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The Rodin statue," he said nervously. "It was here."
The Korean television crew following him noted that there was nothing there, just a well-mowed lawn. Students on bikes zipped past, paying no attention to the cameras or the skinny, dark-haired 30-year-old they were filming. In Seoul, it was hard for Lee to walk down the street without being mobbed. To Koreans, he was known as Tablo, a chart-topping rapper who was also married to one of the country's most prominent movie stars. Until recently, he had been one of Korea's biggest celebrities. Now his career was in tatters, he'd parted ways with his record label, and his family was receiving death threats.
The reason? Hundreds of thousands of Koreans refused to believe that Lee, '02, MA '02, graduated from Stanford.
The cameraman for the television crew closed in on Lee as he looked at the empty lawn. They were here to document for Korean national TV whether or not Lee was a liar.
"It's not here anymore," Lee said, staring at the spot where he knew The Thinker had been. He rubbed his face and wondered if maybe he was going crazy.
When the program aired two months later in Korea, this was the opening moment.
In 2001, when Lee told his parents that he was going to be a hip-hop musician, they were horrified. They were thinking doctor or lawyer, not rapper. In Korea at the time, hip-hop was not a popular genre. The music scene was dominated by attractive young people assembled into groups by record labels. They belted out sugary sweet songs—dubbed K-Pop—and strived to sound upbeat and happy. Critics saw no room for a guy who produced his own lyrically complex music, particularly when it dealt with issues like discrimination and class warfare.
Lee formed a band with two other musicians. They called themselves Epik High and released their first album—Map of the Human Soul—in 2003. It begins with a swirl of harps and what sounds like a 1950s-era ballroom dance class: "We're now going to progress to some steps which are a bit more difficult," an instructor says in English. Then there's an explosion of lyrics, beats and a dense overlay of sounds.
It was infectious and Epik High went on to release seven albums during the next seven years—an astounding burst of productivity. Five of those albums reached No. 1 on the Korean charts and they scored six No. 1 singles. As if that weren't enough, Lee published a collection of short stories in both English and Korean in 2008. It sold 50,000 copies in its first week and became a bestseller in Korea.
Lee's music had such broad appeal that he began to attract fans outside of Korea. He launched a series of U.S. tours starting in 2006, playing Caesars Palace in Las Vegas and the Hollywood Bowl in Los Angeles. In March 2010, Epik High became the first Korean group to reach No. 1 on the iTunes U.S. hip-hop sales charts, topping Jay-Z, Kayne West and the Black Eyed Peas. Korean hip-hop had broken through.
It seemed like a modern fairy tale, complete with a match made in celebrity heaven. In 2009, Lee married Kang Hye Jung, a beautiful actress with a string of hit movies. Celebrity blogs in Korea breathlessly reported news of the wedding in October 2009 and hundreds posted comments of support.
"OMG!!!!!! CONGRATULATIONS!!!!!!!" one fan wrote deliriously. "OMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMGOMG."
"Way to break a girl's heart," wrote another more ominously.
In the summer of 2010, Korea was reeling from a streak of fake diploma scandals. It began in 2007, when the chief curator of a modern art museum in Seoul was found to have fabricated her Yale PhD. (It didn't help that Yale initially confirmed the degree.) She was jailed for 18 months on forgery charges, and a nationwide hunt for other offenders ensued. Prosecutors investigated at least 120 cases of diploma fraud, ensnaring celebrities, politicians and even a monk.
"There are definitely more people out there," one of the prosecutors told the Bloomberg news service in 2007. "We just can't spot them."
While this was happening, Lee regularly appeared on Korean television shows and was asked about his credentials. He said that he had not only graduated from Stanford in 3 ½ years, but that he also had received a master's degree in that time. He said he had written his book, Pieces of You, while he was an undergrad and that he had received a creative writing award for one of the stories from author and Stanford professor Tobias Wolff, MA '78.
In May 2010, a group of Internet users created an online forum titled "We Request the Truth from Tablo," better known by its Korean acronym TaJinYo. The group didn't buy Lee's story. They started referring to him as "God-blo" because only God could have accomplished as much as Lee. The members of the group participated anonymously and attacked Lee from behind user names such as Whatbecomes and Spongebobo.
To many in Korea, TaJinYo's questions were legitimate. For instance, it usually takes four years to complete a bachelor's degree. A master's normally takes another two. Students typically also write a thesis to attain a master's and yet Lee said that he never wrote one.
Lee hesitated to respond. The whole thing was absurd to him. He was a musician. What did his degree matter?
To his detractors, it mattered a lot. "What is it good for in rapping? Nothing," says Hyungjin Ahn, a vocal critic. "But Koreans still said, 'Wow, he is great. If we listen to his rap, we could get in touch with something genius and holy.' Mothers in Korea worshipped him. He was a role model for every child in Korea at that time."
Entertainment gossip sites reported the existence of the anti-Tablo site and membership swelled to nearly 200,000, many of whom launched their own investigations into Lee's past. Tobias Wolff and Stanford registrar Thomas Black were barraged by emails from Koreans who questioned Lee's educational background. Black alone received 133 emails on the subject. Everybody wanted to know one thing: Was Lee lying?
When online hecklers started to criticize his wife for marrying him, Lee realized something had to be done to protect his family's reputation. On June 11, he released his transcript to the JoonAng Daily, a newspaper in Seoul. That same week, Black issued an official letter.
"Daniel Seon Woong Lee entered Stanford University in the Autumn Quarter of 1998-99 and graduated with a BA in English and an MA in English in 2002. Any suggestions, speculations or innuendos to the contrary are patently false. Daniel Seon Woong Lee is an alumnus in good standing of Stanford University."
That should have been the end of it. Instead, it was just the beginning.
As the members of TaJinYo began to dissect Lee's public statements and dig further into his past, an elaborate conspiracy theory took hold. Forum members were willing to accept that a man named Dan Lee graduated from Stanford, but they weren't willing to accept that the rapper they knew as Tablo was the same person. They argued that Tablo had taken over Dan Lee's identity in order to parlay a Stanford credential into fame and fortune.
"He just paid a lot of money to do this, lied about it and still became famous," one forum member told a Korean TV crew, who blurred her face. "It represents a total loss of hope for people who work hard."
The conspiracy theorists did not just accuse Lee, they implicated his entire family. An anonymous researcher uncovered a newspaper clipping from 1995 that stated that Lee's mother had won a gold medal at an international hairstyling competition in 1968. The researcher posted it online and pointed out that Lee's mother did not actually win the medal, implying that Lee's family had been lying about their achievements for decades.
"Can anybody give me the phone number of Tablo's mom's hair salon?" wrote one Internet user. "I would like to ask her how it feels to be a criminal."
Lee's mother began to receive threatening phone calls. At a family dinner, she answered her cell phone and heard a man's voice. "You're a whore," he said. "You and your family should leave Korea."
The attacks spread. Posts appeared that questioned Lee's brother David, who had begun a master's at Columbia but never finished. A researcher found a web page that indicated that David had completed the master's and calls flooded into the public broadcasting channel in Seoul where he worked. He was fired.
David's home address and phone numbers were published and he also started to receive worrisome calls. One caller threatened to stab him to death for his alleged transgressions. The tenor of the anonymous mob was turning decidedly more violent.
"If #blobyblo doesn't leave Korea, something bad might happen to him," one heckler warned on Twitter, referring to Lee by his Twitter handle.
Lee felt that his recording label, Woolim Entertainment, was doing little to counter the accusations against him and his family. "We have nothing to say about allegations against Tablo that he had fake education qualifications," the agency stated on June 7. Two days later, it publicly pledged to help, but Lee felt that his representatives never followed through. He left the label later that month.
"It broke my heart," he says. "They abandoned me."
In the midst of the controversy, Lee's wife gave birth to their first child. It was a moment of joy, but as Lee walked the corridors of the hospital, he saw people looking at him coldly and he panicked.
"Since my attackers were all anonymous, there was no way for me to know who was after me," Lee says. "I didn't know if the doctor, who's putting needles in my baby, is one of those people. It was terrifying."
On the streets, strangers would shout at him, calling him a liar and a cheat. "It was like I had stepped into the middle of a modern-day witch hunt," he says.
Lee stopped going out—the environment had become too hostile. Still, he did his best to respond to the attacks. Fifteen years prior, Lee's mother had contacted the author of the newspaper article that incorr
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