Saguaro Land: KJZZ producer reflects on the origin of her name and growing up in the Sonoran Desert
Download mp3 (5.93 MB)Here at The Show, we’ve spent the last year exploring the Sonoran Desert. As we head into the final season — winter — we’re sharing a collection of essays about life here in what we’ve dubbed Saguaro Land. Here’s The Show’s Sativa Peterson with a true story about growing up in the desert.
'The Cross'
I was named Sativa after cannabis sativa, a strain of marijuana. To put it quite simply: with a name like this I should’ve been raised on a commune, or existing off the grid somewhere in Humboldt County, or southern Oregon, my parents and I living in a school bus, or a refurbished bread truck, on its way to, say, Oaxaca with a dog-eared copy of Ram Dass thrown on the back seat. We should’ve been playing guitars around a fire pit in homemade clothes. We should’ve been farming the earth, building our own geodesic dome and selling pesticide-free produce. But my upbringing was — almost — nothing like that.
I was born in the Sonoran desert and grew up in Arizona in a railroad town with about 9,000 people, a medium security state prison, and some pretty good Mexican food. My mom was a schoolteacher, my dad worked for the railroad, and the origin of my name was a secret.
I could visualize my town with my eyes closed. Railroad tracks running from east to west. On the outskirts, red dirt with a slight vegetative cover in muted greens. Plants barely tethered to the earth, ready to pick up and tumble along in any gust of spring wind. Little houses with yellowing yards, barking dogs, an old downtown spotted with empty plate glass windows. Sunbaked signs for motels and restaurants.
Still — it was possible to imagine it having gone a different way. As a child, I often fantasized about the other paths we might have taken, or perhaps still would take, if I hoped for it hard enough.
By my teens, I began driving in cars as an attempt to usher in the change I craved. If you drove out of town heading east, exited the highway, and made your way down a dirt road, you’d end up at the base of a small mesa. If you were brave, floored it, and wound your car to the top, you’d find a place called “The Cross.” Someone had put up a giant 15-foot steel cross on the windy outcrop. It was visible from the highway, if you knew where to look, and even then, you’d have to squint to see it. It was an unnecessary exclamation point to the natural surroundings of brittlebush and cactus. The first person to show me was Peter, my high school boyfriend. We drove out there mainly at night.
The black velvety desert surrounded us all around and it was fantastically quiet except for the car stereo. On a cloudless night, the sky was filled with thousands of stars. Peter drove an old Jeep, the kind with the plastic covering. His teeth would chatter as he drove.
During those fall nights with the car running, parked facing the base of the giant metal cross we would hold each other listening to Bauhaus’ “Bela Lugosi’s Dead.” The music filled the dark interior space of the car. It was sacrilegious in a way, the horizon-line broken by this huge cross, the lyrics “undead, undead, undead,” the emptiness of the desert, our tender hearts. It was exciting too. For the longest time, something had felt amiss — my name was a clue to a life that was more than our current surroundings. A life we seldom gave voice to. I felt if we could just change course, do something gutsy, then my name would fit like a puzzle piece with the way we lived the rest of our lives. Sitting here in the dark felt like a start.
The Show also asked local artists to envision a map of the Sonoran Desert for the Saguaro Land project. Each of the 14 artists has a unique take — and you can see the show in person at Changing Hands Bookstore in Phoenix through Jan. 14, 2024.
