Finding Martha's Vineyard Page 8
Then I dive into an ocean so cold that the only thought in my head is this: Keep moving or have a heart attack. I swim out, out, out, into the sparkling path made on the water by the early morning sun, until I am acclimated to the cold temperature, or numb, or maybe both. I turn onto my back, spread my arms and legs and float, looking into the sky, smelling the salt and wet and hearing the roar of the ocean in my ears. Gulls circle overhead and I float peacefully, home at last.
Most everyone I know has rituals they perform either on the way to the Vineyard, once they arrive, or both. Some people go immediately to find a lobster roll, lobster salad on a toasted hot dog bun, often accompanied by chips or fries. Others dump their bags and go in search of flowering baskets to hang from their porch, bright announcements that they have arrived. Children haul dusty bikes from basements or garages and, tires permitting, ride into town, or to the tennis courts, or in search of a friend whose house is down the road. One friend immediately makes the beds, first removing the charcoal placed under the mattresses in the late fall to keep the dampness and mold out, then making them up tightly with soft white sheets. “I need to know,” she explains, “that my bed is made and ready. Then all the work opening the house doesn’t seem that bad.”
Some of these rituals we share with others who have summer homes here. Across the island we unlock doors, open windows wide, letting the cool, stale air with its distinct smell of must and salt out, the warm, fresh air of spring or summer in. Porch chairs are dragged from indoors back outside, electric switches thrown, refrigerators and other appliances plugged in, their quiet hum helping to bring houses long empty back to life. That done, it is time to sit down in a favorite spot. A rocking chair on the porch, a couch in the living room, a chaise in the yard, the sand of a nearby beach, and give thanks that, once again, we have made it to this special, beloved place, Martha’s Vineyard.
For me, that favorite spot is a wicker swing on the glass-enclosed porch facing Ocean Park and the ocean. From here I can look across the park at the gazebo, where the Vineyard Haven band plays concerts every other Sunday throughout the summer. I can look west toward the cross on top of the Tabernacle and watch it illuminate each evening, as the colors of the sunset streak the sky beyond it. Looking east over the water I watch the sun rise, sailboats pass lazily by, people promenade along the sidewalk. As a young woman I sat here and watched the mechanical shark used in the movie Jaws being towed out in early morning and back at night. Last year I sat in this swing at midnight, all the lights turned off, and watched bolts of lightning spear through the sky, followed by the crash of thunder and a torrential rain.
It seems to me that most everyone who comes to this island comes to lay some burden down, although what that burden is differs. It depends on how old you are, where you come from, your race, gender, socioeconomic status, job, how long you have been coming to the Vineyard, numerous other factors. Yet, for the most part, the people who visit Martha’s Vineyard as vacationers for a week, or month, or the long summer come to freely relax. We come here not to be bothered, or to bother anyone else, to be free to be ... whatever, at least for the time we are on this rock.
It is a misconception to think that the desire for rejuvenation, relaxation, and safety is limited to those of means, or that everyone who visits Martha’s Vineyard is well-to-do. Many of those on the Vineyard, both seasonal and year-rounders, are middle- and working-class people who come to the island seeking another, more permanent refuge: as an escape from the projects in Brooklyn, New York, or to begin a new life in a less stressful environment, or to escape the riots of the 1960s, or to raise children or to retire someplace quiet in a house already paid for over years of summer visits, after a lifetime spent in a city.
What you find when you arrive on the Vineyard is determined by what you are looking for. If there is a collective reason why so many diverse people come to the Vineyard, it is to find a safe, nurturing place, a community of similar souls. To release the tension built up over the previous year or years. The ways in which people rejuvenate here are as varied as those who come in search of rejuvenation. Swimming, working on your house, golf, tennis, volunteering, reading, playing cards, fishing, shopping, clamming, lying in the sun, gardening, crabbing, socializing, or being antisocial. What’s magical about the Vineyard is the plethora and ease of choices. It’s like Alice’s Restaurant with and for the soul: You can get anything you want.
Tonya, Jackson, Satchel, and Spike Lee
Tonya Lewis Lee, thirty-eight, is an attorney, television producer, and mother of two children, Satchel and Jackson. Married to filmmaker Spike Lee for eleven years, they coauthored the children’s book, Please, Baby, Please. Most recently, she coauthored the novel Gotham Diaries.
Tonya: I started coming to the Vineyard in 1992, with Spike. Spike had been coming with a classmate since he was in college and loved it. It was early spring, around May, we were dating and he brought me up here. I’d heard of the island, but had never been up here before. I grew up in the Midwest and we’d come to New York every summer and go out to Sag Harbor or Montauk with friends, but never up here. This house was literally just finished. I always feel like Spike built the house for me, because he had not really lived in this house until I came along. That first visit to the island I remember cloudy days, steely gray skies, the ocean, reading, lighting fires, and just feeling really cozy. There’s something really special when the weather is like that here.
When we plan the trip up here we get our reading list ready; we look forward to what we’re going to read while we’re here. I run along the beach toward Edgartown. I go to the bridge and then come back, and to me, that’s paradise. The other day I was running and there was a red, single-engine, double-wing plane, and it was gorgeous. Then when I got home I took a shower in the outdoor shower and I looked up and there was this big bird, it had the same sort of arc to it that the plane did. It was just gliding in the sun. It was just great. At night I go out on the deck and just look at the stars, you can just see everything up there. It feels like you’re closer to the sky.
Before we had kids we’d come up here and do a lot of reading, sleeping, just hanging around. Now that we have kids it’s very different. It seems as if we’re often racing that last stretch to the ferry. This last time the ferry was leaving at 2:45 and we got there at 2:40. We made it, but we were sweating that whole last stretch. We like the freight ferry, I just like being able to stay in the car and see everything from that point of view. We have a good time, getting something to eat, feeding the seagulls, watching people with their dogs.
The one ritual we have when we arrive is going to get lobster rolls from Linda Jeans. Satchel, too. She’ll be into it, then she’ll get a lobster roll and won’t really eat it, but it’s just the idea of having the lobster roll from Linda Jean’s. I think going up to Menemsha to watch the sunset has become sort of a ritual. We don’t do it every day, but it’s something we all kind of look forward to. With the kids, we get up, go to the beach, we go to State Beach, we go to the Inkwell, which is so great, because the kids go out there and they always end up meeting some friend and they just have a ball. It’s an awesome beach for young kids. I can keep my eye on them as they run down the beach. I don’t have to worry. We go up to Menemsha and get takeout from Homeport and watch the sunset. We go up to Gay Head and hang out at the beach up there. There’s always something new and different for us to experience here. This island is not that big, but there’s so much that we haven’t experienced yet. Each time we’re here there’s something new, whether it is another beach that we go to or a chocolate factory, there’s always something. And the folk are here. That makes a big difference to me.
Being here is wonderful for my kids, because there are a lot of black folks who have kids around their age, who are very much like them, and they can just groove with other kids. I didn’t grow up coming to the Vineyard, but I’ve heard stories about growing up here, and then your kids grow up with your friend’s kids here, and I c
an totally see that happening. It’s a great, great, great thing. I have to say that spending summers here is almost like a reprieve. Coming here is like a breath of fresh air, where there are people who are like me, who have similar experiences, and you don’t have to go through that translation, that cultural barrier. It’s just nice to be able to relax and not have to deal with that stuff. And for my children to be able to socialize with children who look like them and who are similar to them, just to know that they’re there and have those relationships, it’s really important to me. It’s funny, because I feel—I don’t want to say protected—but insulated. Even just going out and seeing people of color. When I take the kids to camp, it’s so diverse; there are so many kids of color there. The first day, I didn’t know what to expect, and when we got there I just felt like this enormous weight was off my shoulders, because I just felt they’d be okay. Versus a camp in New York City where chances are they’d be one of two in their camp, here it’s not like that, and it’s a good thing for them. There’s a certain level of stress that’s just gone for a little bit. It’s funny, I have white friends who come up here, and I’m happy to see them, but I just feel like this is a special time for me, and I treasure it, and that’s where I want my children’s focus to be. They have enough of that other stuff all year long.
I wouldn’t say my life here is social. I know there are some people who are very, very social. The thing about being here in this house, because it’s set back off of the main road, when you’re back here it feels like there’s no one else on the island. I forget sometimes how busy it is out there. We can be here and be somewhat secluded. Come out when we want, stay in when we want. We’re as social as we want to be. But we just like being here and being really relaxed, low key. This is our time to just chill out, which we don’t get to do that much. When we’re in the city, it’s just hustle and bustle, and a lot of social stuff. I do some social stuff here. I’m on the board of the NAACP Legal Defense and Educational Fund and every other year we do a fundraiser. I love the LDF and would do anything for them, so that is not an encroachment on my time.
But my time here is precious to me, so I do pull back. There are moments when I don’t answer the phone, and we don’t have an answering machine here, so you can’t leave a message. Catch me if you can, and if you can’t, oh well. This is a place where people are generally respectful of each other’s privacy, it’s the exception when they’re not.
When we go to the Inkwell, there’s a level of expectation that you’re going to be somewhat social. It’s kind of hard to be there and close out everybody, that’s not the place to go to do that. Occasionally, you’ll get people yelling at Spike, but it’s cool. It’s never really outrageous.
I love the whole slowing down here. I just love it that when you drive you yield to pedestrians. It’s funny, because when I first get here I have to get my mind right about it, because I’m so used to that New York mentality. I have to slow it down. No one honks their horn here. And you know, sometimes people are taking their time here. They’re driving and they’re looking over here or over there, but it’s okay, it’s the Vineyard. All these people are walking through the streets, but it’s okay, you just take your time. That’s another thing I love about coming up here, really slowing down and changing the pace, going with my flow.
This may sound kind of morbid, but if I were to be sick, I would love to die here and be buried here. Even though Spike brought me up here, I feel really connected to this place. I was in New York one weekend, and the city felt kind of empty, and it was hot and dirty and icky. I said to Spike, I feel so privileged that I don’t have to be in the city all summer. It’s one of those things you take for granted, but just being there for a few days made me realize, this is privilege. A lot of people may look at our life and presume certain things, but this is really the privilege, being able to come here for the summer. I didn’t really grow up in one place. My father worked for Philip Morris, so we moved around to various subsidiaries. I always kind of felt like a gypsy. It’s funny, we’ve been in our home in New York for four years, and I’m even starting to feel a little restless there. Here feels more like home. The energy is great. The air is great. Being here I really feel like I’m closer to heaven. Being able to run out there along the ocean and back, I feel as if I have a little secret in life. I feel so blessed. This feels like home.
Carrie Camillo Tankard, sixty-eight, has lived on Martha’s Vineyard for over thirty-five years, and raised six children there with her husband, George, a house painter, who died in the summer of 2004. For thirty-three years she worked as a receptionist for Dr. Peter Strock in Vineyard Haven. The grandmother of six, none of her children has made a home on Martha’s Vineyard. A longtime community activist and talented creative artist, Tankard knits, sews, quilts, and makes dolls. In the 1980s she created the African-American Heritage Trail with Elaine Weintraub (www.mvafricanamericanheritagetrail.org).
Carrie: I was born and raised in Newark, New Jersey; my husband grew up in Harlem. We lived in government project buildings, the Hayes Homes, just around the corner from where the Newark riots took place.
In Newark, George ran what he called a mobile luncheonette, like a hot dog truck. He’d go to the parks and different events. The morning the riots began in 1967, even the day before, there was just uneasiness. It was like how they describe the calm before the storm. It just seemed strange, it wasn’t the usual day. When the riots finally broke, it happened at a police station right around the corner from me. Only one of my sons was out of the house, he was seven, and one of those kids who was here, there, and everywhere, a wanderer. But he got home safe. It was quite frightening. Unbelievable to see the fires, the people in the street. Of course we didn’t sleep that night, we just survived.
George’s business was completely disrupted by the riots. Plus, having six children, little children, who ranged in age from two to twelve, living in the area we were in, that was just not the place to be. The devastation, the bullet holes, the broken windows. A friend in the next building stood up to grab one of her
Carrie Camillo Tankard
children who went to the window that night, and she got shot through the neck and died. She had more children than I do.
I moved to Martha’s Vineyard in October of I967.We left right after the riots. The riots were just devastating to watch and be involved in.
George decided that we had to get out of Newark, I didn’t. It’s not that I thought things would return to normal after the riots, no. It’s just like now, after September 11, all this stuff in New York. It’s changed forever, it really has. I like to complete things, and there were some things I needed to do. Being raised inNew Jersey, I had lifelong friendships, from the cradle. All of my family, small as it is, everyone is still in New Jersey. I was involved in the church, the schools; I was president of the PTA at that time. I had a lot of things that I really needed to do. I thought, Why can’t we wait a little bit, let me close up some of these things, then we can go, but he wasn’t waiting. Actually, I feel like he moved and took his children, and I followed them. Moving to Martha’s Vineyard wouldn’t have been my first choice, but George had family on the island.
I remember not long after we got here we took a long ride around the island. At Katama we got out of the car and I looked up when I saw all those waves and said, “Oh my God, this man has brought me to the end of the earth.” I didn’t feel like I really belonged on the island ‘til years and years later.
When we first moved here all the windows weren’t in, we didn’t have any electricity, I cooked on one of those grills, outside, made everything from breakfast to dinner on that thing. The kids were so funny, they all got along so very well when they had to go upstairs in the dark. They went up in twos, and in the morning you’d find them all tangled up in one bed. It wasn’t long before we got electricity put in, a TV and then the usual fights happened. You know how kids are.
The people here were good to us. One woman in particular I cal
l my fairy godmother. We would come home and find all sorts of wonderful things on the porch. Pots, pans, dishes, linens, they’d just be anonymous, but one woman accidentally left her name on a box, so that’s how I found out who she was. There was a real sense of community, there was.
I didn’t have a problem fitting into the community at all, but even now, it’s just not the place I call home. I have no place that I call home right now. I could never go back to Newark, never back to a big city. I find things to do on the Vineyard, but it’s just not for me. I’m adjustable, so I’ve adjusted. I’ve made myself comfortable and found things to do. There are some things that I like about the Vineyard, some things I like to do, but this would not have been my first choice. It’s good for me that my children are dispersed, in Louisiana, Colorado, other parts of Massachusetts, so I can go and visit them. Even when we only came here for a vacation, George got to go and meet people, go to the beach, go to the bar with the fellas, and I got to stay with the children, like I always did. It was the same when we moved here year-round.
When we first came there wasn’t much to get involved in here. They didn’t have this PTO until my children were out of elementary school. They didn’t have a lunch program at the Oak Bluffs School, so I went to a meeting and they were kind of like, how dare you come here and tell us what we’re supposed to do? But I had done my homework and knew that even if they didn’t have room for a cafeteria they were supposed to provide meals and a place for children to eat. Eventually, that got changed.