Written into the land

Black history on Martha’s Vineyard does not begin with a proclamation, nor does it wait for February. It lives in the endurance of families who planted roots in places like Oak Bluffs when permanence was never guaranteed. It exists in the hands that built community long before it was labeled “diverse,” in the joy that bloomed even when belonging came with conditions, and in the resilience required to love an Island that has not always loved Black people back in equal measure. To speak of Black history here is to speak of presence — who stayed, who returned, who fought to be seen, and who continues to shape the civic and cultural fabric of this Island year after year.

During the height of segregation, Oak Bluffs emerged as one of the few coastal communities where Black families could gather, vacation, and eventually purchase property with dignity. What began as refuge became legacy — cottages passed down, porches that became classrooms of memory, land held deliberately in a nation where Black land ownership had long been vulnerable. Access to leisure did not erase discrimination beyond the Island. Oak Bluffs was not simply a postcard destination; it was a site of both reprieve and resistance, where joy and vigilance coexisted.

For many who grew up summering in Oak Bluffs, the town was more than refuge — it was formative. As writer Elizabeth Gates, daughter of scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr., reflected, Oak Bluffs was “a hub of relaxation, and a marker for all my rites of passage.” Summers became chapters in personal and collective memory, where beach gatherings and family homes shaped identity against a national backdrop that often denied Black leisure elsewhere.

Black history on the Vineyard has never existed apart from the broader currents of American history. In the early 1960s, members of the Williamston Freedom Movement from North Carolina visited Martha’s Vineyard, linking Southern protest to Northern refuge and reminding Islanders that sanctuary did not mean separation from struggle. Along the shoreline, Inkwell Beach became a cultural gathering space where Black families assembled, elders mentored, and community identity took visible form. The morning ritual of the Polar Bears — year-round swimmers who brave the Atlantic together — reflects a long-standing Vineyard tradition of fellowship and resilience shared across the community.

In the early 20th century, Oak Bluffs also became a seasonal gathering place for Black professionals, educators, and artists seeking reprieve. The cottages functioned not only as vacation homes but as spaces of conversation, strategy, and cultural exchange. That legacy is preserved through the archival work of the Martha’s Vineyard Museum, whose collections document the generational imprint of Black life on the Island — from photographs and oral histories to land records and community ephemera.

For many African American families with generational ties to the Vineyard, this history is not abstract, it is inherited.

Amber Henry, daughter of Danroy and Angella Henry of the historic Dragonfly House in Oak Bluffs, reflects on what the Island represents to her family: 

This Island has ancestral energy in the most beautiful way. You feel it when you get here. I feel so honored to be a part of something bigger than myself and contribute to my own legacy. This community is simple: come as you are. No frills, no fuss, just you — as you are in this exact moment. That’s what makes it so easy to keep coming back.

For others, including my own family, the story carries a similar weight of intention and preservation.

My grandparents didn’t just buy a house in Oak Bluffs — they bought a future. They bought a place where our family could gather without code-switching, without fear. Holding onto this land has never been easy, but it also has never been optional. It is how we stay rooted.

For many of us, this history is not theoretical. It is tied to grandparents who chose this Island deliberately, not because it was easy, but because it was possible.

Black presence on Martha’s Vineyard has never been sustained by nostalgia alone; it has been organized. The Martha’s Vineyard Branch of the NAACP, established in 1963, created formal mechanisms to address discrimination and advocate for equity on the Island. The Cottagers, founded in 1956 by Black women homeowners in Oak Bluffs, built a legacy of civic engagement, scholarship, and cultural preservation that continues today. These institutions ensured that Black presence here would not simply be seasonal, it would be sustained.

As documented in the Martha’s Vineyard NAACP Centennial Journal, there were no overt signs reading “You are not welcome,” but there were “subtle things happening that would be extremely hard to prove,” particularly in housing and employment. Black residents have often navigated quiet exclusions, from real estate steering to limited rental access and the economic barriers that determine who can remain year-round. Today, rising property taxes and housing scarcity threaten the generational permanence that once defined Black Oak Bluffs.

Any conversation about history and belonging on Martha’s Vineyard must also recognize that this Island is the ancestral homeland of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah). Long before Black families fought for permanence here, Indigenous communities endured displacement, erasure, and the ongoing defense of land and sovereignty. As Aquinnah Wôpanâak youth leader Dejana Gentry reminds us: 

It’s important to acknowledge the history of those who came before us. Acknowledging the Wampanoag past has always been something that lacks the attention it deserves. It’s important to learn the truth, both positive and negative. These lands have been our home since time immemorial, and we are still here, continuing in our culture and inspiring our relatives to be proud of who they are and our ways of life.

For year-round residents, the Island’s history is not only inherited, it is lived in the present tense.

Shanika Fennell, a year-round resident, dance instructor, and realtor, shares:

Being Black on Martha’s Vineyard feels like freedom layered with history. There’s something powerful about experiencing joy in a place where Black excellence and leisure have long coexisted. I carry gratitude for those who made space for us to gather, celebrate, and simply be. For me, the Island represents both legacy and possibility. It’s a reminder that we deserve beauty, peace, and opportunity wherever we plant our roots.

Black life on the Vineyard continues to evolve. Many Jamaicans arrived through seasonal hospitality and J-1 visa programs, filling the kitchens, hotels, and service industries that power the Island’s summer economy — often while navigating housing instability and separation from family.

Chef Lacey Williams of Nyamnz MV expresses:

Jamaican cultural presence on Martha’s Vineyard means resilience, impact, and memory. Many Jamaicans arrived through seasonal work, supporting the Island’s tourism industry, but what we really brought was culture. Through food, we created home in unfamiliar spaces. A plate of jerk chicken isn’t just dinner — it is comfort, identity, and connection. It’s an opportunity to share not just literally but also educationally, gifting our culture to the community here. Through family, it represents sacrifice — parents working summers away from their children to build something greater. And through community, it’s about how we lean on each other — sharing resources, celebrating milestones, grieving losses together. For me personally, it means visibility. It means taking the flavors and traditions I grew up with and giving them a platform — not just as labor, but as legacy.

These histories — Indigenous, African American, Caribbean, Afro-Latina, Afro-Brazilian, African immigrant, and diasporic — are not separate narratives. They are layered truths about who has helped shape this Island and what it has taken to remain. Black life on Martha’s Vineyard is not monolithic. It includes descendants of enslaved people, families who have held land for generations, Caribbean migrants who built community through labor and culture, Afro-Latinas and Afro-Brazilians whose identities bridge continents, and African immigrants who arrived more recently and made home nonetheless. It’s notable that despite all this, many of us are still fighting to be seen and to belong. This is a topic I intend to look more closely at in the coming months.

Black history here is not symbolic, nor is it seasonal. It is written into property deeds fought to be held, into institutions built for protection, into kitchens that turned labor into legacy, and into voices that refuse erasure.

As I wrote in a previous Voices column, “Belonging on this Island has never been accidental for Black families — it has been intentional, defended, and, at times, quietly contested.”

February does not create this history. It asks whether we are willing to acknowledge it fully — and whether we are prepared to protect it.