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Many times when I tell people where I was born and bred they do the usual tilt-of-the-head and brows pulled together followed by the question: "Guyana? Where is that?" to which I respond "South America." Since it's in South America, many assume it to be a Spanish country when it's not. Guyana was ruled by the British in the late 18th century making it the only English-speaking country in South America.

Of course, if I mention the Jim Jones Massacre, it changes everything, making them go: "Oh, the Jonestown story. That was such a tragedy."

They're right about it being a tragedy—the genocide of innocent people following a pastor from the US. Jones was the founder and leader of the Peoples Temple in Jonestown, Guyana, who told the Temple members of organizations conspiring against them. Jones went on to tell the Temple members of their babies being killed, children being taken, being tortured—all the right things to scare them into committing a "revolutionary suicide" while he attempted to escape.

I sometimes wonder if this is the only event that makes my country known in history. Why can't I say "Guyana" and their response be about the story of Shakira Baksh, Miss Guyana 1967, who went on to compete in the Miss World competition in London, who caught the eye of British actor Michael Caine, who in turn fell absolutely in love with her? Such events don't grab the attention of people unless it relates to an outbreak of war or a victim of Mother Nature's wrath.

I'm so quick to defend Guyana as if it was someone close to me. Guyana is a best friend and family member. It is the blood that rushes through my veins.

If this is how I feel, then why am I hesitant about returning home?

***

I was seventeen and I was quite capable of taking care of myself. I didn't understand why my parents were dragging me along with them. My sister was going with them. Wasn't that enough? I could have stayed with my auntie in New York while they were all in Guyana.

Why did I have to go? What would I do there? Was I scared that something horrible would happen after reading and hearing how bad things had gotten? I didn't want to go.

***

The last time I remember being on a plane to Guyana was when my grandfather died. I was still in middle school when he passed away. My sister had been waiting at the bus stop for me in front of the apartment complex where we lived. I walked over to where she was standing and we began heading back to our apartment when she said to me in a low whisper that he had passed away. I didn't know what to think, I didn't know what to say. I was still a child. How does a child understand something like that?

That was in 2001.

***

It was humid but not unbearable. I wasn't destined to pass out from heat exhaustion as I might in Florida. There was a gentle cool breeze that carried with it the smell of rain blended with grass.

My parents as well as my sister and I had been waiting in front of the airport for my cousin to pick us up but apparently we were forgotten about. I sat on top of my suitcase with my right hand wrapped around the handle.

Looking at my mum and dad, I wondered what was going through their minds. Were they happy to be back home? Were they unsure about coming? Were they mad that no one was here to pick us up?

I looked at my older sister who seemed tired. Her thoughts were probably scattered all over the place, but lack of sleep does that. She was up the night before making sure everything was in check and got up at four am to do one last round to be certain we got everything. I helped her but I wasn't tired—I was more alert than ever trying to take in this place and its surrounding.