1998

It was 1998, I was a depressed sophomore in college and brilliant Agnes Scott English professor Steve Guthrie was the only person who believed in me (or so I thought). He was the only person I knew who believed in me. He was emphatically vocal about his support, not interested in wading through my navel gazing when I would flop down in my requisite 90s dyke uniform of docs and overalls in his office, complaining about whatever I was upset about. He wanted to talk about the writing. He was one of the only professors I would go see between classes when I wasn’t in a class with him, just to visit, just to say hi. So at his urging that year I submitted a bunch of my poetry (he loved it) to the Writers’ Festival magazine and this poem made it. 

I found out recently that Dr. Guthrie passed away in 2021 and I am mired in grief at his transition off this plane. Like so many authority figures I respect, I frequently avoided going to see him to make contact when I was in Atlanta after I graduated and moved away. Over the years I was intimidated to go see Guthrie (my affectionate nickname for him) when I would come home to visit. I was afraid to go check-in and was nervous because when I did go see him, he would always look at me with his pretty, handsome face and say in his firm, gentle voice, “Treah, what are you writing? Are you getting published?” If not, are you self-publishing? If the answer was no then “why not?” He was always keeping me accountable to the process. And I was too busy, caught up in ego, in shame and perfectionism to tell him the truth that I wasn’t writing and wasn’t trying to get published. I was too paralyzed about being a bad writer, a beginning writer, a good enough writer to try and practice this skill of mine that he loved. So I avoided visiting and spent twenty years not writing and not doing lots of things I love. And now Guthrie has transitioned and I have regret and grief and not a lot of practice with my writing. But after I turned 40 I decided to really start exploring what makes me happy and figure out what nurtures fun, joy and gratitude in me…so that looks like going to dance class, going to the ballet as a spectator, buying myself flowers, and getting closer to that which nourishes me. Now I’m a 45 year old trying to find her way in the world and I refuse to give myself a hard time for not going to see Guthrie more, it is what it is and if he were here he would say, Treah, what are you writing? So I’m putting my writing here. 

I recently found this link to the 1998 Agnes Scott College Writers' Festival Catalog online. My poem is the FIRST piece in the whole catalog (alphabetical by last name! poetry is the first category in the catalog!) The text of that poem is also here in this post, with a few edits. I can feel my anxiety creep up and my heart starts to beat faster when I think about publishing this post. I don’t want folks to see or know about this poem now like I didn’t then; but Guthrie and the other folks on the committee thought this poem was good enough to be in the magazine, certainly an honor, I don’t have to hide it away. It’s disrespectful to his memory and to the memory of my struggling 19 year old self trying to survive. 

Getting closer to my writing has been more emotionally loaded then I anticipated and when I was looking up Dr. Guthrie’s info to reach out and connect since I knew he was retired, I was shocked when I found out he had passed away. My motivation to keep going, to write more, to practice more vulnerability feels stronger than ever, especially since I can’t share with Guthrie the way I’ve been used to.

I still don’t know if my poetry is good, I still struggle with depression and I still know that I love to write and people I respect say it's good but I’ve always been too insecure to do anything with it. I know that wherever he is (I don’t know his spiritual or religious beliefs but I know his spirit is free and easy) he is proud of me. Guthrie, other professors, teachers, mentors, beloved friends and family members tell me over and over that my skills and gifts occur most often and most vibrantally when I am being my most authentic self (I think that’s true for all of us). Me being myself is in part me being a creative writer, participating in the task of writing and bravely publishing what I am writing. I don’t know who my writer self is these days or what that looks like exactly but I do know that I ask my clients to do brave things and I want to be a person who does brave things too! Here’s a piece of my own vulnerability: some of my writing, specifically one of Guthrie’s favorite poems by me. Here’s to the people in our lives who believe in us before we can believe in ourselves.

the rains came - the grey skies rolled
treah caldwell, 1998

i ran around in my jeans and t-shirt and made sure our ears were
bolted
down - down - down - down
mine had to be safe, i worried
tamika and her dad had big rollers over theirs, their glass
wouldn’t be blown out in the wind -
i ran to band, my clothes were soaked - 
i was wet - i was late to band
would Mr. A be mad? 
my shirt was wet - could see through it -
my fat rolls jiggle as i ran and i could 
see my bra - could others see it? -
those people in my head!
- i was so scared changing, by myself - 
the storm was coming!!! The grey skies rolled
i wanted to go out to lunch with you - you left me
i called out to you, YOU were in My car, and you 
drove off    middle finger raised     peeling out
. . . but my friends were in the car and not me . . .
oh you beautiful boy - don’t tell your parents you like boys. 
shhh . . .
your blond hair blue eyes penetrate my soul
i’ve always loved you, what do you mean -
- the airplanes whizz by my head. It scares me, 
why are they making that noise? 
there’s Ms. Cassel and Ms. Vaughn . . . no i won’t mess it up
your stupid jewelry isn’t hurt–i didn’t mess it up!
but I have to find a seat and now i’m late and i have to 
get a seat behind the white column and I can’t see and im
frustrated. 
you evil looking scarry are sitting in front of me. Your arms
are around those two whorey looking women, in church, in the pews, 
your eyes
look like fire.
don’t touch my foot