In 2018, I caught a glimpse of the future. That spring Glamour named Amanda Gorman a College Woman of the Year. This was before Amanda—in her sunshine-colored coat—served as President Joe Biden’s inaugural poet and helped usher in the dawn of a new era in American letters. It was before her epic Super Bowl performance and before she published two books within six months of each other, both of which became instant best sellers. When I was introduced to her, she did not have 3.8 million Instagram followers. Yet.
But it was clear to me even then that I was witnessing something special—a woman and artist just beginning to flex her tremendous powers. Now we all know what Amanda Gorman can do. And I know we’re all counting on her to make good on her promise to run for president in 2036. Amanda owns her unique place in the world. She commands attention and respect without skimping on kindness or compassion. Her particular brand of ambition has inspired, and will continue to inspire, millions of women and men around the globe.
When it was time to choose our 2021 Women of the Year honorees, Amanda was an obvious choice. World-renowned poet? A voice of her generation? Future president of the United States? You know we couldn’t pass that up.
Amanda Gorman weaves entire worlds out of words, so it seemed fitting to invite another universe builder to interview her for our Woman of the Year profile. Tomi Adeyemi is a writer, creator, and entrepreneur, and the author of the Children of Blood and Bone trilogy. Here the two women talk about our moment of reckoning, the high highs and low lows of the creative process, and what it means to seek greatness.
—Samantha Barry, editor in chief
Tomi Adeyemi: Hi, Amanda!
Amanda Gorman: Hi!
I’ve been wanting to connect with you, and I’m excited, because these are just things I want to know. I want to start with your evolution. Since the inauguration in January, you have had an absolute whirlwind of a year, and this is after all the chaos and turmoil of 2020. How has the pandemic changed you, and how has this past year changed you?
Oh.
Yeah, we’re starting so easy.
Oh my God, okay! Thinking about the pandemic, I think it was a life lesson for me in terms of solitude. I was spending more time than ever alone, which I’m sure you can understand as a writer. It’s something of an occupational hazard that we have to hunker down and get the work done.
But during COVID, it was animated by this sensation of grief, of longing, of trauma. I was bringing a lot more baggage into the writing room when I was going there. And what it taught me is to take that aloneness as an opportunity and as a gift. I felt like I discovered so much more about myself by learning to live in that silence. It was just like, “What is it like to be in my room for eight hours on end, just looking out the window and letting thoughts come to me?” I’ve enjoyed learning that.
And then in terms of how the inauguration explosion has changed me? I’m like, How has it? I was just thinking about this last night, and I feel like I had a breakthrough. I think on the surface, there’s the lack of anonymity. I’m so used to, as a writer, being able to go to a park or a café and just kind of blend in and feel like a piece of the background. And not that that’s impossible, but it’s quite difficult now. Even with a mask and a face shield on, people still lean down and say, “Are you Amanda Gorman?” I’m like, “Wow, you must have noticed me by the curvature of my wrist.”
I think the bigger changes that have happened for me is I’ve had a crash course in confidence building. I think when it started, I was so nervous, so unsure of myself, and just so insecure if I could be the role model that I think so many purport me to be. Can I live up to this pressure? Can I live up to this kind of idealized Amanda? I’ve learned that it’s not about living up to external expectations of myself, but living into the values and the principles that I hold most dear. That’s all I can ask of myself. I had a moment last night where I was thinking to myself, Actually, Amanda, you’re doing a good job, kid.
You’re doing a great job. It makes my heart squeeze, hearing you say that, because I feel like that’s a lesson we all have to keep learning. You’re doing a great job. You’re doing it. But I can imagine when there’s this Barbie doll version of you, it can become a question of, “Am I fitting into the plastic mold?”
Someone recently said to me, “Oh, you just seem perfect.” And I’m like, “I’m actually imperfect, and that’s what makes me amazing.” I think that was the moment that illuminated for me that I don’t have to be the picture-perfect image. I have to be the real image of who I am.
What’s been the most surprising part of your recent journey? What have been the highlights? What have been the lowlights?
The lack of anonymity is huge. I think every spotlight comes with its shadows, and that doesn’t mean you don’t step out into the sun. That’s something that I try to remind myself of. I do miss privacy and even the safety that I felt before. Fame is portrayed as this really glossy thing. But I represent a lot of what people find intolerable. My poetry, and my Blackness, my femininity, my justice seeking, actually in many ways make me a target. I would not change it at all, and I’m still sticking the course; the upsides have been so many, compared with the downsides.
I see so many students who are reading me in the classroom, or dressing up as me, or amazing artists that are creating cello compositions or ice skating routines based on my poem. That just makes my heart swell. When I get to just look at all of this art, and beauty, and youth that—
The ripple effect.
The ripple effect, yes. With my team, we call it the Amanda effect, which is self-congratulating, but there’s no other word for it.
You’re a writer! You have to use the words even when it’s like, “Am I gassing myself?”
Yes, so just seeing the Amanda effect. Thinking about what it would have meant to me as a student to meet someone like you in the classroom. What it would have been like to meet someone who looked like me in class—I just think about what that would have signified for me. Knowing that from a single poem, we now get to exist in a world where teaching that poem, teaching that artist, is possible? That’s completely gratifying to me.
You’ve spoken before about seeking greatness. What role has ambition played in your life?
Oh, I love this question. I feel like all women need to be asked this. Honestly, ambition is something that I’ve struggled with because—and you probably feel this a lot as a woman, especially as a Black woman—it’s something that I’m not prescribed to have. I’m not supposed to have dreams for myself. I’m not supposed to seek attention or power. When I decided to do the inaugural poem, there was a little voice in the back of my head that said, “You don’t belong at the microphone. You don’t belong at the podium.”
I had to write a diary entry to myself, telling myself it is more than okay to be a woman and seek greatness. I’m learning to listen quite openly to my ambitions and to continue to dream big, because if I don’t, who is going to dream those dreams for me? I think ambition is another word for “instinct in training.” It’s that part of your spirit that tells you there’s something more that you can give.
I always return to the Shonda Rhimes quote: “You belong in every single room you’re in.” And Shonda knows, because she’s been there!
Exactly. Yes.
I want to know if you’re finding it harder to create now, between the pandemic and everything else that’s going on. What has your creative writing process looked like?
How much time do we have? [Laughs.] Maybe you feel like this too, but writing is always terrible for me. It always feels like a disaster. When people ask me if it’s easier, I have to explain that this thing that I dedicate my life to is never going to be a walk in the park, and I don’t want it to be.
When COVID started a lot of people looked at us writers and were like, “So you’re going to be finishing that book, and the novel is coming out?” And I was like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down. Are you forgetting that this internal lockdown residency that I have at my apartment is happening because the world is in turmoil?”
So I don’t think writing got easier during the pandemic, but I think it got more urgent. Even if I wasn’t necessarily finishing work at a more rapid pace, I was showing up to write hungrier, more curious, and a little bit fiercer. I was given two weeks to write the inaugural poem, and I ended up writing it in six days. Is it easier? No, but it feels more essential.
And then writing now—in this stage—whew. I’m sure it was probably very similar for you when you had so much success with your series. You’re both invested in the professional administration of yourself as a writer and also trying to figure out how to balance that with your creative time. To write something, I need time to procrastinate, to lie on the floor and think about nothing. I need time to pick between my teeth. And so I’m trying to protect that wide expanse of a psychological playground. It’s actually harder to write now, but it’s also made me a lot more defensive about my time. I need to sculpt out that time where I do not care, unless it’s a top-10 drop-dead thing, and I have that time to write. So we shall see.
You’re finding it.
The book will get done, I think, somehow.
You have met so many incredible icons and leaders in the last year. What has been some of the best advice you’ve received?
The best advice I’ve received in my life has been from my mother who quotes Polonius in Hamlet, saying, “To thine own self be true.” She must have told me that every few days growing up, literally while I was taking my lunchbox out of the car. The best advice I received this year would be from Oprah Winfrey, who told me that “no” is a complete sentence.
What advice do you have for all the little Amanda Gormans out there who are looking up to you and the path you’re blazing. What do you want them to feel, and what do you want them to know?
I would say don’t dream to be the next Amanda Gorman. Dream to be the first you. We need new, diverse, different voices, and the world isn’t served if people imitate me. The more that we have people who are excellent at doing what they do, I think the brighter and bolder we’ll all be for it.
What would you say to seven-year-old Amanda, if you could meet her now?
Seven is such a specific age!
I know. I feel like seven is the age when you start to develop your sense of self.
Yes, and puberty is just on the horizon so it’s make-or-break time. What would I tell her? I would tell her what’s on my sweater right now: “My Voice Is Vital.” I just used to be so ashamed and feel so guilty about having a speech impediment and speaking the way that I did. I felt like it was this ugly, degenerate part of me. It took me so many years to learn that it’s actually one of the most beautiful things that makes me who I am. I would have tugged seven-year-old Amanda to the side and said, “Listen, your voice is going to change the world. There is nothing to be ashamed about.”
What would she be most proud of—seven-year-old Amanda?
In a spiritual sense, I think seven-year-old Amanda would just be proud that 22-year-old Amanda is still herself and who she is. I think that’s been one of the most core principles of my life. No matter how the world changes, I want to stay the same. I want to evolve, and grow, and develop, but still keep the DNA of who I am.
In terms of what I’ve accomplished, when I was little, I really wanted to be published. That was it for me. The fact that I was published and then saw my own name on the New York Times Best Sellers List—I feel like my seven-year-old self would have thrown up on the mat with shock.
Photographed by Shaniqwa Jarvis; styled by Jason Bolden; hair by LaRae Burress; makeup by Joanna Simkin. Photographed at Jumel Terrace Books in Harlem, specializing in African and African-American art, literature, music, and history.