Keep Your Eyes Open

I placed my subway card on the entrance machine before passing through the gate. Beep! You may enter. The AI voice of the machine snapped me out of the unconscious daze I was in. I realized how effortlessly I could navigate South Korea’s complicated subway system without thinking much. Certain things from your native country can never be forgotten.

I spent the past two weeks in South Korea. This time, for a change, I had the chance to be a tourist in my home country—the one I left in 2003—while also visiting my family in Busan. It’s always fascinating how leaving a place and returning years later can offer a completely new perspective. Similarly, moving to America in my early 20s as a foreigner and trying to understand its unique culture shaped me. Both experiences pushed me to independently decide what was best for me and helped me grow by observing different cultural behaviors through the eyes of an outsider.

At this point in my life, having spent over two decades in both America and Korea, I don’t feel fully Korean or fully American—perhaps something in between.

Mom was staring at my eyes rather intently on the subway.

I asked, “Why? Is there something in my eyes?”

She said, “No. I just think you need an eyeliner tattoo. It will make you much prettier and your morning routine much easier. I promise you. All my friends have it, and they love it. I’ll make an appointment tomorrow at 9 a.m. I know the best one in town.”

Sensing my hesitation, she leaned in close, pointing under her own eyes. “Do you see it? Not really, right? It doesn’t look like a tattoo at all. I’ll give you $100,000 if you don’t like it!”

I think she blindly threw out the highest number she could think of to make her point. Caught off guard by her confidence and persistence, I sheepishly replied, “Okay…”

That evening, an uneasy feeling crept in—something had gone terribly wrong. I didn’t even know why I had agreed in the first place, but the more I thought about it, the worse it felt. I imagined myself lying on the operating table, filled with regret, yet by then, it would be too late. It felt like a recurring nightmare. No way…!!! Luckily, I snapped out of my fuzzy state of mind just in time and texted my mom—who was sitting just across the living room—in all caps:

“NO, MOM. NO EYELINER TATTOO. PLEASE CANCEL THE APPOINTMENT! NOT FOR ME.”

This wasn’t the first time I felt out of place in South Korea. As it turned out, everyone I met there had an eyeliner tattoo (though, to be fair, they looked quite natural with makeup). You wouldn’t notice unless you knew to look. My cousin said, “Sis, you still don’t have it? What’s wrong with you? It’s a game changer.”

Despite the collective effort to convert me, I still didn’t see the point. In fact, my fear of becoming desensitized to cultural norms grew. I am afraid of losing the ability to see the strangeness in certain things. I need to keep my eyes open.

I speak perfect native Korean without any English accent, and when needed, I can switch to an authentic, strong southern Korean accent from Busan on command. Even so, people often assumed I was a foreigner just by looking at me. They gave me the “Something about this lady doesn’t belong here” look.

There were several aspects of Korea that stood out to me this time. Not as good or bad—just observations from someone who has left, returned, and can now see things differently.

First of all, K-beauty is real. Everywhere you go, you see beauty products, skincare treatments, and services for both men and women. The facial treatment I got during my visit was better than any I’ve ever received. It’s common to see men wearing subtle (or sometimes not-so-subtle) makeup daily to enhance their features. Honestly, many people looked like they had just stepped out of a K-drama.

This emphasis on appearance makes the general public look polished, but it also creates added pressure and toxic comparisons. A banner at a local coffee shop read: “It’s okay. Iced coffee (Ice Americano) won’t make you fat.”

Then, there was the medical system—far superior in its efficiency. During just three days in Busan, I visited an OB-GYN for a mammogram and breast cancer screening, an ophthalmologist for a comprehensive eye checkup, had an ultrasound for my intestines and stomach, and saw a dentist. In America, this process would have taken at least three to six months, if not a year.

It’s a shame we don’t have this kind of medical system in the U.S., but it was reassuring to know that a better model exists somewhere in the world—if only change were possible in the future.

However, the most striking cultural aspect wasn’t K-beauty or healthcare. It was kindness toward the elderly and the deep respect they receive. This was something I hadn’t fully noticed as a teenager growing up there. Now, visiting in my 40s with my mom in her 70s and my grandfather in his 90s, I saw just how ingrained this fundamental value is. Everywhere we went, I witnessed the way my mom was treated—with patience, care, and respect.

As overwhelming as the world can often feel, this gave me a sense of hope. Maybe what we need isn’t as grand as we think. It doesn’t have to be a massive financial gesture or a sweeping social change. Perhaps it’s as simple as how we speak to those in a weaker position—with more kindness, more patience, and a little more warmth. I truly believe that even the smallest acts of kindness can make a culture more wonderful to be part of.

Still, I’m relieved I didn’t return to America with an eyeliner tattoo.

Nice try, Mom.