Punk Rock, Literally: Why the Desert is Punk

A joshua tree (Yucca brevifolia) is a tree-like species of yucca confined mostly to the Mojave Desert of the southwestern United States. This creature has adapted to living in the rain shadow of the Sierra Nevadas by topping its branches with rigid, waxy leaves that resist water loss. 

A punk (Homo sapiens) is a species of primate found all over the globe, but most commonly concentrated in the dark, windowless music venues of major cities and the philosophy section of local bookstores. This creature has adapted to living in the harsh realities of late-stage capitalism by often topping its head with rigid, waxy spikes that subvert the aesthetic expectations of Western society.

Spot the difference: A Joshua Tree featuring Sean from SLC PUNK (1998)

Boaz called the desert “punk” and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. 

I haven’t stopped thinking about it because it seemed so obvious, yet I’d never thought of it myself. Growing up in Utah and spending spring weekends exploring Canyonlands and Arches with my family, I felt that I had somewhat familiarized myself with deserts; I’d grown to love the feeling of harsh sun and dry air as I scrambled across rocks or chased lizards into sagebrush bushes. Having the Expedition immerse me into numerous deserts throughout the Southwest for weeks on end with a group of people who had their own preconceived desert-notions, I began to feel my own perception of it change; evolving into one of a complicated character, brimming with stories and colors and layers. I felt I was beginning to see the desert for what it truly was, and as much as I might hate to admit it, Boaz was right: the desert is f***ing punk.

They both conjure similar imagery: spikes and sharp edges, abrasive coatings donned to make passers-by lose interest in interaction. If the regions of the US were to be members of a dysfunctional family, the desert is the punk cousin of the moody Pacific Northwest and the popped-collar, urbanite East Coast. Seeing surrounding landscapes brimming with an abundance of water and lush greenery, it donned an outfit of sand and beige and thorns. These aesthetic similarities aren’t skin-deep—they give way to similarities in being. 

They’re both rebellious. Punk is subversive, the movement itself rooted in challenging traditional systems of power. To me, anything that takes part in this nature of rebellion is therefore punk by default. The desert’s act of rebellion manifests in how it challenges the way Western society has traditionally valued land. “I am inclined to the belief that it is barren,” exclaimed a scout for the US Railroad Survey in 1853 upon seeing the Mojave. Deserts were dismissed by white settlers as the supposed wasteland antithesis of the humid, green, lush, land that the early United States was built upon; begging to be turned into nuclear testing sites or toxic waste deposits. The desert further countered this judgement by being a space brimming with communities—from Chaco Canyon to Bears Ears—who didn’t value the land as simply something to be tossed aside or exploited. These people, too, were rebels through how they understood that the desert is something you must familiarize yourself with; that when you slow down and get to know a landscape devoid of loud abundance, an array of quiet abundance is revealed through cactus fruits and mesquite pods and ocotillo buds. What is more punk than being a place full of people rejecting the white colonial notion of land solely as a thing to be owned, spurring people to familiarize themselves with the land they occupy, fostering an understanding of the delicate relationship between humans and the land that sustains them? That is punk.

And, like any true punk, the desert will persist in the face of tribulation, it will rebel against those who disregard its lack of water and onslaught of sun, shriveling the water-guzzling crops that don’t belong in its presence and nurturing the towering saguaros and ocotillo that do. As aquifers dry up and communities dry up and dammed-up canyons dry up (no monkey-wrenching needed), it will continue to exist with its sandstone and prickly pears and carpenter bees. It, too, will continue to serve as a space that fosters a spirit of rebellion, attracting the punks and the rule-breakers and those who see beyond the typical, damaging value systems that American society perpetuates. Because the desert is punk, dammit.