Jay’s Mom Character Analysis

At that point in my life, I had encountered death only in fiction. I had heard about other people’s relatives dying. But I had never seen death up close. I had never held it.

“Listen,” Mom said in that moment, hugging me closer. So I did. Baby birds chirped just outside the window. “One thing dies, and another is born. Maybe the puppy’s soul now has wings.”

“Do you lie to your patients?” I ask.

She raises her eyebrows. “Not to my patients, but sometimes to their families, yes.”

“You serious?”

She nods. “Sometimes my patients want me to lie for them. Nothing out of line. Mostly they want me to say something in a way that will give their loved ones relief. Or at least, something that won't leave them with too much despair.”

I shake my head. Unbelievable.

“If I have a patient who is dying slowly and painfully, and he asks me to tell his family that he won't suffer in his final moments, what am I supposed to do?”

“If they ask, tell the truth.”

“Even if the truth does nothing but cause the family anguish?”

“They deserve to know.”

“Or do they deserve peace?”

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.”

Since he already knows, I may as well ask about the contents of the note on the back of the list I found in his desk, about how he told his subordinate who located Jun to proceed. But I feel drained, lost. A compass missing its needle. What would be the point when I can't sense whether anything he says is truthful or not?

Tito Maning reaches the car and turns to me. “I am disappointed my brother did not teach you to respect your elders.”

He expects an apology. I stay quiet.

“You do not live here. You do not speak any of our languages. You do not know our history. Your mother is a white American. Yet, you presume to speak to me as if you knew anything about me, as if you knew anything about my son, as if you knew anything about this country.”

I nod and let my graze drift upward. A bird flits across the rafters to a nest high in the corner. It reminds me of when I heard the baby birds chirping outside the window the day that the puppy died in my hands. What was it Mom told me in that moment? Something about death making way for new life. But what new life has come from Jun's death? I don’t know.

I imagine souls trapped overhead, bouncing against the steepled ceiling like invisible balloons whose strings have slipped from careless hands.

At that point in my life, I had encountered death only in fiction. I had heard about other people’s relatives dying. But I had never seen death up close. I had never held it.

“Listen,” Mom said in that moment, hugging me closer. So I did. Baby birds chirped just outside the window. “One thing dies, and another is born. Maybe the puppy’s soul now has wings.”

“Do you lie to your patients?” I ask.

She raises her eyebrows. “Not to my patients, but sometimes to their families, yes.”

“You serious?”

She nods. “Sometimes my patients want me to lie for them. Nothing out of line. Mostly they want me to say something in a way that will give their loved ones relief. Or at least, something that won't leave them with too much despair.”

I shake my head. Unbelievable.

“If I have a patient who is dying slowly and painfully, and he asks me to tell his family that he won't suffer in his final moments, what am I supposed to do?”

“If they ask, tell the truth.”

“Even if the truth does nothing but cause the family anguish?”

“They deserve to know.”

“Or do they deserve peace?”

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.”

Since he already knows, I may as well ask about the contents of the note on the back of the list I found in his desk, about how he told his subordinate who located Jun to proceed. But I feel drained, lost. A compass missing its needle. What would be the point when I can't sense whether anything he says is truthful or not?

Tito Maning reaches the car and turns to me. “I am disappointed my brother did not teach you to respect your elders.”

He expects an apology. I stay quiet.

“You do not live here. You do not speak any of our languages. You do not know our history. Your mother is a white American. Yet, you presume to speak to me as if you knew anything about me, as if you knew anything about my son, as if you knew anything about this country.”

I nod and let my graze drift upward. A bird flits across the rafters to a nest high in the corner. It reminds me of when I heard the baby birds chirping outside the window the day that the puppy died in my hands. What was it Mom told me in that moment? Something about death making way for new life. But what new life has come from Jun's death? I don’t know.

I imagine souls trapped overhead, bouncing against the steepled ceiling like invisible balloons whose strings have slipped from careless hands.