I still remember the moment Jim Jones took our family in. I was nine years old at the time, and I stood alone at the back of the church patiently waiting for my parents and my sister Elizabeth to make their way to the back door. As I looked around I could see the variety of people sitting in each aisle. A few white men and women, but the majority were African American. For the first time I didn't feel outnumbered in a church. I remember thinking I have never been around so many other black people in a church before, in a way it was comforting. After finishing their conversation with Father Jones, my family made their way back to where I was standing. To me, it felt like that were making sure that each step would seem like it took a year, trying to stall the moment that they would meet me.

As they reached their final step to the back door, my mother said, “Michael, this is going to be our new home. A new place for us to express our religion. The Peoples Temple is going to be good to us, you'll see.”

I could see the skepticism on her face as I told her that I was fine with whatever she chose. Although I didn't particularly care where we spent our Sundays, there was a small sense of unease that came from this church. That moment still plays in my head each time we step foot in The Peoples Temple. Each and every detail just hanging in my mind waiting for my instincts about Jim Jones to be right.

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It is now 1978, I just turned thirteen years old less than a week ago. I have become very use to the customs that Jim Jones has forced upon all of us for the past four years. I have realized that each day more and more people of the church come, someday we may even have to grow our church size. I slipped on my suit jacket and buttoned up the bottom, while waiting for Elizabeth and my mother to finish getting ready. As I unlocked the door and stepped outside I instantly felt the rush of the early November wind hit my face. The sound of my father’s loud footsteps followed behind me while I made my way to the family car.

Before shutting the car door my father yelled, “Honey, we cannot be late for church again.”

After ten minutes of patiently waiting for my mother and sister to finally get in the car we were off to church. Our family was new to Jonestown, just like the rest of Jim Jones followers. Mother said we had to move from our old home because Father Jones wanted us to continue attending his church. But in all honestly I do not think that any of us had the choice because of Jim Jones’s rules. On the walk to the front door of the church I realized that almost everything looked the same, all of the same familiar people were here in Jonestown. Each of them had packed up and left their old homes just like we were told to do.

        Services were just like any other church, except just a little more strict. If Father Jones ever witnessed me dossing off or trying to occupy my time with something more interesting, then he would leave me with a small bruise on my face or just a little cut to make sure that it wouldn't happen again. My parents thought nothing of it, probably because it also happens frequently to any other person who was doing the same. I always had to listen to my parents talk about how good of a person Father Jones was.

My father would say, “He is the one person who accepted us blacks in the house of God. He accepts everybody. I have even heard that he donates a lot of his money to other churches.”

I could not help but to slightly roll my eyes, to where my father could not see, anytime he made this kind of comment.

        Once the service was over I found myself alone heading to the back of the church. I stepped out the doors and found a seat outside the church to wait for my parents. While sitting on a bench alone I saw a tall large man walking towards me out of the corner of my eye. As he silently sat down next to me, I could not help but to slightly tilt my head to get a better look at the man. He had grey hair and a few wrinkles that took over his forehead. The man was dressed in what looked like one of his best suits.

As his head turned and his eyes met mine his voice took over the silence. “Hello, young man. How are you doing today?”

My answer was hesitant since the voices of my parents were running through my mind telling me to never talk to strangers. As I told him that I was fine I couldn't help but asking him if he was here for the service.

He said, “In a sense yes I am… I am Congressman Leo Ryan, and who might you be?”

I told him my name then sat in an awkward silence. Mr. Ryan started up the conversation again by asking me how well I knew Father Jones. I was surprised by his question because nobody had ever asked me this before.

For a minute I thought then I said, “Personally I do not know him that well, but I know him enough to know that I need to do what I am told unless I want to be punished.”

Mr. Ryan’s face showed slight confusion but before his voice could make out a full word my family came out of the two large church doors, “Come here now Michael, it is time to go,” said my mother.

I turned to Mr. Ryan and said goodbye then jumped up and left. My mother was very curious to why I was talking to a complete stranger but I just pushed her comment aside.

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For the next several weeks we attended the service just like we have for the past four years, yet the one difference is that I saw Mr. Ryan every week since. Each time we would have a small conversation about the service and then I would have to leave. Today while in the service he sat right next to me and my family.

He asked, “What did you mean a couple weeks ago when you said that Father Jones would punish you?”

This was one of those things that I was not sure if I was able to talk about. I said, “Well sometimes people will go home with a couple bruises, but that’s okay, everybody learns after that.” For the first time it seemed like Mr. Ryan did not have anything to say.

        After the service I witnessed Congressman Ryan talking to a large group of the church members. Suddenly he led them to his truck and escorted them to the cab and the bed of his truck. As they piled into his vehicle it seemed like they were in a hurry to get away from the church. In a split second another group of members started to attack the truck and each person inside of it. I watched Mr. Ryan fight his way free and then drive away with the other church members. As soon as the instant was over my mother grabbed me and Elizabeth by the arm to face her. I could feel her thumb piercing into my arm. I couldn’t help but trying to imagine what was going through Elizabeth’s mind at this instant.

My mother spoke intensely, “You can never do something like that this is just one way that you get in trouble with our Father.”

        Later that day my entire family gathered around the table to eat lunch. Our small TV sat on the counter across the room. The news was playing and the sound of the news reporter’s voice overcame the room. “Today, Congressman Leo Ryan, five members of the Peoples Temple and three members of the press were shot and killed today before boarding an airplane. Eleven other people were wounded and are being taken to the hospital as we speak” said the reporter.

I watched my mother's head turn slowly to meet my father's eyes. I knew in that moment that they knew something more than my sister and I knew. We were told to go to our rooms. Elizabeth hurried up the stairs to obey our parents orders. But I couldn't help myself, I tiptoed down the hallway just enough to where I could not have been seen. My parents started to whisper, but just loud enough to where I could hear them.

“Do you think that Father Jones did this?” said my mother.

“I believe so. They tried messing with his customs, Mary. Everybody knows that we are not allowed to leave Peoples Temple,” my father replied back to my mother.

I wasn't quite sure what to do I had one question constantly running through my mind; why are we not allowed to leave the Peoples Temple?

        Later, I walked downstairs to see if there had been any news on who killed Mr. Ryan. When I walked around the corner my parents and Elizabeth were sitting in the living room. The radio was on a medium volume and they were watching a sitcom. Before taking a seat I looked at both of my parents to see if they might have heard me listening to their conversation earlier that day. There were no signs of them being mad at me, so I took a seat next to Elizabeth. For hours we enjoyed ourselves by relaxing in the living room and talking a little bit about Father Jones. I would hint at questions that would not show my suspicion, but just enough to see if they knew who killed Mr. Ryan.

I finally asked, “Was Father Jones mad at that man that was killed today?” My mother tried avoiding the question I asked by asking my father if he wanted more tea. So I asked again, “Dad, was Father Jones mad at that man that was killed today?”

His voice was hesitant as if he wasn't sure what he was allowed to say, “All I know is that Father Jones has helped our family a lot. If he did anything to hurt that man it was because he wasn't following our Father’s rules.”

I wasn't sure what else to ask my father, to me it seemed as if his answer was just a way of him trying to protect me from the truth.

        After supper I found myself back in the living room with my family. The radio continued to play on a certain station that if Father Jones wanted to contact people of the church he could. I finally convinced my sister to go outside and play. After an hour, the sun started to go down so we made our way back into the house.

As I opened the door and let Elizabeth go first I could hear Father Jones voice fill the air. “Soldiers will be coming to torture us. This is what we have practiced. You know what to do. Gather at the pavilion,” said Father Jones through the radio.

Both of my parents stood up. My father walked into the kitchen and my mother got up and turned off the radio. Elizabeth and I stood there in silence trying to think of what he could have been talking about. I heard a couple whispers coming from my parents who stood in the kitchen. Soon after their conversation ended my father grabbed his coat and left the house.

Around thirty minutes later my father came home. In his hands were a bag from the grocery store and a small bottle of liquid that looked like medicine. Elizabeth and I sat on the couch in silence, waiting for somebody to tell us what was going on.

Once my father walked into the kitchen and found my mother he said to her, “Mary it has started, there are people walking the streets and all the houses are empty. You know this is what we have to do. He has done so much for us and this is the one way we can repay our Father.”

I could only hear parts of what my father had said. Although, I could not miss the fact that my mother broke into tears. I tiptoed out of the living room and up the squeaky stairs into my bedroom. I looked out the window and saw houses that had looked abandoned.

My father yelled up the stairs, “Michael, we are leaving, we need to go into the pavilion. Put on your jacket and let’s go.”

I grabbed my coat that was laying on my bed and hurried down the stairs. Elizabeth and my mother were already waiting in the car. My father grabbed the bag and placed the bottle of what I thought was medicine in it, he then shut the door behind us.

        As we arrived at the pavilion all I could see were the hundreds of people standing around, the sound of murmurs coming from each member filled the air. Before I could understand what was happening a loud voice made everybody become silent,

“Gather all the children, they go first.”

Parents started pushing and children were grabbed. My father took my arm and my mother grabbed Elizabeth. My parents pushed through the crowd until we met inside with all of the other children. We were told to wait here and that our parents would come back to do what they needed to do. Jim Jones walked into the room and started ordering people around.

“We have practiced this before so many times. Grab the syringes and start giving the children the Kool-Aid. Parents will go next,” said Jim.

I looked around frantically waiting for somebody to tell me that everything was going to be okay. One by one parents grabbed their children and started putting the syringe into their mouths. I watched each kid fall limp onto the floor. My mind started to race, I looked around trying to find a way out of this building or just a place to hide. I saw a small staircase that led to the upper level of the pavilion.

I turned to Elizabeth and said, “Come with me, now.”

She refused and claimed that she would just wait here for mom. Without much time left I bolted to the stairs and climbed the steps as fast as I could. All I could do was close my eyes and pray that nobody saw me go upstairs.

I heard a familiar voice approach the stairs, “Michael where are you? You have to cooperate with us buddy.” I knew from that instant that it was my mother. Each step she took up the stairs sounded loud and painful to my ears. She walked around the corner where I laid in a ball trying to be as still as I could. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me over to the stairs. Tears of fear rolled down my face hitting each step as I walked down the stairs. My mother stopped me, to my left was Elizabeth lying peacefully on the floor of the pavilion, I could not help but to cry even harder than I was before. “We couldn't find you in time for Elizabeth to say goodbye, but it's okay we will all be together again,” said my mother.

My father turned towards me and reached out his arms. His hug was firm and warm. I could feel each of my tears roll down my face onto his shoulder. His voice shut out all the loud noises around me, “I love you my son, we will see you soon.”

I wanted to do nothing more than fight back. I wanted to yell in their faces and tell them that this was all wrong but I couldn't find the words between my gasp from air. I looked around one more time, there were hundreds of children laying on the ground peacefully.

My mother sat me down and told me, “This will all be over soon.”

I watched her small hand grab a little syringe filled with a blue substance.

“It is just Kool-Aid it’s okay,” said my father.

My mother told me to open my mouth and to close my eyes. I finally knew that there was no more fighting back at this point. She placed the syringe into my mouth and started to push the end forcing the liquid to go straight down my throat. As I swallowed I felt a burning sensation on my tongue and a feeling of unease as it went down. My mother laid me down on my back. I laid there thinking about my life, my family, and the first moment I walked into that church and witnessed Jim Jones standing with my parents. I couldn't help but think; Is this really what Jim Jones wanted? I found each gasp of air to be harder and harder each time. I knew this was one of my final breaths, I inhaled in with a large breath and exhaled with a slight wheeze. My eyes started to feel heavy, to a point where I could no longer hold them open. I turned my head to see Elizabeth lying next to me, before I could speak a word my vision blurred…