Today we’d like to introduce you to Cynthia Amoah.
Hi Cynthia, we’d love for you to start by introducing yourself.
I was a blooming girl in high school, masking my dispositions into quietly crafted journals; a girl solely concerned with the happenings of her core group of friends, and someone who hid so much from her inner voice that I would go to the extent of making a fool out of myself just to make others laugh. I wasn’t popular, but I wasn’t lonely either. I fit somewhere in between spaces. I would find myself in the library oftentimes, reading books and spending the afternoons scribbling down poems or elbow-deep lost in the book stacks until my eyes widened into heavy oaks.
Somewhere in the dance that was my high school life, I stumbled upon spoken word poetry. My English teacher, Mrs. Fitzgerald, entered me into the Poetry Out Loud organization’s “National Recitation Competition,” and it changed my life.
The competition consisted of high school students memorizing and reciting the work of famous poets. Work from poets such as Frost and Yeats were found in the lists but also work by the likes of Margaret Atwood, June Jordan, and Toi Dericotte, among many. And so, the competition was judged not on our own work as poets but on our interpretation of other famous works, on what we believed was the intention inside of a poem. More than memorizing and reciting, the real work became the study of a poet, on analyzing their thinking and mannerisms before breathing the poem to life. We watched a few examples of performances from previous winners of the competition, and it was the first time I can recollect hearing poems read aloud in an unusual and fascinating way.
Even now, I vividly remember the day Mrs. Fitz gave our class time to prepare for the competition. All around me were other students, repeating words over and over, tagging their best friends to read along silently while they rehearsed. Then, there was Maggie Gourd, arguably one of the smartest and most competitive girls in the class, tall, curly blonde hair, innocent honey eyes. Maggie practically sang her poem in an uneven high-pitched tone of course, a poem about a young mother nursing her newborn. Maggie felt the poet was a mother, and mothers sing to their children, so she would implement this approach in her rendering of the poem. Our experience of her recitation was, from what I remember, somewhat unpleasant, but that was the splendor of the competition; poems were budding freely from our mouths the way we believed they belonged. Everyone was fully engaged, finding new and creative ways to recite their selections. All of this presented itself as a challenge but urged me to embrace presenting poetry in a way I had never before experienced.
I selected a poem by Lucille Clifton. I was equally as interested in the content of the poem as I was the poet. “Mulberry fields” stood out to me as a poem that was aware of itself. I enjoyed its use of personification and tried my best to stagger words when speaking them as I first saw it performed on the page to find the expected music in the poem. I began calmly pacing myself at every line, settling myself and then scaling each word for precise meaning. All of the poems for the competition—I believe—only needed time, needed some thinking through in order to settle themselves and so we could be sure of what kind of spirit we were inviting into the classroom, God forbid we dishonored the poems with our misunderstandings. This was the hope, but because it was a competition, one of us had to stand out like a bad crop to win. And when I finally recited my poem at the competition, it felt like something sweet to hang onto, a trinket of Lucille’s love and guidance, but then I came in second place. What is more, I was still fulfilled at my tiny victory.
I say this experience changed my life, but no—here is where life started—it is the beginnings of a journey I will spend my entire life seeking out. Though I was enrolled in the competition for two years and came in second place at the regional level each time, my experience in the competition taught me that I no longer had to quiet my concerns or hush my interests, I now had a voice. One that could live outside the pages of my journal. Better yet, I could give voice to everything—and by so doing, lend a life to those things inside of my chest growing something like hope.
Would you say it’s been a smooth road, and if not, what are some of the biggest challenges you’ve faced along the way?
The only struggle I think of now are names. I am bombarded with what to call myself. A writer. A poet. A speaker. A performer. An artist. A woman artist. An African poet and artist. See? I just listed several titles.
At times, I resort to others interpretations of me. Other times, I am perfectly fine being all of these things or none at all, as long as the poems speak for themselves. I hope to continuously engage with my work in a way that challenges my readership, allows my performances to serve my audiences, and create an experience on the page as impactful as when my work is heard aloud.
As you know, we’re big fans of you and your work. For our readers who might not be as familiar, what can you tell them about what you do?
I’m a Ghanaian American spoken word poet, national speaker, and teaching artist. When I first started performing and speaking, I found one common issue: people needed to know the value that writing and art provide. For over a decade, I’ve been specializing in bringing poetry and art into spaces where people never expect possible. Whether that be in my capacity as a teaching artist where I help students build social emotional, and healthy coping skills through writing, performance, and self-expression, or motivating and inspiring change at the organizational and communal level, writing and art can produce a well of ideas and creativity.
Our words, our voices, and our stories matter. And who deserves to know that? We all do. My work serves as a reminder.
We’d love to hear about what you think about risk-taking.
When I think of risk-taking, I think of my immigrant mother.
My mother left Ghana in 1993. Neither of us had ever before been on a plane. Together with my mother, my two older siblings and I arrived in the November winds that were America. Even now, I have never forgotten this experience; etched in my memory is the look in my mother’s eye as she gazed at the possibility of her children living the slightest hint of the “American” dream.
When I think of risk-taking, I think of my immigrant mother.
“Ma, I want to be a poet.” This is the line I mumbled to my mother at the tender age of 22, after America had deemed me independent as an adult; fresh out of college; if this was the way the country saw me, surely my mother would too. However, I was still afraid when I informed my very African mother, “Ma, I want to be a poet.” I almost whispered it, like it was a forbidden thing. Which is to say, “Ma, this is what I want to do with my life.” “Ma, this is what I believe I’ve been purposed for.” “Ma, I want to dispel the notion of the struggling artist and still show up in the world as one.” “Ma, I want to be a poet.”
My decision to become a poet was made in opposition to the traditional law school career path that my mother and I had discussed for years. Commonly, African parents are known to require this of their children: an obligation to pursue careers they believe to be prestigious in medicine, nursing, law, pharmacy, engineering, and etc. This is because immigrant children carry the burden of success for their parents. If we do not succeed, they have not succeeded as parents. But poetry had always been purposed to my life. It was more than what I wanted to be; it was who I was. And yet, you’d understand why my immigrant mother, raising three children on her own, working tirelessly for years to become certified as a Clinical Nurse Practitioner in America, would be upset and surprised when I told her, “Ma, I want to be a poet.”
When I think of risk-taking, I think of my immigrant mother and myself.
It was all a risk, it still is.
Contact Info:
- Website: www.cynthiaamoah.com
- Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/poetesscynthia/
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/poetesscynthia/
- Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/cynthia-amoah
- Twitter: https://twitter.com/poetesscynthia
- Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/c/CynthiaAmoah
