Twice have I purchased something online and found the packaging the most impressive. The first time was in my sophomore year, when I bought a very expensive ensemble from Orttu. Of course the clothes were decent, but its elegant enclosement made it sinful to mindlessly discard. I even refolded the paper wrap and left it on my desk for two months before my jampacked room could not handle extra unnecessary clutter. The second time was today, when I bought a second-hand shirt. It was not too small compared to my expectations to create a baggy silhouette, so it ended up looking inappropriately overfitted. The accoutrements, however, was a whole carnival. Once the UPS package was torn apart, a handwritten note came out first with my name on the envelope, enclosing two graphic stickers promoting the small business. The shirt was wrapped inside branded paper, held together by twine with a signature wax seal. After taking all those out, the package thudded on the countertop.

There was a Chupa Chups lollipop inside.

The lollipop is currently sitting on my work station, projected to remain untouched and trashed in due time like my Orttu wrappers. My last time eating a lollipop might have been in some Chinese restaurants in Boston, and I for sure cannot recall my last active pursuit of a lollipop stick. But I was under the impression that the candy selection in the United States has no overlap with that of Vietnam. Chupa Chups lollipops were an elementary school staple. They were bought in a bag of twenty for a dollar, and an automatic inclusion in the snack assortment during Lunar New Year. If you were a good student you might get a Chupa Chups lollipop; sometimes there would be more Chupa Chups in my backpack than pencils. I am sure lollipops are a universal youth desire. Specifically for Vietnam, though, Chupa Chups felt like a status symbol, a precursor to the cigarette or a vape pen, that infiltrated the market of the farthest Vietnamese rural communes.

There is a specific type of snacks that might be unique to Vietnam. I am not simply talking about the many bite-sized items that are Vietnam-made: bánh gấu Thiên Hồng whose flavor is so different from the basic Koala’s March, mứt which are dried candied fruit of anything sweet, or Oishi corn bim bim that I actually found in a New Haven Chinese market. Every country has its own rotation of snacks or desserts, and so much of its personal significance comes from its early introduction to our lives.

What I am referring to are school snacks sold outside of mostly elementary schools in Vietnam, referred to in Vietnamese as đồ ăn vặt ngoài cổng trường. It is neither a store or a booth; it is just some lady with a vault of questionably sourced snacks that cost as little as 1,000 VND a piece. There are fads that came and went throughout different elementary schools (mine was collecting circular Pokemon cards, tadpole-like balls that inflate in water, or flicking Pokemon miniatures on our study desks during recess). These mobile variety stores were a popular phenomenon, catering to all needs of children aged 6-11 as their trends of choice diversified over time. There was even a national crusade against them by school administrators citing concerns over food safety hazards.

At Kim Liên elementary school, there were at least three school snack retailers at all time. Two ladies were stationed on opposite ends of the main gate, and one outside a less popular secondary gate. The one on the right side in the front gate sold fried skewers of pork, fish, meatballs, or imitation crab, as well as plastic cups of lemon-flavored shaved ice. The one on the right side sold packaged foods like crunchy shrimp, flat sausage, rice puffs, candies that popped like sparks in your mouth, as well as the aforementioned collectibles. The one by the side gate had seats as she invited people to watch her made banana, potato, or corn fried battered cakes. Sometimes there would be a guy selling bò bía in the front gate, but he parked farther out as it would otherwise cause too much congestion. For the 3,500 little hyperactive preteens packed into the 1.8-acre campus, having any allowance to buy school snacks bumped you up in the popularity ranking ladder. The streets would clog up with students hanging out on the sidewalk jostling to purchase snacks, while a sea of parents flanked each other’s motorcycle, breathing sighs of relief after surviving the whirlwind of everyday traffic, only to pick up their kids in the school court and battle again to get out. Even before school ended, many would sneak out of their classes, dangle their arms outside of the school gate, and acquire a treat before the afternoon madness inevitably ensued.

My parents never gave me money in elementary school. I got my parents to pay for school snacks at most three times, and they normally preferred me to eat the sausage rolls or ramen packages that the school actually sold inside the courtyard. Sometimes I would sneak a 2,000 VND bill before school when my mom got back from her early morning sky market stroll, but only on days when she forgot to put the change in her purse. In many ways my temptations socialized me. I developed strategies to smooth-talk my friends into giving me a bite of the snacks they got, sometimes becoming close with other kids whose parents seemed to give them generous allowances. I remember there was a kid in my homeroom class who was a bully to many but would never make fun of me. I was one of the best students, and might have helped cover his missing homework for him. I cannot pinpoint the moment when he became really protective of me, but at some point he would even give me some of his money to buy school snacks.

Some of my favorite snacks stuck with me until today. The battered fried cakes had my parents’ approval, and whenever my dad would rush me between school and extra school within the one-hour leeway, we would have to stop by a booth selling those cakes outside of another school. He would allow me to eat two out of the three choices; I would pick corn, and alternate between potato and banana. Nowadays when I go back to Vietnam, I still try to find at least one chance to eat those school snacks. Even the bad ones that my parents once forbade me from eating, even the ones that the schools would dispatch security guards to shoo away. It makes sense in hindsight why health concerns were mentioned. They were cheap for a reason. Yet in my heart of hearts I never ate them for the taste. It is the anticipation of the school bell, the thrill of partaking in a forbidden culture, the innonence of childlike observations, the wist of such simple joy. It is a reversed ship of Theseus: if I could search for the original components that had gradually replaced my identity of the moment, I might have an inkling of who I used to be.