Not hardly

  In the town where I grew up there were families of fishermen that lived in a certain area of the town. At least it is believed that is where those families initially settled. The area was defined by the Indians (native americans) as the "the springs" in their language Accabonac. But that tribe of Indians were very few by the time the white men settled in the area. Eventually the families living there became known as Bonackers. The area was called bonac by the locals having shortened accabonac. These folks spoke a particular dialect that has been studied, recorded and catalogued. The origins of that dialect are still being debated to this day. For me, it just sounds like home, although I have never made any claim to being a Bonacker. My grandfather on my mothers side was certainly one of those folks, he being a Bennett. The Bennetts are among those core families of Bonackers dating back to the first settlement. 

 That is all history now and, in my estimation, very few Bonackers are still around engaged in the family business. And that, to me, is what defined a true Bonacker. It was those families that made their living off the bay and ocean, year-round, generation after generation. A rough and rowdy lot of hard men living a hard life. A proud people that asked no quarter of anyone and gave none. Those folks that held to the ideals of that tradition were often called, of the finest kind. What others may call the salt of the earth. Ready to help others whenever and wherever they could, honest, hardworking people. 

 It's my belief that I witnessed the last of the real Bonackers, the last of the lot. Books have been written about the demise of those families, about their way of life being destroyed by what some called progress and in the name of conservation. They were forced off the waters by the stark reality of having to provide for their families by other means. A way of life slipping beneath the waves. I was honored to know some of those men and listen to their stories and tales. I heard that dialect spoken, and some say I even had a catch of it myself. Perhaps a phrase or two or a certain inflection, but certainly not a fluent speaker of that dialect. A dialect often corrected while I was in school as not being proper English. 

 Those of you that know me also know I have a Facebook group called B'low the bridge. That stems from that heritage of Bonac. The Bonackers all lived below the bridge. The bridge is a railroad bridge that divides the village from the rest of the town. B'low the bridge is North Main Street, the hook as it was called back in the day. Literally the other side of the tracks as it were. And yes, it wasn't always a good thing to live there. Those living in the village didn't associate with the Bonacker's much, a different social class you know. That wasn't as prevalent when I was growing up, but remember I was near the end of all that. Social barriers were coming down. It was the dawning of the age of Aquarius. 

 I moved away from that area fifty years ago. I'm quite out of touch with the realities of that area today. Only what I read or hear from others. I hear the complaints from the "locals" about the cost of everything, how crowded it has become and the loss of their way of life. I hear the laments about how their children will ever be able to survive there. But what I hear more than anything else is the proclamation of being a Bonacker. Seems to me everyone makes that claim these days if they are in any way associated with the town of East Hampton.

  I can only view that in one way. It is what we call "cultural appropriation" in modern parlance, the dialect of today. The claim has no basis in reality for the vast majority. As I said I make no claim to that heritage, although my grandfather certainly could. Heritage is what you inherit, I inherited zero commercial fisherman skills from him. In fact, I have never done any commercial fishing of any type. I had an ancestor, several in fact, that were whalers as well, but I can't claim to be one. I never lived in Bonac either. I lived in the area called Three Mile Harbor, not the Springs. Springs was like another world to me. One I was familiar with, one I visited often, but I never lived there. And just living there doesn't make you a Bonacker either. 

 I just have to chuckle a bit as I'm reminded of a song. "I was country, when country wasn't cool." Now I was never a Bonacker in my eyes although some may have told you otherwise. But I certainly remember when being a Bonacker wasn't cool in other peoples view. And now, like the song says, now everyone is "tryin' to be what I was then." I laugh when I think to myself that I have lived that long. Long enough for the people that that I associated with, drank a few beers, laughed and shared tall tales have become as legends! So many clamoring to be included in their ranks almost as mythical heroes. Yes, you could say that about the Bonackers I suppose but I know what their response would be. Not Hardly Bub!

 None of this is intended to disparage or offend anyone in any fashion. This is all simply my view, my opinion and my feelings on the subject. I have searched for a word or phrase to describe it, and nothing seems to fit exactly. In my mind there are those that claim to be a Bonacker in much the same way some folks claim to be Indians or Cowboys. There is some vision or image in their minds of what that would be. They may have distant relatives, ancestors that were just that, but they are not. Cultural appropriation comes close, but only if you think being a Bonacker was a culture. Each of us may define what being a Bonacker was, or is, and each one would be correct. Social identity? Only on a local level. Perhaps being a Bonacker is only a spirit and the spirit lives on. Usually, we call that folklore. Have I really lived that long that my parents generation has slipped into the realm of folklore? Well, not hardly Bub.