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On the back of my left hand is a small tattoo of a (909)— the area code that serves the Inland Empire region of Southern California, San Bernardino County, and eastern Los Angeles. The placement of this tattoo, highly visible and upside down for everyone except me, was meant to ensure that I never forget where I came from. I was born in the 909; raised in the 909; and until I turned 23, every formative experience of mine took place in the 909. For the rest of my life, when I write words like these, they will be written beneath an indelibly inked (909).

Indeed, I believe that most people spend their whole lives trying to escape the block that they grew up on. Consciously or unconsciously, their decisions are guided by a subtle, often unexamined, reaction to something that was impressed upon them in their youth. Every individual is born in a unique time and within specific boundaries— and like a luscious wine, we absorb the properties of the soil and seasons from which we are vintaged. 

Mr. Rogers used to say, “Remember, you’re not the age you are now, you’re all the ages you’ve ever been.” I’d add that, for better or worse, the places we’ve lived are a part of us too; and any part of us that is not loved will eventually turn hostile. 

Of course, this can be difficult to embrace. The (909) is both my north star and my rip current. It is my home and my hurt.

The (909) used to be called “the armpit of California.” It is a place of widespread institutional bankruptcy, brown and black poverty, below average education rates, and the most crime-riddled city on the West Coast. Even the milder locations, with which I am most familiar, have a strange and surreal underbelly which was depicted by David Lynch of all people. Growing up, the IE had the worst air quality in the entire nation and at times I wonder if people can still smell the smog on me.

Yet, the (909) was also the womb for some of my most treasured moments. It is beautiful to me, even if I didn’t feel that way when I lived there.

San Bernardino was a stop along Route 66 for a reason and it even has a shoutout in the famous song. Southern California’s climate is what paradise is made of; and what a privilege it was to have Los Angeles, Big Bear, Joshua Tree, and Disneyland within driving distance. 

The (909) has the best Mexican food, the best coffee shops, the best people. The scent of Redlands’ orange groves blossoming is my favorite smell— a perfume fit for Persephone. It is the birthplace of Travis Barker, Gene Hackman, and Mcdonald’s. Oh, and me too.

Truthfully, loving your hometown is a lesson I learned in reverse. Some of the greatest destruction I have ever witnessed was done by men trying to transcend—or perhaps avenge—the injuries done to them in boyhood. Men who resented their origins, rejected the city that raised them, and sought to banish some phantom that they never learned to befriend. All of them ended up doing damage to the world— and to their own souls, too.

They didn’t know that if you take the seeds that formed you and try to bury them, the seeds don’t cease to exist—they just grow untended. Later, when this wild but familiarly tragic fruit blossoms in our garden, people call it fate. But it is not fate; it is the material that made us, demanding to be appreciated. So, I resolved in my heart to appreciate it.

By accepting and owning our place of origin— how we were raised and who raised us— rather than reject it, I think we are casting a subtle yet vital vote of confidence in regards to the nature of the world. Namely, that it can be trusted and that its overwhelming tendency is towards flourishing and towards growth. When people who have seen some shit turn to their neighbor and say, “despite your journey, this world can become a perfectly safe place for you,” it matters. It gives people born in similar circumstances the courage to keep going.

Unsurprisingly, I think of this in terms of science fiction. In stories where humans land on foreign planets, they sometimes enact a process called terraforming— the systematic re-organization of a planet’s surface so that it can become habitable for human life. It is slow work: it happens one soil molecule, one seed, and one breath at a time. The hazards of living on a strange world never disappear entirely, but those hazards can be transformed.

I suppose what I am proposing, and trying to practice, is a form of terraforming our past. It can’t be changed, but it can become livable. It can even, perhaps, be made hospitable. When seen with eyes of compassion, even dirt will yield it’s gold.

So, be proud of the place that raised you, and keep terraforming.

Long live everything,

Bradley

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About the Author:

Bradley Andrews is a hopeful rabble-rouser on a mission to inspire the world. Stay in touch with what he’s doing by subscribing to a weekly digest of his activity through micro.blog. This will send you writing, photos, and other curiosities that you are guaranteed to love.