Remembering My Grandmother Through Mahjong

I don’t remember a single childhood game of mahjong that didn’t include my grandma, Luz. She lived with my family for most of my life, and at the time, I didn’t understand why. All my friends had grandparents who lived on their own. But mine was always there—in the house, in the kitchen, in my business. She was strict, serious, and always pushing me to study. Grandma was quick to tell me when my pimpled face was unattractive. She wasn't like my non-Asian friends’ grandparents who lived alone and baked them cookies all the time.

She had lived through WWII and believed education was the path to a better life. She woke me up every morning for school, packed my lunches, and made dinner for the whole family every night—but to me, she felt more like a second warden at home, ensuring I didn’t get to watch an extra episode of Sailor Moon.

But during holiday parties, everything changed at the mahjong table. Grandma became playful, witty—even funny. She talked smack, laughed with me, and never made me pay when I lost. Mahjong was when I got to see a side of her I didn’t know existed. She slipped me money when I won but never asked for payment when I lost. She was kind and generous in a way I didn’t always notice in daily life. Mahjong brought out a side of her I didn’t usually get to see—and it helped me understand who she really was.

Mahjong was our thing. We were the ones who played all night. While other people might have swapped out seats, we were always at the table. We were a duo. In those moments, I wasn’t just her granddaughter, and she wasn’t just my strict grandma—we were partners, laughing, competing, connecting in a way that didn’t require many words.

When Grandma passed away in 2020, I didn’t realize I’d lost more than her—I’d lost the game too. Lockdowns and missed holidays made it easy for mahjong to fade into the background. It wasn’t until 2024 that I finally sat down at a table again, this time without her. And that’s when I knew: mahjong had given me the best memories I have of her.

Atlanta Mahjong Studio is the place I wish she'd had. A place where grandparents can be more than disciplinarians, and where grandchildren can discover new sides of their family. It’s a space where words don’t have to say everything, because playing together says more than enough.

Atlanta Mahjong Studio is a tribute to Grandma Luz—and a space for others to find what I found in her.