Raised on the promise of Wednesdays

RAISED ON THE PROMISE OF WEDNESDAYS

BY ARIEL SMITH

I was raised on the promise of Wednesdays. On the promise of soccer stadiums half-filled, with poor attendance and commentators who notice a ponytail before a hat-trick. On the promise of girl push-ups instead of real push-ups. I was raised on the promise that passion has a time and a place, but no place, in a woman’s vocabulary. Raising little girls on familiarities, and the idea that scraps are comfortable.

At my brother’s wedding, the officiant told my Sister-in-Law, between vows and tears, to become submissive to my brother for the benefit of their marriage. After my brother admitted to never feeling whole without her, the officiant spoke of what a marriage should look like. The words never slipped past his tongue, but I, a woman, filled in the blank space between his cracked teeth: unequal. It should look unequal.

I was not raised on the promise of a better tomorrow or on the promise that Friday is always a few days away, but instead on the promise that as surely as Friday comes, Wednesday comes too. That sometimes the tomorrow you’re promised isn’t glorious. It isn’t even dramatic, it simply is, and if you, a woman, aren’t there for it, what work would ever get done?