Epiphany

Papa had TB when he was a small boy. He was sick for a long time. They gave him streptomycin but it made him deaf in one ear.

Pa's secretary Mr. Roberts has a twisted foot that stands on its toes all the time, because that leg is shorter than the other. He had polio when he was small.

I am scared. They're taking us all out of class when there isn't a different class on the timetable. I am in Standard One and still don't feel comfortable in school, in this cage of dark blue pinafore, grey cement floor and wooden desks, trapped by my lack of language.

Teacher is taking us to the hall but instead of lining up two-by-two as we do for assemblies, we're lining up single file. I can hear girls crying.

There are people in all white who look like nurses. There is a needle in my arm that brings sharp, burning pain. I am told to open my mouth and given a drop of bittersweet liquid.

The taste of the liquid triggers a revelation: I know what it is. We have a book at home that has pictures of sick people. It tells you about all kinds of diseases and how to stop them. There is a picture of a boy who has polio with a twisted leg like Mr. Roberts, and a picture of a child taking a drop of liquid in his mouth.

And I think I'm the only kid in this whole class who knows: This needle and this drop are the magic potion of freedom.

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And that's how I became interested in vaccines at age six. It just took me 17 years to realize.