When my children were 7, 5, and almost 3, our family moved to West Africa for a year. I’d been awarded a Fulbright grant to teach 19th-century American literature to English majors at the University of Abdou Moumouni in Niamey, Niger, as well as to do research on small-scale development projects. We went to our local health clinic to undergo the extensive physicals required by the United States government and get prescriptions for anti-malarial prophylaxis. We also talked to the doctor about the extra shots we needed, and rolled up our sleeves for vaccines. For one, we were heading to a country where polio was still endemic, so my husband and I needed a booster, which typically isn’t given to adults. For another, we needed yellow fever vaccines and, as we were going to the meningococcal belt, vaccines to protect us against that disease. I was grateful for these vaccines …