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Even the simplest definition - an inhabitant of the island of Martha's Vineyard - is a contentious bone on which to tug. Many native-born Islanders argue that to be put on par with a wash-ashore is nothing short of slander. Some from old-time Island families contend theirs is a higher pedigree than those born here from wash-ashore parents. The late Fred Fisher once said, "Just 'cause the cat crawled into the oven to have her kittens, don't make 'em biscuits." And he wasn't even born here. We are - for lack of a better modifier - diverse. The Wampanoag Tribe sees itself as another nation. And the Brazilians see themselves as Americans. Those on East Chop believe they live in a town of their own. Some in West Tisbury still think Martha's Vineyard won its petition for statehood in the 1970s. And then there's the stampede of summer day-trippers who think the Island is like Disneyland and closes after Labor Day. All contribute something of their personalities and quirks to the Island definition. The contrast of summer and winter also contributes to the Island character. In summer, the Vineyard bustles with people from around the country, each here for different reasons and agendas. Edgartown summers shimmer with whitewashed houses and bleached tennis uniforms, while flip-flops are de rigueur footwear at up-Island weddings. Oak Bluffs rattles with bouncing basketballs and thumping basses. Since I am an Islander, born and raised here, I grew up around this diversity of people and their kids. You can meet kids everywhere on Martha's Vineyard during the summer. We'd all become fast friends, either because the family was renting in my neighborhood, or we played basketball together in Oak Bluffs, or we'd just meet up walking down Main Street with nothing to do except breathe in the soft summer night. We'd cut our feet on barnacles as we ran along the harbor jetties. We'd throw harmless watermelon jellyfish at each other at State Beach and wash the salt water out of our mouths with frozen lemonade from a beach vendor's stand. Then school would start, and I'd never see them again. In this way, Island summers are a little like Las Vegas: "What happens here, stays here." Walking down the streets of my hometown, I might not recognize a face for an entire day. I could assume a new personality, change it the next day, and no one would notice or care. I was free to experience things that maybe I was too timid to try around my year-round friends. It was during summer that I had my first kiss, went to my first beach party, and learned how to accumulate spit with the right consistency to launch it ten feet.
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Finding a single definition for an Islander is like trying to fit too many socks into a dresser. The drawer can't be closed tight enough without one falling out.