I’ve always loved a good history lesson, especially when it comes to Mahjong — a game that has traveled continents, cultures, and generations to land squarely at the center of today’s social revival.
Mahjong originated in the mid-1800s during the final decades of China’s Qing Dynasty, born in the vibrant Yangtze Delta, a region shaped by global trade and cultural exchange. What began as a game played by elite men and gamblers quickly spilled into the mainstream, sweeping through teahouses, private parlors, and bustling cities like Shanghai and Beijing. It didn’t take long for Mahjong to cross borders, carried by Chinese immigrants, merchants, international travelers, and global curiosity.
By the 1920s, America had fallen in love.
Mahjong sets became the sixth-largest import from Shanghai. Demand soared so high that American and British companies opened factories in China to keep up. High society women embraced the game with gusto, hosting elaborate tournaments and forming social circles around tiles, tables, and extravagance. Millions of sets were sold in the United States in just a handful of years.
But like many trends of the Roaring Twenties, the Mahjong mania dimmed with the crash of 1929 and the onset of the Great Depression.
Yet the game didn’t disappear — it simply shifted. During the 1930s and into World War II, Mahjong found its footing in smaller, more intimate circles, particularly among air force wives and Jewish American women. Air force wives created their own distinct style of play, later known as Wright-Patterson. Jewish women, meanwhile, played in countless variations, passing down rules through family, community, and tradition.
Seeking unity in the midst of this beautiful chaos, 400 Jewish American women gathered at the Essex House in New York City in 1937. Their mission: standardize the American game. From that meeting emerged the National Mah Jongg League, which would go on to define American Mahjong for nearly a century.
And they accomplished this not through policy, but through brilliant grassroots strategy. They sent an army of stylish, persuasive women into department stores across America to teach “their” version of the game. These early ambassadors sold sets, shaped culture, and built a devoted following. Among them was Dorothy Meyerson, a prolific teacher and author who helped spread the game far and wide for decades.
But the League’s influence came with a twist: they continually changed the rules. Women like my Grandma Dottie, who cherished her single Mahjong set, often found themselves needing a new one to keep up with the updates. Jokers were added. Flower counts were cut. Between the 1950s and 1970s alone, American rules shifted more than 30 times. The League, while positioning itself as a charitable organization, also became a powerful for-profit entity that shaped — and benefited from — the evolving game.
What’s essential to understand is this: the National Mah Jongg League is one authority, not the authority.
Mahjong does not belong to any single organization, ethnicity, or company. It belongs to its players — past, present, and future. There is no “right” or “wrong” way to play. There is no moral hierarchy among tiles, cards, or rule sets. There is simply joy, connection, and shared tradition.
This is the ethos behind Oh My Mahjong: Mahjong for everyone.
For me, this is personal. My dad beams with pride watching my two boys, ages nine and ten, play with me almost every night. When he was their age, he wasn’t even allowed in the room while my grandmother and her friends played. Mahjong, at that time, was a sacred space for women who carried the weight of households and found refuge in one another.
Today, in a world buzzing with screens and distractions, that refuge looks different. The table has expanded. My boys — and their friends — choose to sit down, shuffle the tiles, and join in. And most nights they beat me. It fills me with a joy I can hardly articulate. Seeing them show off their favorite sets — always the more “masculine” ones — gives me a sense of nachas (pride) that connects me back to the women who played before us.
So here’s my truth: if you’ve found a version of Mahjong that brings your family together for even half an hour a night, I don’t care which rules you play by. I don’t care how many jokers, blanks, or flowers you use. I don’t care which card is on your table. If people are connecting, and laughing, and creating memories — that’s what matters.
I know I’m not playing my Grandma Dottie’s exact version of Mahjong. But hers doesn’t exist anymore either. And I promise you: she wouldn’t care. She’d be thrilled that her great-grandsons are playing, period.
Mahjong is experiencing a renaissance in America — not despite its evolution, but because of it. A game born in 19th-century China is once again bringing people together. Who cares which version you choose? No one is erasing history. We’re adding to it.
And if you ask me, we’re making it better.
Pictured: Palm Royale Mahjong Tiles, Citrus Songbird Mahjong Mat, White Rack & Pusher Set.