In my early 20s, I worked for a programme called the California Poets in the Schools. Through this programme, English teachers would turn over their classrooms to poets—sometimes for a limited number of regular weekly or monthly sessions. We, the poets, would go into those classrooms and teach the students how to write poetry. The premise was that as students become more and more familiar with the rules of English—all the “do”s and “don’t”s—they become less inclined to use the language as a tool of emotional inquiry and creative experimentation. By learning poetry, a form of literature thought to be more visceral, students would be able to strike a balance: they would have the skill set and confidence to employ language both functionally and creatively. We taught students from elementary through high school. I favoured primary school kids. Their imaginations were pure, unadulterated. Their language was elastic, effortlessly stretching the meanings of words. In their poems, sometimes humans were objectified and inanimate objects were personified; the skies were filled with cotton-candy and cinnamon scented clouds; mermaids could emerge from many leagues under the sea, shed their scales, sprout wings and soar toward the horizon. However fantastical the imagery, the feelings these kids expressed in their poetry was shockingly real, grounded in the everyday, the joys and pains, hopes and disappointments that bind us all to our flesh-and-blood humanity. I learned a great deal from them about the power of imagination and the necessity for creativity in our lives. Even after I’d moved on from the programme, I would volunteer at whatever school my daughter was attending (including Lincoln and Ghana International School) as a poet-teacher and take the programme I’d learned into her English classroom. Interestingly, some years later while teaching a writing course to adults, most of whom were not native speakers of English, I noticed the same elasticity of language. Sentence structures were often flipped, and word choices were made with attention paid not merely to the denotation of a word, but also to the nuance and the romance of it. There was a passion and sensuality to their native languages that they would not allow to get lost in translation while switching over to English. Both of those experiences were liberating for me, a speaker of multiple languages. Even though I lived in America, I didn’t grow up speaking English in my home. While at school or in social situations, I would often find my all-too-Ghanaian-English colloquialisms slipping into my more formal speech and, subsequently, into my writing. Soon enough, my adopted black-American colloquialisms as well as my California “Valley Girl” slang were all finding their way onto the page as well. Many people of colour throughout the world—and the post-colonial African continent is definitely no exception—are taught literature primarily with works by dead white men or women. When we begin writing our own stories, essays, our first inclination is to mirror, if not mimic, the work that we’ve been reading. In doing so, we risk losing so many of the colours and flavours not only of our larger cultural experience, but also of our own unique personal experience. Eventually some of us come to the realisation that voice—be it a narrator’s or a character’s—is an important part of literature. As is style. When you read a piece of writing you fall in love with the work’s tone and rhythm; you fall in love with the words the writer uses, the way he or she turns a phrase. It’s the voice, the style that draws you in. In the mid-1960s, Chinua Achebe, in defence of his choice to write in English instead of his native Igbo, wrote: “I feel that the English language will be able to carry the weight of my African experience. But it will have to be a new English, still in full communion with its ancestral home but altered to suit its new African surroundings.” Ideally, every writer will, in one way or another, bring elements of his or her personality and background to the page. English can be an extremely rigid language, so in order to do this you will sometimes have to break the rules. Here’s the catch: in order to effectively break the rules, you must have a strong working knowledge and understanding of those rules. That’s the only way the language can remain “in full communion with its ancestral home.” In response to my article that was published in the Daily Graphic last week, I received dozens of emails. In a few of those emails, the writers asked whether my use of “should in case,” in that article was grammatically correct. The answer is no; “should in case” is not at all grammatically correct. Had I wanted to follow the rules, I would have used only “should” or only “in case”—one or the other, but not both. It’s a common grammatical “error.” (I place error in quotations because it’s not an error if it’s done intentionally) It’s a classic case of tautology. (Look it up!) And it’s also how I speak, something that easily defines my voice, my personality, so I allowed it a place in the article. Many things I do in my work are not, technically speaking, grammatically correct. But they are done on purpose. My writings are often filled with sentences that begin with “and” or “but.” Those sentences are sometimes long and winding. Then again, sometimes they are so brief they contain neither subject nor verb. Yep. Admittedly, I was thrilled to receive those emails about “should in case”; thrilled to realise that Ghana is filled with so many arm-chair grammarians. We need them to be more vocal in their role as our language police. Seriously. We need them to be quick to point out some of the more egregious mistakes that are made day-in and day-out by our journalists and political leaders (and no, these are not stylistic literary choices, they are quite obviously errors of ignorance): “you are pulling my legs”; “it is selling like a hot cake”; “he have done a very good work”; “it’s not that far to fetch”; and, my personal favourite, “there are many ways to kill a cat.” I think it would be a good way to get people to think before they write, or speak. Imagine the difference that would make in our media. Anyhow…back to poetry. Anyone who’s interested in learning more about English and beginning something of a love affair with words should start reading poetry. Ghana has a wealth of amazing poets—the late Kwesi Brew; Atukwei Okai; Kofi Anyidoho, Ama Ata Aidoo, Abena P.A. Busia, and my literary hero, Kofi Awoonor, whose words I shall use to end this article. Let the dream not die, master; Let the dove coo at dawn again, Let the masthead rear its head out of the storm and share the night with me on this sea. Let me sing the song you gave me. Before death comes, master, Let me dance to the drums you gave me. Let me sit in the warmth of the fire of the only native land you gave me. --Kofi Awoonor from “Of Home and Sea I Already Sang” “The View From Here,” a weekly column by Meri Nana-Ama Danquah, is published every Friday in the Daily Graphic. Note: This article is not for reposting. Author email: outloud@danquah.com