Few things sting more than being on the outside looking in. In this week’s episode, both of our storytellers share deeply personal accounts of feeling rejected.

Part 1: At school, Natalie Ayala can’t understand why she and the other dual-language kids are treated differently.

Natalie Ayala is a third-year mechanical engineering student at Boise State University. Her goal is to pursue a career in the space industry, have hands-on involvement in human space flight missions, and advocate for minorities in STEM!

Part 2: As a photographer on a research expedition in Antarctica, Marley Parker can’t seem to break into the scientist inner circle.

Marley Parker has been working as a professional science communicator for over a decade. At the beginning of 2018, Marley left a full-time position at a tier one research university to start her own business as a freelance photographer, videographer, and science writer. Over the past seven years, Marley has found a special niche: documenting deep sea research. She has joined 25 expedition teams on eight different vessels, highlighting projects sponsored by NOAA, NASA, the National Science Foundation, the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution, the Ocean Exploration Trust, and many others. When she is not documenting ocean science in remote parts of the world, Marley loves sharing the lessons she has learned from pursuing an unconventional career path.

Episode Transcript

Part 1

I loved kindergarten, like no other. I had the most amazing teacher. She made it so memorable to me.

One of my fondest memories was when I was playing in the playground with my best friends, Wyatt, Bianca, and Sophia. We were all gathered around a family of roly polies, valiantly defending them against the other kindergarteners who almost stepped on them while playing tag.

This was the same playground where I would play make‑believe games and build sand castles, a playground full of wonderful memories. Not once did I ever notice the differences between me and my other classmates. That was until third grade.

Natalie Ayala shares her story at Boise State University’s Lookout Room in November 2023. Photo by Joseph Rodman.

Third grade was when I into the joined the dual language program, a program set up to teach the same class material but in two languages, Spanish and English. The class was mainly comprised of Hispanic second generation immigrant students.

It was on the first day of being part of the third grade class that I noticed that the DL students weren't seen the same as the other students.

I was so excited to go out to class that day, out to recess. All of the third grade classes get let out to recess at the exact same time, so my plan was I'm going to go say hi to my friends in second grade and introduce them to my cool new friends, Jessica and Mitzi. I was so excited.

As soon as those doors open, I ran, I darted right out just in a hurry. We were in a new playground so I didn't even know where I was going. But I was running and I, for sure, knew where they were.

So, I was running and I finally found them. And when I found them, I was like, “Come on, Mitzy, come on, Jessica.”

But I was stopped in my tracks the second that I saw their face. It felt like somebody had just uprooted the entire blacktop pavement right in front of me, forcing me to take a step back. The look they had on their face wasn't the excited one that I had waiting for this moment all since the start of the day. It was the look you would have as if you'd seen an alien, and I couldn't help but notice that they were looking at my friends the exact same way.

Third grade felt so different. I felt like I've been on an entirely different world. It was something new, I guess.

In second grade, all through K‑through‑second, I received below average scores on all of my report cards in every single subject, but I never once felt like I was seen as a student with little potential.

In third grade, when I got my report card again and I saw those below average scores, I felt like nothing more was expected from me. That was all who I was meant to be.

I can't exactly pinpoint what gave me this feeling, whether it be from the teachers, the staff or the school, or the environment that I was in. All I really remember are facial expressions and the different tones that the teachers were to use with the DL students, specifically, my PE teacher.

In second grade, he seemed like the coolest guy on the earth. Like, he wore his blue sweatpants, I think, and a blue t‑shirt, and he looked like one of those people that you would see on the front of a comic book that was for superheroes. And he had that stance exactly the same right on his hips with a giant smile. He was always jolly and he talked to everybody with a smile on his face.

But in third grade when I entered that PE class again, his entire demeanor was changed. He was no longer that jolly, comical person that I once knew. It was as if his face had turned rigid. I couldn't help but feel disappointed, feel sunken. It was as if he was forcing each word whenever he would talk to a DL student. His jaw was always clenched in this stern look and his voice was always raspy.

One day in class, we were setting up for another game. I remember being exactly three squares from the blue line on the court. I thought I was all set. So here is me, just minding my own business, kind of just looking around, when all of a sudden, I hear footsteps coming towards me. But they're not footsteps that you just usually hear. They're the ones that you'd hear as if Bigfoot was coming after you.

I slowly make a turn and I can see my PE teacher walking straight towards me. And without saying a word, he puts his two fingers behind my neck with an upward force that I felt the need to lift myself up. He did that the entire time he walked me to the spot I was supposed to be in.

I just didn't understand. Why were we seen so differently now? What was so different? This heavy burden of feeling like no potential was seen in me and feeling like I would only be a below average student forever weighed on me, so much so that it felt like a crushing feeling.

It wasn't until one day when I was walking to the restroom in the hallway that time slowed down the second I was walking past the advanced math classroom. It was so vibrant, it was so beautiful that I couldn't help but feel that each step was met with zero friction. It was as if I was just stuck there.

I could see all the students having such a wonderful time. They were all laughing and having fun as they were working through the worksheets. Even the teacher seemed to be full of joy. I couldn't help but look back at my own classroom and see that everything was tinted in gray. It was dark, it was gloomy and very disappointing.

I couldn't help but wonder, “Why can't I be in there instead?” Then I asked myself, “What was stopping me from being in there?”

That's when I finally felt that coefficient of friction big enough to take a step forward and keep walking. Not only did this happen seemingly physically, but mentally. I finally had enough friction at my feet to push that box of labels out of my way and finally be who I chose to be.

Fourth grade passed in a blur. My one memory really being that I got to decorate gingerbread cookies, because I finally did my homework. I just kept on growing. I no longer felt that crushing feeling that I was only going to be filled with low potential. I no longer felt that burden and I was finally free to be myself.

I started helping out around the school with the Spanish morning announcements, proud to be Hispanic, proud to be a student there, proud to keep on trying. I continued to advance even as I went into middle school, and, boy, was that hard. And I finally got to switch from my current math class to advanced math. And boy, was it much more vibrant.

It's crazy looking back, but I remember being in eighth grade, something changed. I felt trapped again. I took a moment to look back at all my progress in eighth grade. I could see how far I had come and with that came immense self‑doubt and a lot of fear. The higher I climbed, the farther I could fall. There was this crushing feeling the entire time. This voice of self‑doubt in me saying that all those labels that I had rejected in elementary school were going to come racing back and say that that was who I was and that that's what all I would ever be.

So, I worked hard from the time I got to school to the time my parents picked me up from the after‑school program. I would work on homework the entire time, sometimes even skipping lunch, trying to prove that small voice of doubt in me that I did belong where I was, that I would deserve to be seen with potential.

The fear lessened little by little each time I got an assignment accomplished, but it was never enough. It wasn't until in eighth grade, right after I had completed my Mission to the Moon project, that I found my sanctuary. It was aerospace engineering. There, nothing else mattered when I was working on my crazy ideas for lunar landers. Nothing else mattered when I was reading my favorite books, such as The Martian. Nothing else mattered when I was planning those crazy missions to the moon. It was just me and my passion.

It wasn't until my junior year, the summer of my junior year, that I got accepted into the Idaho Science and Aerospace Scholars Summer Academy. I was so excited to be there, but that voice of doubt kept coming to me saying I didn't belong there.

But at that first day, when I got on that Zoom meeting, that fear went completely away. All that mattered was that I was where my passion was, and I was with a group of people that all I saw was diversity. Nothing mattered, no race, no gender, no identity ever mattered in those meetings. All that mattered was that we were all very passionate about space exploration. All that mattered was we were where we felt we belonged.

It wasn't until my sophomore year of college that the fear finally went away. The underlying truth behind my pivotal moments began to show. No one gets to decide who I can be or who I desire to be. Not any accomplishment could ever define who I am. All that matters is I try to be the best version of myself this moment now and every moment later.

Thank you.

Part 2

Do you ever wake up and have no idea where you are? When I wake up, I am super groggy and disoriented. I roll over and lift the cover on the porthole window next to my bed. The view through the cold, circular glass is something that, until now, I've only ever seen in nature documentaries, towering icebergs and scurrying penguins. I could stare at this landscape for hours, but a loud knock interrupts my gazing.

I quickly crawl out of my bunk, throw on a sweatshirt, and wrench open the heavy door. A burly PhD student from our team is standing there. His eyes are narrowed, he looks annoyed.

"Our first science meeting just started," he says gruffly, “They told me to come get you.”

I glance at my watch and see that it's just after 10:00 AM. Shit!

Marley Parker shares her story at the Alberta Rose Theater in Portland, OR in September 2024. Photo by Kiki Sanford.

I pull on my boots, grab my camera, and follow my teammate down the hallway, clutching the railing as the ship rolls. It's our fourth day on the Laurence M. Gould, or LMG, an Antarctic research vessel operated by the National Science Foundation. And I am still trying to get my sea legs. In fact, I'm still trying to wrap my mind around the reality that I'm here. I can't believe that just a few days ago, I was in the Miami airport, meeting my expedition teammates in person for the first time.

Even though we had only ever met over Zoom, I immediately hugged KC, the teammate closest to my age. He's a student getting his PhD in marine biology and I'm a photographer starting my own business. But this trip marks a significant milestone for both of us. We're going to Antarctica for the first time. Antarctica. That's amazing.

In the airport terminal, KC and I were jumping up and down, laughing and smiling like kids on Christmas morning. Now, as I make my way down the ship's narrow hallway, that childlike joy and enthusiasm has been replaced with fatigue and anxiety.

I slide into the back of the room where our team has gathered for the meeting, feeling embarrassed that I overslept. It's surprising how sleepy you can get when you're dealing with seasickness. No one warned me that I would be dealing with the seasick‑sleepies. I try to stifle a large yawn as the booming voice of the chief scientist reverberates around the room.

After the meeting, I head to the corner of the lab where I've set up my laptop and camera gear. A few minutes later, the chief scientist strides over and pulls up web page on his phone. "Look who made it onto the homepage of CNN this morning," he says, pointing to a photo of himself and a headline about his research in Antarctica.

The chief scientist is a lot taller than I am, and right now, he's looking down at me with a scornful expression on his face. “I'm just curious," he says, "Can you do this for me? Can you get me onto the front page of, I don't know, the New York Times?"

I look up at him dumbfounded. Who does this guy think he is? And for that matter, who does he think I am? I'm not a personal publicist. I'm a science communicator, and I’ve spent the past few years working at a research university, not CNN or the New York Times.

I want to roll my eyes and say, “Come on, man,” but instead, I just mutter, “Yeah, not sure about that.” But I feel this knot of tension tighten in my stomach.

The following afternoon, I'm standing near the bow of the ship, chatting with some senior scientists from other research teams. They are all men, mostly in their late 40s or mid 50s, and they're talking about how many times they've been to Antarctica, which is a lot.

Since I'm a new unfamiliar face, they ask me questions like, "Are you a PhD student? Which lab are you with?" And I sheepishly explain that I'm a freelance photographer.

"Huh, that's interesting," one of them says. “This ship typically only allows scientists on board.”

Great. I have no idea how to respond to this, so I turn and look out over the water. Before joining this expedition, I heard a lot of cautionary tales about rough weather and seasickness, but nobody warned me about this potential predicament. Because I am not a scientist, I may not be welcome in what is arguably the global scientific community's most exclusive club, Antarctica.

As I make my way around the ship, I try to shrug off the backhanded comments and focus on doing my job. Being a photographer gives me a keen eye for details and I immediately notice all the things my shipmates carry on them. Things like a radio, work gloves, zip ties, a small flashlight, a nice knife. And everyone, literally everyone, wears Carhartt work pants and extra tough boots.

I glance down at my hiking pants from REI, trying not to feel self‑conscious. I tell myself, “It's fine, Marley, your pants are fine. Just do your job.”

Marley Parker shares her story at the Alberta Rose Theater in Portland, OR. Photo by Kiki Sanford.

With my camera slung over my shoulder, I make my way up to the bridge, where the captain and crew manage the ship's navigation and main operations. When I walk in, I see the first mate peering down at what looks like a giant map. I step closer, gazing at the intricate details and tiny words that label various islands around the tip of the Antarctic Peninsula.

“That's a beautiful map,” I say, trying to sound friendly and easygoing and not nervous. “Can I take a picture of it?”

The first mate gives me a hard look. “Yeah, you can take a picture all right, as long as you stop calling it a map.” He thumps his fist on the thick paper. “This is a nautical chart.”

My cheeks flush as I quickly snap a few photos and then head back downstairs.

Maps and charts aren't the only vocabulary I've messed up. It turns out research vessels come fully equipped with their own lexicon. The galley, the mess, the head, port, starboard, aft, XBT, CTD, DP.

I learn all of these terms quickly enough, but contributing to conversations is a little harder. The Antarctica regulars speak to each other in a language that is full of personal references and inside jokes. They've got swagger.

Watching them interact is like looking at the starting lineup players on a winning team. It almost feels like I'm back in high school, trying desperately to fit in with the cool kids, even though I don't have similar experiences or the correct vocabulary or even the right clothes.

When I was in high school, I was a runner. As a somewhat awkward teenager, running track and cross country helped to boost my confidence, and I try to take the same approach now, pounding out miles and miles on the treadmill in the ship's tiny gym.

A few days later, I'm running when KC walks into the gym. When I look up, I say, "Hey, you want to hear something depressing?"

“Yeah, what?”

“I've gone farther on this treadmill in the past 30 minutes than the ship has gone in the past 30 hours.”

The LMG is an ABS A1 ice -class vessel, which means it's capable of breaking through one foot of level ice with continuous forward motion. But the ice surrounding the ship right now is several feet thick. We are currently on the eastern side of the Antarctic Peninsula in the Weddell Sea. If any of you are familiar with Antarctica history, this is the same location where Ernest Shackleton's ship, the Endurance, got trapped and eventually sunk in 1915.

When I ask one of our senior scientists, "How long do you think we'll be stuck," he lets out a harsh laugh. “People have been stuck in ice like this for weeks before.”

At lunch, I ask one of our marine technicians, "What's the longest amount of time you've been stuck somewhere?"

“Oh, we're not stuck," she says casually. "We're just moving really slowly."

The longer we move really slowly, the more I realize I should stop asking questions about our progress. It's now been three days since we entered the Weddell Sea and we have made it a grand total of four miles. The whiteboard in the hallway, which typically lists all of our daily plans and updates, now just has one bold phrase scrawled across it. It says, "Stay sane and maintain," which is much easier said than done.

But fortunately, I have a really powerful tool that can potentially provide hours and hours of entertainment. I have a professional camera. So KC and I decide that we're going to film a tour of the ship in the style of an MTV Cribs video. This little project may not advance our scientific objectives, but we hope it might boost morale.

When our filming is complete, we get the whole team together in the lounge to watch our little home video. The footage shows KC striding through the mess as if it's a Michelin Star restaurant, opening his walk‑in closet full of survival suits, and then proudly displaying his prime location to dry out wet socks.

The team watching in the lounge erupts with laughter. Some people are laughing so hard they have tears in their eyes. Even the stoic chief scientist chuckles to himself. I laugh too, feeling lighter than I have since the start of the expedition.

On the surface, it may seem like a trivial thing, getting everyone together to laugh at a silly video. But when you're stuck in thick ice at the bottom of the world, this small accomplishment feels like a huge win.

After the video ends, our shipmates gather around me and KC, giving us high fives and fist bumps, and I think, “You know, Antarctica really is just like high school. If you want to get in with the cool kids, all you have to do is make them think you're a producer for MTV.”

I still have a lot to learn about living and working on a research vessel, but right now, in this moment, I feel happy and relaxed. I realize that I don't have to continue standing awkwardly on the threshold of this exclusive club. I can confidently step inside and find my place.

Thank you.