Mixed Love: How I (nicely) infiltrated an American mahjong group

In my childhood memories, mahjong was synonymous with Chinese New Year, smoke-stained basements, and dollar bills flying across the table like bullets. Any metaphors that I may have found about grace and ancestral wisdom were drowned out by calls of claiming tiles, 碰 (pong) and 吃 (chii), mixed with tongue clicks and loud heckles in Mandarin. Since I was a child, I’d always been shooed away from the table by the adults, who did not want me to develop a propensity for gambling.

But even then, what was deemed taboo seemed vaguely cool to me, and like the little mermaid, I wanted to be part of that world.

A year ago, I had just graduated from college and I was feeling as directionless as ever. I came across an advertisement for a weekly mahjong activity at my local library. Without any sort of mahjong knowledge whatsoever, I stumbled into the library game room like a newborn fawn and was met with the collective slow turn of a dozen Caucasian retirees. One of the ladies, carrying a particularly menacing aura, squinted at me over horn-rimmed spectacles and spoke on behalf of the confused group: "First, we play American mahjong here. Are you sure you're not looking to play Chinese mahjong?" 

For those who aren’t familiar, American mahjong differs from the more popular Hong Kong style in that it has poker elements and its winning hand changes every year, obtainable via an annual subscription of $14. (Gee thanks, American capitalism.)

“Second, we also don’t gamble here. This is a library.” I nodded.

I was hesitant after the first impression, but they were great teachers and I learned the rules quickly. The initial awkwardness I felt slowly fell away like the training wheels of a bike, and I began to learn about the women at the table. Ann loved baking and had tips for how to perfect my brownies. Eileen was taking Italian lessons so that she could explore more of Italy. Paula with the horn-rimmed spectacles derailed several games with pictures of her beloved Labrador retriever. (No one complained.)

I liked the company of the women at mahjong because to them, my issues seemed so very small. “The future scares me,” I lamented.

“You’re young. You’ll live,” they replied.

They were right, of course.

In return, they were fond of my youthful exuberance, or probably more accurately, the ability to recall which round of the Charleston pass we were on. I know this because one day, as I walked into the room, Eileen approached and gave me a firm clap on the shoulder. “You play mahjong. You’re alright.”

I felt flattered, because that was how I knew I’d jumped labels from “Chinese” and “young” to “mahjong player” in their eyes.

American mahjong, as odd as the variant felt to me at first, does somewhat remind me of my own identity, as a cross between cultures, with an appearance that signals Chinese first and American second.

My mahjong adventures gave my parents a tremendous scare. When I first told my mom I was playing mahjong at the library, she was very concerned, worrying that her efforts into raising me were all for naught—for I had fallen into a life of gambling and degeneracy just as she’d feared.

When I assured her I wasn’t gambling for money, my mom looked at me confused. “What’s the point if you aren’t gambling?” she asked.

Just to be clear, for those not familiar with mahjong: As much as my mother talks about the potential of me going into debt while playing, gambling isn’t the point of the game—community is. Much like the Fast and Furious franchise, family is at the core of it all, something that some emerging white-owned mahjong businesses don’t seem to understand when they claim that the traditional game is “just slapping a game on a table.”

I’ve since picked up Hong Kong-style mahjong, my family’s preferred variant, but I still play American. The afternoon mahjong club at the local library has become a part of my weekly routine. Every once in a while, a new face will meander into the game room and ask the inevitable question. “Does this group play for money?”

We’d look at each other knowingly, the ladies and I, and then echo the same words we always say: “This is a library. Gambling is illegal here.”