We often believe that if we can just find the right words, we can talk our way into belonging. We think if we explain our values clearly enough or justify our presence eloquently enough, the walls between us and “them” will crumble.
I used to believe this too. I spent years trying to explain myself into acceptance.
But I discovered that words are often the very thing keeping us apart. Sometimes the fastest way to build trust isn’t to talk more. It is to stop talking entirely and play the hand you are dealt.
If you have ever felt like the outsider in a room, or if you are trying to build a bridge with someone who seems fundamentally different from you, this story is for you. It is about how I learned that connection doesn’t require a shared language. It just requires a shared game.
In the spring of 1994, I walked into a courtyard in Chengdu and felt hundreds of eyes land on me.
I was twenty years old, living in southwestern China, and I had been invited to a traditional wedding. I was excited to be included, but the moment I stepped through the gate, the atmosphere changed.
The courtyard was packed with guests. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and the sound of excited chatter. When they saw me, the chatter stopped.
“Laowai! Laowai!”
I heard the word ripple through the crowd. Old foreigner. Children pointed at me and laughed while adults stared with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Despite spending months learning Mandarin and trying so hard to understand the culture, I felt a familiar wall go up. I was the outsider. I was different. I didn’t belong.
I stood near the entrance and felt the urge to leave because it is exhausting to be the person everyone stares at but no one talks to. I wanted to explain that I respected their traditions, that I spoke their language, that I just wanted to celebrate with them.
But I knew my words wouldn’t matter. To them, I was just a tourist.
Then I heard a sound that I recognized.
Click. Click. Clack.
The courtyard was filled with square tables where people were playing Mahjong. The rhythm of the tiles hitting the table was the heartbeat of the party.
I loved Mahjong. I had spent hours learning the game because I was fascinated by the strategy and the speed.
I saw a table with three older men. They were chain-smoking, their fingers yellow from tobacco, and they looked like the toughest critics in the room. They were short a player.
I walked over. My boyfriend at the time looked nervous and whispered that maybe I shouldn’t interrupt them.
“Can I play?” I asked in Mandarin.
The men looked at me, glanced at each other, and then burst out laughing. The idea of a young foreign girl playing their game seemed like a great joke to them.
One of them kicked out a chair and gestured for me to sit. The look on his face said, This will be entertaining.
I sat down. The smoke was heavy in my face, and the noise of the party was deafening. I could feel the skepticism radiating from the men across the table. They expected me to be slow and clueless, just another laowai who didn’t know the rules.
We started to play.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t try to explain myself or prove that I respected their culture. I just played.
I watched the tiles and tracked their discards, moving with the rhythm of the table. Draw. Arrange. Discard.
Within a few minutes, the laughter stopped. The men sat up straighter because they realized I wasn’t just moving tiles around; I was playing the game.
When I won the first hand, the man next to me slammed his hand on the table and shouted something in the local dialect. I thought he was angry.
Then I looked at his face and saw he was grinning.
“The laowai can play!” he shouted to the next table.
The wall between us vanished. We weren’t a foreigner and three locals anymore. We were four players locked in a game.
People started gathering around our table to watch. They weren’t pointing and laughing anymore. Instead, they were commenting on my strategy and giving me advice.
For the next three hours, I stayed at that table. I learned more about Chinese culture in that game than I had in months of language classes. I learned that in Mahjong, as in life, you have to watch what people throw away to understand what they are keeping. I learned that respect isn’t given to titles, but to skill and presence.
By the time the wedding banquet started, I wasn’t sitting alone. I was surrounded by my new “uncles” who wanted to make sure I had the best pieces of fish.
This experience taught me something fundamental that I use in my work with leaders today.
When we engage in a shared activity, especially one that involves play or ritual, we bypass the part of the brain that sorts people into “us” and “them.” We enter a space where the only thing that matters is the game in front of us.
I use this principle when I facilitate workshops with executives who are stuck in conflict. Sometimes I take away their agenda and their talking points. I give them a task to do together, like building something, solving a puzzle, or even better, dancing tango.
I watch the tension drop from their shoulders. The armor falls away, and they stop posturing and start being humans.
You don’t always have to explain yourself to be understood. Sometimes you just need to pull up a chair and play the hand you are dealt.
This story is included in my upcoming book, Loving Conflict: Creating Collaboration Where Others See Division, coming March 2026.