My friend, Margot, wears a ring on her wedding finger. Boys tell her she should stop. They say she’s not married, say she doesn’t belong to anybody yet. Margot wears a ring on her wedding finger to show that she does— she belongs to herself.

My mother goes out to dance with her girlfriend on Saturdays. They are both from Mexico City, can defeather a chicken, and can dance to la Cumbia with more spice than the chili peppers they can eat without flinching. They are strong, beautiful, and most definitely aware of it.

I live in a community of independent spirits, of women who aren’t silent. I am the friend of a girl who is married to herself. I am learning that the fight for equality is not a measure of try but a measure of must—there is fire in my blood—that I can dance if I try.