Chocolate Trauma By Jessi Vance
T
he most traumatic part of growing up in Uzbekistan wasn’t the terrorist attack a block away from my school or the medical emergency that temporarily paralyzed my dad or the time basically all of our neighbors got deported. No, the moment that is particularly seared in my memory had to do with chocolate candy. I don’t know about you, but we used to save our special food—the stuff we could never get in Uzbekistan and that we tucked into every corner and nook of packed-full suitcases when we were returning from a few months in the US. The treats that would sit on the highest shelf in our cabinet for months—sometimes years! My parents were missionaries, and not the kind of missionaries who got a shipping container to move or a travel stipend for “mental health.” No, we were the thrift-shop, local-school, barefootas-much-as-possible, cabbage-soup-for-dinner, suck-it-up-and-don’t-cry kind of missionaries. So, it had to be a really, really special occasion before it was deemed worthy enough to delve into our treasures of Jello, peanut butter, and marshmallows. The Vance family had a strong tendency toward the sweet kind of snacks, which is one of those weirdly “third culture” things I realize now. I absolutely love the oil-
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Among Worlds
