The year was 2017, and all that mattered to me then was the Moana soundtrack, keeping up Snapchat streaks, and FaceTiming my best friend, Gabbi. 

Once my family and I arrived at the Cheddi Jagan International Airport in Guyan’s capital of Georgetown, I remembered squeezing my butt off the tiny plane and wondering when my phone would get service again.  

Two nights later, in the hotel, I cried on the bathroom floor because my streaks weren’t sending me to my friends back home, in the good ol’ land of America, a place I was growing more homesick for every day. That was until my mom had to snap me out of it and yell at me for being so preoccupied with my phone that I wasn’t even appreciating the trip, enjoying the fact that my siblings and I were meeting my great grandparents, aunts and uncles in Guyana for the very first time and that my Mimi was seeing most of her family for the first time in over a decade. 

Even after my mom scolded me, I was sullen for most of the trip. Sure, I went to cricket games, had beef patties, flew kites by the Sea Wall, and all that, but I don’t think I was grateful for all my experiences with my family. 

On the last night, my family, and all my uncles and great-grandparents, had dinner together. After we had had dessert and the taxis ready to take us to the airport started circling, everyone began crying. And I found it hard to cry. I remember feeling so confused and ashamed at this fact. As I saw how deeply everyone was going to miss each other, I realized that I had wasted this trip so consumed in my thoughts that I didn’t make enough time to connect with my relatives in the way I could have over a fifteen-day trip. Once I saw my little brother Jair (who was seven-ish at the time) start crying, tears began to fill my eyes. I was jealous that it was so easy for him, my brother, who was still in elementary school, to love and connect with others. This made me even more sad.

Now, at eighteen, I wish I could rattle that little Sanai and tell her to take it all in. I remember wondering how long it would be until I saw those relatives again.

My great-grandmother, who I met for the first time during that trip, passed away last summer. So some stories never fully get the ending they deserve.

But I have grown a lot since then. I have become even closer to my Mimi, my mother’s mother, who left Guyana at twenty-six pregnant with my mother to start a new life in America. I am in awe of her courage to start anew in a foreign country, learning how to speak Brooklyn avenues confidently while never losing her sweet Guyana twang and sarcasm. 

Every third-generation immigrant child struggles with bridging the gap between their American and foreign identities at one point. For me, I have had to connect my American identity, Black American identity, and Guyanese identity, and this all came to the forefront during that trip to Guyana in the sixth grade. So I empathize with that Sanai — figuring out who you are so young is hard. Going to a predominantly white middle school where eyebrows raised when you mentioned you were going to Guyana for spring break didn’t make it any easier.

Still, I am figuring out how to mold my background into a version of myself I am proud of. I am pleased to be Black and proud to be Guyanese American. Life is too short to be embarrassed about where you come from. 

However, I still slip up sometimes and fall into ignorance. But it’s all a learning journey. 

All in hopes that one day I can confidently sing the Soca songs my mom used to love, teach my kids how to make my Mimi’s roti and visit Guyana (with a better attitude) someday. 

- Sanai Rashid