Yeah, you read that correctly. I, Mihir Bellamkonda, the bright-eyed young author of this column, personally invented the food we know as the soft shell taco.
The reactions I get to this claim vary considerably, from the stubborn “No, you absolutely did not,” to the polite “...Oh?” to the perennially popular “Please get off my fire escape immediately.” And hey, I’m not completely without empathy. I understand the skepticism.
The taco, after all, is a food so old that it is an archetype: it was the sandwich before the invention of sliced bread, the burrito before the advent of cylinders. Fundamentally, a taco is simply a bread circle that can be stuffed with anything edible, except, perhaps, more bread. It can be carried around easily and eaten without utensils. This versatility and simplicity makes the taco popular today, but it also contributes to its historic renown: tacos have existed relatively unchanged since Pre-columbian times.
There are modern theories that assert more recent invention dates for the taco, from 17th century Mexican silver mines to post-colonial working-class neighborhoods, but none are associated with evidence compelling enough to pose a threat to the conception of the taco as effectively immortal.
In fact, the word taco is so old that its etymological roots are uncertain. There are European cognates for the word, including the French “tache” and the English “tack,” both likely originating from a proto-germanic word referring to a short length or wedge of wood.
Competing theories assert that the word isn’t European in origin at all, perhaps tracing its roots instead to the Nahuatl words “tlaxcalli” or “tlahco,” which can be translated as a type of corn tortilla, or to be in the middle, respectively.
And this is just in Mexico. Taco purists may cringe, but if we move the definition of our folded friend just a hint towards abstraction, the taco’s history goes global. Unleavened flatbreads have been around for nearly as long as agriculture itself, all the way from the Indian Naan to the Turkish Yufka to the Scottish Bannock. Almost universally, this type of bread was not eaten alone but instead with some sort of filling or stuffing. The taco’s form may have experienced rebirths through time and space, but its spirit is almost as old as our species.
In summation: it is absolutely ludicrous for some kid born in an Ohioan suburb in 1999 to claim to have invented the soft shell taco. And yet. I have, and I did. So what gives?
Let me back up a little.
I’m in my common room, in the first few days of the semester, engaging in idle conversation. Eventually, the discussion turns to our pet peeves, the things that annoy us most about other people. A common answer turns out to be a specific kind of arrogance: the tendency to brag. On the surface, this seems to be an indubitably negative quality. Bragging, after all, is often about power over others. When we combine untruths with our self-narratives, the result is often self-destructive, or, at the very least, alienating to others. But often is not the same as always.
Let’s return for a second to Mexico, and specifically Octavio Paz, who, in his 1950 book-length essay The Labyrinth of Solitude, dissected the consciousness of his nation, exploring Mexican conceptions of death, fiesta, and post-colonial life. In a chapter called “Mexican Mask,” Paz elucidates the idea of machismo: broadly speaking, the tendency to exceed one’s limits as a mortal in order to convey a sense of being larger than life to a perceived rival. Machismo is interesting because it seems to be a natural extension of what we as humans do every day. We, as a group, tell stories about ourselves, about who we are and what we stand for. We wear clothes, adopt mannerisms, join social groups, all in either conscious or subconscious efforts to convey narratives of the self. Machismo, according to Paz, is one way to deal with the inevitable feelings of inadequacy that are associated with being human. When our self-narratives begin to sound passe to ourselves, we exceed the limits of the probable, and begin telling stories about ourselves that defy reality.
This, Paz argues, is not necessarily bad. Life is painful, and if storytelling can alleviate that pain, even through mild untruth, then it may be worth doing, so long as our stories elevate humanity instead of stratifying it.
The difference, then, between Paz’s ideas of beneficial machismo and simple arrogance comes down to the distinction between pretending and bragging. Bragging is shallow, motivated by power. Pretending, in many ways, is the core of what we as humans do, from children exorcising the ghosts under their bed with a vacuum to all the beautiful worlds our writers have created for us to inhabit. The key distinction is whether untrue elements introduced to our narratives enhance or degrade the narratives of those around us. There is no question that idle lies about how many AP classes one took in high school generally make others’ lives worse, while the beautiful, yet equally false, constructions that embody Hogwarts or Narnia generally make others’ lives better.
If life is a masquerade, if pretending isn’t a dirty word, I’m absolutely going to put on some bright masks, pretend to be some interesting things—even if, especially if—they’re all completely nonsensical.
So. My mother is an Ethiopian wolf (Canis simensis) and my father is an M1A3 Abrams tank (Ballisticus enormousis). Every toothbrush I touch becomes electric. Halloween is named after me. I used a number 4 pencil on the SATs and got a 1570. Elon Musk is my fairy godmother. I wear two watches: the one on my left wrist is broken, so at 3:42 AM and PM I’m right about the time twice. I’m a tetrachromat. I winked at the Sagrada Familia once, and ever since, its facade has looked like it’s melting. And, of course, I invented the soft shell taco.
What’s up with you?
Mihir Bellamkonda is a Trinity first-year. His column, "small questions," runs on alternate Fridays.
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Mihir Bellamkonda is a Trinity junior and a Managing Editor of the Editorial page. His column, "small questions," runs on alternate Tuesdays.