2024 Creativity Award
Photo credit Melanie Ho
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Click on the image above to view the recording of Melanie reading her essay.
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Reading In Between the Lines
by Melanie Ho
Mahjong tiles are dealt randomly, some hands luckier than others, but regardless of your hand, you must carve your own path. Mahjong's square formation of four walls, each eighteen tiles wide and two tiles tall, allows for rapid-fire gameplay, gossip, and a great metaphor for what it means to be Asian American. Winning requires fourteen tiles: four triples and one double being the most conventional method. The last tile is obtained by drawing from the walls or taking a discarded tile. There are three suits: dots, bamboo, and numbers. A hand that has all tiles from one suit is more powerful than a mixed hand. Triples consist of sequences or three-of-a-kinds. Three-of-a-kinds are worth more because they are harder to get; only four of each tile are in a set. Under the scrambling and clacking of tiles, lie characters that I don't understand. The green dragon tile reads, " 發 " in green strokes, meaning prosperity, according to Google.
Yet, with all the tiles in the case, I struggle with finding a pair or triples to commit to. Initially, there are so many tiles to look at including mismatched suits, doubles, and sequences. What strategy is best? There's no way of knowing without drawing on previous knowledge. Without constant effort to discard the tiles that don't align with your values, they will plague your hand. The capacity of thirteen tiles makes it difficult to know what to keep and what to discard in each precious space.
Choosing a focus is hard, especially when bombarded with messages from popular culture, which put down some aspects of one's identity and raise others. When I was young, choices were made for me on which and values to keep. I was sent to Chinese school where I spent hours writing and rewriting characters until stroke order was drilled into my skull. My small class of three consisted of different levels of Chinese, and I felt self-conscious every time I read in my American accent. My voice would shake, but I refused to be silent. My parents guided me, making sure my hand was filled with Chinese characters of doubles and triples; a powerful hand. Victory meant happiness. There was a balance in my household; Chinese characters beside English letters, Ni Hao Kai Lan with Curious George. I prospered, constantly asking my parents to take me "gai gai" to see the world.
Culture, however, wasn't explicitly embraced in elementary and middle school. My parents couldn't advise me on which tiles to keep there. The tiles I held proudly to my heart were deemed unimportant every time that "Chinese noises" were called. My confidence was shaken when I was mistaken for another Asian classmate. Worst of all, because I wasn't prompted to speak Chinese, I stopped. Consumed by five days a week of alienation from my identity at school and only one of feeling whole at Chinese School, I shunned my strokes, books, and heritage, because victory no longer seemed viable if I held onto my Chinese culture. I instead clung to volleyball and followed friends. I discarded my Chinese tiles one by one, until my beautiful pairs and triples were gone. In their place would be a mixed hand of all suits, a low value hand. The tiles in my hand spelled a path to gie wu, or chicken hand; a shallow win of fitting. A small victory, yet I had lost myself and felt incomplete.
Once the round of K-8 school was over, I chose new classes; a different path, a chance to re-evaluate. Shuffling the tiles that were once gie wu, it was time to work for a better hand and bigger win. The Chinese Language program and Asian Pacific American Club at high school made me realize that Chinese culture didn't have to be hidden away at school; that it could be put on full display and flourish. Through this realization, I brought back my favorite triples and pairs through painstaking efforts, sifting tiles in and out of my hand as they were dealt. As I learned what I valued, my hand became more of what I envisioned, and I gained confidence in my own skin. Although I can read a little more now, I occasionally need Google translate to get my message across. Learning through the paths I have taken has made me realize that being Asian American isn't always easy; yet the struggle for a hard-earned win has made me more whole and colorful, just like the green dragon tile.
Yet, with all the tiles in the case, I struggle with finding a pair or triples to commit to. Initially, there are so many tiles to look at including mismatched suits, doubles, and sequences. What strategy is best? There's no way of knowing without drawing on previous knowledge. Without constant effort to discard the tiles that don't align with your values, they will plague your hand. The capacity of thirteen tiles makes it difficult to know what to keep and what to discard in each precious space.
Choosing a focus is hard, especially when bombarded with messages from popular culture, which put down some aspects of one's identity and raise others. When I was young, choices were made for me on which and values to keep. I was sent to Chinese school where I spent hours writing and rewriting characters until stroke order was drilled into my skull. My small class of three consisted of different levels of Chinese, and I felt self-conscious every time I read in my American accent. My voice would shake, but I refused to be silent. My parents guided me, making sure my hand was filled with Chinese characters of doubles and triples; a powerful hand. Victory meant happiness. There was a balance in my household; Chinese characters beside English letters, Ni Hao Kai Lan with Curious George. I prospered, constantly asking my parents to take me "gai gai" to see the world.
Culture, however, wasn't explicitly embraced in elementary and middle school. My parents couldn't advise me on which tiles to keep there. The tiles I held proudly to my heart were deemed unimportant every time that "Chinese noises" were called. My confidence was shaken when I was mistaken for another Asian classmate. Worst of all, because I wasn't prompted to speak Chinese, I stopped. Consumed by five days a week of alienation from my identity at school and only one of feeling whole at Chinese School, I shunned my strokes, books, and heritage, because victory no longer seemed viable if I held onto my Chinese culture. I instead clung to volleyball and followed friends. I discarded my Chinese tiles one by one, until my beautiful pairs and triples were gone. In their place would be a mixed hand of all suits, a low value hand. The tiles in my hand spelled a path to gie wu, or chicken hand; a shallow win of fitting. A small victory, yet I had lost myself and felt incomplete.
Once the round of K-8 school was over, I chose new classes; a different path, a chance to re-evaluate. Shuffling the tiles that were once gie wu, it was time to work for a better hand and bigger win. The Chinese Language program and Asian Pacific American Club at high school made me realize that Chinese culture didn't have to be hidden away at school; that it could be put on full display and flourish. Through this realization, I brought back my favorite triples and pairs through painstaking efforts, sifting tiles in and out of my hand as they were dealt. As I learned what I valued, my hand became more of what I envisioned, and I gained confidence in my own skin. Although I can read a little more now, I occasionally need Google translate to get my message across. Learning through the paths I have taken has made me realize that being Asian American isn't always easy; yet the struggle for a hard-earned win has made me more whole and colorful, just like the green dragon tile.
