Still

In my mind’s eye, the Haitian-born American poet, playwright, performance artist, publisher, musician, and AIDS activist Assotto Saint was a towering figure. Perhaps because they* were in fact over six feet tall. Though they passed away in 1994 of AIDS-related complications, the last time I recall seeing them was in 1992 at the funeral of poet Donald Woods. On that day, Assotto wore high heels and a men’s suit. I also recall when I first saw Assotto perform sometime in the late eighties—they delivered a performance about HIV testing while standing on a tabletop at the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual & Transgender Community Center on 13th Street. For those seated witnesses, Saint appeared gigantic, larger than life. Sacred Spells, the collected volume published this summer by Nightboat Books, is the work of a gay Black poet who indeed possessed a giant mind, talent, heart, and ferocity. People still talk about Assotto, often, every day, still: those young people researching the archive; the Black LGBTQI+ historians, poets, performance artists, dancers, and friends who knew him; the young Black queers searching for themselves amongst books in the library. When I say still, I also mean that when we think of that time in the late eighties to early nineties, when the AIDS pandemic raged as the COVID pandemic rages now in the US and across the globe; when we remember the casualties, the terrible losses, the gross homophobia, racism, and crimes against humanity enacted by our government against queer and trans people; when we think of the beacons, the self-ordained priests who carried us through that time, we often think and speak of Assotto Saint.

Indulge me, but if this essay were like a Faith Ringgold painting/quilt with the Statue of Liberty looming large amid some sort of contemporary Middle Passage with Black bodies adrift in the water, you would very pointedly see the crown of Assotto Saint’s head floating above. Crown is an apt word because Assotto was a king, queen, prince, princess—all members of the royal family combined. They challenged gender binaries; they wore makeup, earrings, and dashikis. In poetry and activism they also led. In Sacred Spells, their poems, stories, and plays still point us toward a future where queer people of every color have human rights; where healthcare is attainable, accessible for all, and upholds human dignity; where queer people are allowed to exist and present in all our complications and nuances; where we are safe and do not have to hide.

As someone who was a comrade of Assotto, came of age in the early part of the AIDS era, and found my voice among so many Black gay men, lesbians, and LGBTQI+ people, I am thrilled and grateful for this compilation of their work. I am struck not only by the tremendous craft and beauty of Assotto’s poems, but also by Assotto’s insistence to write and speak when they themself, their life partner Jan, and so many around them were dying; to insist upon sex, intimacy, the erotic, and love; to continuously speak truth to power; to fight and rage against the many silences enacted upon Black gay men. I marvel at how so much of the work is an intimate and personal love letter to Jan, to all the lovers and friends they encountered, to all those who fought AIDS. Assotto was someone who, even when riddled with illness, would not back down. They continued to rally and rail against this government’s stupidity, inaction, and violence. Reading this work, I am reignited with courage.

On a personal note, as many know (and as I’ve often spoken and written of), I owe a great deal to Assotto. Maybe we all do. As I’ve stated, I was there in the church that day in 1992 at the funeral of Donald Woods. I was one of many attendees from Donald’s activist family. I was one of many who read the program and saw the glaring omission of Donald’s poetry and activist work. The program also stated Donald had died of heart failure. I was one of many who witnessed Assotto speed down the aisle and take over the pulpit mid-service, declaring, “Donald Woods did not die of heart failure; he died of AIDS and he was a proud Black gay man. If you agree with me, stand up.” Half the church stood. Half didn’t. I stood up, as did Donald’s sister, Yvonne. I count that moment as one of a few where my path as an artist was revealed to me.

The second most defining moment in my life happened in 1990, when I attended the “I Am Your Sister Conference” in Boston, a celebration of the work of Audre Lorde. In her first appearance on stage, the self-described warrior poet Audre emerged, spread open the arms of her dashiki, and told a crowded room of followers of her battle with cancer. She said, “I began on this journey as a coward.” Witnessing the courage of Assotto and Audre shaped me as a poet, a person, teacher, performer. I want everyone I encounter to experience that sense of exhilaration and freedom when the truth is told bare-naked, and to feel the power of standing up for their lives at whatever cost.

Recently, I helped lead a Last Address Tribute Walk in Harlem with several organizations and individuals (the walk was originally developed by Alex Fialho). We went to Harlem at my insistence. In tribute, we went to the addresses of Black gay men who died of AIDS. We went to the address of Bert Michael Hunter, who was part of the Black gay writers group Other Countries, of which Assotto was also a charter member. Donald Woods, Colin Robinson, and Essex Hemphill, among others, were members as well. At Hunter’s address, the filmmaker and writer Robert E. Penn and the writer, archivist, and activist Sur Rodney (Sur) spoke of Bert and belonging to Other Countries. Sur recalled a story of running into Assotto in the late eighties, when Assotto urged him to join Other Countries. They said, “Sur, don’t abandon your brothers.” I think that statement encapsulates Assotto and what their convictions were.

The title of this collection, Sacred Spells, very much refers to Assotto’s powerful Haitian ancestry. I was thrilled to learn here that the person born Yves Lubin renamed themself “Assotto,” after a drum used in voodoo, and “Saint” after the great Haitian revolutionary fighter Toussaint Louverture. “Saint” also embodies their queerness, claiming self-ownership as a poet and magician whose language conjures, casts spells, and offers protection and healing. No name could be more fitting.

I know in certain Latinx ceremonies they call the names of the dead and fallen warriors, and the crowd responds “presente,” to mean present.

Assotto’s work speaks to us throughout time.

I imagine in the Black Baptist tradition, where I’m from, Assotto’s name is called out and with all of my heart and conviction I yell back “PRESENT” to say, he is here, always among us.