In the third grade, Lylianna Allala finds out that her partner on the class solar system project isn't allowed to come over to her house.

Lylianna Allala is the City of Seattle’s Equity and Environment Program Manager at the Office of Sustainability & Environment, and has led environment and climate policy outreach for U.S Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal. She is dedicated to working across difference to co-develop solutions that will lead us to a more equitable and just world. Lylianna's professional background includes monitoring the endangered Mitchell's Satyr butterfly, prescribed burning for habitat restoration, trail building in the Washington's Alpine Lakes Wilderness and restoring the West Duwamish Greenbelt, Seattle's largest contiguous forest. Lylianna has a B.A in English from Winona State University, a certificate in Non-Profit Management from Georgetown University and a certificate in Wetland Science and Management from the University of Washington. She is a current leadership fellow with the Henry M. Jackson Foundation. Lylianna is the board chair of Got Green, co-chair of the Open Space Equity Cabinet and board member of Short Run Comix and Arts Festival. A lifelong learner, Lylianna enjoys story telling as a way to develop deeper insights about self and the world around her.

This story originally aired on October 4, 2019 in an episode titled “My First Science.”

Story Transcript

I grew up the eldest of four in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. We were on a half an acre of land, unheard of. I know. But it was beautiful. There was a deciduous forest surrounding our house. There were wetlands, mulberry bushes in the backyard, this big weeping willow tree that I would swing from.

My mom was the kind of mom that would tell my siblings, “Go outside. I don't want to see you back in here until the sun goes down.” So we were left to our own devices.

My brother Louie and I would conduct science experiments in the yard. One of them involved digging up earthworms, putting them on a piece of cardboard and leaving it out in the sun. Our hypothesis… The result, a crispy, crunchy death. We never ran that experiment again. We were horrified.

My favorite experiment was one where I put a glass of water out with a piece of paper in it for several days to see what would happen. A couple days later I came back and there was a spider in the glass, so I successfully grew a spider.

I was always obsessed with nature, the outdoors and experiments. My family was very supportive. My grandmother lived next door to me and they had this beautiful flower garden. She would take me by the hand and walk me through the garden and tell me the names of each of the flowers.

My father would sit my brother and I down in front of the TV and we would watch his VHS tapes of Marty Stouffer’s Wild America. This is my favorite show. And then at school, I would hoard all of the Ranger Rick Magazines in my desk so that I could enjoy them.

So they were all very, very supportive I don't remember having specified science courses in elementary school, but I do remember in third grade, there was a project where we were asked to pair up with another student and build a replica of the solar system. I was super excited.

So we were assigned a partner and, at the end of class, we were to connect with that partner and exchange information and kind of get the ball rolling to work together. So I found Mary and we exchanged numbers and I was very excited.

I said, “Okay, come over to my house. We're going to work on this solar system project. My mom and I are going to get the supplies. Don't worry about it.” Very eager.

So I go back home, I tell my mom. We go to Michael's, we get all the glitter paint, all the styrofoam and all the poster board and our setup for this partner project. So my mom calls Mary's mom to set up a time when she can come over.

I remember my mom picking up the phone. I remember a hushed conversation. I remember my mom angrily hanging up the phone. And I remember her going into her bedroom and closing the door. And then she came out and said, “You actually don't need a partner. I'll be your partner.”

So I didn't know what had happened. I knew somehow in this conversation I lost a partner, my mom was going to substitute, and I had a bunch of supplies and glitter paint. The next day at school, I was so puzzled. I didn't know what had happened. I found Mary and I asked her, “Mary, why didn't you come over?”

And she said, “Well, my mom won't let me come over to your house, and you can't come over to mine.”

As an adult, I analyzed and overanalyzed, something maybe I picked up from being a kid. That's what I was doing in that moment. I was thinking, “Oh, my gosh. Is something wrong with my family? Is something wrong with my house? Did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong?”

So it played over and over and over again. Ultimately, in the end, my mother helped me with that project.

Twenty years later, I asked my mom what did that conversation… how did that go. I go, “Do you remember it?”

She goes, “Oh, yeah, I remember that conversation.”

And she said to me, “They just didn't want you over there and I knew why they didn't want you over there and I knew why they didn't want her to come over to our house.”

Our family was one of a handful of Mexican-American families in the suburbs of Arlington Heights at that time. Forest View Elementary didn't have very many students of color. I feel like I could even count it on my hand. It's not the case now.

But when she told me that, I sat back and I remembered how I felt when I asked Mary why didn't she come over to my house. I’m feeling it right now, this feeling of like your heart is caught in your throat and your hands are clammy. I felt like my face started to burn up and I felt like so embarrassed I wanted to disappear.

So I thought at that time, if I'm not good enough to be a science partner for Mary, am I not good enough to be a scientist? So you're young and, you know, you equate these things, one with the other. And I kind of lived out the rest of my life with that in the back of my head despite the fact that rainbows were center stage in my poems, alligators were the main attraction in my dioramas.

I went on to study English in college and wrote about nature and environment and discovered Mary Oliver who taught me the connection between environment and the literary canon. And Emerson and Thoreau taught me the connection between nature and social justice. And Sandra Cisneros held a mirror up to me showing me that I wasn't the only brown girl in Illinois that saw the connection between nature and culture and the ancestors.

So I studied English and, my last year, I flew to Spain and had the great privilege to study Spanish literature in Granada in South Spain in Andalusia. There, I spent a lot of time eating, reading, hanging out on the beach. And when it was time to come back, I felt this sense of anxiety and remembered what it felt like to be in the suburbs and to grow up in a suburb that was predominantly white. And felt that I had an experience that had expanded my mind in such a way that, to go back to something so constricting even gave me this feeling of like being boxed in.

And so I came back and had decided I needed to go on another adventure. I couldn't stay. I couldn't stay there. And I looked at the AmeriCorps website and had decided to dedicate myself to service and to look for a space that I had never been before.

So I looked at New York and Washington. I had never been to either of those states. I ended up applying for a position here in Seattle with an organization called EarthCorps.

So I applied and what was interesting is I will never forget the questions on that application. The first one was what is an environmental issue that concerns me the most. And I remember reading a National Geographic that had outlined the deforestation of the Amazon and the displacement of indigenous tribes there and it struck me to my core for multiple reasons.

At that time, and this is a still ongoing process, but the village of Arlington Heights for several years has been trying to claim my father's home through eminent domain. And as an adult reading back on some of the transcripts for the village of Arlington Heights Council meetings, I would see them refer to that property as blighted. You all know what that means. It was dog-whistle terms, racist terms, and that home was never blighted to me.

Anyone who has ever seen my father's home, it is beautiful. There are cilantro plants and jalapeno plants, flowers of all kinds, this rolling lawn that my father takes great pride in but when we were youth it was meant for us to play pickup games of baseball in, which was awesome.

So at that time, reading about what was happening in the Amazon, very different scale but had hit me in such a way that I felt that was an issue that was of most concern.

The second question was why do I think poor people are poor. Well, institutional racism. Done. No, that was a piece of it, but what had stuck with me was that institutionalized racism and oppression feeds economic disparity and fear and keeps those in power for the pursuit of their own wealth, health and happiness. While the many other of us are struggling, it made me think of a story my grandfather told me.

So when my grandfather and my grandmother moved from Texas to Illinois, I have deep roots in Texas, they lived in a chicken coop. My father was a baby and they told me that my grandmother had to sleep sitting up so that the rats wouldn’t bite my father. And they would insulate the chicken coop with cardboard to help kind of cut through the Windy City winds.

And he told me that story, and he tells me this story frequently, and the reason why he tells me that is so that I will never forget what my family has gone through for me to be here, right? So why are poor people poor?

I answered those two questions and I was very surprised to hear back that I got an interview. It's like, wow! I don't have a degree in science. I read the description for habitat restoration, I was like, “I don't even know what any of this means. Sounds cool. I’m in.”

But they interviewed me and I'm so grateful for that because, for the longest time, I felt that the sciences weren't for me. So many people made me feel like it wasn't for me. I didn't look the way a scientist should look. I didn't have the education or background that a scientist should have. But when it came down to it, I found strength in the science that came from my family and my ancestors.

My poems had always centered around the stories of my grandmother and my grandfather and the herbs and curandero wisdom that was passed down from generation to generation. Things like knowing manzanilla tea was going to help me go to sleep better, or the reason why epazote is put in frijoles is to cut through the gas. Science.

So I found strength in that and I'm grateful for that experience being able to start my service year. That one year turned into 13 years here in Seattle. And grateful that it opened doors for me to become a wetland scientist, to build trails with the Forest Service, to be a wildland firefighter, to work on policy for Congresswoman Pramila Jayapal.

As I was preparing this story, I was thinking back, again, on my mom helping me with that science project. She could have chose to cuss the teacher out. She could have chose to cuss Mary's parents out. There were a lot of choices before her, but what sticks with me is that she chose to sit next to me and outline those stars with glitter paint. Thank you.