By Abe Villarreal
Every time I write about something, I think about that one thing that we all know about, but is rarely mentioned in a newspaper column. That one thing that connects us all together. The thing that is almost too ordinary to think could be worth becoming a story worth reading.
Like the guy named Sergio who sits with me a few times a week at the plaza. He walks with a cane, but he rarely uses it. It's more part of his look than his support. At home, he has seven dogs, and every time he sees a street dog that gives him affection, he tells me the same thing.
"I'd like to take him home, but I already have seven of them." I like it when he reminds me of how much he appreciates his dogs. More street dogs need owners like him.
I didn't know Sergio until we sat at the same table at the plaza. Maybe it was our love for tacos dorados that brought us together. Maybe it was something bigger than that. After about a year of "knowing" him, I learned that we were related.
Life is funny that way. It waits to tell you something until the right time. There's a right time for everything. Like the right time to have a conversation about relatives, and the right time to learn that you are connected to someone in a more meaningful way than you imagined.
A lot of us have taco relationships. They are special but are limited to what happens from first bite to last. They can be a mouthful, and they can be worthwhile. Then, one day, taco relationships become something else. They become more than just a meal.
Being related to someone, even if you're not sure how, means something. I know there is an ancestor who is shared. A person on our family tree who led to both of us being here. That's about all I know, but it means something.
After I learned this, conversations over tacos went beyond sharing small talk. There were more questions and more answers. There was an interest in areas that didn't feel important before. Even small, insignificant details felt worth exploring.
When you learn that a name and a bloodline exist between two people, your commonalities and differences are now intertwined. The past is as important as the present. Tacos aren't the only things that bond you.
Since our ancestral discovery, I've learned a lot about Sergio. About the time he lost his passport and then was told that someone was using it in Texas. About his upcoming medical procedure and how he is nervous to be given anesthesia. He's 75 years old and loves to walk. I know there is still a lot to learn about him.
What is the one thing that connects us all to each other? I don't think it's tacos. We like to think that because it feels obvious, but tacos just get us there. They help us find a place to start. A place for small talk. A place where doors can be opened to learn how a deeper connection could exist with someone on the other side of the table.
I was lucky to meet a man, a relative, named Sergio this way.
Abe Villarreal writes about the traditions, people, and culture of America. He can be reached at
