When discussing Hiligaynon literature, one cannot possibly forget to mention the name Alice Tan Gonzales. To those of us who have had the privilege of knowing her personally, she is fondly called Ma’am Alice. Her presence looms large in the literary landscape of Western Visayas, not just as a writer but as a mentor whose influence has shaped generations of aspiring storytellers. Her name carries a certain weight, a gravitas that commands respect not only because of the depth of her literary contributions but also because of the wisdom and warmth with which she guides others.
I first met Ma’am Alice during my college years at a writing workshop. Even before I encountered her in person at the San Agustin Writers Workshop, her name was already well-known in our department. My literature professors often spoke of her in reverence, citing her as a prolific and award-winning writer in Hiligaynon. Her stories, they said, carried the pulse of the region, its people, its language, its history, and its unspoken longings. It was clear to me then that she was a formidable presence in the world of literature, and meeting her felt like stepping into the pages of a book where legends walked among us.
Ma’am Alice had a way of making a room pause when she spoke, not out of intimidation but out of the sheer weight of what she had to say. She did not offer praise lightly, and yet, when she did, it felt like a benediction. Her critiques were sharp but never cruel, her words always geared toward shaping a writer into their best possible self.
For many of us, she was more than just a literary figure; she was a bridge between generations of Hiligaynon writers. She carried with her the voices of those who came before while making space for those yet to come. Her stories, often grounded in the lives of ordinary people, revealed the extraordinary in the everyday. She wrote about women with quiet strength, about the struggles of the working class, about love and loss in the context of our own culture, stories that might have otherwise been overlooked in the larger sphere of Philippine literature dominated by Filipino and English.
Even outside of the workshop setting, Ma’am Alice was a presence that never faded. Her mentorship extended beyond the confines of formal literary spaces. She was always willing to read a draft and offer advice. To her, writing was not merely about stringing words together; it was about truth-telling, about giving voice to those who had long been silenced. She reminded us that to write in Hiligaynon was to affirm its worth, to ensure that our language remained alive in the stories we told.
Now, years later, I find myself returning to her words, her lessons, her stories. In a literary world that often privileges the metropolitan over the regional, the global over the local, she stood as proof that our stories mattered, that Hiligaynon literature was not merely a footnote but a thriving, essential part of our cultural identity.
I consider myself incredibly fortunate to have met, in person, the pillars of Hiligaynon literature, those whose words have not only shaped our region’s literary landscape but have also guided countless aspiring writers. It still feels surreal to have had the chance to sit with them, listen to their stories, and receive their wisdom firsthand. Apart from Ma’am Alice, whose gentle yet firm presence has long been a source of inspiration, I was given the opportunity to participate in workshops and have my works critiqued by literary giants, figures who once existed only in the pages of books and in the reverent whispers of my mentors.
Among them was Leoncio P. Deriada, whom we, his “Deriada babies,” affectionately called Sir Leo. His name carried weight, not just because he was a Palanca Hall of Famer, but because he possessed an unmatched brilliance in nurturing writers. He could be intimidating; his critiques were sharp and unfiltered but those of us who had the privilege of being under his guidance knew that every word he spoke was meant to push us toward our best selves as writers. There was also Melchor F. Cichon, the poet and translator from Aklan. His poetry is a reflection of his deep connection to his hometown, and his translations-built bridges between worlds that might have otherwise remained apart. Then there was Rex Hidalgo, a brilliant Ilonggo novelist and journalist, whose storytelling was as compelling as it was necessary. His works captured the essence of Ilonggo life with an honesty that was both beautiful and unflinching.
Like Ma’am Alice, these literary masters shaped my understanding of Western Visayas’ diverse literary traditions, broadening my appreciation of Hiligaynon, Kinaray-a, and Aklanon literature. They did not merely teach me how to write, they taught me how to listen, how to pay attention to the nuances of language, how to respect the histories woven into every word.
And yet, among them all, Ma’am Alice holds a unique place in my heart, especially in the field of children’s literature. She possesses an almost magical ability to see the world through a child’s eyes, to capture the wonder and curiosity that many adults have long forgotten. Her collection of children’s stories, published in 2010 in collaboration with Seguiban Publishing, remains one of my most cherished literary discoveries.
The stories in May Isa ka Kuring nga Hari, a compilation of seven Hiligaynon children’s tales, possess an undeniable brilliance. Each story is a portal into a world both familiar and fantastical, where cats can be kings and the impossible becomes possible. It is difficult, almost impossible to pick a favorite among them, as each tale carries its own kind of magic. Some stories make me laugh with their playful wit; others leave me in quiet awe at their wisdom. But what makes them truly extraordinary is the way they linger in the mind, like childhood memories that refuse to fade.
I am in awe, and continue to be, of Ma’am Alice’s literary genius. There are writers who tell stories, and then there are those who weave magic into words, transforming the mundane into something luminous. Ma’am Alice belongs to the latter. What fascinates me most is the way she makes the ordinary extraordinary. The familiar world tilts ever so slightly under her deft storytelling, revealing a depth and wonder often overlooked in the rush of daily life. It is as if she casts a spell through the Hiligaynon language, shaping the rhythm of her words with such precision that they echo in the mind long after the last sentence has been read. She has mastered the delicate alchemy of language, her prose both accessible and profound, capable of enchanting children and adults alike.
Beyond this, I deeply admire how Ma’am Alice wields the short story genre with an elegance that few can match. Short stories, by their nature, require discipline; they demand clarity, conciseness, and a sharp eye for the essential. Ma’am Alice does not waste a single word. Every sentence she writes carries weight, revealing the intricacies of storytelling with effortless grace. And yet, what makes her stories truly remarkable is their ability to bridge generations. They ignite the imagination of young readers, filling them with wonder, while at the same time offering something equally compelling to those who have long since left childhood behind. Her works remind us that stories are not bound by age, that literature when crafted with skill and heart transcends the boundaries, we often impose upon it.
To me, it is not just an honor but a privilege to consider Ma’am Alice both an idol and a friend. She is a proof to the idea that literature is not merely an exercise of the intellect, but a labor of love, a devotion to language, to culture, to the art of storytelling itself. She reminds us that even the simplest and most ordinary things hold the potential to become extraordinary in the hands of a skilled and dedicated writer. And that, perhaps, is the most beautiful lesson of all.
I do not know if Ma’am Alice still has copies of her book, but here is a little secret, one that I have kept close to my heart for years. I was so utterly enamored by her stories that I once bought ten copies, as if keeping them near me would ensure that their magic would never fade. I did not buy them out of mere admiration; I bought them because I knew, even then, that this collection would play a significant role in shaping my creative imagination. It was more than just a book, it was a portal into a world where language danced, where the simplest of moments held profound meaning, where a child’s wonder was never dismissed but celebrated.
Ma’am Alice’s May Isa ka Kuring nga Hari did more than captivate me, it inspired me to become a children’s writer myself. The stories in its pages lingered in my mind long after I first read them, their rhythms influencing the way I would later craft my own narratives. When I published my first Hiligaynon children’s book, Sanday Tay Alib kag Tay Amar, in 2015, I carried Ma’am Alice’s stories with me, like a guiding light. The truth is, I modeled my approach to writing children’s literature after her works, always striving for that perfect balance of playfulness and depth, of accessibility and literary excellence. Her book remains close to my heart, a constant reminder of why I chose to write for children in the first place. To this day, I share her stories with my Grade 7 students, especially when we discuss regional literature in class. Seeing their eyes light up as they listen to her words, just as mine did years ago, is a proof to the enduring power of her storytelling.
But my admiration for Ma’am Alice extends beyond her literary brilliance. What I respect just as deeply, if not more is her commitment to independent publishing. May Isa ka Kuring nga Hari was not released by a major publishing house; it was self-published in 2010 using her own resources. It was an act of faith, a bold declaration that her stories deserved to be told, regardless of the barriers in the publishing world. And that faith was not misplaced, the book has since been recognized as one of the most significant works in the history of Philippine children’s literature.
My love for this collection ran so deep that I once found myself translating some of its stories into Filipino, imagining myself not just as a reader, but as one of the characters within its pages. It was not a formal project, just something I did for the sheer joy of it. There was something exhilarating about slipping into Ma’am Alice’s world, about carrying her words across languages while ensuring their essence remained intact. It felt, in a way, like an extension of my admiration for her, a quiet tribute to a writer whose influence on me was immeasurable.
And perhaps, it was never really a secret, but I found the courage to venture into book publishing because of the strength I saw in the senior writers I had the privilege of meeting, mentors who later became friends, like Ma’am Alice. She, more than anyone, taught me that literature is not just about crafting beautiful stories, but about ensuring those stories reach the people who need them the most. To her, readers matter deeply. I have witnessed firsthand how she keeps her books affordable, making certain that children and readers with limited resources can still access them. In a world where literature is often treated as a luxury, her generosity is a quiet revolution.
This, more than anything, is what deepens my admiration for Ma’am Alice. She is not just a brilliant writer, she is a remarkable woman, one whose dedication to her craft and to her readers has left an indelible mark on Hiligaynon literature. And to call her not just a mentor, but a friend, is one of the greatest privileges of my life.
And so, in this month dedicated to women, it is only fitting that we celebrate Alice Tan Gonzales, not just as a writer, but as one of the most exceptional literary figures of our time. Her brilliance extends beyond the written word; her generosity as a mentor, her dedication to Hiligaynon literature, and her ability to shape young minds through her stories make her presence in Philippine letters truly invaluable. She is a writer whose influence is not measured merely by the number of books she has written but by the generations of writers she has inspired, nurtured, and encouraged.
That is why, whenever Dulce, our president at Hubon Manunulat, announces a meeting, I always feel a quiet thrill of anticipation. Not just because it is another chance to be among fellow writers, but because it often means that Ma’am Alice will once again open her home to us, her fellow storytellers, her younger literary kin. There is something special about the way she welcomes us, how she makes space for us at her table, as if to remind us that literature is not just a solitary endeavor, but a communal one. In her presence, we are reminded of why we write, of the importance of telling stories that matter. And in spirit, no matter how many years pass, we, her workshoppers, her fellow writers, remain young, still eager, still learning, still in awe of the brilliance she so effortlessly embodies.
There is so much more that can be said about Ma’am Alice, so many more stories to tell of how she has shaped Philippine literature, particularly from the heart of Western Visayas. But even without saying another word, one truth remains clear: she stands as one of the most significant Filipina writers of our time, a literary giant whose mastery of creative writing is undeniable. Her contributions go beyond the pages of her books, they live in the students she has mentored, in the writers she has guided, in the stories that will continue to be written because of her influence. And that is the true measure of a writer’s legacy.
Through the singular voice of Alice Tan Gonzales, Hiligaynon literature thrives. Her presence, her words, and her boundless generosity remind us all that storytelling is not just about writing, it is about preserving, nurturing, and passing on a tradition that will outlive us all.
Noel Galon de Leon is a writer and educator at University of the Philippines Visayas, where he teaches in both the Division of Professional Education and U.P. High School in Iloilo. He serves as an Executive Council Member of the National Commission for Culture and the Arts-National Committee on Literary Arts.
