Patron Saints of Nothing centers around a high school senior named Jay Reguero. When Jay’s cousin Jun dies in the Philippines, Jay travels there to discover the truth about Jun’s final days. In his youthful ignorance, Jay assumes that Jun’s death has a simple explanation, that justice is possible, and that those around Jun fall neatly into categories of “good” and “bad.” But as Jay untangles the causes of Jun’s death, he comes to learn that things aren’t quite so clear cut and that in some ways truth can be painful or dangerous. By presenting Jay’s coming-of-age alongside his investigation, the novel suggests that pursuing truth—and accepting that truth can sometimes be messy—is part of growing up and moving forward after tragedy.
At first, Jay naively believes that there’s a simple explanation for Jun’s death, and that if he just unearths that explanation, then justice will naturally follow. The initial story is that Jun was killed in the Philippines because he was using and/or dealing drugs (his murder was part of President Duterte’s war on drugs), but Jay receives a mysterious message from one of Jun’s friends, who insists that this isn’t true and that Jun did “nothing wrong.” As a result, Jay believes that Jun’s death was unjust and must be solved. Later, Jay comes to suspect that Jun’s father, a police chief whom Jay calls Tito Maning (“Tito” means “uncle” in the Philippines), is covering up what happened to his son. Jay then works with a young journalist, Mia, to spy on Tito Maning, believing that there’s a hidden explanation for what happened to Jun. He’s playacting as a detective, but his know-how is rudimentary, and he assumes everyone can be classified as either good or bad. Jay also believes that if he figures out what happened to Jun, justice will be served and Jun’s murderer will face consequences for their actions. This belief stems from Jay’s youthful naiveté. He knows very little about the war on drugs in the Philippines and thinks that his family “owes” it to Jun to try Jun’s case in court in order to enact justice.
But the truth about Jun’s death ends up being more complicated than Jay thought, and knowing that truth at first ruins Jay’s memory of Jun. While Jun’s anonymous friend claimed that Jun was innocent of any crime, Jay begins to discover that Jun was not quite so innocent. For instance, Jay and Mia learn that Jun was living with a girlfriend prior to his death, but he left her without an explanation. Discovering this forces Jay to acknowledge that Jun has done immoral things. Later, Jay learns that Jun was running an Instagram account dedicated to the victims of the drug war, and Jay believes that this is why Jun was killed. But Jay’s Tito Danilo later reveals that Jun was also using and dealing drugs, and that this is why Jun was murdered. It was easier for Jay to believe that Jun was murdered for his activism, but the truth is more complex, as Jun worked against his own cause by selling drugs. Jay feels that by learning what really happened to Jun, he’s “lost him all over again,” because Jun isn’t who Jay thought he was. Meanwhile, Jay assumed that Tito Maning caused Jun’s death, first by kicking his son out of the house and then by allowing the police to kill him. But Tito Danilo tells Jay that Tito Maning asked him to help Jun get off drugs and initially bribed the government to take Jun off a watchlist. Tito Maning genuinely cared about his son, meaning that Maning isn’t purely villainous. Jay also realizes that even if they somehow tracked down the man who actually killed Jun, justice will never be served. His aunt, a lawyer, explains that courts in the Philippines are corrupt, and that putting the case on trial could cause the family to become government targets. In this case, knowing the truth would be useless, and it might even be dangerous to speak that truth out loud.
While Jay is forced to realize that the truth can be complicated, he also comes to see that it’s worth pursuing regardless—acknowledging what happened to Jun helps the family move forward. Jun realizes that, even if Jun sold drugs, this doesn’t mean he’s an entirely bad person. No one is just “one thing”—even so-called “bad” people do good things, and vice versa. Coming to this more nuanced understanding of human nature allows Jay to partially repair his relationship with Tito Maning. Jay hopes that openly acknowledging how Jun died will force Tito Maning to at least consider how the war on drugs, which his police force is enforcing, is harming others. Jay understands that Jun’s situation was morally complex, and he hopes Maning will see his police force’s own actions in a similarly nuanced light. After Jay learns that drugs were involved in Jun’s death, he and his cousin Grace put on a memorial service for Jun, something that Tito Maning had forbidden. Though the family previously refused to speak about Jun, they openly share their memories of him, and Jay feels his sadness about Jun’s death “subside.” Without knowing the truth behind Jun’s death, the family could never have moved forward, even though that truth wasn’t what Jay thought it would be.
When Jay returns home to Michigan, he decides to be more honest with his dad, with whom he’s always had a strained relationship. Because Jay just witnessed an extreme example of a strained father-son relationship (Jun and Maning) and learned that people are often more complex than they seem, Jay opens up to his father. He shares his uncertainties about the future, and his father listens and tries to understand—a healing process that Jay refers to as “salvation through honesty.” This, the book suggests, is the ultimate mark of Jay’s newfound maturity: Jay is now able to pursue the truth, even when it’s uncomfortable and complicated, and to use that truth as a means of moving forward after loss.
Related Themes from Other Texts
Truth, Adolescence, and Justice ThemeTracker
Truth, Adolescence, and Justice Quotes in Patron Saints of Nothing
“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?”
The article included the fact that four low-level officers were eventually charged for killing that seventeen-year-old, but their punishments were minimal and only happened after massive protests. But what about the other victims who never got a hashtag? What about Jun?
Would there be justice?
Definitely not if nobody even knows what truly happened.
So maybe that's it—maybe I can find out. If his friend is right, maybe there are witnesses; maybe there's video; maybe there's a flawed report.
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.
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.”
“Tell me, Jason Reguero, are you willing to die to find out what happened to your cousin?”
I clench my jaw as I consider my answer. Part of me wonders if this is all that serious. It's not like I'm writing some investigative piece that will be published for millions to read. Finding out the truth about Jun isn't going to change the world.
But then again, this feels important and part of me is sick of never doing anything of significance in my life. I go to school. I do homework. I play video games. I'll be going to college in the fall, where I'll pretty much do four more years of the same—and for what? If I died right now I will have died having done nothing and having helped nobody.
“Yes,” I finally say, trying to imbue the word with the heaviness of the conviction I feel in my soul.
I knew it. I fucking knew it.
The Jun who hugged me after that puppy died, who became a best friend more than a cousin, who wrote me letters for years, whose heart was bigger than anyone else's I've ever known—there was no way he would have sold drugs. He was too good. He was the best of us. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself knowing and feeling the pain and destruction those drugs would have caused.
But standing here with my feet in the water, listening to the sound of Tagalog and maybe other languages mixed with laughter and the crashing of the waves, smelling the chicken inasal or pork inihaw grilling behind me as swallows flit past overhead to their nests high in the surrounding cliffs, I feel like that first year mattered in a way I've never felt it did before.
[…]
It strikes me that I cannot claim this country's serene coves and sun-soaked beaches without also claiming its poverty, its problems, its history. To say that any aspect of it is part of me is to say that all of it is part of me.
Tito Danilo continues. “And later, he started selling.”
“But why?” Grace asks, desperate.
“Shabu is a hunger suppressant. You see, it is cheaper than food, so many of the poor start for this reason, and then they become addicted. As for why he started selling? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe to make money to keep feeding his addiction.”
I close my eyes, as if doing so will rewind the story erasing everything Tito Danilo has just told us. As if it will stop the warping truth. I can't reconcile this version of Jun with the one I had come to know to love, to admire.
In the car with Tito Danilo and Grace on the way back to Lolo and Lola's, I think about how there's a new grief in remembering Jun now, knowing what eventually happened, knowing that he was more than my idea of him in ways I do not like, knowing that there's probably so much more I'll never know.
I was determined to find the truth. And I did—at least a piece of it. But was it worth it? What do I even do now?
This didn't play out how I thought it would.
I expected the truth to illuminate, to resurrect.
Not to ruin.
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 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.
