To the Editor:
To be from a place was once thought to be part of a person’s essence, as quintessential as their bones, flesh, and blood. My life here on this Island is now one of shame, as I regard a bleak and souless future for my community, dominated by addiction, suicide, and vapid consumerism. Before she hung up on me, the representative of the town of Tisbury told me that I needed to submit to the state in order to receive permission to put on a concert of music that I composed at the Katharine Cornell Theater. Her rude cadence and abrasive tone are exemplary of the new form of “Islander” — a form that causes me to regret my life spent on the same Island on which I buried my father.