I’ve had this experience many times: I’m in the city, I say I have to leave to catch my boat, they ask where I live, I say Vashon … and their eyebrows raise and their head tilts back slightly, as if to say, “Ah, that explains everything; now I understand…”

Oh, do you now? People seem to have strong, if not terribly coherent, notions of the Vashon character.  

It’s worth pondering — what is a typical Islander, a classic Vashonite? Does such a beast exist? If so, who/what are they? How do they think, talk, eat? And whoa, am I one?

Let’s work through the clichés.

Hippieville: Oh, give me a break; there are nine hippies left. When we moved to Vashon 21 years ago, well after the hippie dictatorship, I was lumped in with my artist, hippie-like associates (they weren’t). I was the only short-haired, khaki-wearing, corporate client-seeking hippie, ever. 

Healthy: OK, this is true, generally. I’ve never even been a vegetarian, except for four months in 1993 when I lost 20 pounds and could hide in an open field by turning sideways. I tried the anti-inflammatory diet, too, but cutting wheat and dairy inflamed my sense of injustice in the world. No offense to its 1.3 million devotees on the Island, but I have returned to a diet typified by brie on a croissant, with butter. 

Liberal/Progressive: Sure, that’s obvious enough. But there’s a healthy contingent of conservatives, libertarians, fundamentalists, anarchists, heck, maybe even communists and Moaists rebels. In gardening, that’s called “hybrid vigor.” 

Pet-crazy: Ya think? We’re just shy of France, where they bring poodles into restaurants and then Fifi sends back the flank steak if it’s too tough. I have dogs, but they seem more Vashon than me: a neurotic, guilt-ridden, workaholic border collie and a carefree doofus great dane that licks and destroys everything in his path. VIPP would totally vote me off the Island for the way I scream at them. Sorry, bad me, very un-Vashon.

Nonviolent Com-municators: Definitely big here, and I would like to be one some day. Last year, a guy in a Mercedes pulled around the school bus and drove past us when my daughter was getting out. I wanted to smash his baby poop-colored labor of love with a sledge-hammer. But I didn’t have one, and he was something like 80, so I made a mental note to confront him in town and emotionally process the episode. Wait, that’s very Vashon; one point for me.

Open-minded: Totally, and me, too. I love conversations that bounce around from the failure of government to corporate greed to obesity rates to bodily functions in yoga class. I’ll consider all possible solutions. Sometimes I can hear the wind rushing through my ears.

Deliverance: Hey, that’s not fair. We do live in the woods, so no one can hear me scream. I don’t scream, but you couldn’t hear me if I did. We live next to the firing range. This makes my wife comfortable, since she’s from New York.

Hermits: No, we’re a very social people. But sometimes, a little urban anonymity would be nice. If I avoid you in Thriftway, it’s not that I don’t like you; I just don’t like you at that moment.

So, after all that, I’m not sure if I’m typical or not. 

I am sure there’s something wild and, dare I say, world-redeeming about a place where I can be a sometimes-member of the Catholic Church, the Sportsman’s Club and the Union of Anarchist Artists (I made that one up) all in one day, with no sense of schizophrenia. 

Maybe there is no “type” on Vashon. Maybe lots of us are both enlightened activists and Cheese Whiz-munching, apathetic couch potatoes. 

As Walt Whitman said: “Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large, I contain multitudes.”

This is a place big enough for all of the voices in your head. Let them talk and work it out, and then send that solution everywhere in the world. No, wait, don’t. They’ll build a bridge.

Let’s just have a potluck. Bring vegan salad, I’ll bring spare ribs. You’ll love ’em.

— Kevin Joyce, a performer, producer and teacher, runs EnJoy Productions with Martha Enson.