My name is Dana. In my village and in many others throughout West Africa, girls like me face an uphill battle.

Her name is Margarita. She is Cuban-American, and I am invited to her 85th birthday open house at a local nursing home facility. I have met her in person only once before this event.

Lia* was so tired. She hated her job at the garment factory. She could handle the long days—six days a week—with few breaks, but she hated the way her supervisor constantly shamed her for not working fast enough.

There is a saying in Mexico for when there is not a lot of food and an unexpected guest arrives: “Hechale mas agua al caldo de frijoles,” which translates to: “Add more water to the bean soup.”