what it was like.
Bill Thomas at the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association, had some advice for how to cope going forward.
“When you’re ready, write a letter to him. Put all the thoughts and feelings in that letter, of how you connected with him, how you miss him, your loss. Then rip it up and burn it. Wherever you’re feeling that loss and grief in your body after you rip it up, breathe into that space in your body and release it.”
In some ways, this is my letter to Jonghyun. I still miss him. But I’m learning it’s OK that I do.
amah@postmedia.com
查看原文...
He rubbed my back gently, then told me.
Jonghyun, the lead singer of my favourite South Korean pop band, SHINee, had been found unresponsive in a rented studio apartment in Seoul.
He killed himself by burning coal briquettes in a frying pan, which produce carbon monoxide. In the smoky apartment, Jonghyun’s body was found lying next to a bed. He was just 27, another member in that awful club that already harbours the likes of Kurt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Amy Winehouse.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” I sobbed into my pillow. “I can’t believe it.”
I stayed in my bed in Vancouver, where we were for the holidays, for two hours, crying harder over this celebrity than I have in a very, very long time. Harder than when my beloved cat, Boxer, died. Harder than when my grandpa and uncle passed. I went through the entire tissue box, rubbing my nose raw, then moved on to the toilet paper.
I imagined how lonely he must have felt. How I’d never hear his voice again — a beautiful, unique sound that flitted between a jazzy falsetto and low-key growl, and one that had comforted me through many quiet nights during grad school. I imagined SHINee coming to an end just shy of their 10th anniversary — an eternity in the K-Pop industry.
“I was broken from the inside,” begins Jonghyun’s suicide note, released by his close friend on Instagram. “The sadness that was slowly eating me finally devoured me.”
This file photo taken on December 21, 2017 shows family members and friends of late SHINee singer Kim Jong-Hyun crying as they carry out his coffin during a funeral at a hospital in Seoul. Kim, a 27-year-old lead singer of the hugely popular K-pop boyband SHINee, took his own life in a Seoul hotel room on December 18, with his death sending shockwaves through fans around the world.
I’ve experienced death multiple times. I’ve said goodby to my mom, two grandparents, an aunt, an uncle, two cats and one high school friend. That seems like a lot, at 27.
I’ve felt deep loss, and cried until my whole body ached. So why did I feel this way about Jonghyun? How was it possible that the level of anguish approached what I felt when my mom left me?
Almost two months later, and still feeling crappy, I thought there must be something wrong with me. It’s not cool to mourn the death of a celebrity for too long. You’re allowed one or two social media posts. A sentimental night where you play their albums or films on repeat And then it’s done — the world moves on and you move with it. Celebrity deaths are not something for which you take bereavement leave.
But I knew this wasn’t going away. I wanted to know what it was I was grieving, and what it means to grieve someone I never met. So I went looking for answers.
“I think it’s legitimate, your grief,” said Jacque Lynn Foltyn, a professor of sociology at National University in California who has studied celebrity deaths for years. “First of all, there’s the loss of a person, even though you may have never met him. Then there’s a loss of his art, and his future art, which is your loss. It’s losing a part of yourself, actually. A part of your future expectations because his future productions are gone.”
Foltyn said death naturally brings up all sorts of emotions and philosophical questions, but it takes on a particular poignancy if a beloved celebrity perishes — especially if they are young, beautiful and die unexpectedly.
Oftentimes, a celebrity is a person’s “first love” as they come of age, said Foltyn — the pop icon you had on your wall as a teen, someone through whom you could impart your desire and emotions from a safe distance. Losing them is like saying goodbye to someone who shaped who you became.
“It’s something about the nature of celebrity, that celebrity is something we are encouraged to consume,” said Foltyn. “That person can be a deep object of longing, and perhaps an idealized self. Something you wish for yourself.”
Social media only amps up the way we connect with our celebrities, said Foltyn. We “like” their photos on Instagram, and feel we know them by the behind-the-scenes looks we get of their pets and homes.
“Celebrities don’t just work through agencies anymore,” said Foltyn. “They connect to people on a personal way through Twitter and Instagram. It encourages a sense you’re part of their social world and circle.
It’s the same way we carry on our online relationships with friends and relatives, in many ways.
“When you think about it … a lot of our relationships are somewhat mediated through digital technology.”
Two days after Jonghyun died, I went to a vigil for the first time ever. I didn’t even really understand how they worked.
In the cold at 6 p.m., about 100 people — mainly girls, but a couple guys, too — gathered outside a theatre in downtown Vancouver where SHINee played last March. Around the world, similar vigils were being held. They were timed to line up with Jonghyun’s funeral procession in South Korea.
In groups of three or four, the organizer — who said she was “here for hugs” if anyone needed one — ushered us to an area where we could lay flowers, candles and letters. A small patch of concrete outside the theatre quickly grew into a colourful tribute of red roses and blue cards.
Fans of K-Pop star Jonghyun lay flowers, candles and cards at a vigil outside the Orpheum Theatre on Dec. 20, 2017 in Vancouver. South Korean investigators ruled the 27-year-old died of suicide just two days before (photo from Facebook by Pearl Tran).
Surprisingly, I didn’t cry when it was my turn. I felt something catch in my throat, but suppressed it. Even though I was there, suffering with everyone else, I felt uncomfortable showing emotion. I spent maybe 30 seconds in front of the memorial before shuffling out of the way.
For the next hour, I watched everyone else have their turn. One woman crouched over the shrine as she wept openly. Another tried to read aloud a letter she wrote but her voice was shaking so hard she had to stop. Strangers hugged each other, crying.
I realized for the first time there were other people like me feeling the same grief I was. Suddenly, I understood the public mourning for Gord Downie and Prince. It had seemed so strange to me, only a few months ago, to lament a celebrity’s death like this — and yet here I was.
“Public grieving is a statement about loss and coming together in a group to say this person’s life had meaning,” said Foltyn. “It’s very comforting for a lot of people. But some people will stay away, because when you’re in a situation like that, the emotion of those around you is going to affect you, too, and that’s very potent.
“That can be very good for you, but it’s also very scary to be around other people that are grieving.”
Fans of K-Pop star Jonghyun lay flowers, candles and cards at a vigil outside the Orpheum Theatre on Dec. 20, 2017 in Vancouver. South Korean investigators ruled the 27-year-old died of suicide just two days before (photo from Facebook by Shereen Rodriguez).
Many, many times during this, I scolded myself for the stupidity of mourning someone I had never met. Going to the vigil showed me, at least, that I wasn’t alone in my sadness. And it gave me the chance to talk about his death openly for the first time with people who understood what it was like.
Bill Thomas at the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association, had some advice for how to cope going forward.
“When you’re ready, write a letter to him. Put all the thoughts and feelings in that letter, of how you connected with him, how you miss him, your loss. Then rip it up and burn it. Wherever you’re feeling that loss and grief in your body after you rip it up, breathe into that space in your body and release it.”
In some ways, this is my letter to Jonghyun. I still miss him. But I’m learning it’s OK that I do.
amah@postmedia.com
查看原文...
