17 Apr NiteCap Journal: Do We Love St. John Beyond A Fantasy?

In all honesty, I don’t know. 

I’ve spent the past several years advocating on behalf of the Virgin Islands, reiterating to the larger world that we’re more than a postcard whose story matters within the geopolitical sphere. 

However, every time St. John is mentioned I’m at a lost for words. The awkwardness happens when I land on St. Thomas and overhear the tourists, mainly US mainlanders bemoaning my native island’s urban sprawl. 

“Oh we’ve been coming to St. Thomas for years, but it’s gotten just too fast paced. It’s like being back in New York,” is the usual complaint. “That’s why we head straight to St. John. We don’t even stop to shop on Main Street anymore.”

Another long-time visitor to St. Thomas chimes in:

“And the crime?! Sheesh, my buddy owns a restaurant down in Cruz Bay. His name is Bob. Tell him Tom sent you. The chef makes the best fungi.” 

I shake my head. 

We ain ask ayo to come here.

After noticing my angst, their conversation ends abruptly. However, they’re not the issue.

I am.

Like them, I too once found an escape in St. John, the place I’ve long considered to be the perfect paradise. Like them, I’m not sure if St. John mattered to me in real life as much as it did in the fantasy I believed in. Ironically, one of the island’s wealthiest neighborhoods is in fact called Peter Bay.

So can you blame me for fantasizing?

My introduction to the island began amid much humbler and sobering beginnings as the violence on St. Thomas led me to retreat to St. John on weekends where the basketball games on Pine Peace Court were void of incessant gun play.

However, my other motivation for being over there was of course a girl who I eventually ended up taking to the high school prom. Since the majority of St. Johnians attended my high school, Ivanna Eudora Kean on St. Thomas, I saw my St. Johnian peers as an extension of us Tomians. My classmate Maurice always made sure to take care of me and anyone I brought over. This usually entailed making sure I had a place to stay in case I missed the last boat back to St. Thomas after a night of partying on Oppenheimer Beach. 

In fact, Moe once again made sure I was taken care of several months ago, this time after I missed the last boat back to St. Thomas while filming Unbreakable 2.0. 

It’s why I’m happy to see him take his love of basketball and turn it into an intramural basketball league that has created a positive outlet for youth. 

For many Virgin Islanders, heading to St. John was the exotic vacation we could afford. The 15-minute ferry ride signaled a passage to a magical world where deer and donkeys roamed freely. Even the mongoose on Trunk Bay seemed friendlier than those on Magens.

It never dawned on me until recently how inconvenient it must be for St. Johnians to reside on an island void of a high school, large supermarket and hospital. 

I guess such basic modern developments would make this magical paradise a real place, so like Anguilla, St. Barts and other islands catering to the uber rich, St. John’s future has been left to fantasy. 

It’s also why I never learned about Fortsberg- the sight of the first successful slave uprising in the New World which occurred in the shadows of Cruz Bay – until just several years ago. 

The Fortsberg tour led by historian Gilbert Sprauve is one every Virgin Islander and history enthusiast should frequent. The film Our Island, Our Home on the life of Virgin Islands icon Theovald Moorehead also gives insight into St. John’s layered and complex history. The documentary, produced by his daughter Theodora Moorehead and Crystal Fortwangler, details Moorhead’s fight to protect St. Johnians’ ancestral lands from the National Park Service.  

I can still remember sitting at a popular bar in Cruz Bay with Dr. Hadiya Sewer, Kurt Marsh Jr. and Zarah Rose after my Unbreakable screening hosted by the St. John Film Society at Baja el Sol Gallery back in 2019. We discussed the uprising, St. John’s role within the VI diaspora and gentrification redefining the island.

The conversation on that fateful spring evening was unforgettable, not only because of the insight gained from these progressive Virgin Islanders, but also because we were surrounded by French fries, Budweiser and drunken tourists shouting odes to shots of Fireballs. 

These days the scene in Cruz Bay mirrors Coconut Grove – Miami’s historically oldest neighborhood that was founded by Bahamians – now turned hip, affluent entertainment district.  Upon my arrival to the dock, I often see the passengers from my flight. By now, they’ve already indulged in one too many shots so they’re more raucous in their revelry of St. John. They party on unfazed by my apparent frustration and that of the locals who now look out of place in this island’s future. 

My last visit to Maho Bay where I go to snorkel amid green turtles left me traumatized after hearing about the exploits of one tourist who thought it cool to ride on the back of one unlucky turtle as if simulating sex with the endangered species.

I can’t be upset. 

After all, they also have all right to indulge in the fantasy of St. John we as Virgin Islanders created. 

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