Patron Saints of Nothing: Chapters 17–21

I read up on some of the history of the place on the way back to bolster our story.

The camera kept cutting between shots of the goat’s smug face and the desperate squeezing of its unyielding teats.

The camera kept cutting between shots of the goat’s smug face and the desperate squeezing of its unyielding teats.

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

Rows upon rows of mahogany pews lead to an altar with an empty dais, above which hangs an enormous crucified Christ.

There are columns and arches and sconces.

The scent of frankincense hangs in the vast emptiness between our heads and the high ceiling, and even though there must be at least a thousand people here, nobody is talking.

As we wait for the priest and his acolytes to enter, I scratch under the stiff collar of the ill-fitting Barong Tito Maning insisted I borrow since I didn’t have my own.

He complained about the boredom that made his eyelids heavy as soon as Mass began, about the hypocrisy of everyone praising Jesus’s holy works but then completely ignoring the poor, about the corrupt and abusive clergy that hid their sins behind their frocks and crosses.

He complained about the boredom that made his eyelids heavy as soon as Mass began, about the hypocrisy of everyone praising Jesus’s holy works but then completely ignoring the poor, about the corrupt and abusive clergy that hid their sins behind their frocks and crosses.

He complained about the boredom that made his eyelids heavy as soon as Mass began, about the hypocrisy of everyone praising Jesus’s holy works but then completely ignoring the poor, about the corrupt and abusive clergy that hid their sins behind their frocks and crosses.

I rise to my feet with everyone else, and we all watch the procession walk slowly down the long center aisle, draped in their vestments and carrying a tall, ornate cross, tapered candles, and the other sacred objects.

I rise to my feet with everyone else, and we all watch the procession walk slowly down the long center aisle, draped in their vestments and carrying a tall, ornate cross, tapered candles, and the other sacred objects.

Then she went on to explain that superstitious Filipinos believe a visit from the dead means that the deceased has unresolved business that needs to be taken care of before their soul can move from this world onto purgatory.

I don’t buy the ghost theory, but it does make sense to me that the dream was a manifestation of my own guilt from losing the letters and being too nervous to confront Tito Maning again last night.

The moment passes, and Tito Maning starts conversing with Tomas in a mixture of Tagalog and English.

...from a private residence built by a Spanish colonist in 1750, to a state house officially used by the Spanish governors and then the US governors when Spain ceded the Philippines to the US in 1898 (despite the fact the Filipinos had declared independence), to finally being used by the Philippine presidents after the country earned its full independence in 1946.

He granted lucrative contracts to his friends.

His family embezzled billions during his rule—money that should have been spent on infrastructure or the schools or helping the poor.

I came across one site that listed everything they took with them to Hawaii after being ousted during the People Power Revolution, and it included jewels, crowns, tiaras, golden statues, and other valuables whose total worth was several million dollars.

“Isang tunay na bayani,” Tito Maning says wistfully. "A true hero.”

I was thinking an art museum would be a reprieve from Tito Maning’s disappointment, but I am gravely mistaken.

It has a decidedly historical bent, but there are few placards besides those with the basic identifying information for each piece.

Tito Maning points out a sculpture of a bored-looking St. Michael stepping on the devil’s neck about to stab him in the face with a trident and comments, "Beautiful,” then continues expounding on the over three hundred years of Spanish colonial rule—which he seems to despise, except for the fact they brought Christianity.

From here, the museum jumps nearly fifty years to a room depicting the horrors of the Japanese occupation during World War II, where the works are titled with words like “massacre,” "doom,” “torture," “burning,” and "atrocity.”

“Do you notice what is not emphasized here?” Tito Maning asks, stopping me in the hallway on our way to the next exhibit.
And here’s a question I can finally answer. "American colonialism?”

I can’t tell if it’s a rhetorical question.

Thankfully, the moment is disrupted by a docent who walks up and says, "Hello, sirs. We are closing already. Please make your way to the exit, sirs.”

He laughs, low and derisive.

He mutters something to himself in Tagalog, and then holds his arms out as if to encompass the room.

“I am sure they did not. I am thinking they have said nothing about how your government has propped up corrupt officials in the Philippines for years simply because they agreed to support US interests? Nothing about those officials taking money from foreign drug cartels to look the other way as they peddle their poison to our sisters and brothers, our daughters and sons?”

“I am sure they did not. I am thinking they have said nothing about how your government has propped up corrupt officials in the Philippines for years simply because they agreed to support US interests? Nothing about those officials taking money from foreign drug cartels to look the other way as they peddle their poison to our sisters and brothers, our daughters and sons?”

Jun’s letters always conveyed a sense of isolation, an undercurrent of sadness.

The wipers swish back and forth, and the headlights from oncoming traffic light up the interior of our vehicle intermittently.

I’m kicking myself for how weak and submissive I was with my uncle.