I was raised in a suburb that probes for history through the natural environment. It cultivates notions of “culture” in its infrastructure that simultaneously depletes the natural and brings forth unnatural and homogenous foundations; where model homes of a 1970’s catalogue are repeated every fourth or fifth driveway. It is a culture that can be found in strip-malls and shopping centers, parking-lots after sundown, or under the guise of the woods where smoke dissipates faster than the gaze of jurisdiction. It houses a new high school packed with students in portables that are shlepped under the fame: undulating slogans, quotes, and the pride of one man’s attempts at running across Canada with one leg. A place where the current events include mass serial killings that involve the pork industry, where you find out half of your neighborhood is built upon a grave. Where words like grow-op, green-house, drug-bust, Po-compton become the vernacular.