Jay’s Dad Character Analysis

She takes a deep breath. “Jay, it's easy for us to pass judgment. But we don't live there anymore, so we can't grasp the extent to which drugs have affected the country.”

[…]

“So I'm not allowed to have an opinion? To say it's wrong or inhumane?”

[…]

“That's not what I'm saying, Jay.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you need to make sure that opinion is an informed one.”

There's obviously no way to argue that point without sounding like an idiot, but knowing that doesn't dissolve my newfound anger. “So what's your informed opinion?”

“That it's not my place to say what's right or wrong in a country that's not mine.”

“But you lived there. You're married to a Filipino. You have Filipino children.”

“Filipino American children,” she corrects. “And it's not the same.”

“It's easy to romanticize a place when it's far away […] Filipino Americans have a tendency to do that. Even me. Sometimes I miss it so much. The beaches. The water. The rice paddies. The carabao. The food. Most of all, my family.” He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he's imagining himself there right now. After a few moments, he opens them again, but he stares at his hands. “But as many good things as there are, there are many bad things, things not so easy to see from far away. When you are close, though, they are sometimes all you see.”

He sighs. “It is a shame. When your kuya was first starting to speak, I said to your tatay, ‘You must teach him Tagalog and Bikol,’ and do you know what your tatay said to me?”

“No,” I respond, not wanting to know.

“‘The boy does not need to be confused,’” he says in a feminine, mock-American accent meant to imitate my dad. “‘Christian will be going to America, so he needs only good English.’” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “And what is the result? None of his children knows their mother tongue. And if you do not know your mother tongue, you cannot know your mother. And if you do not know your mother, you do not understand who you are.”

She shakes her head. “I think it's good that you finally talked to him about your cousin. I think you were brave.”

I drop my eyes to the edge of the table. That's not the word I'd use to describe how I felt during that conversation. It's not the word I'd use to describe how I feel when I think about the calls and texts from Dad, still unanswered. “Don't you think it's sometimes better not to say anything, not to dredge up those feelings for no reason?”

“No,” she answers immediately. “If you have something to say, you should say it. If you are to figure things out, you can't hide from them. Silence will not save you.”

But I keep talking because I'm determined to resist falling into the same pattern as always. This is my life, and I want my family to understand it in a way none of us truly understood Jun's. If we are to be more than what we have been, there's so much that we need to say. Salvation through honesty, I guess.

[…]

We are not doomed to suffer things as they are, silent and alone. We do not have to leave questions and letters and lives unanswered. We have more power and potential than we know if we would only speak, if we would only listen.

She takes a deep breath. “Jay, it's easy for us to pass judgment. But we don't live there anymore, so we can't grasp the extent to which drugs have affected the country.”

[…]

“So I'm not allowed to have an opinion? To say it's wrong or inhumane?”

[…]

“That's not what I'm saying, Jay.”

“What are you saying?”

“That you need to make sure that opinion is an informed one.”

There's obviously no way to argue that point without sounding like an idiot, but knowing that doesn't dissolve my newfound anger. “So what's your informed opinion?”

“That it's not my place to say what's right or wrong in a country that's not mine.”

“But you lived there. You're married to a Filipino. You have Filipino children.”

“Filipino American children,” she corrects. “And it's not the same.”

“It's easy to romanticize a place when it's far away […] Filipino Americans have a tendency to do that. Even me. Sometimes I miss it so much. The beaches. The water. The rice paddies. The carabao. The food. Most of all, my family.” He closes his eyes, and I wonder if he's imagining himself there right now. After a few moments, he opens them again, but he stares at his hands. “But as many good things as there are, there are many bad things, things not so easy to see from far away. When you are close, though, they are sometimes all you see.”

He sighs. “It is a shame. When your kuya was first starting to speak, I said to your tatay, ‘You must teach him Tagalog and Bikol,’ and do you know what your tatay said to me?”

“No,” I respond, not wanting to know.

“‘The boy does not need to be confused,’” he says in a feminine, mock-American accent meant to imitate my dad. “‘Christian will be going to America, so he needs only good English.’” He lets out a sarcastic laugh. “And what is the result? None of his children knows their mother tongue. And if you do not know your mother tongue, you cannot know your mother. And if you do not know your mother, you do not understand who you are.”

She shakes her head. “I think it's good that you finally talked to him about your cousin. I think you were brave.”

I drop my eyes to the edge of the table. That's not the word I'd use to describe how I felt during that conversation. It's not the word I'd use to describe how I feel when I think about the calls and texts from Dad, still unanswered. “Don't you think it's sometimes better not to say anything, not to dredge up those feelings for no reason?”

“No,” she answers immediately. “If you have something to say, you should say it. If you are to figure things out, you can't hide from them. Silence will not save you.”

But I keep talking because I'm determined to resist falling into the same pattern as always. This is my life, and I want my family to understand it in a way none of us truly understood Jun's. If we are to be more than what we have been, there's so much that we need to say. Salvation through honesty, I guess.

[…]

We are not doomed to suffer things as they are, silent and alone. We do not have to leave questions and letters and lives unanswered. We have more power and potential than we know if we would only speak, if we would only listen.