The Inkwell

We go to a beach called the Inkwell, a nickname that came into existence many years ago. It is a stretch of beach between two jetties where every color permutation of African-Americans come to relax. It is where we have been coming for the past five years, this little stretch of beach facing the Nantucket Sound.

After getting pregnant, I became incredibly nostalgic for the summers of my childhood. In fact, I yearned to feel the tiredness from playing in the salty waters of the Atlantic Ocean the entire day, only coming out to grab a bite of my lunch after countless threats from my mother. I wanted to emulate that carefree spirit of riding my bike along sandy roads for myself, but more importantly I wanted to recreate those traditions for my unborn child. I convinced my husband we needed a summer place--such an East Coast idea--where our child could roam freely, swim all day long, and we could suspend all of our worries associated with raising a child in an urban city, even if only for a few precious weeks. He agreed despite never having had summers remotely like the ones I was aching to replicate. Instead of picking the New Jersey shore, I suggested Martha's Vineyard because of its long history of African-American on the island. So, we came with very little expectation of what it would be like.

The Inkwell was a revelation for us both. It was remarkable to be sitting among so many African-Americans of every color and shape. Families, some who have been coming for generations, sat alongside those of us first-timers. White families sat among all the African-Americans with not a thought to the fact that they were, for a change, a minority. In town, every restaurant worker was not African-American or Latino, but were in fact mostly college students working to cash in on the summer season. There was an egalitarianism on this island, especially in the town of Oak Bluffs that was surprising, to say the least.

To say we fell in love with the freedom we felt is an understatement. For a change, I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that my husband was one of the only black men in this vacation environment. In fact, his color was of little consequence. When a waitress was brusque in the typical manner of a New Englander, I didn't automatically assume it was because I was Asian or my husband was black. I just assumed she was a life-long New Englander with very little time for niceties. When I sat on the beach and saw a women who looked white, I didn't assume she was white since I've now learned the hues of African-Americans spans the entire color spectrum.

Our son has been coming to the Inkwell since he was just ten months old. Our desire for him to feel that a beach full of black people was unexceptional is now his reality. He is not fazed when the beach is teeming with black families, all luxuriating in the rituals of beach life. It was important for us to make sure his consciousness wasn't colored by the delineations that occur in our daily lives.

We do venture to other beaches, but in a pinch we always pick the Inkwell. It is, for our family, where we associate with the Vineyard. After so many years, we now know many of the families on the beach. We see the same families every year. Our 'hellos' are now actual conversations where we exchange information about our lives in tidbits--where do you come from, what do you do, what are your children's names. We go to barbecues and cocktail parties where we catch up with one another and the year that we've had. We email during the rest of the time since many of us live far apart. The emails start gathering speed around April as summer's imminent arrival comes into focus. And there is a rhythm to who comes when and stays for how long. I'm fortunate enough now to stay the entire summer, so I seem to be the one saying hello and good-bye as families come and leave.

Our kids are growing up with each other. Some may get to an age when they will notice each other as more than so and so's son or daughter. I suspect there will be summers when a few may exchange more than sand toys. And if all is right with the world, some may end up at the same universities together. Or better yet, they will be bring their kids to the island, so we, the parents, now grandparents, can coo and admire this next generation. I feel fortunate to be creating this legacy for our son all started on this strip of beach called the Inkwell.