There is a story beneath the surface of the places we call home. On Martha’s Vineyard, that story begins long before summer traditions, generational homes, and the memories many of us hold close. It begins with Noepe — the land between the streams — and the Wampanoag people who have lived in relationship with this land for centuries.
Earth Month often asks us to think about how we treat the land and the role we play in protecting it. But care requires context. It begins with truth — and with asking not only how we treat the land, but how we understand it, and whose voices we center when we tell its story. To understand the land, we have to listen to the people who have always been in relationship with it.
For the Wampanoag community, that relationship is not theoretical. It is lived, carried through generations and responsibility. Juli Vanderhoop, a member of the Wampanoag Tribe of Gay Head (Aquinnah), offers a perspective that reframes everything we think we know about care: “The land asks nothing — but gives so much.” It is a simple statement, but one that holds weight.
Because in a world that is constantly asking for more — more growth, more production, more consumption — the land has remained steady in what it offers. It gives us food to eat, water to drink, and a place to live. And still, we take. That imbalance — between what is given and what is taken — is where the disconnect begins. Vanderhoop speaks to it not with abstraction, but with clarity: “People who are not humbled by that magnificence just keep taking.” It is not the act of taking itself that she questions, but the absence of awareness that often comes with it, the lack of pause and consideration.
At the center of it all is a question that feels both simple and urgent: “Is this necessary?”
Not just in what we build, or buy, or consume — but in how we move through the land each day. Because what we are witnessing is not just growth. It is not just development. It is, as Vanderhoop describes, “a machine that just consumes.”
For the Wampanoag people, this way of living has never been about excess — it has always been about balance: “We’ve only ever taken what we needed.”
It is a principle rooted in understanding that the land is not a resource to be exhausted, but a relationship to be honored. A responsibility carried not just in the present, but forward — into generations not yet here.
That responsibility is something that continues to live within the next generation.
Soraya Randolph, 18, a senior at Martha’s Vineyard Regional High School and a member of the Aquinnah Wampanoag community, speaks to a connection that is both inherited and deeply personal: “One thing that is extremely embedded in our beliefs as Wampanoag people is that this land is not just home to us … but to all species.” Her words echo the same understanding Vanderhoop describes, but they also carry a quiet urgency shaped by what she is witnessing in real time. “It’s really hard … to see the mistreatment of the land — from littering across the Island to rare natural habitats being destroyed for expansions on summer homes.”
There is also a difference in how the land is seen, and who gets to define that vision. For many, Martha’s Vineyard represents escape. A place of beauty, wealth, and seasonal ease. But Soraya offers a reframing that pulls us beneath the surface: “When people think about Martha’s Vineyard, they envision wealth and a hidden paradise. When I think about it, I think about Noepe — a small, overlooked fishing island with lots of passion that is often struggling behind closed doors.”
It is a reminder that a place is not just what is visible — it is what is lived. And within that lived experience is a way of thinking that stretches far beyond the present moment. “I was raised to always think seven generations ahead … and from where I’m standing, my descendants won’t have much of a home to feel connected to.”
In a time where decisions are often made for what is convenient now, her words carry a different kind of urgency — one rooted not in immediate gain, but in long-term responsibility: “If people continue to concern themselves with what’s convenient now instead of what’s needed for the future, then future generations will have to work twice as hard to clean up our mess before it’s too late.”
That relationship to the land does not exist in isolation — it shows up in how we gather, the ways we eat, and how we move through daily life. In “The Martha’s Vineyard Cookbook,” author Julia Blanter reflects on what it means to engage with the Island through food, not just as tradition, but as responsibility. “We have so much to learn from our Wampanoag community, the stewards of this land, with their deep respect for land and sea,” she says. Her work is rooted in honoring that connection. Through stories of foraging, sharing, and sourcing locally, she points to something deeper than recipes: “That spirit of gathering and sharing is one I hope people take with them and embody wherever they are.”
But that spirit also requires intention. “I didn’t include salmon recipes, for example, because we are lucky to have dozens of native species in our waters, with local fishermen working so hard, so why import fish from the other side of the world?” It is a question that echoes Vanderhoop’s earlier reflection, “Is this necessary?” but reframed through everyday choices: to eat locally, to know where food comes from, and to understand the hands that bring it to the table. “Educate yourself on local ingredients and foodways by having a conversation with elders, at the farm stand, at the fish market, and with your neighbors,” she adds. Because even in something as routine as a meal, there is an opportunity to be in relationship with the land, and to be accountable to it. “Respecting the seasons and our culinary community is my guiding principle here on Martha’s Vineyard. I’m acutely aware of food waste; it feels disrespectful not to use every scrap when you personally know the hard-working people who bring this food to our tables. And every dollar I spend locally goes directly into the pockets of our farmers, fishermen, and food artisans, staying in our community rather than funding corporate interests.”
But even with everything we’ve heard and come to understand, the reality remains difficult to ignore.This is not just about how we treat the land; it is about who is able to remain on it. Juli spoke to that reality with a truth that cannot be softened: “As Wampanoag people, we can no longer afford to live on our own land.” On an Island that so many experience as a place of beauty, rest, and escape, there are still communities whose roots run deepest struggling to stay. And what does it mean to celebrate the land without acknowledging who is being pushed from it? What does it mean to preserve something while simultaneously contributing to its loss? These are not easy questions, but as Vanderhoop noted, they were never meant to be: “This is not the way… we are trying to survive.”
Maybe that is where Earth Month needs to shift — away from surface-level conversations about sustainability and toward something more honest, grounded, and accountable. Because the land does not need a moment; it needs a relationship. One rooted not in convenience, but in care. Not in consumption, but in understanding. Not in taking, but in knowing when enough is enough.
There is a story beneath the surface of every place we call home. And on this Island, that story is still being lived — through the voices of those who have always been in relationship with it, the choices we make every day, and the generations who will inherit what we leave behind. So maybe the question is not how much more the land can give us, but whether we are finally ready to listen to what it has been showing us all along.
Thank you! Beautifully written with an important message.