Parham Vineyard We Knew

A Recollection of Summers on Martha's Vineyard
1. Auflage 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9849485-2-9
Verlag: Pria Publishing
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 320 Seiten

Kevin Parham has spent summers on Martha's Vineyard for over fifty years. He shares his experiences on the island through a series of vignettes that are very personal, but also universal. They open up to a reader a world that many of them will not know, but one they will still recognize. The story takes place in the turbulent 1960s-under humble circumstances-when America's social and political landscapes were evolving. The Vineyard We Knew is almost elegiac in nature, in that it creates a sense of nostalgia, even in a reader who had never been there.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Parham, Kevin

Leseproben

Chapter 1

Beginnings

My siblings and I grew up in West Medford, Massachusetts, a close-knit African American community a few miles northwest of Boston. Like most kids, we eagerly looked forward to getting out of school for the summer because that was the time we got to do what we wanted. Our only challenge was to decide what to do on a particular day, and sometimes we took the entire day to make a decision. Should we hang out at Dugger Park or go to the Community Center? How about swimming at Sandy Beach or fishing from the banks of the Mystic Lakes? Perhaps we could play a game of baseball or football at one of the fields in the neighborhood. The possibilities were endless, and we had the whole summer ahead of us. Right?

Not so fast.

Soon after the final bell rang at the end of the school year, my mother—a forthright woman of medium build with a pretty round face and big brown eyes—packed our bags for the annual summer-long trip to our grandmother’s on Martha’s Vineyard. As a child, I could not fathom why Ma sent us there; now that I am an adult, there is no question as to the reason why.

My family’s visits to Martha’s Vineyard began when my mother, Beatrice, and her siblings—Florence, Harry, and Lawrence Gamble—were brought to the island as teenagers by their mother, Carrie, in the late 1930s. They lived on Munroe Street in Roxbury, Massachusetts, just off Humboldt Avenue and not far from the tiny “upper-class” black section of town known as Sugar Hill. My grandmother looked forward to getting her children temporarily away from the city, where the mean streets could be unforgiving, even for a modest family such as theirs. They made the trip to the Vineyard each year, and over time, developed a unique love for the place—one that remained strong for over three-quarters of a century.

My mother’s younger brother, Lawrence, had been seduced by the night life in Boston, and he enjoyed the spoils inherent in that lifestyle. Through a chance encounter while patronizing a local nightclub one evening, Uncle Lawrence befriended a then-unknown but charismatic young man named Malcolm Little, who happened to be staying with a sister at the time. Lawrence and Malcolm occasionally hung out together, and, when they weren’t running the streets, they sometimes ended up at my grandmother’s house. Malcolm conducted himself with the utmost courtesy and respect in the presence of my grandmother and her daughters each time he visited their home.

Two years later, Malcolm moved from Boston to Harlem, where he embarked on a tumultuous journey down a road that led to a life of crime for which he was sent back to Boston and incarcerated. While in prison, Malcolm made constructive use of his time by reading every book he could get his hands on; his insatiable appetite for learning turned him into a self-educated man.

When he was released from prison six years later, Malcolm had been completely transformed. He had discovered a path to enlightenment and redemption, and ultimately went on to become one of the most articulate and outspoken advocates for black people in the United States. For twelve years hence, Malcolm Little emblazoned his mark on history and fulfilled his destiny as a minister in the Nation of Islam under the name of Malcolm X. It is believed Malcolm X was one among many notable individuals to have visited Martha’s Vineyard.

In the summer of 1955, when I was ten months old, my mother first brought me to Oak Bluffs, one of six small towns on the island of Martha’s Vineyard. Back then, my family—Ma; my sister, Joanne; my brother, Chuck; and I—traveled by train from South Station in Boston to get to the ferry in Woods Hole.

While living in Medford, my mother—divorced with three children—had to search for any employment she could find to support our family. At one time, she worked at Raytheon Electronics, where she soldered circuit boards on an assembly line. That particular job lacked stability, and the income she earned was inconsistent due to the frequent layoffs and callbacks characteristic of that type of work. A few years later, her perseverance paid off when she secured a job with the Commonwealth of Massachusetts working as an attendant on the third shift at the Walter E. Fernald State School, a place that housed individuals afflicted with mental disabilities.

Ma and Kevin

A dedicated and hardworking woman, she did her best to provide for us, even if it meant she personally had to do without. Because of her determination to stick to a budget, she always managed to put a few dollars away from each paycheck. Ma never allowed herself to be defined by material possessions, for, with unrelenting discipline, she followed strict fiscal principles in order to make ends meet. She went to great lengths to teach us the importance of “paying yourself first” and “living below your means” if we were to ever have anything in this life.

My mother was an introvert by nature, unassuming and with a quiet temperament, but all hell broke loose when she was driven to the edge, for she was quick-witted, and even sarcastic at times, because of her determination to tell it like it was.

And Ma was very protective of her children, which explains why I ended up on Martha’s Vineyard.

To ensure that my brother, sister, and I were properly cared for while we were out of school and our mother was at work, we stayed with our grandmother on the Vineyard every summer from June until Labor Day.

Uncle John, Charlene, and Auntie

My mother’s sister, Florence, whom we called “Auntie,” was an attractive woman of medium build with a rich brown complexion and flowing, dark brown hair. She was married, had two children, and lived in Boston. Auntie worked as a hairdresser at a local beauty salon, and she enjoyed the social interaction that came with the job. My aunt wore fashionable clothes and attended various events around the city whenever she could, for she was an excellent dancer, had an outgoing personality, and loved to have a good time with family and friends.

My aunt’s husband, John Guess, was a tall, boisterous, fairskinned man from Louisville, Kentucky, who worked at the General Electric plant. Uncle John had a colorful personality, and the timbre of his voice made him sound as if he were yelling at you when he spoke. One of his passions was playing the trumpet, and he spent many hours at home in the living room blowing to Louie Armstrong’s or Miles Davis’s albums on the record player.

Their two children, Charlene and Vincent, and their adopted niece, Carmella, came to the island for the summer, too, which meant that all of us cousins were together under the care of our grandmother, Carrie White.

During the 1950s and ’60s, Martha’s Vineyard had not yet become the popular vacation destination it is today. Located seven miles off the coast of Cape Cod, the island was so remote back then, it could just as easily have been a thousand miles away. In those days, you could drive down to the boat, purchase your tickets, and get your car on board immediately; advance reservations were not necessary because there were no standby lines, no crowds, and hardly ever any hassles. The lifestyle was laid back, and people you encountered were always friendly and willing to help out whether you were looking for information or just needed a hand.

Ma and Cool

The month of June had arrived, and, once again, we found ourselves preparing to leave for the Vineyard. But, this time, we were going to be riding in a car driven by my stepfather, John Henry Hammonds, whom we nicknamed “Cool” because he was, or so he thought.

Cool was a quiet, robust man with a dark complexion and balding head. Born and raised in Columbus, Georgia, he moved to Massachusetts in the 1950s and met my mother at Raytheon Electronics, where he worked as an electrical tester. In 1959, Cool and my mother were married, and, shortly thereafter, my younger sister, Deirdre, was born.

John Henry was a habitual smoker of Pall Mall and Philip Morris cigarettes, and he enjoyed the taste of a cold beer as well as a nip from Old Crow whiskey. Cool was the type who stayed in the background, leaning against the kitchen counter, propped up on his elbows, while quietly listening to what was being discussed. If so inclined, he would interject his opinion into the conversation and then abruptly disappear from the room before you had a chance to respond.

My stepfather, being from the South, loved his southern food. He ate a steady diet of collard greens, black-eyed peas and rice, chitterlings, pigs’ feet, pig ears, oxtails, okra, and corn bread. At dinnertime, Cool sat at the kitchen table with a bottle of Tabasco sauce or Frank’s Red Hot Sauce within his reach. Only a few drops of either of these condiments made the food taste so hot, he would sweat profusely and had to wipe his brow with a handkerchief while he ate. I found it curious that he actually enjoyed his meals under such circumstances.

It was a glorious Saturday morning when we left for the Vineyard, and, as my stepfather’s white ’57 Buick wagon—loaded down with the family, luggage, and anything else that could be crammed into it—cruised down the expressway, a warm, humid breeze blended with the exhaust fumes and circulated through the open car windows. The seventy-three-mile trip to Cape Cod took about two hours to complete, and, by the time we arrived in Woods Hole, we were soaked in perspiration from sitting on the worn vinyl seats that absorbed the warmth from the...