“What’s falling from the sky?” My second-grade classmate, pale from fear, trembled as she asked the question to which I already knew the answer. Outside, heavy ash drifted, as if someone stood outside the classroom window throwing the dullest confetti I had ever seen in my life directly at us, blocked only by the glass. We soon received the evacuation notice. For those of us who lived in Tujunga our whole lives, this was nothing new, Tujunga is routinely ravaged by wildfires. Unlike my classmate, I remained unfazed by the threat of the growing wildfire inching closer. As I walked to the gym to wait for my grandmother, I did not bother to shake the ash from my hair. After all, we would have to walk home since my parents were both at work and took our family’s only car. There would be no window protecting us from the ash-filled air. At seven years old, I was already numb to this kind of natural disaster. For most of my life, I assumed everyone lived under similar conditions: drought-yellow lawns, a searing burning smell, and the expectation that despite it, you still had to show up for work to make ends meet. In large part, my belief was based on the fact that almost everyone I knew shared experiences like mine. It was not until attending UCLA that I realized there are many whose socio-economic privilege allows them to either minimize or avoid wildfire fallout altogether. When a wildfire broke out along the freeway near campus, I walked to work while others in my dorm simply decided against leaving their room. I was shocked that this was even an option. It certainly was not an option for me, a low-income woman of color. This experience taught me about climate change’s intersectionality with race and class. For my senior thesis, I researched the Bhopal disaster of 1984, analyzing the environmental disaster through the lens of distant suffering and learning how interwoven social justice issues are with environmental ones. My thesis work revealed a previously unimaginable scale of environmental racism. I began to understand the depth of the roots that ran within my community. That understanding blossomed when, post-graduation, I joined the Sunrise Movement, I found that while I was being choked out by wildfires, others were breathing in methane, excessive car fumes, and toxic gases. Meanwhile, I learned to advocate for social justice through policymaking; I was part of a team that co-sponsored ACA-3, a bill designed to abolish the exception clause in the California constitution which still permits slavery. This experience impressed upon me the power of the law on social change and solidified my desire to pursue a career in law. Indeed, I want to advocate for communities being forced into environmental ruin, and I will work tirelessly to regulate the unchecked corporations largely responsible for such damage. While I understand the risks of taking on these extremely powerful companies, the risk of doing nothing and the negative effects to my community is equally, if not more, dangerous. I cannot afford to sit idle while children watch the world burn through the window of their second-grade classrooms. I want them to experience the joy of childhood without normalizing environmental disasters, to play outside when they want, and to stare out a window at a lush green landscape, not an ashy-gray nightmare. I will continue to advocate for change and with the weight of a law degree, I will undoubtedly be able to succeed in creating a world where environmental justice is not a privilege but a fundamental right for all.

“What’s falling from the sky?” My second-grade classmate, pale from fear, trembled as she asked the question to which I already knew the answer. Outside, heavy ash drifted, as if someone stood outside the classroom window throwing the dullest confetti I had ever seen in my life directly at us, blocked only by the glass. Our teacher explained, “Class, we must evacuate because of a wildfire. Your parents are on their way to get you.” For those of us who lived in Tujunga our whole lives, this was nothing new. Nestled in the foothills of the Angeles National Forest, Tujunga is routinely ravaged by wildfires. Unlike my frantic classmate, who recently moved to Tujunga, those of us who grew up there were unfazed by the threat of the growing wildfire inching closer to our neighborhood. As I walked to the gym to wait for my grandmother, I did not bother to shake the ash from my hair. After all, we would have to walk home since my parents were both at work and took our family’s only car. There would be no window protecting us from the ash-filled air. At seven years’ old, I was already numb to this kind of natural disaster. I was part of a generation on fire. I am twenty-four years old now, with a plethora of wildfire memories and evacuation stories. For most of my life, I assumed everyone lived under similar conditions: drought-yellow lawns, closed windows, a searing burning smell, and the expectation that despite all of this, you still had to show up for work to make ends meet. In large part, my belief was based on the fact that almost everyone I knew, inclusive of my family and friends in Mexico and the poorest parts of Los Angeles, shared experiences like mine. It was not until attending UCLA that I realized there are many whose socio-economic privilege allows them to either minimize or avoid wildfire fallout altogether. When a wildfire broke out along the 405 freeway near campus, I walked to work while others in my dorm simply decided against leaving their room. I was shocked that this was even an option. It certainly was not an option for me, a low-income woman of color. This experience taught me about climate change’s intersectionality with race and class. It angered me. I wanted to learn more, so I pushed myself to take classes that would challenge me to alter my perception of the world. For my senior thesis, I researched the Bhopal disaster of 1984, analyzing the corporate environmental disaster through the lens of distant suffering and learning how interwoven social justice issues are to environmental ones. I assumed I was doing my part to combat the worst environmental injustices when I became a vegetarian at fifteen, bought a metal straw, and reduced my consumption of single-use plastics. Yet, my thesis work revealed a previously unimaginable scale of environmental racism. I began to understand the depth of the roots that ran within my own community. That understanding blossomed when, post-graduation, I joined the Sunrise Movement, a youth-lead environmental movement dedicated in part to supporting BIPOC projects addressing environmental racism. I found that while I was being choked out by wildfires, others were breathing in methane, excessive car fumes, and toxic gases. As a result, I created a Sunrise “JEDI” team, a group focused on justice, equity, diversity, and inclusion for the most marginalized Los Angeles communities. Meanwhile, I learned to advocate for social justice through policymaking; most recently, I was part of a team that co-sponsored ACA-3, a bill designed to abolish the exception clause in the California constitution which still permits slavery. The accompanying hearing in Sacramento, which I attended, impressed upon me the power of the law on social change and solidified my desire to pursue a career in environmental law so that I can advocate for communities like mine. Indeed, I envision my future career as somewhat similar to that of Steven Donziger, an environmental lawyer who successfully took on Chevron’s environmental malfeasance in Ecuador. I want to fight for marginalized communities being forced into environmental ruin, and I will work tirelessly to regulate the unchecked corporations largely responsible for such damage. While I understand the risks of taking on these extremely powerful companies, the risk of doing nothing and the negative affects to my community is equally, if not more, dangerous. I cannot afford to sit idle while children watch the world burn through the window of their second-grade classrooms. I want them to experience the joy of childhood without normalizing environmental disasters, to play outside when they want, and to stare out a window at a lush green landscape, not an ashy-gray nightmare. I will continue to fight for change for my community and with the weight of a law degree from Loyola Law School, I will undoubtedly succeed.