Tiles & Tribulations

At sixty years old, living in Florida, it will surprise exactly no one to hear that I have surrendered to mahjong. It’s the law of the land down here. Crossing the bridge into Miami Beach, visitors are mandatorily gifted a thong bikini, a stone crab and a mahjong set. Tiles are traded like currency, and there is never a shortage of eager participants ready to click-clack their way through an afternoon.

But as I sit at these rotating tables of friends and "frenemies," I can’t stop hearing the ghost of Kenny Rogers whispering in my ear: “You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to walk away, and know when to run.”

Kenny, I’m running. Truth is mahjong’s taught me a lot – yes, about picking the right tiles – but also about picking the right friends.

For the uninitiated, mahjong is a game of achieving prescribed combination of tiles. You’re hunting for consecutive numbers, odds, evens, or specific suits. It’s a game of constant micro-decisions: What do I sacrifice? What do I consider valuable? When do I accept that my hand is a total disaster and pivot in a new direction?  

I have a friend I’ve known for some time, with whom I play regularly. Our lives are intertwined like a pair of cheap headphones in a junk drawer. Yet, if I’m honest, I can’t think of a single occasion where she has risen to the occasion. Not a birthday, not a milestone, not a crisis—unless, of course, that crisis is hers.

There is never a call, a card, and certainly never a casserole. There isn't a whiff of care. Hell, she doesn’t even read this blog. [Though if you are reading this: Well hey there, Amanda!!!!!]

In mahjong, you learn the benefit of breaking up a pair. A pair can be valuable, but if it doesn't serve the hand you're actually holding, it’s just dead weight. Keeping a pair together "just because" is how you lose the game. Keeping a friendship together "just because" is how you lose your mind. Throwing Amanda into the pile of discards feels good. Really good. And if that sounds intolerant, you must’ve missed the part where I said I was 60.

Sherri is a frequent player at my table who treats every tile like a family heirloom she’s afraid to lose. She lets go of nothing. Away from the table, Sherri is exactly the same. Ask her about her mood, her children, or her husband and she’ll beam at you with the terrifying intensity of a pageant queen. Everything is wonderful. Everything is fabulous. Sherri could have a steak knife protruding from her left eye and she would tell you her view has never been clearer. If Sherri were a mahjong tile, you might attribute value to her in the abstract, but in reality, she’s not worth hanging onto. In my fantasy game of friendship mahjong, I’m discarding Sherri, too.

The best part of the game is when a player shouts “Mahjong!” The whole table congratulates the winner and admires her hand. Then the three “losers” reveal what they were working toward. The table offers communal support: “So close, Stacey!” or “That was a hard one, Vicky.” Built into the DNA of the game is the art of cheering on a friend who fell just short. It’s women vying for a win, but also for one another. That’s why bad mahjong behavior—the player who doesn't look at your hand, or who can’t give you props for a win — is so illuminating. Because if you can’t offer table-wide support when the tiles are down, you probably won't offer much when the chips are down, either.

So, Kenny, you were right. I know when to hold ’em. I hold onto the friends who show up with compassion and truth, even when the truth is ugly. I hold onto the women who cheer for my "near-misses" just as loudly as their own wins. As for the rest? The fakes, the fair-weather players, the Amandas and Sherris of the world? I’m walking away from the table -- scratch that — I’m running.

Mahjong.