Joshua Tree Isn’t a Tree

Here’s a thought that feels obvious once you say it out loud: cities are made up. Not just their names, but the entire concept. The idea that millions of people should cluster together, build permanent structures inches apart, agree on invisible boundaries, and collectively pretend this arrangement is normal is not a law of nature. It’s just a decision, that stuck. Nothing in the natural world insists on cities. Rivers flow whether or not anyone names them. Mountains rise without zoning laws. Forests don’t require permits. But cities? Cities only exist because humans agreed—explicitly or implicitly—that this was a good idea. Or at least a better idea than the alternatives available at the time.

At some point in history, humans stopped wandering and decided to stay put. It was practical at first. Agriculture worked better when you didn’t leave. Storage mattered. Protection mattered. Proximity mattered. What started as survival gradually became permanence. Structures became settlements. Settlements became towns. Towns became cities. And once that happened, there was no undo button. Anthropologists often describe cities as emergent systems, complex outcomes that arise from simple needs. Shelter. Trade. Safety. Social organization. But calling them “emergent” makes them sound inevitable, when in reality, they were improvised. Early cities weren’t master plans. They were accumulations of choices, compromises, and momentum. People built where it was convenient, then kept building because others were already there.

Over time, these clusters developed rules. Who could live where. Who owned what. Who enforced order. Walls went up. Markets formed. Hierarchies solidified. Suddenly, being “in” or “out” of a city mattered. And once that distinction mattered, cities became identity markers rather than just places. What’s striking is how unnatural cities remain, even now. Their layouts ignore terrain. Streets cut through landscapes as if geography were a suggestion. Grids repeat themselves across continents regardless of climate, culture, or history. You can find the same street names…Main, Elm, 7th, thousands of miles apart, as if someone copy-pasted civilization and hoped no one would notice.

And then there’s the naming. After inventing cities, humans immediately started inventing names for them, often with remarkable confidence. Some names reflect geography. Others reflect history. Many reflect ego, nostalgia, or a lack of originality. Entire cities are named after distant places, long-dead people, marketing slogans, or moments of optimism that did not age well. Once a name is printed on a map, it becomes real. That’s the trick. A word on paper turns land into narrative. Linguists point out that names stabilize identity. Once a place has a name, it can be referenced, remembered, mythologized. The name does the work of turning a cluster of buildings into a destination. Cities, in this sense, are less physical entities than ongoing agreements. They persist because people continue to participate in them. Millions of individuals wake up every day and follow the same rules: drive on certain roads, work in certain districts, respect certain boundaries, pay certain taxes. None of this is enforced by nature. It’s enforced by consensus and habit.

Over time, cities also become brands. Not officially, at first, but culturally. Certain expectations attach themselves to certain names. New York becomes ambition. Los Angeles becomes aspiration. Las Vegas becomes indulgence. Paris becomes romance. These associations are wildly simplified and often inaccurate, but they’re powerful. They shape tourism, migration, and self-perception. Sociologists often note that cities develop “personalities” through repetition. Media reinforces them. Residents perform them. Outsiders expect them. The city becomes a character in its own story. Once that happens, reality matters less than reputation. A city doesn’t have to be a certain way. It just has to be believed to be that way. That’s is why cities are constantly rebranding themselves. Downtown revitalizations. Arts districts. Innovation corridors. Cultural quarters. Every few decades, cities reinvent their narratives to stay relevant. Old warehouses become lofts. Factories become breweries. Neighborhoods are renamed. The physical space may not change much, but the story does, and the story is what people respond to. Urban planners are keenly aware of it. They talk about “placemaking,” a term that sounds abstract but is deeply literal. Placemaking is the act of convincing people that a place is something specific and meaningful. Parks, signage, events, architecture; all of it works together to produce a feeling. The city becomes not just somewhere you are, but something you’re part of. And yet, for all this intention, cities are full of contradictions. Boundaries drawn decades or centuries ago still shape lives today, even when they no longer make sense. Neighborhood lines divide communities arbitrarily. Infrastructure decisions linger long after their original purpose has faded. What once served commerce now creates congestion. What once symbolized progress now feels obsolete.

City halls, meanwhile, often function as theaters of authority. The buildings themselves, grand and imposing, are designed to project legitimacy. Inside, decisions are made that affect millions, often based on compromises few people fully understand. It’s not malicious; it’s bureaucratic. Cities run on paperwork as much as concrete. Perhaps the most revealing thing about cities is how fragile they are. Without people, they dissolve. Roads crack. Buildings decay. Systems fail. A city without residents isn’t a city, it’s debris. The only thing holding it together is participation. As long as people show up, follow the rules, and believe the structure matters, the city persists. That’s is why disruptions feel so unsettling. When people leave due to economic shifts, disasters, or cultural change, the illusion wobbles. The city doesn’t vanish overnight, but its identity does. Empty offices, quiet streets, abandoned storefronts all expose the truth: the city was never the buildings. It was the agreement.

And yet, despite all that, cities still work. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But well enough to endure. They allow specialization, collaboration, and innovation at scales impossible in isolation. They concentrate talent, ideas, conflict, and creativity. Every major cultural movement of the last several thousand years has passed through cities. Art, science, politics, commerce, all amplified by proximity. That amplification is the real function of cities. They’re accelerators. They intensify everything. Opportunity and inequality. Creativity and stress. Freedom and surveillance. Cities don’t create the forces; they compress them until they become impossible to ignore.

Calling cities “made up” isn’t an insult. It’s a recognition of their nature. They are one of humanity’s most successful shared inventions. Like money, laws, or time zones, they exist because we collectively believe in them. And like all shared inventions, they can be reshaped or replaced if belief shifts. The danger isn’t that cities are imaginary. The danger is forgetting that they’re flexible. When people treat cities as immutable, they stop questioning who they serve and how they function. Cities were designed, and anything designed can be redesigned. The next time you cross a city line, pass a welcome sign, or feel a sudden sense of pride or dread based on where you are, it’s worth remembering: none of this was inevitable. Someone decided it. Others agreed. Generations kept going. And eventually, it felt permanent. Cities are humanity’s biggest inside joke, but not because they’re silly. Because they’re serious inventions we all agree to take seriously. They are stories we live inside, written over centuries, edited daily by millions of participants.

They are not natural phenomena. They are collaborative fictions. And somehow, improbably, they work. Just remember, we made them up.