MENTA on air

It's 5:18am and I can't sleep...

Hello intersectional thinkers 👋

Greeting from somewhere over the Australian Outback.

It’s 5:18am (technically 4:18am according to my Tokyo-adjusted body). The plane is rocking and I couldn’t sleep because of that letter.

Congratulations.

You’ve been selected to become a member of MENTA. We are a global intelligence agency acting to restore the backbone of international relations.

Based on our existing data, your mathematical diversity is estimated to be 1.742 - within the top 90 percentile.

You will play a key role in bringing diverse thinking back to international relations.

To accept this invitation, answer this question in 3 sentences:

How would you translate flâneur?

Email your answer to ment@aspe.d604

We look forward to hearing your response.

This letter will self destruct in 30 seconds.

**

That familiar incompetent, awkward, silencing feeling rushed through my body.

The muscles on my face tensed. But no one noticed.

“It’s simply a question of efficiency.

Because the language of business is in English. Finance? English. AI? English. Diplomacy? English.

Yeah maybe it was French in the last century. But those golden years are long gone baby.

And come to think of it, when you’ve got the money and the technology, do you need diplomacy?

With that supremacy power backed by money and tech, other countries know what they need to do.”

People nodded in agreement. My whole body, inside and out, disagreed.

But my tense face muscles could only muster a “Hm”.

“Anyway, so I don’t bother with Japanese. Girls on Bumble seems to prefer the authenticity over trying hard with some konnichiwa shit.

That’s what it is! Authenticity.

Why try learning another language when you’re not from there? Can never be from there?

Just be who you are. And I’m lucky I was born speaking English. The universal language of getting shit done.”

And the conversation tacked towards how deliciously flavourful this miso glazed Matsuzaka pork is.

**

The letter self destructed as promised. But I memorized the email.

I knew better than to write it down.

This must be a scam. A prank. A trap.

No one should know. I made sure of it.

But a part of me desperately wishes it were true.

So on my shotty onboard WiFi, I looked up MENTA on Perplexity. Nothing relevant came up. The Methanol Association was a top hit.

I checked the domain of the email. 404 error.

The turtle speed spooling was now irritating me, so I put the phone in the cubby and lean back into the uncomfortable seat.

Flâneur.

Someone who wanders. Saunters.

An outsider. By choice.

Observing the world go by, not as the first person, but as the third.

That used to be my password - Flaneur604.

I wonder if they knew.

Or maybe all of us had some affinity to the word. The concept. A seemingly obvious word that cannot be translated…

**

“Ladies and gentlemen. This is the service manager. I hope you’ve all had a great rest. We are beginning our descent into Melbourne in 45 minutes…”

Waking up semi-delirious, I raised the window blind to see a bright sea of blue and white.

It’s 7:01am.

Still in my pajamas, I rush to gather my clothes from the overhead bin.

The bathroom signs were red front and back. As expected. These announcements on Qantas are always girigiri. Leaving no time for a bathroom break.

I chose to go forward. (It always seems a little cleaner. Maybe because the crew uses it too.)

There’s a guy also in his PJs. Already in line.

We exchanged slightly awkward smiles and I kept my distance.

Not in the mood for Australian banter at this hour of the day. (It’s still 6:01am for my body clock.)

But as expected, he leaned towards me for that chat.

“They never give enough warning on these overnight flights right? Catching us out like that.”

“Ha yeah…”

“Yeah, naur. But to be honest I was actually already awake. Just got lost in the book I’m reading. It’s cool. Antifragile by Nassim Taleb. Have you heard of it?”

“Hm. Good book.”

I tried to keep my answers short.

But then he said: “I got lost thinking about how he defines himself you know. A flaneur. French apparently. How would you translate flânuer?”

—

PS. I was inspired by two wonderful people - 1) fellow writer and friend Silvio writing the best fictional short stories on his Substack, and 2) Anita, an alum in my articulation program creating a grant for Asian American women writing publicly, and wanting to share a personal story but don’t know where to begin.

I’m not Asian American (despite many people assuming I’m from Seattle or SF. West coast yes. But North of the border). But nevertheless, I get the struggle.

It’s not easy to share a personal story when we practice voluntarily silencing the non-mainstream parts of us. So here’s a fictional story instead.