Mah Jongg Throng

By Ellen Simon Pifer,

Silicon Valley Community Newspapers January 11,2011

What do Chinese men in Shanghai and dozens of women at the Jewish Community Center in Los Gatos have in common? You might guess a heartfelt love for dim sum, but it goes beyond that.

In early December, 63 women (and one intrepid man) packed into the JCC with one thing in mind–an ancient game Chinese men have been playing for generations: mah jongg.

The Chinese invented mah jongg in 1847. The game, which is named for the Chinese word meaning “sparrow,” is played using domino-like tiles on a rack. It’s similar to the card game gin and requires a good deal of strategic thinking as players try to assemble a winning hand of tiles in specific patterns. Mix in a bit of financial risk and a touch of luck, and you have the makings of a very addictive game.

“We love it,” says Doris Katz while adjusting her mah jongg tile necklace and matching bracelet. Katz, originally from Brooklyn and now living in Saratoga, has played mah jongg for more than 50 years. Today, she teaches the game, with friend Karen Guggenheim. The two have taught mah jongg at the JCC for two years and were thrilled to coordinate the center’s second annual mah jongg tournament.

Businessman Joseph Babcock, who discovered the game while traveling through China in 1912, brought mah jongg to the United States. Once in the states, the game underwent a few changes and American mah jongg was born. Throughout the 1920s, the game became a popular craze and rules were codified with the establishment of The National Mah Jongg League.

No one really knows for certain how mah jongg became uniquely Jewish, though there are many theories. But few would deny that what bocce is to Italian men, mah jongg is to Jewish women.

“I have a theory that the Jewish women living on the lower East Side of New York would stroll their babies through nearby Chinatown and see their neighbors playing,” says Katz. “Maybe that’s how it caught on in the Jewish community.”

However it happened, there is no doubting that mah jongg took root in the Jewish community. “It definitely became a Jewish woman’s game,” says Katz. “It was played in the Catskills and in the cities and on the beaches.”

“I have clear memories as a child of hearing my mother and grandmother play,” says Hayley Charnow, one of the younger players in the tournament. “They would sit in the living room, and I would hear the clickety-click of the tiles.”

It’s a sweet memory for Charnow, who was excited to be at the JCC to play in her first mah jongg tournament. The tournament, which was open to “newbies and mavens” alike, was established to bring people in the community together.

“This is a social event more than a fundraiser,” says Arielle Hendel, chief development officer for the Jewish Federation, which sponsored the event. “We want people to understand who we are and become familiar with our campus and all that we offer.”

In addition to a fitness center, preschool and educational programming, the JCC now offers mah jongg tables for public use in its lobby. Pick-up games take place every Wednesday night and anyone can pop in to play a hand or two.

While the mah jongg tournament held at the JCC was not primarily a fundraiser, mah jongg and money enjoy a long history together. Gambling was an integral part of the original game played in China and it has retained the element of financial risk, though in American mah jongg the stakes are generally low.

“We could literally play all night for $5,” says Marcia Simon, who picked up the game after moving from New York to Florida. “That’s a lot of time for very little money. It’s definitely not about the money for me and my friends,” she says. “It’s about strategy and socializing.”

While some players may agree to take gambling completely out of the game, in Las Vegas tournaments some players play for up to 10 times the typical 25-cent ante.

“It really depends on the people playing,” adds Katz. “Some people take it very seriously, and other people get together to talk and take the game less seriously. It really depends on the people who are playing.”

“I’m here in training for a tournament in Florida,” adds Ron Schilling, an avid game player whose job as a teacher of strategic thinking at Stanford University may offer him an advantage at mah jongg. Schilling was the only man competing in the JCC tournament, though he says several of his friends play the game. “Next time I’ll have more men here with me,” he said. “Guaranteed.”

While mah jongg hasn’t changed much since the ’20s, it has gained wider appeal in recent years.

“For years young women have always fought against learning because their mothers played and we naturally don’t want to end up like our mothers,” Guggenheim says with a chuckle. It’s also a game that requires free time that younger women with children don’t always have, but the typical player may be changing.

“When we go to Las Vegas to play, we now see a lot more younger people playing,” says Katz. “They are younger, there are more men, and they aren’t all Jewish.”

“It’s very addictive and it’s very social,” says Guggenheim. “And that appeals to all kinds of people.” In fact, many mah jongg groups stay together for years and go through lifecycles together: births, the preschool years, bar mitzvahs, weddings and funerals. “At the start of each hand, when players are exchanging tiles, or even in between hands, there is time for chit chat.”

Perhaps mah jongg’s greatest power is its ability to bring people together. It’s done that for more than 100 years and is now working its magic here in Los Gatos.

An intermediate mah jongg class will meet Wednesdays from 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. beginning Jan. 12 at the Addison-Penzak JCC Levy Family Campus, 14855 Oka Road in Los Gatos. For more information, call 408.357.7492.

A recent press release I wrote that got picked up by several local publications.

Chef Makes The Cut As Bay Area Mohel

N.California, June 23, 2010 --When he was in culinary school, Moshe Trager never thought he’d end up a rabbi, much less a mohel. He is fast in the kitchen and his knife skills are impressive. In fact, watching Moshe Trager cook is like watching Bobby Fisher play chess; the movements are fast but you know there’s complex strategy behind them.

“Cooking just came naturally to me,” Trager says, in a deep voice laced with hints of Boston roots. “My Dad and uncle were both in the restaurant business, so I was always in the kitchen.” But while he met Julia Childs several times, Trager never reached celebrity chef status himself.

Today, Trager cooks less but cuts more. In addition to being a rabbi, he is a professional mohel working in the San Francisco Bay Area, which means he has been specifically trained to circumcise newborn baby boys according to a Jewish ritual that dates back to ancient times called “bris mila.”

“It’s a real blessing to be a part of this moment in people’s lives and I’ve done more than 3000 brisses in the 15 years I’ve been a mohel,” he says.

Trager was trained and certified by the world-renowned chief mohel of Israel at Jerusalen’s Shaare Tzedek Hospital.

“This was like learning to play guitar from Jimi Hendrix,” he says. “It was a really unusual opportunity for me and I jumped at it.”

His culinary training came in handy as Trager found he was able to complete the procedure with precision and speed. Where it could take a physician 10-15 minutes to complete a circumcision, Trager is able to do the same in seconds. It’s not surprising that many of his clients are the sons of surgeons, pediatricians and urologists.

“Doctors know that mohels are able to minimize the discomfort for the baby,” says Trager. “Instead of a cold hospital room, where the baby is strapped down, a bris is a kinder, gentler procedure that takes place in your home. The baby is placed on a pillow on his father or grandfather’s lap and is back in his mother’s arms in a matter of minutes.”

The bris isn’t exclusively for Jews anymore. The natural approach has gained popularity among non-Jewish parents and alternative couples.

“I get calls all the time from parents who just want a more holistic approach to circumcision,” Trager says.

Although there is on-going debate about the medical advantages of circumcision, many Americans request the procedure for their sons for reasons varying from religious to aesthetic.

“I’m honored to be a part of this joyful time in people’s lives,” says the chef turned mohel. “My restaurant customers joked that I really do everything from soup to nuts.”

# # # # #

If you’d like more information about Rabbi Moshe Trager, or would like to schedule an interview, please call Rabbi Trager at 415-366-6757 or email him at rabbitrager@comcast.net.

For more information, visit: http://www.calimohel.com

It's Time Marriage Checked Into Rehab

I’ve lost faith in men. I’ve lost faith in marriage. In fact, I’m coming to believe that men just aren’t cut out for fidelity. Face it ladies. Whether they have a penchant for white house interns, TV staffers, strippers, co-stars, models or just hookers in the back seat of a car (ala Hugh Grant), men just can’t seem to “keep it in their pants.” Even Fidel Castro, whose very name means faithful, was reputed to sleep with at least two women a day in his heyday.

It’s in the news everywhere you look. The cheaters club is growing by leaps and bounds. Recent inductees include: Hugh Grant, Bill Clinton, David Letterman, John Edwards, Jon Gosselin (of Jon & Kate fame), Tiger Woods, and most recently Jesse James. Membership is cheap; unless of course it costs you your marriage.

There’s no denying that cheating is ubiquitous. And like most everything we are bombarded with regularly, we become a bit numb to it. After all, what’s a guy to do when he commits a crime of chromosomes? Can he really be held accountable? The guy says he’s sorry, he made a mistake. The woman wonders if she ultimately caused his straying. The offender may seek counseling. And in extreme cases of “sexual addiction” (cough cough), the horny bastard, I mean cheater, may seek long term rehab (hats off to Tiger) But odds on, he will do it again.

A chronic male cheater I know put it this way. “If I can’t get a good meal at home, I can’t be faulted for going to Taco Bell, right? Same goes for sex.” Not surprisingly, after a good deal of “take-out taco” he was finally kicked-out of his home.

Many women wonder if monogamy is just not natural for men. Others, including famed sexpert Dr.Ruth, say that looking at infidelity rates among celebrities and public figures may not be an accurate representation of the real world. After all, politicians and celebrities are put in tempting situations more often. I for one, wonder if Lorena Bobbit got to the root of the problem when she cut off husband John’s offending part. Because as long as a man has a little head, it will at times rule his big head.

Famed cheater Woody Allen, who married his adopted daughter, claimed “The heart wants what it wants.” What a romantic. I guess the “I had a woody,” defense wouldn’t have flown.

Odds are you or someone you know has been betrayed. Whether it’s the nature of the beast or just your particular beast, realize that you are not alone. In fact, you’re in good company. Welcome to our Dicked Ova Club --an ever growing group of women that represents every walk of life. Most recent inductees include Elin Woods, Elizabeth Edwards and Sandra Bullock. You could be in worse company!

Remember…95% of men cheat in America. The rest cheat in Europe!

Of Pajama Pride & Predjudice

No one’s here tonight. Just me and the dog. So after a quickie dinner of yogurt and granola, it’s jammie time. It’s time to slip into something a bit more comfortable. Don’t cue the Barry White music yet. I’m not talking about a silky negligee. I’m not even talking about a cute knit nightie. I’m taking it to another level tonight. Wrapping myself in “for your eyes only” sleepwear --the softest, yummiest paper thin cotton nightgown imaginable. I save it for nights like this. This is the kind of ethereal sleepwear worn by fine English ladies who sip chamomile tea. Designed by Eileen West and Laura Ashley, these ladies are specialists when it comes to magical sleep-inducing fabrics that swath you in easy fitting…well let’s call a spade a spade, easy fitting tents.

My Mom introduced me to the world of pure cotton nightgowns when I was just a teen and she has graced me with a new one yearly. Mind you, these babies are first class, made of the kind of cottony goodness usually reserved for toilet paper and handkerchiefs. In fact, the cotton is so fine that it’s practically sheer. It is so pure, it’s almost always white. And it’s easily recognized at a glance. The look is pure innocence: a touch of eyelet, teensy flower-shaped buttons, the finest ribbons and delicate lace.

While the designer’s advertising evokes a unique sense of romance –think Dangerous Liaisons meets Madame Bovary, the catalog descriptions could cool even a porn star’s blood. “Scalloped lace and ribbon trim finish the sweetly feminine look of this pure cotton gown…a soft ruffle and a narrow ribbon tie detail the scooped neckline.” No, this isn’t the sleepwear of Carmen Electra and Pam-eh-la. But I am betting that Kate Winslet might have donned one of these Titanic-sized nighties for Leo. Because this is true womens wear, the undergarment of the upper crust, the lacy under thing of the 19th century. This is what the haughty (and naughty) broads are wearing. Quite simply, this is the stuff romance novels are made of.

That said, I know who romance novels are written for –women, only women. So some nights, when I am home alone, it’s a genuine joy to reach into the back of the drawer and pull out the jammies with the natural feather light feel and the “I don’t care if I look pregnant” silhouette. It’s a simple pleasure I learned from my Mom. Sweet dreams everyone.

Living In A Police State

Los Gatos and Monte Sereno enjoy a low crime rate. That is unless you count the delinquents like me. In the past few months I’ve had a few tussles with the law and managed to become public enemy number one. I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone. I got a ticket for having my front tires in a cross walk. I had Animal Control leave me multiple warnings for “allowing” my dog to jump our fence. Tonight, I almost ended up in the slammer.

I had to pick my son up from a friend’s house one mile from my home. My 12 year old was watching TV, his 5 year old brother napping beside him. I grabbed my cell phone and told my eldest I would be back in 10 minutes.

The play date went well and my 9 year old was telling me all about it when the flash of blue and red lights caught me by surprise. What in gods name did I do now? I thought to myself doing a quick inventory. The phone had wrung but I opened it “hands free” using the speaker phone. I wasn’t speeding. Ryan was sitting in the front seat (for the first time ever) but no way could the officer determine he was a half inch shy of the 4’9” requirement in the dark. The flashlight glared at me interrogation style as I rolled down the window.

“Can I see your license and registration,” he said.

I reached for my purse. It wasn’t there.

“Oh no, I left my purse on the kitchen counter,” I said. “I just live down this road if you could follow me for a minute?”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“I do have my registration and proof of insurance,” I offered fumbling through the glove box and handing him the documents. “Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

“You’re registration sticker isn’t up to date,” he said.

“Oh, it really is,” I explained. “But I made a mistake and put it on the front plate instead of the back and haven’t moved it yet because I don’t have the proper wrench.”

He wasn’t interested in my registration sticker. He had bigger fish to fry. He went back to his car for a moment and when he returned said, “You aren’t a licensed California driver.”

“Yes, I am. I have the license in my wallet,” I said, mind racing.

“You aren’t in the computer system. And if you are driving without a license I will have to tow your car,” he said.

““We could resolve all this if you drove up the street with me,” I offered. And as he went to do another computer check, I explained that my son was home waiting for my return.

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“Twelve,” I replied.

“It’s illegal to leave a child under the age of 14 alone Ellen,” he said in that “Mighty Oz” tone. “It’s a misdemeanor and I could report you to Child Protective Services.”

“Twelve year olds babysit where I come from,” I offered.

“Well it’s against the law in the state of California,” he reiterated. “Penal code blah blah blah blah.”

At that point panic began to set in. My car was going to be towed. My unpaid cell phone ticket was going to land me in the slammer. My kids were going to be taken from me. And the lawyer bills would be mounting. I could feel the tears welling up inside me.

I called the kids father. He was a good 40 minute drive away. I called home and assured my responsible 12 year old that I would be home shortly.

The officer returned to my car window and handed me my paperwork. “You need to have your license on you at all times and you need to go home and take care of your children,” he advised me. “I’m going to let you go with a warning.”

I think I nodded. I don’t remember much other than the tears streaming down my face and the mix of fear and indignant anger burning inside me.

According to the local police department’s website, their officers “work hard to provide a full range of services often beyond what other communities are able to provide.” Perhaps a nice bank robbery, once in a while, would help put their world in perspective? Then again, that’s the thinking of a criminal mind and a neglectful mother.

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into “Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen civilian officers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid-back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) with my three kids in tow, I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise; I agreed. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt, when a well-coiffed, silver-haired, schoolmarm asked me in semi-horror, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”

I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control,” she went on.

I was rather floored. “Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so,” she said.

That was it. I’d had had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business –especially as it relates to my children, it just presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

Despite their laid back, sunny reputations, not all Californians model the “live and let live” lifestyle. In fact, I’m thinking the whole Silicon Valley could use a nice heaping portion of good ole East Coast “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into ‑‑“Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen good-doers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W with my three kids (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was and met me at check-out. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise. I agree. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt when a silver haired, well-coiffed, schoolmarm asked me in an irritated tone, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“Oh, well I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.” I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control…” she went on. I was rather floored.

“Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so!” she said.

That was it. I’d had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business but when it relates to my children --that presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

I thought Californians were supposed to be laid-back? Chill. Relaxed. Boho. Live and let live. Not so in the Silicon Valley where I think they could use a nice heaping dose of “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”