Tito Maning Character Analysis

But adults lie, I guess. That's what they do.

Sure, there are a bunch of reasons they do it, and people would probably say most of them are pretty good. When you're a kid, they lie and say you did a great job in a game even if you sucked. Then you grow up a bit and your mom and dad lie to you about how strong their relationship is and how much they love each other after they have a big fight.

[…]

Sometimes I feel like growing up is slowly peeling back these layers of lies.

[…]

I imagine the moment when Tito Maning will pick me up from the airport. Standing straight, I'll greet him, look him in the eye, and then ask him point-blank how his son died. […] I will hold his gaze until he gives me an answer, and if he lies, I will demand the truth.

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.”

The next drawer, much to my surprise, is crammed full of Toblerone bars and packages of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates that are wrapped in gold foil.

[…]

The last two drawers, one on each side of the desk, are the kind that contain hanging file folders. I pull out the one on the left, and it's so light that I already know it's empty. Sure enough, there's only dust and stray folder tabs. I try the one on the right—but it won't budge.

There's a small keyhole, so I search through the other drawers for a key. I don't find one, but there are plenty of paper clips. I straighten one out and then poke the thin metal into the keyhole. I have no idea what I'm doing, of course, but it always looks so easy in the movies. Maybe if I keep poking it will hit a release?

He stops. Reaches up and pulls the sack off his head.

It's Jun. His hair's a mess, tangled with sticks and dirt, and the lower half of his jaw is missing, a gory mess in its place. His eyes meet mine. Two stars in a clear winter sky.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

The exposed muscle and sinew where his lower jaw used to be twitches as he continues moving toward me.

“I'm sorry for what they did to you. I'm sorry I lost your letters. I’m sorry I was too afraid to speak to Tito Maning again tonight. But please tell me, what happened to you?”

He doesn’t answer. He can't. Instead, he stops a step away. Then he reaches out and places his palm against my chest.

I wake.

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.”

Tita Chato puts out her cigarette. “What happened to Jun is a tragedy, whether or not he was a drug pusher.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts, then continues. “But he is dead. We cannot bring him back to life. You need to accept that. There is nothing we can do about it except mourn.”

I clench my jaw.

She's not all that different from Tito Maning. Though her words were delivered with more compassion, they were the same: I am not truly Filipino, so I don’t understand the Philippines. But isn't this deeper than that, doesn’t this transcend nationality? Isn’t there some sense of right and wrong about how human beings should be treated that applies no matter where you live, no matter what language you speak?

I'm alone in this. Somebody needs to clear Jun’s name even if nothing comes of it. We failed him in life. We should not fail him in death.

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.”

She laughs at the memory and I laugh with her. “Kuya Jun had a way of making people pay attention, of making them realize that others existed outside of themselves and getting them to care. But I don't…and I failed him. I stayed quiet whenever Tatay yelled. I left the room whenever they argued. I never asked Nanay to let him live with us again. I never even protested when they told us there would be no novenas, no vigil, no lamay, no funeral.”

[…]

I'm not sure what to say. Maybe I should tell her it's not her fault, maybe that it's all okay because he's with God now? I try to channel Jun because I think he always spoke the truth as he felt it, but I don't have that ability. I offer no reassurance, no wisdom. I only hug her tighter and start to cry with her.

I don't want to believe there was another side to you. But I don't have any choice, do I? I will try not to judge because I have no idea what you were struggling with in your heart, what complicated your soul. None of us are just one thing, I guess. None of us. We all have the terrible and amazing power to hurt and help, to harm and heal. We all do both throughout our lives. That's the way it is.

[…]

When I turn around to rejoin the others, I stop short—Tito Maning is standing in the shadows just outside the back door. At first, I wonder if he's about to come over and put an end to the memorial. But his arms are crossed and he's posted up against the house like he's been there for a while. Then I remember how Tito Danilo said that Tito Maning called to ask for his help to save Jun. Truly, none of us is one thing.

But adults lie, I guess. That's what they do.

Sure, there are a bunch of reasons they do it, and people would probably say most of them are pretty good. When you're a kid, they lie and say you did a great job in a game even if you sucked. Then you grow up a bit and your mom and dad lie to you about how strong their relationship is and how much they love each other after they have a big fight.

[…]

Sometimes I feel like growing up is slowly peeling back these layers of lies.

[…]

I imagine the moment when Tito Maning will pick me up from the airport. Standing straight, I'll greet him, look him in the eye, and then ask him point-blank how his son died. […] I will hold his gaze until he gives me an answer, and if he lies, I will demand the truth.

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.”

The next drawer, much to my surprise, is crammed full of Toblerone bars and packages of those Ferrero Rocher chocolates that are wrapped in gold foil.

[…]

The last two drawers, one on each side of the desk, are the kind that contain hanging file folders. I pull out the one on the left, and it's so light that I already know it's empty. Sure enough, there's only dust and stray folder tabs. I try the one on the right—but it won't budge.

There's a small keyhole, so I search through the other drawers for a key. I don't find one, but there are plenty of paper clips. I straighten one out and then poke the thin metal into the keyhole. I have no idea what I'm doing, of course, but it always looks so easy in the movies. Maybe if I keep poking it will hit a release?

He stops. Reaches up and pulls the sack off his head.

It's Jun. His hair's a mess, tangled with sticks and dirt, and the lower half of his jaw is missing, a gory mess in its place. His eyes meet mine. Two stars in a clear winter sky.

“What happened to you?” I ask.

The exposed muscle and sinew where his lower jaw used to be twitches as he continues moving toward me.

“I'm sorry for what they did to you. I'm sorry I lost your letters. I’m sorry I was too afraid to speak to Tito Maning again tonight. But please tell me, what happened to you?”

He doesn’t answer. He can't. Instead, he stops a step away. Then he reaches out and places his palm against my chest.

I wake.

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.”

Tita Chato puts out her cigarette. “What happened to Jun is a tragedy, whether or not he was a drug pusher.” She pauses, gathering her thoughts, then continues. “But he is dead. We cannot bring him back to life. You need to accept that. There is nothing we can do about it except mourn.”

I clench my jaw.

She's not all that different from Tito Maning. Though her words were delivered with more compassion, they were the same: I am not truly Filipino, so I don’t understand the Philippines. But isn't this deeper than that, doesn’t this transcend nationality? Isn’t there some sense of right and wrong about how human beings should be treated that applies no matter where you live, no matter what language you speak?

I'm alone in this. Somebody needs to clear Jun’s name even if nothing comes of it. We failed him in life. We should not fail him in death.

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.”

She laughs at the memory and I laugh with her. “Kuya Jun had a way of making people pay attention, of making them realize that others existed outside of themselves and getting them to care. But I don't…and I failed him. I stayed quiet whenever Tatay yelled. I left the room whenever they argued. I never asked Nanay to let him live with us again. I never even protested when they told us there would be no novenas, no vigil, no lamay, no funeral.”

[…]

I'm not sure what to say. Maybe I should tell her it's not her fault, maybe that it's all okay because he's with God now? I try to channel Jun because I think he always spoke the truth as he felt it, but I don't have that ability. I offer no reassurance, no wisdom. I only hug her tighter and start to cry with her.

I don't want to believe there was another side to you. But I don't have any choice, do I? I will try not to judge because I have no idea what you were struggling with in your heart, what complicated your soul. None of us are just one thing, I guess. None of us. We all have the terrible and amazing power to hurt and help, to harm and heal. We all do both throughout our lives. That's the way it is.

[…]

When I turn around to rejoin the others, I stop short—Tito Maning is standing in the shadows just outside the back door. At first, I wonder if he's about to come over and put an end to the memorial. But his arms are crossed and he's posted up against the house like he's been there for a while. Then I remember how Tito Danilo said that Tito Maning called to ask for his help to save Jun. Truly, none of us is one thing.