In ninth grade English class, at Martha’s Vineyard Regional High School, I argued that there should be a McDonald’s on the island on which I took residence. This was possibly the stupidest argument I have ever made, yet no one saw fit to talk me out of it — and, mom, dad, there were chances — which was a testament to my relative newness to the island. I had moved to the Vineyard from the D.C. suburbs three years earlier, so I played dumb at the inherent island-sinking evil in my argument. It did not escape my classmates. I was hacking away at the foundation of Vineyard life, which was now my life. What was wrong with me? And more importantly, how did I get a debate partner?

My teammate’s name was Shawn, and he was the token “Kill Your Television” touting, anarchy-patch-bearing-beret-sporting misanthrope of my class. He was also wicked smaht. Our opponents were also friends of mine, as all four of us came from the feeder elementary school in West Tisbury; nonetheless, things got ugly real quick. McDonald’s was, and is, a symbol of everything the Vineyard is not: common, dirty, accessible. The island is unique, clean and insulated. We had hit a nerve, but we were solidly losing the debate until our opponent took our little McDonald’s leaflets — the ones featuring nutritional information — and took a hatchet to the ingredient list, emphasizing each one’s obvious wickedness.

Somehow, they tripped upon one that Shawn, apparently a 14-year-old nutrition expert, identified as an emulsifier. I had never even heard the word “emulsifier” before, but I quickly learned that emulsifiers hold food together. Emulsifiers weren’t just in a Filet O’Fish — they were in foods that we ate every day. Shawn understood the mechanics of keeping your opponents on the defensive during a debate, so he hammered away. Do you want your foods to fall apart?, he belted. They said no, and they were finished.

The problem with the argument was that I was not sure whether or not I entirely believed it. Having taken refuge on the Vineyard with my mother and two brothers after my parents’ nasty divorce, our family knowing not a single soul, it was lonely enough, and my initial reception was icy enough, that I knew I’d want to leave after high school. New England is America’s capital of provincialism, captained by people like the sixth graders who stuffed me into a locker at the ferry terminal during my second week on the island. If McDonald’s could hurt them, then I was all for it. For a time, at least. Once I got to college, I saw the fast-food chain for what it is: a crappy place to eat crappy food. There was nothing mystical about it. But the Vineyard tends to inspire mysticism about the outside world because of its inaccessibility. The grass is always greener.

Woods Hole, on Cape Cod, is located about 8 miles and a 45-minute ferry ride away, but to many Vineyarders it might as well be in Bangalore. We divide the world into two categories: “on-island” or “off-island.” If you’re going away, you’d tell someone you were either going “Off-island, to Falmouth” if it was a short trip or “Off-island, to Christchurch.” Only the first part matters.

Most people leave eventually. There’s too much out there when just driving on the highway is an adventure (we don’t have a single four-lane road). When I was 15 years old you could have turned me loose in a 7-Eleven and I would have been entertained for hours.

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I was recently invited to join a Facebook group called “You Know You’re From Martha’s Vineyard When…” There was a list of 30 criteria, from “You refer to everything besides the Vineyard as off-island” to “A tourist has asked you, ‘People live here year round?’” to “You’ve seen Bill Clinton at least once.” Our 42nd President vacationed on the island four times during his White House years, and was known for tying up miles worth of traffic whenever he went anywhere. So I pass.

You could make a list like this about any place. The difference between anyplace and our place is we know where ours begins and ends. Our place gets boring, and so, unless you’re one of a handful of families that have permanent roots on the island (and even if you are), you’ll think about leaving. At least, my entire family did: my mother now lives in Alaska, my brothers in Philadelphia and Phoenix, and no one’s in a rush to go back.

That doesn’t mean we don’t miss it. We do, and not just for the beaches and fried clams. Live there, and everything in the rest of the world — from the grandness of the Empire State Building to the distinctive shape of a Chicken McNugget — can inspire curiosity, awe and wonder. Now that I’ve left, I still try to force the feeling from time to time, when I go to an aquarium. Or ride the subway. I usually fail. But when it works, I’m reminded of the island’s awesome power.