8. Orion
Orion
Jordan’s childhood home was one of those houses that was never especially tidy.
There were always a pile of shoes at the door and stacks of things on the kitchen counter.
Books. School assignments. Art projects that had been started and forgotten.
At Jordan’s house, kids weren’t relegated to their rooms for anything.
Homework, games, clothing all spilled into the living room, and neither his mom nor his dad seemed to mind it.
If anything, they relished the chaos that came with having a big family.
I found out early on that Jordan had four older sisters, but it wasn’t until I got to know his family that I truly understood how that shaped him.
His sisters doted on him. All of them did.
They adored him. Fawned over him and praised him for the most minor achievements, and I swear, they meant it from the bottom of their hearts.
They thought he was the cutest thing ever when he was little, and that sentiment stretched out and followed him as he got older.
By the time I met him, each of his sisters had poured their unique brand of pride and affection all over him, and it had stuck and become part of who he is.
It’s like he’s loved all round, you know. Completely. From all different angles and for lots of different reasons by a lot of people. It showed then, and it still does.
His sisters included him in almost all aspects of their lives. They told him everything. They told him about their friendships and relationships. Their thoughts and feelings. They let him into their worlds without holding anything back.
It was unfair, really, because what they did was essentially give him a cheat sheet to understanding women, and it’s not like he needed it.
He already had a major unfair advantage when it came to girls without being blessed with a hoard of sisters to induct him into the inner workings of the feminine mind.
The first time I went to his house, I was met by a stampede of blonde hair and big smiles.
Kirst, the eldest, was home from college for Thanksgiving, and everyone was in a high state of excitement.
As soon as I walked through the front door, Slater sisters popped up all over the place and mobbed me.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Orion,” they cooed.
“Jordy has told us so much about you.”
“Are you enjoying Cape Elizabeth?”
“Jordy says you lived in New York before. That must be a big change for you.”
It was a relentless chorus of “Jordy this,” and “Jordy that,” until at last, Jordan dragged me upstairs to his room to get away from the din.
“Jordy, huh?” I teased, expecting him to be embarrassed by the diminutive version of his name.
Of course he wasn’t. He shrugged my comment off without apology and smiled in a way that was unfamiliar. It was a smile for when he was home and completely in his own element. It wasn’t as wide as his school smile, and it affected his eyes more than his other smiles did.
He shrugged, raising both shoulders high. “People who love me call me Jordy.”
Right off the bat, I could tell Jordan’s mom was a force to be reckoned with.
Her hair was a mess and she wore paint-splattered jeans, yet she carried herself with the grace of a woman on her way to the Oscars.
She laughed often and paused to think about what she was going to say before she spoke.
She had the fire of a thousand suns behind her and was passionate about an inordinate number of causes.
She was an artist and an activist, always working on something she loved, or fighting for something she believed in.
Mr. Slater was a lot quieter than the rest of the family, and sometimes I thought he might be a bit bewildered by the situation he’d found himself in.
He was steady though. Really steady. The kind of man who sets others at ease simply by being in the room.
The kind of man who makes you feel safe because, with him, you are.
I can’t remember the specifics that preceded what happened, but one day during my second year in Cape Elizabeth, Mrs. Slater did something particularly outlandish, and I laughed and said, “You’re not like other moms, Mrs. Slater.”
The second the words left my mouth, Jordan stiffened beside me.
“Apologize and mean it,” he whispered to me urgently. “Seriously, bud. Apologize and mean it.”
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Slater,” I said sincerely, though I had no idea what I’d done wrong. “I didn’t mean that.”
Mrs. Slater pulled up a chair, joining Jordan and me at the kitchen counter, where we were devouring large servings of meatloaf drenched in ketchup.
I was worried I’d upset her, but something about her expression didn’t allow the emotion to take root and run with me.
She was serious, but not angry or upset.
“Orion,” she said kindly, “I know you didn’t mean anything by what you said, but you should be aware that kind of language is divisive and is often used as a way to alienate women from each other. It pits women against each other and reduces them to a single monolith that erases our individuality.”
She picked up a fork from a hanging cutlery set on the counter and snagged a bite of meatloaf off Jordan’s plate.
She chewed and chewed and then swallowed.
“I’m exactly like other moms, and they are like me.
We’re all on this journey together, all learning as we go, all battling it out as best we can.
You and Jordan”—she pointed her fork at me and then at Jordan—“are experiencing life as young men at an interesting time in history. A time when we are more conscious of the harm caused by patriarchal thinking than we’ve ever been before.
I’m sure it can seem challenging to know what’s expected of you as a man right now, as our concept of masculinity has changed greatly in a short space of time, but really, what you boys have is an opportunity.
A position of power. A chance to make real changes that will improve the lives of people around you. ”
She paused to let her words sink in, only continuing after we both nodded, “The patriarchy is about so much more than gender inequality. It doesn’t only hurt and oppress women.
It cuts men off from their emotions and makes them sad.
As men, you’re going to have to make it your business to look out for problematic behavior as you go through life.
You’ll have to be aware of it. You’ll have to identify changes you can make, and make them where possible.
When it feels overwhelming, remember that this whole fucking mess is built on two very simple mechanisms. Silence and shame.
” She shrugged and speared another bite of meatloaf.
“That’s really all there is to it. The system works because men are shamed for standing out and bucking the status quo.
Harmful behavior is habitually excused, and behavior that doesn’t fit within the narrow bounds of what is currently thought of as masculinity is accused of being performative or something to be ashamed of.
One simple way this is perpetuated is by men laughing or staying silent when they should be calling each other out.
If good men speak up when they see others behaving badly, we can start dismantling this thing from the inside. ”
It was a lot to digest, and I admit, I was a little young to understand everything she said, but I found myself thinking about the conversation in the weeks that followed.
I was dealing with a lot of shame at the time.
Shame I didn’t fully understand, or even want to look at too closely.
Shame I definitely didn’t feel I could talk to anyone about.
Not long after that day at Jordan’s, he and I were hanging out with a bunch of kids from school at a little burger joint with jaw-dropping views of the Atlantic.
It was a mixed group of boys and girls. Some we knew well, others we didn’t.
Most of the boys were a couple of years older than us, and it was one of those socially charged situations where I wasn’t sure I belonged and was terrified of saying or doing something that would prove that suspicion right.
One of the guys there, Zac Lauder, was a big deal because he was the quarterback for the Wolverines, our school team.
I hadn’t gotten a good vibe from him from the word go, and every time he opened his mouth, he confirmed my instincts about him were correct.
He was the kind of guy who said really shitty things with a smile, which made it hard for people to show that they minded the crap he was spewing without being accused of overreacting.
His main source of entertainment for the afternoon was that a girl we all knew had recently lost her virginity in the back seat of a Honda Civic.
It was hard to say what he found more amusing: the fact that she’d lost her virginity, or that it happened in the back seat of a hatchback.
Either way, the story had gaping holes. Neither party had confirmed nor denied that it had happened, and the event seemed to mainly be a figment of Zac’s imagination.
The more he spoke about it, the clearer it became that his sole focus was making the girl look bad while applauding the boy.
The longer we sat at the table, the more uncomfortable the conversation made me. I could tell it was having the same effect on Jordan by the way he clenched his fists under the table when Zac spoke.
We’d asked for the check, and it was almost time to leave, when Zac circled back and started laughing afresh about how small the back seat was in the car where the alleged incident had occurred and how hilarious the girl must have looked while it was happening.