Like many people, I always thought of Martha’s Vineyard as a rich, white club — somewhere I didn’t belong. I was ignorant of the complex African-American history that existed here, and in so many enclaves within America. As a child growing up in a predominantly white community, I was often asked where I was “really” from, almost as a pejorative to insinuate that I didn’t belong. When I discovered the legacy that existed in Oak Bluffs, though, it reinforced the message that as Black people we are an intrinsic part of America’s narrative. This tiny corner of Massachusetts is more than a summer getaway — it represents the kind of freedom that our ancestors fought for. It represents home, belonging and the meaning of community.

-Genelle Levy

What is your vision of Black liberation?

Is there a place in the United States where Black people can experience a kind of freedom our ancestors fought for?

While there are many definitions of Black liberation, they all boil down to freeing Black people from multiple forms of political, economic, social, and religious subjugation so that we can live our best lives individually and collectively. But when I ponder the concept, I don’t get stuck considering the treacherous path to freedom; instead, I luxuriate in what it will look, smell, taste, and feel like when liberation is achieved. 

When I consider and apply the concept practically, I envision leisurely Black people who echo all shades of our ancestry dancing under a clear night sky. The landscape is decorated with string lights, freshly cut grass, and palm trees swaying in a gentle breeze. In this vision, I see young kids giggling as some play chase and others toss around sports balls. There are teenagers huddled around seniors, exchanging stories about their childhood and reminiscing on old times. Groups of Black women dancing, some with cocktails in their hands, others with babies on their hips. Everyone is safe, no one questions their belonging, and everyone has everything they need. 

A Safe Haven

Martha’s Vineyard has long been a summer sanctuary for Black people, hosting our history and cultivating generations of joy on an island that stretches less than 20 miles long. I didn’t grow up vacationing on the vineyard, and what little I’d heard from family and friends who frequently frolicked there seemed so profoundly steeped in wealth and elitism that I questioned if I would fit in. A last-minute work trip sent me to the island in the middle of Black August, and while I’d feverishly turned down vineyard invitations for years, this felt more like divine intervention. 

The island bears witness to so much of our history, from the first enslaved Africans who were sold and probated on the isle to Shearer Cottage, a Black-owned inn established in 1912 and listed in the Green Book that served as a haven for vacationing Black families who were not welcomed at other establishments. 

Welcome Home 

History’s affair with the present was palatable during my first walk in downtown Edgartown, the oldest settlement on the Vineyard. With its pristine white, perfectly preserved homes, brick-laid sidewalks, and bike shops every few feet, I felt like I was walking in opulence by just strolling the sidewalks. But then I noticed that nearly every Black person I saw winked, smiled, or hugged me. Curious, I wondered if folks were mistaking me for a celebrity.  I soon realized it was simply because we shared a unique experience: we were Black people enjoying a leisurely stroll on a sidewalk in Martha’s Vineyard. Suddenly, those hugs, winks, and smiles translated into an unspoken whisper that sounded like “Welcome Home.” 

As the host walked us to our dinner table at the Atlantic Restaurant, I resisted the urge to snap a photo of Black luminaries like Kisha Lance-Bottoms, the former mayor of Atlanta, who was casually enjoying dinner with colleagues and friends. She noted my quiet excitement and effortlessly invited me into a quick conversation about the beauty of the island and our plans for the days ahead. She didn’t talk to me like she was the former senior advisor to the President of the United States; instead, she seemed to regard me as the latest arrival at her family reunion. 

We met friends at Nomans, and I approached the expansive green lawn decorated with string lights, lush trees, and long wooden tables. There may have been more than 500 Black people dancing under a night sky, some doing a classic two-step, others twerking, and a few strolling, as the DJ played everything from Kool & The Gang to Sexyy Red. Babies swayed on hips, seniors dipped their hips, and everyone danced, drank, and ate without a care in the world. It all felt normal, as if every day of our Black lives, we had the space and freedom to gather with joyful hearts and relaxed minds. 

We walked around Oak Bluff the next day, admiring the gingerbread cottages. On this side of the island, the Black people didn’t just wink and wave; they spoke. “Great Day, Black People” onlookers said with full smiles as they rocked on patio chairs. In Ocean Park, children were peacefully playing ball and flying kites. Their parents didn’t seem close by, but the kids didn’t notice or mind. They looked safe; they felt safe. A little boy, no older than 5, was trailing behind his soccer ball, his nose running as quickly as he was. Without notice, a woman in her mid-70’s rushes behind him, gently asking him to blow into the tissue in her hands, promising it will make him feel better and kick harder. He hurriedly complied. She gingerly wiped his nose and face before continuing her walk. That wasn’t his mother; that wasn’t even a family member. She was just a Black woman caring for a Black child. 

We lounged at the Inkwell, a beach in Oaks Bluffs that now embraces the disparaging tone of white residents who coined the name to describe the skin tone of Black families who frequented the shore. On the beach, teens were tossing footballs, babies were making sand castles, and adults were making new beach friends and sharing stories of old and present times. I felt safe on a beach 500 miles away from home. 

A New Resistance

My experience on the Vineyard taught me that cultivating our own spaces to gather, lounge, and celebrate is a vital form of resistance. When we prioritize community care, leisure over labor, and family over origin story, we are, in fact, liberating ourselves.

I’ve been to the Inkwell. I saw Black people flourishing joyously on the Vineyard. I witnessed true community. My vision of Black liberation now has a marker. I can point to a place now where you can see what liberated Black people are capable of. 

Even if only for a few days in August.