The Other Martha’s Vineyard

I drove an hour to New Haven, spent the night, got up at 6 AM, drove 3 hours to Cape Cod, parked the car, took a shuttle bus to a ferry to Martha’s Vineyard and didn’t see one glimpse of Martha Stewart? Where was she? And all of her rich pretentious friends? I mean surely this is the place where they all congregate, especially on a long weekend like Memorial Day weekend. I came expecting to see their cashmere cardigans perfectly tied over their svelte shoulders with Louis Vuitton special edition purses in hand, glaring at my wild afro and orange tie-dye onesie in silent objection of my intrusion into one of America’s most exclusive communities.

However, the warm comfort that greeted me as I stepped off the ferry in Oak Bluffs was so different from the exclusivity that I had expected. I’ve read about people like Henry Louis Gates, Oprah Winfrey, The Kennedys, The Clintons and my favorite first family, the Obamas, having houses on the Vineyard so I figured it was some aristocratic, country club community. Now that I’ve been there, I see why these community leaders retreat to this quaint little town. It’s like going home, no matter where you are from, because “home” everywhere has some of the same comforting qualities.

My friends and I stayed in a quiet little neighborhood within walking distance from the main strip, in a house owned by a Black woman who has lived there for years. The simple fact that a Black woman owned the house surprised me but I had no prior knowledge of the rich heritage of the Inkwell community. Apparently Oak Bluffs Beach and the beautiful Victorian houses adjacent to Ocean Park have strong links to African American heritage dating all the way back to the Revolutionary War.

The Polar Bears of Martha’s Vineyard

My friend and I took a peaceful walk through the neighborhood our first morning there and one of the first things I noticed was that the houses all had porches. I couldn’t believe how nostalgic seeing these porches would be for me, as they were a staple of architecture in my neighborhood growing up. It reminded me of afternoons running barefoot around the porch with my cousins, rocking in the rocking chairs, swinging on the banisters and exhausting ourselves into an inevitable yet reluctant naptime. As we passed these porches, the families who had already gathered with their morning papers and coffee would smile and wave as if we were their nieces who had come home for the weekend.

Even the birds on the Vineyard are welcoming. They sang little tunes every morning and followed us to the park, serenading us on the swings as we revisited our own childhood, pushing ourselves as high as we could go (before we got scared and stopped lol). When we were done they escorted us down the road to a wooden bench overlooking the fog covered bay, and brought their volume down just a notch so they wouldn’t drown out the soothing rhythm of the waves beating against the rocks below.

Once we were ready to head back, they sweetly cooed as we walked back through the neighborhood and as we headed down the bustling strip for brunch they waved goodbye, opting to stay in the quiet neighborhood and guard our homes while we were away.

We spent the remainder of the weekend doing more of what can be classified as nothing. Some rode bikes to a neighboring town called Edgartown, surpassing the level of physical exertion that I had planned for the weekend (level 0). Others laid out on the beach and met some international cuties worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch ad. (Seriously. I wanted to touch their faces to see if they were real). Some of us sprawled out on the green and had those long provocative discussions you remember from late nights at your first dorm, while others played basketball in the neighborhood lots. At nights we would link up with more friends who had also come for the weekend, inevitably engaging in some sort of freshman year tomfooloery that involved playing cards, liquor and ridiculous dares that those poor birds outside should have never had to witness.

It felt like college. Or home. Or both. There was a simplistic level of comfort that was so unexpected but welcome in ways I can’t properly articulate. Oak Bluffs reminded me of some simple comforts that I want for my children someday. Barefoot freedom. Unsolicited kindness. Swings with sand underneath to cradle tender knees that fall. (It’s beyond me how the kids at NYC playgrounds fall on that scary rubber asphalt stuff. It’s hard out here in these streets for a 5 year old.) Though my vacation home will more than likely be in the South or the Caribbean, just like our house in Oak Bluffs, it will be in a neighborhood where people smile without warning, trust without suspicion and treat everyone that walks by like family. Because family is life and the more people you can call family in the community of your life, the richer it will be.