by ReShonda Tate
Let me start by saying I am by no means a Martha’s Vineyard expert. I’ve only been coming to the Vineyard for seven years, which probably makes me a newcomer to the people whose families have been coming here for generations. In fact, the first time my girlfriend Victoria suggested I come, I looked at her like she’d suggested we spend our vacation watching paint dry.
“Martha’s Vineyard? Really? What’s there to do? That sounds boring.”
I went anyway, traveling with a group of writer friends, and it turned out that the “nothing to do” I was so worried about became exactly what I fell in love with.
I fell in love with lazy days on the porch and discovered that rocking chairs are severely underrated. I fell in love with writing while the rain came down outside, going to the film festival, walking through Oak Bluffs, and spending time with people without feeling like we needed an itinerary for every minute of the day.
Sitting on the porch and waving at people really is a thing on the Vineyard. You see somebody you know walking by, and they stop to talk. You meet somebody you don’t know, and five minutes later you’re talking like you do. Friends stop by. Somebody brings food. Somebody knows somebody you went to college with. Somebody’s cousin went to school with your cousin, and before long, you’ve established six degrees of Black people separation.
The Vineyard became my sanctuary.
And then, somewhere along the way, it started changing. Or at least I thought it did.
Social media brought another element to the Vineyard. There seemed to be more parties, more events, more people, and definitely more expenses. This summer, my social media feed was filled with flyers promoting another brunch, day party, panel, mixer, concert, dinner, or event that apparently I need to attend if I want to properly experience Martha’s Vineyard.
Influencers were EVERYWHERE, touting how Martha’s Vineyard was THE place to be.
And with all of that came the complaints.
People complained that the Vineyard had become too crowded. Too commercial. Too expensive. Too much about being seen. Too many people coming to the parties instead of what made this place special in the first place.
This year, I even saw something I had never seen during my relatively short time coming here. Circuit Avenue looked like Bourbon Street.
People were dancing in the street. Red Solo cups were everywhere. And don’t get me started on some of what I saw people wearing at the Polar Bears.
I will admit it: I was momentarily appalled.
On one hand, I absolutely loved seeing all that Black joy. There was something beautiful about seeing Black people filling the streets, laughing, dancing, and enjoying themselves in a place where our history runs so deep.
On the other hand, I was looking around thinking, “Wait. What is happening to my Vineyard?”
My Vineyard. That’s the funny part.
Because apparently I had been coming for all of seven years and had already claimed ownership of what the Martha’s Vineyard experience was supposed to be.
Then I had a conversation that checked me. Someone who had been coming to the Vineyard much longer than I have listened to the complaints about how much things have changed and essentially said, “You do realize people said the same thing about you all, right?”
Excuse me?
They talked about the Vineyard of the ’70s and the ’90s and how different each era had been. Then came another wave in the early 2000s, when many of us were coming up, throwing parties and bringing our own energy to the island.
And guess what? Some of the Vineyard veterans looked at us exactly the way some of us are now looking at the social media generation.
That’s when I realized there may not be one Martha’s Vineyard that everybody is somehow ruining. There are generations of Martha’s Vineyard, and every generation falls in love with its version, then gets a little irritated when the next group shows up and loves it differently.
That doesn’t mean every complaint is wrong. Is the Vineyard exactly what it was when I first started coming seven years ago? No.
Are the crowds and commercialization sometimes more than I personally care for? Absolutely.
Do I sometimes look at the prices and wonder whether the lobster roll comes with a small ownership stake in the restaurant? Also yes.
But here’s the other thing I’ve realized: I still have a choice.
Nobody is making me go to every party or buy a ticket to every event. Nobody is making me stand in a crowded place because that’s where everybody on Instagram says I’m supposed to be. I can still enjoy the Vineyard the way I fell in love with it.
And maybe that’s what those of us complaining about what Martha’s Vineyard has become need to remember. Nothing stays the same. Our neighborhoods don’t. Our churches don’t. Our favorite restaurants don’t. The places we vacation don’t. We don’t.
Sometimes our disappointment isn’t really that a place has changed. It’s that we want it to remain frozen exactly as it was when we fell in love with it.
I understand that feeling because I feel some of it myself. There are things about the Vineyard experience I would gladly rewind. But I also recognize what a blessing it is that we can even come here and complain.
And maybe some of these changes are an opportunity to rediscover what we loved in the first place.
So maybe instead of going wherever everybody goes to be seen, we sit on the porch with our spouses, our children, or a handful of people we actually like.
Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized there aren’t really two Martha’s Vineyards. There are probably dozens of them.
There’s the Vineyard of the people who came in the ’70s. The Vineyard of the people who discovered it in the ’90s. The Vineyard some remember from the early 2000s. There’s the Vineyard I fell in love with seven years ago, and there’s the Vineyard this new generation is discovering through TikTok and Instagram.
And none of us gets to declare that ours is the only authentic one.
What we can do is decide what we want Martha’s Vineyard to be for us. If you want the parties, go party. If you want the networking events, network. If you want to go to the film festival, go see the films. If you want to dance down Circuit Avenue with a red Solo cup in your hand, apparently, there is now a Vineyard for that, too.
And if what you want is the Martha’s Vineyard I fell in love with, where friends become family, strangers speak to one another, and an afternoon on a porch can somehow become the best part of your vacation, I promise you that Vineyard is still here.
You may just have to walk past the crowd to find it. The Vineyard is whatever you make it. So make it what you want it to be. Life is too short to spend your time unhappy in a place that’s supposed to be your happy place.