Translated by / Ka Kei Lau (The Inaugural Frontline Non-Fiction Translation Fellowship Fellow)
Written by / Kitty Ho Shuet-ying (Winner of the First Season of the Frontline Fellowship for Chinese Creative Nonfiction)
Original article / 《在未知中同行：MIRROR 歌迷的連結》(Click here to read)
Translation Mentor / Jennifer Feeley (Translator of Xi Xi's Not Written Words and Carnival of Animals, PhD in East Asian Languages and Literatures from Yale University)
Morning, 9:55. M and I had loaded every device within reach onto the same webpage. Two company computers, two laptops, and two phones. All targeted towards Urbtix. Fire held until 10 on the dot, when ticket sales for MIRROR's Coliseum concert would go live.
At the signal of the hand, two humans and six devices broke through the gates.
"Server busy. Please try again," came the system's reply. It had quite a thoughtful interface whereby every three seconds it automatically refreshed us back to the queue. "Countdown 123" began to reincarnate ad infinitum.
With all six devices propped open, proper work began. Every ten minutes we checked its status to see if we had broken free from the reincarnation cycle. In the meantime, we loitered in Telegram fan groups, mining for ticketing intel.
Seven hours of "Countdown 321" later, the booking page had yet to present itself. But at 5:30pm, M hurried over and huffed: "What's your full name in English?" That was when it dawned on me that she had made it to the final step, and would purchase a ticket for me!
We held our breaths until receipts came in through the confirmation email. Finally, we collapsed into each other's arms.
Seven hours unable to focus on work and only functional enough to reply to simple emails, capped off with a horde of maladies: hand tremors, heart palpitations, aching neck and shoulders. I asked myself, was all this groveling worth it for a single concert ticket?
Across Hong Kong, 10 million others were doing the same thing. It was later revealed that thanks to congested traffic, it took 10 hours for 37,700 tickets to sell out. Everyone was anxiously waiting for a mirror of hope.
From endorsements to crowdfunded fan-support, Keung To has a ubiquitous presence in the streets of Hong Kong. Photography by: Eric Tsang.
Not at all like a MIRROR fan
During the latter half of 2018, ViuTV aired a survival show called Goodnight Show – Kingmaker I, from which a 12-member boy group was born. But it was in early 2021 that MIRROR really took Hong Kong by storm. When they first debuted, their ages ranged from 19 to 30, a veritable "mature boy group." While MIRROR performed as a team, there were members who released solos and took on roles in dramas, movies, and variety shows. Their supporters, many of whom had followed them since their genesis, were called "MIRROR fans." Each individual member also had fan club names of their own.
While I consider myself one of the earlier birds to join the artsy flock, the last time I went to a Cantopop concert was Khalil Fong's in 2010. Since then, Hong Kong's pop music scene hadn't resurfaced in my life. It wasn't until April 2021 that I became aware of MIRROR for the first time. Before, I had only really seen advertisements featuring the group's most popular member, Keung To, and none of his hits had reached my ears. For three years I'd been living with MIRROR and their fans in the same metropolis, and had no idea.
Hong Kong mainstream culture had a huge presence in my life. Back in my primary school years, before surfing the net was a thing, I would crouch by the TV and radio every day after school. I came to know Sammi Cheng, Mavis Fan, Tat Ming Pair, the Backstreet Boys, Depeche Mode, Radiohead, the Smashing Pumpkins, and so on. To a 10-year-old, it didn't matter where it came from or what its genre was, but only if it was a good song.
By the year 2000, I was fully immersed in an eclectic indie discography, and had become the go-to guide to music among my friend circle. While I still performed my duty of shelling out for new album releases by Eason Chan and Anthony Wong, this early bloomer with a developed music palette no longer felt devoted to Cantopop. Twins, who was all the rage, never churned more than a playlist of sappy karaoke. The advent of the Internet came with all sorts of music software and streaming media, and one could find music from anywhere and of any genre. Why would I waste time on music with mediocre pitch and rhythm, basic pretentious singers, or run-of-the-mill melodies and composition? Back then, it wasn't that I looked down on Cantonese music. I was just wholly indifferent.
For Keung To's birthday this year, his fans (Keung Tong, or "Ginger Kandies") bought advertising space on trams, and treated all citizens to free tram rides on that special day. Photography by Eric Tsang.
Just how did I make my sudden conversion into a MIRROR fan? It was a confusing and unsettling process.
Last March, a friend made me listen to the solo releases of one of their members, Jer Lau. At the same time, ticketing outrage for a MIRROR concert was all over the news. I suddenly saw the light of their existence and hurried to commit all 12 names into memory. On YouTube, I discovered the MIRROR concert performance of "Warrior," Jer's performance of "Diary of a Madman," and Anson Lo's dance solo "The Minds of Billy Milligan," as well as fancams of "EGO." Ever since, my life has been turned upside down.
As someone who'd never used Instagram, I began to follow fan accounts—hundreds at a time—for content and updates on MIRROR. I was on YouTube every day for archival work, chasing back all the lost time together over the last three years. I dawdled in Telegram fan groups composed of nearly 20,000 people, including the idols themselves. Sometimes I would fall asleep watching YouTube and shows with the lights still on, unsure of what was thought or dream. I only remembered a fuzzy warm light illuminating clips of my idols real and fantastical. So many mornings they were—he was—the first thing on my mind.
There were months when I mostly kept to myself, for social life was a hindrance to time spent thinking about my idol. I watched him perform, squabbling for hints to piece a picture of his life and personality. I spent many social gatherings scrolling through Instagram, where an update about him was enough to topple me into a trance-like state. When I was alone, I thought of how beauty was his burden: a constriction of heart, at loss for words. For someone with a self-proclaimed picky ear who'd liked an endless list of singers, musicians, and bands, becoming obsessed with an idol was a first. Perhaps it was more precise to call it falling in love or under a spell.
At first, I was not ready to admit to this drastic change in my temperament, and I didn't dare invite any friends on my daily rollercoaster ride of emotions. My love's labors would be lost to them, and I worried they would think me strange. I resorted to settling these emotions into words. When I was in a more lucid state of mind, I attempted to detach myself and coolly cut into my psyche from a sociological angle. These dissections were published on social media, and I even started an Instagram account to share them, receiving many responses from MIRROR fans that said I had "voiced the words in their hearts."
I began to speculate that if these were not feelings unique to myself but shared across millions of other MIRROR fans, could this spellbound collective be traced to certain social and public issues at this specific juncture of time in Hong Kong? From my awkward growth spurt into a MIRROR fan to now conducting interviews, observing, and engaging in focus group study, I had embarked on a new journey through which I would meet nearly 60 other MIRROR fans.
For what if not talent?
Blind adulation is a typical image conjured by the word "fan," and MIRROR fans were no exception. For instance, when a music review once called a song from a certain member disappointing, the comment section was bombarded with fans criticizing the review for not being fair and objective. They even went on to report the fan page on Facebook. In contrast to crusades like this, when several fans got together, there were always such moments when one of our own picked on MIRROR's songs. Immediately, all tongues would lash out and drip with ridicule: "One more song like 'All in One' and I'm out," or "I get nervous every time they perform live."
Many young Hong Kong MIRROR fans used to be in K-pop fandoms; others were listeners of Western pop. Sally said, "While Western icons are hoisted onto pedestals, MIRROR is more down-to-earth. Being less prestigious means our expectations are also lower. We get pleasantly surprised when they do well." The other five laughed in agreement. "Right, what a surprise when the choreography is finally in sync." Square said, "Even now I don't think they are good at singing. Especially that one member—three years and he still sings off-key, what a let-down...". Sitting on both sides of her happened to be fans of that particular member. "My bad."
Recent college graduate Louise said, "I used to stan BTS, who are known for their army-like synchronized dancing, and they sing well too. They really are a god-tier group. Comparing MIRROR and BTS would make stanning difficult, so expectations for each are superrrrr different." She dragged out "super" to make you feel the stretch of difference. "Their first performance of Warrior was a total sh*tstorm (complete failure)."
21-year-old Cherry was also a fan of BTS, and admitted that MIRROR's performance skills were not on par with BTS. "Korea has a trainee system, so idols must go through years of practice before their debut. MIRROR are commoners who receive training after, so you see two systems are in place...But wait, why am I so tolerant of their lack of control over the situation?" She hesitated. "Perhaps because I am not stanning for their vocals, but for other things."
This is not some awe-inspiring statement—maybe she was merely enamored by their visuals. But during this fan discussion about MIRROR, words of praise for their looks were not common. A mother, Francis, put it this way: "Actually, they were already handsome during the 2018 competition, but I didn't have a deep impression of them. It wasn't until watching their clips and shows in 2020 that other attributes beyond their visuals began to attract me."
As for MIRROR's debut on the program Goodnight Show: Kingmaker I, it was less of a talent competition to find the next star, and more of a reality show that exposed the unfiltered side of idols. While music programs in the Mainland were billion-dollar productions with vocals post-edited to perfection, Kingmaker, perhaps forced by budget restrictions, aired off-tunes and missed beats in all their naked light. Even slacking off during practice and rehearsals, social blunders, and family backgrounds were spilled like beans. Fanny's two daughters were around the ages of Keung To and Edan. "When I saw their quirks and flaws, I thought they were very relatable." This was the attraction of the coming-of-age narrative, which invited the audience to share this intimacy of joining them in their formative journey.
Another organizer of our MIRROR fan focus group was Gary Tang, an academic in communication studies. The first time he stepped foot into the MIRROR fandom circle, he was surprised to find that criticizing MIRROR's performing skills was a common topic among its fans. Gary said, "They were originally followers of BTS and Western mainstream music. Having witnessed stars with incredible skills, they are still willing to tolerate MIRROR's imperfections. This suggests that they value other things about them."
From endorsements to crowdfunded fan-support, Keung To has a ubiquitous presence in the streets of Hong Kong. Photography by: Eric Tsang.
In times of trauma and individuation, a resilient community was formed
So what kind of values did we seek? I continued the deep dive with MIRROR fans.
After 2020, Louise began to shift her attention from BTS to MIRROR. "In 2019, no one had the time to do anything else. No one paid attention to Good Night Show –– King Maker II (a second competition after MIRROR's first, whose finals were scheduled for October 2019). Other than Keung To, who in a full-black get-up was asked to show his ID in Causeway Bay, I had no idea whatsoever about the entertainment industry in 2019." Yuki said, "During the latter half of 2019, we still had things to do." Others nodded in agreement. "Until the National Security Law was passed, and the 47 activists participating in the legislative council election were captured, you know there were no longer things worth focusing on. Along with the pandemic, my life came to a halt. Friends couldn't contact me, and every day I sat at home staring at the window, contemplating when to jump. Until the 12 boys were able to 'capture my heart.' They pulled me out of my room, from my stupor, and I went 'sightseeing' (taking selfies with all things related to MIRROR, from advertisements to shops in the streets). It used to be that even stepping out of the building was difficult. Now, 'sightseeing' with MIRROR at least reconnects me back to the real world."
Cindy confessed, "In 2019, I was repulsed by entertainment. There was no reason to laugh or smile. I had no emotional energy to spend on anything else. After 2020, I slowly re-emerged, thinking I should at least try to lead a happier life." Louise said, "After the protests and crackdowns, I was really depressed, so it was exciting to see a band of ladies go 'sightseeing' together. Sometimes I think I enjoy the fandom atmosphere more than the celebrities themselves."
For Gigi, a third-year college student, most of her college life was affected by the protest movement and the pandemic. While there were in-person classes now and then, virtual classes became the norm. "I thought I'd make friends in college, but in the blink of an eye, it's already been three years. All of my college life had been antisocial. Because of the protest movement, I was so depressed for the first two years. Every night, I had dark thoughts that brought me to tears." She described that today, Instagram updates by her idols were like food for her soul. "They interact a lot with fans, and are like a company of friends. Every night I'd wait for Anson Lo to post that he had gotten off work, and only then could I go to bed." Unable to make friends during a pandemic that swallowed college life, idols were like friends to Gigi. "Their variety shows and music never failed to pull me through when I was at my worst. They are my main source of happiness, and these days I don't often need to find friends for company, because I am content with just watching MIRROR."
Designer of fan goods and fan support, Donna felt that what touched her about Anson Lo was his rebellious resilience to everything. "In the face of public scrutiny and criticism, he never escapes, but would reflect on what can be done better. I live in a city with many confines. So does MIRROR. They will think of ways to do the best they can within their limited space. I'm easily pessimistic. During such times, they would lift me up, giving me a bit of strength as well."
Stars seemed so almighty, but were they weak like me, learning to walk through red lines every day? That was how I felt over the past six months.
One night, I found that the 12 boys from MIRROR, who were usually active on social media, had gone a whole day without posting anything on Instagram or sharing stories. Then I remembered it was the 1st of October, PRC's national day. Had they been silenced by the system? Would our times once again forsake these young people? I imagined many possibilities and couldn't go to sleep. It wasn't until more than two hours after midnight that they began updating their stories, and I could finally fall asleep peacefully. The more popular they became, the greater the temptation to be engulfed by the system. During these six months, friends working in large institutions had to busy themselves cooperating as volunteers for the government-led pandemic effort, or organizing celebrations for the 25th anniversary of Hong Kong's handover to Chinese sovereignty.[1] This contributed to a dry spell in the dance and music scene. So, could MIRROR still survive?
On Chan Cheuk Yin's (Ian) birthday in June, his fan club held an exhibition for him at the mall, where fans took photos with his dolls. Photography by Eric Tsang
[1] Translator's Note: The Hong Kong government allegedly encouraged major companies and public utilities to support the anti-epidemic campaign.
Cantonese Songs: Singing the voice of our time, recognizing each other in loneliness
The National Security Law was legislated in Hong Kong despite large-scale protests from 2019 to mid-2020. In 2020, before and after the National Security Law came into effect, there was a crackdown on lobby groups, trade unions, and political parties. Anti-establishment presses and media outlets with the widest readerships were forced to close. The judiciary and law-enforcement agencies prosecuted and tried cases related to the protest movement, with numbers exceeding tens of thousands.
There had also been a decline in public discourse. Those with friends from Hong Kong would hear how there was nothing left to see on Facebook. People no longer shared their opinions. Perhaps they had lost the urge because nothing whet the appetite anymore. After the dark ages, Facebook crawled with strangers with unidentifiable names and avatars. Looking at their profiles now, some friends had deleted earlier posts and photos.
An academic survey by the Center for Communication and Public Opinion Survey at the Chinese University of Hong Kong shows a clear trend of news avoidance in Hong Kong from 2020 to the end of 2021. Among respondents who identified as democrats or localists, there is a significant increase in those who did not read or watch the news at all.
I made no changes to my name or profile picture. But I went from being so active on social media that I was posting several times a day, to a year or two later finding that I was no longer inspired to share anything with my hundreds of followers. Whenever I had something to say, I would space back and forth before pressing cancel. If social issues came with oppressive heft, flights of fancy seemed so lightweight, they should be swept away.
Hong Kong today is so pitch-black that sometimes you can't even see your fingers. How could we see each other in this darkness? And if we couldn't see each other, how could we outshine ourselves and join hands with the public?
Alongside the MIRROR craze was talk about the revival of Cantonese music. Hong Kong's biggest music awards ceremony—the Ultimate Song Charts Awards Presentation––was hosted on January 1 of this year. Against all odds, I was able to obtain a ticket. The most memorable moments—beside screaming my lungs out—were the performances of RubberBand's "Ciao" and C Allstar's "For those who stay, For those who had left" (both songs are related to emigration), the sea of speckled lights at the venue, and the passionate response to MC $oho & KidNey's remark that "Hong Kong's management is no good".
At the Chill Club Chart Award Presentation held by ViuTv on April 14, RubberBand won the Silver Award for Band of the Year. Coming onstage, lead singer No.6 began to choke up. "In Hong Kong, it is not easy to be a …to live. We hope everyone continues to believe in the power of music…that one song, three to four minutes, can be an emotional outlet or a source of strength. We will keep working hard, and our Hong Kong singers, bands, and groups will continue making good music, offering strength to all those who love Hong Kong music to get through tough times." His acceptance speech went viral on social media. People like to say that the role of fandom and pop culture is to lead one astray from reality. But seeing the reactions from the audience inside or outside the venue, the statement seems so pale.
RubberBand's outdoor concert in May came with a drizzle of rain. Back then, my impression of their ten-year-old release "Discovery" was that it was just some uplifting song. But in a jolt, I realized that I was prepared for my "windbreaker torn/ life jacket lost/ never expecting to make it." No.6 said, "Everyone here today shares the same values." Around me were thousands of people, singing in the rain. Though I could not ascertain their principles one by one, the air was soaked with a tacit solidarity. I could believe that he was telling the truth.
I thought I no longer needed Cantonese songs. I've always believed myself a cosmopolitan—good music can be from everywhere. Songs from my stash of over 30 years can be taken as prescribed by mood and weather. I also believe that good art can surpass the test of time, language, and culture, and does not earn brownie points due to the artist's regional background.
In 2020, someone recommended Jer's "Tale of Lucidity" to me, but at the time I didn't think much of it.
It was mid-June 2021 when news came that Apple Daily, the largest pro-democratic newspaper in Hong Kong, was shut down. That night, I had no wish to go home. As I walked along the newly opened waterfront promenade of Hong Kong Island, "Tale of Lucidity" took hold of my earphones by random shuffle. Jer was singing: "Habit worn in pain alone/ my path shone by stars and tears my own." He could've been talking about society or the individual. Perhaps the blow from Apple Daily was just my excuse to wallow in anguish and self-pity. Even in a stitch of agony, people rush on their way under a cloak of stars and moon. Fingers may disappear in the darkness, but why rely on an external source of light when we have our own tears? After all, sadness can too be strength. "Ahead, no spark of distant hope/ The universe perishes to complete a wider goal." Stars visible to us from earth come from having extinguished thousands of years ago. When a star snuffs out, it has no idea that it shall illuminate an unknown person at some unknown time.
In December 2021, L wrote in a letter from prison that Jer's "Stellar Moments of Humankind" made his scalp tingle. At that point, I had been playing that song on repeat for a month. In his letter, L described the song as "a strong beam that forces itself into your heart, scouring all the darkness, chaos, pain, and confusion with light. I could feel it's a very clear, pure yet powerful kind of love, a lucid kind of love. When the heart is pried open, you'd cry a goddamn river." In a letter dated a month later, he added, "With Cantonese songs for company, you keep going a little longer."
The radiance of "Stellar Moments of Humankind" emits from understanding darkness. This kind of darkness, tuned from a contrast with brightness, comes only to light in current Cantonese songs. Though I might not be able to relate to the suffering of L within the high walls, we can both listen to "Stellar Moments of Humankind". All the fatigue, trauma, despair, frustrations, and powerlessness could be embraced. Wounds staunch and silent, but accompanied, cared for, and comforted.
Ivan (a pseudonym) in the reflection is a college student. Over the past year, he had roamed Hong Kong to capture traces of MIRROR through photography. On this day, he was filming a promotional video for Ian Chan's birthday support. Photography: Eric Tsang.
A different age with a different inspirational song
"Times past while songs last" – Per Se, The Prophet
I asked MIRROR fans to each pick two Cantonese songs they most resonated with or that best represent their emotions for the past two or three years. One had to be a MIRROR group song, a solo release or cover. The other was limited to no artist or time period.
The following chart lists all the songs that have been picked more than twice:
Participants wrote down their choices and rationale, as well as their favorite lyrics.
Some words kept reappearing: parting, migration, powerless, depressed, camaraderie, companionship, healing, comfort, etc. Half of the fans picked "Warrior," a song released by MIRROR in mid-2021. Yet each fan had a slightly different interpretation.
For instance, many cited "Bold salute to a new era" as its most profound line. They explained it this way:
"It is my wish too, to usher in a new age. How inspiring…though I know it is not reality."
"Or to look at it ironically, it really has been a new era since 2019—so new I no longer recognize it, but have to get used to it."
"Isn't this also the impact that MIRROR brought to the music scene? They accomplished it. This is a reflection of them."
Another popular line from "Warrior" is "Die rather than avoid." Many described it as the resolve to fight against a high-pressure society and multitude challenges. Francis, who has a five-year-old daughter, started talking about the lyrics in a slow and calm manner: "Many people told me I should emigrate for my daughter. But I want to say to them, emigrating doesn't necessarily mean being good to my daughter." Another mother, Nancy, uses the lyrics to educate her middle-school son: 'My boy is easily anxious. He'd get in a sweat over exams and competitions. I hope he can face them bravely."
People chose different lyrics from Jer's "Tale of Lucidity," including "The universe perishes to complete a wider goal" and "At last I crushed earth shattering/ new and old/ stars revive/ a split second of eternity." A university student said, "Maybe you must experience destruction before good things can be reborn. If everything I'm going through now is just a process, there will be a day when I find the exit. It seems more hopeful to think this way."
Keung To's "Master Class" is often named as a depiction of generational conflict, which is not only a sore point for young people. Eight fans of the age of mothers found "Why is youth a wrong/ Who hates me without reason" to be the lyrics that moved them the most in the last three years. "The first time I heard these lyrics in a TV program, my head swam with news images from the protest movement." She teared up, and was handed tissues by another mother sitting by her side, who took one for herself to dab her eyes.
RubberBand's "Ciao" and C AllStar's "For those who stay, For those who had left" from 2021 are overtly about emigration, and were hits in Hong Kong last year. A graduating Social Work student said, "There is a line in 'Ciao': "Goodbyes till red in eyes/ torn apart by the times/ makes farewell tough divide". Two beats in and I was already crying. Images of parting crowded my mind. I've said so many goodbyes in the past two years, and I might never see some of them in real life again. But when they sang: "Said see you / Promise to see you / Soon to see you again," it's as if we've already made a promise, so there's nothing to be sad about. I've that little bit of hope."
"Ciao" won the "Supreme Song Award" at the 2021 Ultimate Song Chart Awards Presentation.
On Keung To's birthday, fans celebrated on the streets of Causeway Bay. Photography: Eric Tsang
During interviews, people often use "healing" to describe songs that touched them in recent years. But there are healing, uplifting songs from every generation—why are they not resonating with earlier songs? Every time I raised this question, participants, regardless of group or age, would say, "So you mean like (Hacken Lee's) 'Red Sun' and (Aaron Kwok's) 'Strong,' right?" Then a flutter of laughter would follow. They explained, "Older songs love repeating that as long as you keep going, you will succeed, overcome all obstacles and conquer the heavens. Nowadays, uplifting songs admit that reality is harsh. Hard work brings no immediate success, and one must wait long to see the light. But they will stay by our side and wish us well."
"Red Sun" and "Strong" could become classics in the 1990s not only because it was the golden age of Cantonese music, but also because it was the golden age of Hong Kong. From the 1970s until the financial crisis in 1997, other than the cursory impact from global economic downturns, setbacks were but temporary. Everyone believed that new heights could be reached through gritted teeth. The collective effort of generations and the making of an international environment were able to transform a small fishing village into a flourishing metropolis in half a century—an (inaccurate) urban legend that had a convincing ring at the time.
It was not that uplifting songs from the past were false, but the skies had clearly changed. What MIRROR fans saw today was a blooming cosmopolitan metropolis to be subsumed into the Greater Bay area and becoming a provincial city.[2]
Others mentioned the 1979 theme song "Under Lion Rock" sung by Roman Tam for the RTHK TV show of the same name.
"'Under Lion Rock' has been distorted," said Maria.
"It makes such a pathetic depiction of Hong Kong people," said Lucia.
"They tell people to be slaves of society," said Maria.
Cindy said, "I think 'Under Lion Rock' is already misused, it perverts the idea that as long as everyone works like ants as society's minions, they will find success. I can't relate to that."
In 2002, Hong Kong was hit by a financial crisis and faced a severe economic recession for the first time in half a century. Then Financial Secretary Leong Kam-chung quoted the lyrics when delivering his budget speech. "Under Lion Rock," a story about cultural diversity, self-identity, and caring for the disadvantaged, made way for a new narrative, where success from sweat and blood was the "Hong Kong spirit." The song was even played during firework displays. This February, upon the fifth wave of COVID-19, TVB will air a performance of "Under Lion Rock" sung by a guest-list of megastars popular from the 1980s to the 2000s, including Alan Tam, Andy Lau, Leo Ku, Hacken Lee, and Miriam Yeung.
"But when Keung To announced their aspiration to become Asia's number one in an award ceremony, it made me think that even if it is an unrealistic goal, resolve and ambition will allow you to pick yourself back up after a low point. I resonate a lot more with his statement. I'd take Keung To saying 'Asia's No.1' once over ten performances of 'Under the Lion Rock.'"
It so happened that two months after these interviews and two weeks before the 25th anniversary of the handover of Hong Kong, MIRROR recorded a cover of "Under Lion Rock" through video conferencing. The video was uploaded to ViuTV's YouTube channel with no description and only the tag "#celebration of the 25th Anniversary of Hong Kong's handover." Comments were turned off.
College student Cherry (3) resists songs that are too positive: "When I'm listening to music, I don't want to be constantly reminded that I can overcome all my troubles, or that I'd be happy as a lark again and that there is hope at the end of the tunnel. Rather, probably as Keung To's 'Mirror in Mirror' says, 'there are dark sides we must embrace.'"
Z, an admin of Jer Lau's fan club, is partial to Serrini's "Let Us Go Then You and I." "Serrini is really talented, she's not afraid to color outside social margins. This song is particularly moving. On stage, she told everyone to drink more water, eat more vegetables, read more books, and be a good person. I believe this song is a gift to Hong Kong people. It is down-to-earth and very uplifting, but it is not mindless drivel about staying positive and open-minded." A, an editor and "guy fry" (naam chau, the name of Jer Lau's male fans), said, "Serrini's words seem affordable, but these days people can only do so much. When we thread her words into the veins of today, it is all about self-care and taking a clear look at the world."
Jer performed a live cover of the song at the end of September last year. Z and another admin S were among the audience. Z told me, "As the intro sounded, the entire row of 'Lau fries' (Lau Chau, Jer Lau's fandom name) began to cry. It was breathtaking to witness." Why did it happen? "I think everyone was moved in different ways. We did talk about it after the show, but didn't delve into it. We mostly just laughed over who cried more. But each person found something consonant with their feelings and experiences in the song." S added, "Everyone has a personal story, but most were shared experiences from the past few years that can be left unspoken, so we didn't go into it."
Fans of Edan Lui and Anson Lo brought their dolls to take pictures in front of a fan-support bus for Edan. Photography: Eric Tsang
[2] Translator's Note: The Greater Bay Area is China's national initiative to link Hong Kong and Macau with nine cities of the Guangdong province, with aims to create an economic megalopolis and promote Chinese sovereignty.
Would fans have a change of heart if MIRROR no longer sings Cantonese songs?
Lyricist Wyman Wong said in his acceptance speech at the Ultimate Song Chart Awards this year, "I would like to thank MIRROR. They had so many other choices if what they wanted was money. But most of their releases have been Cantonese songs."
Recently, among all current MIRROR group and solo songs, there are only three songs in Mandarin, two of which are theme songs for Taiwanese TV dramas, and one in collaboration with a Taiwanese singer. I asked MIRROR fans how they would feel if MIRROR released more Mandarin songs one day.[3]
"It's fine if they are just singing Mandarin songs— after all, that's what most people in Taiwan, Singapore, and Malaysia listen to," said Ella. "But if they leave us for a career in Mainland China, I'll leave the fandom."
Celebrities they knew or supported had a change in character after swerving to the Mainland entertainment industry. Francis said, "I used to like Jay Chou, but to survive in the Mainland Chinese market as a celebrity, he has to acquiesce, he has to remodel himself to the standard, and doll up his words until he's no longer the same person.[4] This is a question of attitude that has nothing to do with performance anymore. If you have given up on us, given up on Hong Kong's music scene, then I must give up on you."
Ella said, "MIRROR's rise to fame must factor in how they were at the right time in the right place. In the last three years, their supporters were the people of Hong Kong. If stardom meant pleasing others and turning their backs on us, do they still deserve our love?" Kelly said, "I am their fan because they seem connected to Hong Kong. If they run along to another market, they are giving up on Hong Kong, along with their special connection to it."
Martha said, "I've always been scared that the more popular MIRROR becomes, the more likely they'll be snatched away as a national treasure. Maybe I've seen way too many Hong Kong singers I used to like ride off for Mainland China, and how their songs could no longer resonate with Hong Kong people."
Things like joining the Chinese New Year's Gala by China's state television station and being a "flag-bearer" on Weibo were considered departures from their core values. This is where the love of fans hit the bottom line.
Ella felt that compared to pop singers in the past who merely performed other people's creations, MIRROR members tend to explain how a song's concept originates from their personal experiences. Music should reflect action. "Maybe we've raised our expectations".
"Sincerity is really important." DJ recalled his experience during the 2019 movement. "I had friends I've known for over ten years turn out to have completely different values to my own. It was very painful."
But MIRROR fans were aware that their idols have not made any explicit statements about their political views.
Maria was blunt. "We project a lot of our subjective feelings onto them. For idols, this could just be a job. Does Hong Kong have enough to keep them afloat? But, if they decide to go jack up their careers, I can totally leave the fandom."
Fanny said, "I'm actually mentally prepared for it. TV station licenses are issued by the government, so they have many factors to think about." Last New Year's Eve, MIRROR participated in a countdown performance organized by the Hong Kong Tourism Board. Though not directly involved, a clip from their three-year-old debut MV was edited into the promotional video for last year's Legislative Council election. This year, they also filmed a short anti-pandemic video as part of the government's campaign. Fans were all eyes on how they participated each time. "As long as they don't make a clear pro-establishment stance, I'm probably fine with it."
[3] Translator's Note: Here, the choice of language is political. Mandarin, spoken across numerous Sinophone populations, is the national standard language in Mainland China (known as "Putonghua") and Taiwan (known as "Guoyu"). Hong Kong native singers sing in Cantonese, which is the mother tongue of most Chinese speakers in Hong Kong.
[4] Translator's Note: Jay Chou is a superstar from Taiwan who became a household name across Chinese-speaking communities around the world.
A net weaved by MIRROR fans when idols are offstage
Before having the focus groups, I chatted with several fans during the peak of the pandemic. We could only meet online. They insisted on wearing masks and were shy about revealing their ages and occupations, yet I never doubted the candor of their words.
When we landed on the topic of societal views and values, they were careful and roundabout, which meant working harder to ensure I grasped their meaning. "It's like we said nothing at all," I laughed, "And yet we seemed to have understood each other."
A few months later, we met for a support event celebrating Jer's new release, "Parting Rules." Several fans began to share personal stories about emigration, losing family, and social turmoil. Tears were shed for each other, and arms opened for embrace.
Gary Tang said with a smile that, in his experience of hosting more than 100 focus groups, these eight groups of MIRROR fans shared a very special trait. "As a research method, focus groups gather people from all corners of the world, so it is not easy for them to share private emotions and experiences. We did not intentionally set up a topic about the 2019 protest movement, but many participants brought it up themselves, and even cried in front of strangers. This reflected their common identity – being a MIRROR fan creates a kind of unspoken trust." Later he told me that this was the most exhausting group he had ever hosted. "Because they are so burdened with pain and trauma, I felt constantly beckoned to listen."
From endorsements to crowdfunded fan-support, Keung To has a ubiquitous presence in the streets of Hong Kong. Photography by Eric Tsang.
Martha had begun to pay more attention to other people on the streets. "You usually look down when you ride the subway. But when you suddenly spot an idol's keychain or figurine hanging from someone's backpack—screaming 'I am a fan!'—that'd tug on your heartstrings. Slaving away at work like an animal belies a giddy heart. I felt so warm and fuzzy all of a sudden. Turns out I have something in common with this stranger."
April 30 marked the birthday of MIRROR member Keung To. On this special day, fans rented out a tram and repurpose it into "Tram Keung To." They also went all-in with their wallets so that citizens could hop on and off any tram for free. Celebrations raged on for a whole day with thousands of people crowding in Causeway Bay. People sighed, "How long has it been since we saw Hong Kong people together on the streets?" and "There are even police cars by the road!"[5]
At such a large gathering, Keung To could only pass by for a few minutes to thank his fans, but it nevertheless brought strangers together in joyful exchange, creating fast friendships and deep connections.
Upon their first venture into the fandom, many MIRROR fans were awestruck by the selfless generosity that often came from the most unexpected moments and encounters. Even people they had never met before were happy to lend a hand. Connie said, "Once, I wanted to exchange an idol's photocard. Someone from the Telegram group immediately took two subway stops to pass it on to me. They even helped me exchange it for a concert ticket that is really hard to get, then gave me a poster on top of that. I was like, amazing, why are they so nice?" Many fans, including myself, had a similar experience. In Telegram groups or on Instagram, if someone said they wanted a magazine but couldn't find it, there never failed to be a fan out there who would reach out to you, re-sell it at the original price, or even give it away for free.
Much like many other fan work creations, the MIRROR fandom creates many fan-support items, including photocards, postcards, slogan banners — all are freebies that they hand out. At most, they include printing and postage fees. To host larger events like exhibitions or outdoor advertising, fans would rely on crowdfunding, or sell profitable fan-support goods like dolls and calendars.
Every time Ella's husband tags along with her to pick up fan-support goods, he is flabbergasted at the money and labor spent on the creations, which are given out for free. "No one imagined that this could happen in Hong Kong. What brings the fans together must be MIRROR."
Sandy, who once organized Edan's fan-support activities, appreciated most the simple words of encouragement. "Some fans would message us, praising our work and cheering us on. During the summer when we were giving out fan-support goods, they would come to us with cold drinks. That alone felt very heartwarming." Flora and Lydia are both fans of the leader, Lokman. Last year on Lokman's birthday, they held a series of activities as fundraising for a cancer foundation. Flora received thank-you messages from family members or the beneficiaries of the cancer foundation themselves. A fan also messaged Lydia saying that he had a family member diagnosed with cancer not long ago, and that through their donation activities he found some solace for his pain.
For Cindy, this spirit is reminiscent of the Umbrella Movement, when everyone worked together to build stairs and toilets in occupied areas. "It made me feel like I was part of a collective." Louise agreed. She was also looking for a banner under which people could "do crazy things" together. "MIRROR was just that banner. So often I wonder, is it MIRROR that I like, or the community that comes with it?"
[5] Translator's Note: Occupying the city center is reminiscent of the 2019-2020 protest movement.
Telegram group chats since 2018
Since appearing on King Maker in 2018, each MIRROR member has established a Telegram group chat to communicate with fans, and included themselves in the midst. Early fans present as architects for the budding fandom eventually took office as moderators of the fan club. The rising tide of MIRROR's popularity caused a surge in numbers that joined the "official" Telegram groups, with 10,000 swelling to 30,000 people. At the start, there were times when MIRROR members dropped in for a chat. These interactions are rare now. But fans nurtured the prospect that, even if their idols did not reply to them directly, they could read their messages and their hearts, which was enough motivation to join these groups.
Even if idols themselves do not take part in the conversations, it does not affect the fans' activities within the group. The moment Telegram is opened after work, it is usual to find group chats flooded with thousands of unread messages. Each chat room bottles its own culture. Some have rigid rules. Others follow conventional customs. There are groups with rules like, "thou shalt not voice affection for other men", apart from the designated MIRROR member in the group. They also ask that discussions remain relevant to the idol, and fans that digress must remove themselves to the "side wing"—i.e, a new group, in order to keep the main chat on-topic.
Lau Ying Ting (Jer)'s Telegram group is infamous for their "tangential spew." Idol chat turns into idle chat as they progress from discussing idol-related news, schedules, and anecdotes, to complaining about the travails of ticket-hunting and sharing day-to-day details. They greet in the morning, upload photos of lunch bentos, and say their goodbyes before emigrating. My deepest impression is from around a year ago, when someone shared that his table at a cha chaan teng was approached by a stranger with ragged clothes and poor hygiene. He asked for advice on ways to respond. This sparked a discussion among a dozen of Jer's fans about interactions during a raging pandemic and how to ensure personal hygiene without being impolite.
S, an admin of Jer's fanclub, said that this channel-switching tendency is not a product of intentional design but of spontaneous conception.
S used to be into the underground indie scene and would go to Hidden Agenda for live music gigs. Before Jer, she hadn't liked any other Hong Kong singers. "In a year, I could count maybe two or three Cantonese songs, which is already a lot for me." Another moderator, Z, also said, "It's been three years, but it still feels crazy. If not for Jer, I would've never pursued celebrities or joined any fan clubs in my life."
Everyone likes to fantasize that the greatest benefit in organizing a fan club is that you could meet your idols in person. S revealed that you probably won't see Jer at the events. "But you get to meet with people who share the same ambition. And the best thing is the braying (screaming wildly). Here, you are free to scream your hearts out— '321,' let me hear you say 'Lau Ying Ting!' If you do this on the streets, people will think you are mad. But it's such a normal thing during events." This is their biggest joy in taking the leap from passive listeners to active organizers.
They said that when MIRROR first debuted, Jer fans consisted only of a couple familiar faces. During events where you have to wait around, fans would take conversations from idols to life, society, and worldviews. "In this age of information and individualism, there is a group of people who care not only about themselves or frivolous things, but about Hong Kong and the wider world. By liking the same celebrities, they share similar values and beliefs. These people are worth befriending for life…I've been holding onto a thought; it's about using a fanclub to perpetrate values that I find important. But I'm not sure if it can be done."
The interviews lasted a long time. I thought I'd provide a more relaxed environment by steering clear from current affairs. But at this moment I decided to cut to the chase and said to S, "People are reluctant to talk about hard news due to our social climate. What are these 'values' that you've mentioned?" There was silence from the other end of the video conference.
"Well…in very general terms, values could be what you think is right or wrong. Members of the Telegram group went from a few thousand to tens of thousands today. In the beginning, the atmosphere was not as tense, so you could still talk about current affairs. Jer's fans could range from primary school children to retirees, and differences in age or values reflect the way they think. Children might not be able to think too far ahead, but when they run into trouble, there are thoughtful people who'd open a 'sharing channel.' We talk about our values and beliefs, and can disseminate them this way."
Z added, "Not just current affairs. Every year when DSE (Hong Kong Diploma of Secondary Education Examination) results are released, Jer's fans from all walks of life would share their experiences, welcome questions from younger candidates, and provide them with emotional support. They are not professionals by any means, but are doing this out of their own volition."
They are also aware that some fans are unhappy with the lax atmosphere of the chatroom.
"Of course I want to spend more time talking about Jer," said Z, "but with the world like this, we wouldn't want to—or be able to anyway—control what people say. I thought if I tried to impose restrictions, conversations would become superficial. With everyone walking on eggshells, would anything they say be candid anymore? I want to protect our atmosphere of free speech, because with freedom you think over the impact of your words before you speak."
S said, "We try our best to maintain this spirit of 'yapping,' which diversifies the topics in the group chat." "We've talked about it. There's no need to open a 'side room.' The function of the group chat is not to talk about Jer Lau, but to let people who like him come together. We are a fan club, but more so a big family. Being united is important. Right, Z?" "That's right."
Fans of Anson Lo and Edan Lui gather outside Harbour City in Tsim Sha Tsui to watch the premiere of their designer jewellery commercial. Beyond the Habour City gates is an advertisement for Anson Lo's cosmetics endorsement. Photography by Eric Tsang.
Obstacles in building a community: factions and dissent
Even when admins have set no rules, each group is packed with thousands of members, and so there are thousands of yardsticks on what should and shouldn't be said in a group chat.
Adele was not a fan of the atmosphere in Jer's Telegram group. "No one's actually interested in your daily life or what you eat for lunch. We joined the group for Jer and to talk about him. Some people were driven away and opened a new group limited to discussions about Jer and nothing else."
Most people join the official Telegram group chats for updates on their idols, and rarely participate in discussions. "There are far too many people and messages every day," said Connie. "With thousands of people in the group, a sentence each meant thousands of messages—it's impossible to read them all. Plus, you can't really hold a conversation with this many people. Whenever people don't agree on something, it spirals into a quarrel. Things like whether keeping songs on loop has any impact (songs refreshed on streaming sites to increase traffic). Any mention of another MIRROR member is also enough to spark a fan war." For Adele too, the group is simply a news source. "I'm scared of saying the wrong thing, because some comments could invite attack. Most of these group chats are just compliment circles, so I try to only say positive things. It's best not to even talk about their teammates."
It was early morning on June 4th last year that I opened the group chat to a string of messages composed only of images of white candles. When everyone scrambled to buy Apple Daily before its closure, fans shared information on where it was still in stock. As the year pared to its second limb, Hong Kong's most prominent pro-democratic online media outlet, Stand News, was shut down. That day, fans talked about it for no more than five minutes before others snapped with "Speak with caution". Talk veered to how there were many reports related to MIRROR on Stand News, so it made sense that "we should make a backup for our archives."
Being a fan comes with baggage. MIRROR fans from the Telegram groups came to a consensus: never talk about politics. In this high-strung environment, idols ought to be at a clinical arm's length from political liaisons. Whenever politics is broached, there will always be fans who caution that this is the public waters of 20,000 people, in which reporters could be submerged. On the one hand, they do not want to lose their freedom of speech. On the other hand, talking provides fodder for media play, as idols can be associated with their fans' political views. We hold our tongues out for fear of not being able to protect ourselves, and weaker still to protect other people.
In March of this year, when I was just shy of becoming a one-year fan, I was asked on Instagram to share my opinion on my idol's newest song. I said somewhat lightly, "Will people still want my opinion if it isn't positive?" I received a flood of messages, most of which said constructive criticism was fine. But what got me were the few responses that said the most heart-wrenching things. They accused me of having been secretly dissing on my idol all along and have finally shown my true colors. They called me a fickle fan with passing passion. They said, since I looked down on him, I shouldn't be called his fan at all.
I knew I didn't need to pay attention to these groundless accusations (besides, I hadn't said a bad word about the song!). These remarks only came from a handful of people, but I just couldn't get over it.
Around that time, I was at the shopping mall with my friends when MIRROR songs began to play. A rush of nausea erupted in my throat. Coming home, I began to mass unfollow MIRROR fan accounts until hundreds were pruned to a dozen.
I counted the days when I could close my fan page, quit my post as producer of MIRROR fan content, and return as a plebeian listener. I told the editor that I could write no more and needed a few weeks off for a complete respite from MIRROR. I tore myself away from the MIRROR fan fiction that I was preoccupied with, and squeezed time out for a trip to Sai Kung to watch the sea and read some books.
Only after my symptoms subsided did I realize it wasn't that I no longer loved the 12 men from MIRROR – they could still make me laugh and cry.
Some "Edung (cheuk si)" (as Edan Lui's fans call themselves) rented a double-decker bus and decorated it into an idol-themed exhibition for other fans of Edan to visit and take photos. Photography by Eric Tsang
"If I were to leave the fandom one day, it wouldn't be because of MIRROR, but because I could no longer stand fandom culture." These were the words of A, editor of hk hehememes, who likes to add funny subtitles on videos where MIRROR speaks Hongkongese-style Mandarin.
He is repulsed by MIRROR fans who attack other members in order to protect their bias (i.e. favourite idol). At the awards ceremony in April this year, Anson Lo took home two awards. As soon as the ceremony was over, reporters asked MIRROR: "We heard that fans of Anson Lo and Keung To had declared war." In the universe of MIRROR fans, those who stan all members are called "group fans" (tuun faan); those who are fans of only one member are called "individual fans" (wai faan); fans of only one member who are additionally malicious towards other members are called "toxic fans" (duk wai).
Victoria manages a MIRROR fan account of more than 30,000 followers, making it one of the largest pages in the MIRROR fan circle. From time to time, she would remind everyone that the fandom is a putrid traphouse. She sighs that its toxic environment exhausts her. I would comfort her, saying, "We stan MIRROR, not MIRROR fans".
Maau Zai has three identities and moderates a triplet of accounts: one exclusively for Edan, another that supports MIRROR as a whole, and a third for fan fiction. Follower count runs from 3000 to 7000 or more. One time, she posted a story expressing disappointment over Edan's new song. "I received almost 600 replies that time, a quarter of which were rebukes from Edan's fans. They called me illiterate, for the song was clearly well-written, or said I hadn't listened carefully. They couldn't accept that I was criticizing my own idol. Since then, whenever I do have something negative to say, I'd post a blank story to vent my feelings before making a decision. I could also post it in Close Friends, or simply say nothing."
I said to Maau Zai, "You are brave. I'm way more sensitive. I wouldn't last a day under the target of unreasonable criticism."
As Maau Zai explained, online forums and media outlets could quote your negative opinions about MIRROR. As a fan, it is your duty to protect your idols and not to criticize them. My own fan page received private messages from readers who kindly informed me that once I publicly criticized an artist's work, haters could use it to their ends, and I'd be digging a hole for my own idol to fall into. "Beware of being taken advantage of."
Protect your idols and keep eyes peeled to the bigger picture. A familiar adage that topped any manual on fan ethics.
Admins of many fan pages probably went through a similar journey. When you first open a page, you are brimming with things to share about your idol. There is a hankering impulse in your chest, writhing to explode without an outlet. It's a good thing when you make real connections through the content you create and accumulate a number of followers. But as the community grows, words get twisted and attacked by accounts whose number of followers and posts are next to zero. My hands were trembling, joints grinding with rage. I didn't want my account to be a compliment circle, so I kept re-stitching my words until they were ambiguous and convoluted. I asked myself, am I turning against my original motives? I began to realize that perhaps I was not mature in the face of public discourse, and had never learned to cope with dissent.
Every time we met, Donna never failed to stuff me with a heaping bag of fan-support that she made herself. Donna experienced the great fall from "fandom is love" to "fandom is toxic," straight into the pit of human nature. "When I first entered the fandom and made support freebies, fans expressed their gratitude and would give you snacks and drinks. Some would even come to you for an earnest discussion about the creative process. But later one time, I designed a banner that lined up the names of six members. People said I was biased in my ordering, intentionally putting someone's name at the bottom. During award ceremony season, it was worse. There was a certain member who didn't get enough votes to enter the top five. Fans of another member intruded into his group chat and told his fans they should be sorry for not working hard enough. Why in the world are there people who'd deliberately hurt others? The more I pay attention to fandom activities, the more upset I get."
"Looking back, there is no utopia." I told Donna that in my view, fan wars, whether it be factions or discord, are no different from the disputes in any large organization. She nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Most people in the world are neither good nor bad. Not many are intentionally evil. The only thing I can do now is focus on being kind."
Trapped under the ceiling of capitalism, do MIRROR fans have any agency?
It's hard to believe that the biggest test for MIRROR and their fans would fall on the eve of a concert, which was supposed to be a grand party.
This recalls my experience from the beginning of the piece: fans stay on the battlefield for days, fighting the ticketing system to pyrrhic victory or even defeat. A war of attrition that was ultimately the fault of companies and their atrocious arrangements. There were around 130,000 tickets for the 12 concerts, with only 30% available for public purchase. Supply exceeded demand, and when wedded to a dilapidated ticketing system, meant the disastrous inefficiency of taking 10 hours to sell out 37,700 tickets. 50% of the tickets were pocketed by sponsors, who launched products with extortionate prices that fans were forced to trade for a precious ticket. Later, it was revealed that many sponsors were associated with ViuTV/Makerville (MIRROR's management company), owned by Li Ka-shing's son, Richard Li! Anger quickly fanned across every Telegram group, Instagram account, and Facebook page.
From being constantly cheated of their time to sponsors becoming "official scalpers," fans believed that ViuTV/Makerville were treating them as ATMs, merely marionettes to their sticky fingers that played with their time and money.
T was also able to snatch a ticket with the help of a friend, but that night, she unfollowed the Instagram accounts of the 12 members, never to look upon MIRROR again. "I've stopped loving." She was a fan fiction writer, and since becoming a fan had to put up with many frustrations. Factions and hostilities within the content creator circles were especially taxing for her. But to refuse to read anything about MIRROR and to renounce her love for them, that was a first.
She had always believed that being a fan meant she would have creative agency. Take writing fan fiction as an example. She would take notes from literary classics and work hard to break through the creative bottleneck. From this she gained appreciation and friendship from other fan fiction writers. One time, she came with a big box of idol-endorsed beer and said she'd give me half of it, only if she could drag me along to buy some idol-endorsed cosmetics. She said, "Damn, how happy it makes me to spend money on my idol." She was also contemplating buying the trendy clothes that her idol had designed. One time when she noticed a doctor wearing the same clothes, she almost leapt to introduce herself. "Must be so fun to wear the same thing with a bunch of like-minded people!"
T said, "What I cherish is the agency of fans. But you realize that in the company's mind, you should have no agency at all. I can love, I can choose to purchase products that I can afford, but that is because they are suitable for use. I can't love with no dignity." Two days after unfollowing the 12 members' fan accounts, T sent me a message. "I woke up feeling so empty, like I'm experiencing a break-up."
Lau Ying-ting (Jer)'s doll. Photography by Eric Tsang.
Afterword
I've been secretly looking forward to the end of this story, which will also act as a summary of my journey as a MIRROR fan for over a year.
For the first time, I fell in love with someone I have never met (technically, I've met him once), and laid prostrate at his feet in worship.
For the first time, I was driven by celebrity endorsements to purchase toothpaste, soda, hairdryers, make-up, and skin care. I experienced the real joy of bounding home with an armful of products. They were all things that I could use anyway, and I was proud of how sensible I was. Thank heavens that advertisements appeared just as I needed them, and they all worked so well — my teeth were a shade whiter, and my hair routine has also been also cut short. Special thanks to the old hairdryer that decided to go up in flames at the right moment.
The only exception was when I, who prided myself in only spending money on daily necessities, bought a designer ring. This is the single most expensive thing I've spent money on. Whenever I am lost in thought, I would unconsciously play with the ring on my left middle finger, as if my thoughts were also going for a turn.
In relation to the previous event, I went from being illiterate to name-brands to being able to recognize new arrivals from the men's collection.
Strolling through a city so familiar, I could catch whiffs of their presence—from the largest billboards to the most unexpected crannies— and partake in an urban treasure hunt.
A corner of the desk is reserved for souvenirs from friends and fan merchandise.
I indulged in watching 12 men mess around and analyzing their physical contact.
From not knowing a thing to becoming obsessed: after devouring stacks of BL fan fiction that had MIRROR members as its main characters, I went scouring for more LGBTQ+ literature to read, finding queer love more compelling than heterosexual romance.
I don't know whether it's because the social climate has loosened up or I've lost the blindfold to my cis-womanhood, but I began to notice more and more men holding hands on the streets, my heart warmer than their palms.
My identity as a MIRROR fan meant I could unlock conversations in any context — online or offline, in the office or among friends, on the streets or during various events, with people I knew well, half-baked acquaintances, or even complete strangers — there was no ice I could not break.
I made an internet friend, and for six months we chatted about everything, from daily lives to existential questions. Never to meet in person, and not a precursor to online dating.
At a time when civil society is breaking down, the status of MIRROR fans is a passport to access all kinds of online and offline situations and to get a glimpse of what other people are thinking and feeling nowadays. I learned to be humble. I finally understood that all this time having thought Hong Kong's mainstream music was inferior to that of other Chinese-speaking communities was not because we lacked music in our pulse, but because the nature of our entertainment industry did not provide enough resources and opportunities to get it in shape.
In a city scorched and frayed, I discovered new outlets to quench our passions.
I gave up on the sociology topic I have been working on for nearly ten years, and instead opened an Instagram account dedicated to writing about MIRROR. Each post was at least 2,000 words long, much at odds with Instagram's aesthetic.
Jer once liked my article, left a comment, and sent me a private message!
At first, my heart raced with the likes that pumped my vanity. It took me more than four months to figure out that I don't actually enjoy public posturing, or being subject to algorithms and the artificial selection of social media.
You can feel rejected from being misunderstood and attacked, even if praise and encouragement are a hundred times more intoxicating. I learned that I had never been fully prepared to stand tall and stare straight into the unfamiliar eyes of a virtual community.
I was long past the age of stanning idols, but had spent a year (and to the rest of eternity) under a spell. This was a very worthwhile journey. But I ask myself every day, what else can I do for my idol?
💡 Note: All names are pseudonyms, and certain details have been slightly modified.
Keung To is one of the most well-known members of MIRROR."Ginger Kandies" (Keung Tong, as Keung To's fans are known) bought a prominent advertising space in downtown Causeway Bay for his birthday on April 30. (Photography by Eric Tsang)
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