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It’s February 27, the scheduled concert of the Backstreet Boys. Every one who knew me would have envisioned this: I’m standing in line outside the Big Dome (the venue), my camera very well kept in my bag (to prevent security from getting it). I’m speaking excitedly to Jecy (my friend who is also a fan) while looking at my watch (what time will they let us in?). My precious ticket is in my hands, held closely to my heart. And I’m wearing a personalized BSB Forever shirt that I asked my brother to do and print for me.
WRONG. I’m tucked in my room instead, listening to my BSB cassette tapes and CDs. Jecy and I are sending SMS each other, wondering what they are singing this time.
Believe me, I would have been there. But circumstances didn’t permit me – I just got a new job (money had been scarce since January) and my Jecy is more concerned of saving money for a second-hand car. We also planned to go to Bohol this year – so that means we need to save more money for that.
So who’s to blame for missing BSB? It’s them and me. It’s me because I didn’t foresee them coming (I should have been religiously checking their website). It’s them, on the other hand, because they didn’t even bother to call and inform me.
As I listen to their songs, it was though I was time-warped. I remembered ho I became a fan (it was through Murielle, a high school friend). And a fan I was! I’m one of those who patiently (and deliberately) defended their talent (and their looks) to non-believers, particularly ‘N Sync fans. I also somehow had less respect on our Media Club adviser in high school for dissecting the meaning of “As Long As You Love Me” (“Sure the song is good. But you wouldn’t care even if you don’t know a person well? What if he’s a criminal?”).
I bought their albums during the week of its release (the only time I bought on the first day of release was in 2000, when Black and Blue album was released. I bought the album in the morning, but had to go back to the music store in the afternoon to check if there’s really something wrong with the printing of the album cover. The sales girl said it’s really like that, but I got a calendar, anyway.
I memorized their name, birthdays, songs and the number of awards they got (I can’t believe they haven’t had a Grammy). I collected posters, pin-ups, and read every BSB article I could get. I also watched every interview and music videos I could get my eyes on.
When they came here in 2006 for a concert, Jecy and I bought ticket a month before the event, and heaven knew how I prepared myself to scream my heart and lungs out. It was the first time I screamed “Marry me!” to five guys who barely knew me. And I didn’t care.
Years have passed. When I saw Murielle months ago, we laughed about our high school BSB craziness. I learned to forgive my Media Club adviser. I mourned for weeks when one BSB member left the group. I got to learn and accept that BSB and ‘N Sync are nothing but creations of boy band mania and pop culture (I would admit, now, that I would drop everything if Justin Timberlake would ask me to be his girlfriend).
I am still a fan. I content myself to the fact that I am capable of sticking to what I want (and who) I choose to love. I am capable of loving people – the good and the bad – about them. I am capable of being me – focusing on my goal and doing it.
Yes, I am not ashamed to tell that I am (and will always be) a Backstreet Boys fan. And since I couldn’t join the other fans that might be singing “Backstreet’s Back, alright!” right now, I am sad.
I’m missing them.
