January 1, 2023
While browsing through YouTube, I suddenly stopped when I saw Lucia di Lammermoor. It brought me back to my pre-teen years—more than half a century ago. I listened and watched, amazed at how much of the music I still remembered, and how many of the melodies I could still sing. It was Ana Marie who bought those long-playing records, and I would sing along with them. So now I know the answer to the question: Who taught me how to sing? It was Ana Marie.
Taken in 1952
when Lolo Badong and
Lola Vic celebrated their
silver wedding anniversary
She brought home librettos, chose the operas, and bought the records herself—perhaps even with her own money. One Christmas she gave me a miniature set of biographies of great composers. Ana Marie introduced me to the Firestone Hour; it opened my imagination and my ears to the great performances of that time. Our home didn’t have a television set. There is still a chance today to see what I missed, thanks to WiFi. Thank you, Ana Marie, for the music.
Mom with her sisters
and Lola Vic
After Carminia, my eldest sister, was born came Ana Marie—cute, with a curl on top of her head, smiling, fair-skinned, and everything you could desire from a little child. Amorsolo painted her by the pond in Villa Victoneta, capturing those quiet moments with water lilies, much like Monet would have done.
Both Ana Marie and Carminia shared a richly decorated room with golden cherubs in Victoneta. Before that they certainly lived with Mom’s mother, Lola Ana—just as I would later be told to do after getting married: “Stay in your mother’s home until you have your own.”
Lola Ana’s house was on Calle California, named after the battalion stationed there during the Philippine-American War. My family lived like nomads, as I later would with my own family. Just before the war we lived in Villa Victoneta, then shuffled to the Admiral Apartments, then to our home in Malabon, and back to the Admiral as circumstances required.
Tita Marivic called Victoneta a palace
During the war we went up to Baguio after our home had been sequestered by the Japanese. First to Lola Ana’s house, then to Lola Carmen’s, and then to a Holy Family classroom under the open skies or a thatched roof, lying on a papag built by my dad.There is a name for this kind of constant moving: evacuees, displaced people, refugees. But I prefer to think of us as nomads, carrying our free spirit wherever we went, unchained.
When the war broke out, we were staying at the Admiral Apartments. I know this because my parents were having dinner there with an American embassy official, Dean Sherry, who assured them war was not forthcoming.
Admiral Apartments on Dewey Boulevard
My sister Ana Marie remembered those first days vividly. The Admiral suddenly filled with guests, and at around thirteen years old she helped the staff—making beds, folding sheets, learning like everyone else what to do when air-raid sirens wailed or bombs fell. We did not stay long in our home by the bay; we returned to Victoneta.
After crossing into the American line, Dad found a truck to bring us back to Manila. We stayed a week at our Lola Carmen’s home, then moved to a house behind the Admiral that belonged to Lola Ana. Her property was divided into four units; we occupied one facing the street, while my cousin Melinda Arcenas, about my age, lived in another with her family.
American officers stayed in the eight-story building facing Dewey Boulevard and Manila Bay, the tallest building in the area for decades. After the Japanese surrendered, the American military went home. I remember the barbed wire fence keeping locals and soldiers apart. Their quarters were on the second floor; their vehicles were on the first.
When the time came for Mom and Dad to build a new Victoneta—no longer a villa but a home suited to the needs of post-war life—they chose a design from photos of Basque country houses. Dad seemed to be a man of habit; he selected a location much like the original Villa Victoneta near Wack Wack Golf Course. The name remained “Victoneta,” though it was now surrounded by trees, grass, and open space.
Victoneta Mansion
Here, as in the days of the war, Ana Marie left her mark. Our new home in Potrero, Malabon, was surrounded by mango trees. Mom fell in love with the place, and Dad, her gallant knight, bought it for her. It soon became known as “The White House” simply because it was painted white. There was a tiny guardhouse in front. With no next-door neighbors, Dad installed a bell by the window to alert the guards and even got himself a fireman’s gear—hat, boots, and ax.
Mom with her parents and sisters in
Vancouver around 1976
But after the war, the Hukbalahap problem grew serious, and we returned to the Admiral. It was then discovered that an unexploded Japanese bomb sat on the roof. The military refused to touch it. Our guerrilla hero, Col. Agustin Marking, courageously removed it, placed it in a drum of water, and carried it away.
Lola Vic, Mom and Dad with Stella, Mylene and Geraldine.
At the Admiral we had our first experience with elevators, a switchboard, and a telephone operator. Even dialing a number without an operator felt like an adventure. Asking for help came with some timidity—afraid to hear, “What, you don’t know how to use a phone?” Ana Marie seemed to know everything. She was the leader of our little pack.
Dad and Mom during their courtship days
In my early Christmases, I believed wholeheartedly in Santa Claus. Mom had Ana Marie as her Girl Friday—and her Christmas elf. One year I banged on my parents’ bedroom door shouting, “There is no Santa Claus! You are both Santa!” I had recognized the rings Ana Marie wrapped, and even her handwriting. But Mom and Dad did not open the door. They let me grow up that night, and I never forgot it.
A keepsake from Lola Vic
The story of Ana Marie, the milkmaid, is part of my story of Carminia that I plan to write about someday. It was during the war in Victoneta that Ana Marie’s love for animals blossomed, continuing into the post-war years. Victoneta Park had two basketball courts for the AIA students. On Friday afternoons the school band rehearsed or held concerts there. Our bandmaster was Professor Agustin Estacio. We enjoyed listening—Mom and Dad would also join us, bringing chairs while others sat on the grass.
With the Concepcion and Santos Ocampo families. I am sitting on my dad’s lap.
Whenever I’m asked who taught me how to sing, I say, “No one, really. I just listened to the records my sister Ana Marie bought.” Operas, operettas, musicals—she bought the records, and I sang along.
Mom is in her teens
But now I realize that thanks to her a whole new world of music opened up for me.🍁
Today is Lolo Badong’s birth anniversary. My mom, Lina, would mark nearly every year with an article or speech. To continue her tradition, I would like to share some anecdotes.
I think I should start at the beginning when I was in my mom’s tummy some fifty plus years ago. At the time, my mom thought I would be a boy. While Lolo Badong intuited I would be a girl. He had complimented Mom “You’re beautiful. It will be a girl!”
You could say Lolo Badong was a unique gift giver. When I was born, he didn’t give my mom a stroller or crib. He instead gave Mom a Yamaha organ.
It was a top of the line Yamaha: a two level organ and had these big pedalboards. His gift was very special to her as my mom loved to sing (she had an operatic voice) and play the piano. Needless to say when we immigrated to Canada, she had it shipped to our new home in Vancouver.
My mom never learned to swim and that was because as a child, Lolo Badong thought he could teach her by just throwing her into a river. That didn’t quite work as she had swallowed gulps of dirty water. Thankfully Mom didn’t develop a phobia of water and didn’t get sick!
Lolo Badong and me in 1972
Sometime in the summer of 1982, we had a rare road trip to Nalinac in La Union with Lolo. My mom recalled her younger days when her dad would take the whole family there.
My Lolo had to move to Vancouver, Canada. It wasn’t really by choice. During Martial Law, he was among those going to be arrested. At the time, he was in San Francisco visiting his youngest daughter. His passport was accordingly cancelled, making him stateless. I hadn’t realized that Lolo Badong was a political refugee, like Ninoy Aquino, and only returned to the Philippines in 1980 from self-exile.
My mom was by his bedside as he was hospitalized in October 1982. The last words he said were to her. He said ‘No te veo’ in Spanish which means I don’t see you. It struck me when my mom wrote about it because Lolo Badong was a man of vision. He saw that each person has dignity and wanted each Filipino to have a life of peace and prosperity.
Today in 2026, much still has to be done for our fellow Filipinos. But Lolo, a man of deep faith, would never lose hope and never give up. And on a very happy note, during his centenary in 2002, I was introduced to my husband, Eddie. I would like to think Lolo Badong was playing matchmaker in heaven.
With love and affection,
Danielle Marie Santiago Lizares
