natalie jenkins

i tried hard to imagine my poems or any poems as machines that could make things happen

My measuring/artmaking is anchored in the localities that shape me. Right now, that locality is Rancho Cucamonga, an Inland Empire super McSuburban post-industrial placeless place about an hour east of Los Angeles. Growing up in Rancho, I always heard praises of the area touted by neighbors and friends: the suburban cleanliness compared to the grime of the city, the access to both beach and mountain in just a day’s drive, the connection to the outdoors and the Wild West that the urbanites just didn’t get. In many ways, these perks ring true — nestled in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, Rancho Cucamonga offers a unique relationship to nature. It’s a place where scorpions are shaken out of shoes, car-sized tumbleweeds block roads, bears wander into elementary schools, and fires lick away the edges of town every few years. Instead of sidewalks and flower planters, Rancho Cucamonga opts for dirt paths and tangles of prickly pear. It’s a badge of pride; because of our proximity to the dangerous and the natural, we must be happier, wholer, and closer to the primordial than the rest of California (or maybe even the world). For me, it felt legitimate. Somewhere between running from rattlesnakes and evading the sweltering heat, I must have picked up the spirit of the desert.

Of course, Rancho Cucamonga’s relationship with the environment is as troubled as it is treasured. Despite my love of everything warm and spikey, to make a comfortable suburb out of the chaparral requires violent transformation. There is no water in Rancho Cucamonga – it’s all pumped in from faraway sources (hence the constant drought orders and water shortages). Fast-casual architecture consumes the land faster than the wildfires and earthquakes can abate. And for every cowboy moseying along the horse trails, there’s billions of square feet of warehouse space and millions of diesel trucks hauling cargo. It’s no wonder the Inland Empire is ranked first for the worst ozone pollution in the United States year after year. It’s a constant push-and-pull between the built world and the natural one. We fumigate away the frightening bugs, irrigate our invasive lawns, and emulate the desert as we raze it with rock gardens and tan stucco over concrete boxes. Everything to love about Rancho Cucamonga is carefully constructed, teetering on the precipice between untamable wilderness and industrial wasteland.

a landscape, a psychic impression