Two years into our monogamous relationship, prolific documentary filmmaker St. Clair Bourne and I decided we could not live together. From that point, every year until his death on December 16, 2007, he brought up marriage. I reminded him our union had proved unworkable. Plus, I would point out, our breakup entailed my exiting his Upper West Side apartment in midwinter, not a scenario I desired to repeat.
With West India- man stubbornness and the unconventionality of creative genius, Saint continued to press, once suggesting we live apart, but next door to each other. Whenever I encountered one of his boys, a filmmaker, actor or jazz luminary, at a cultural event, such individual would ask: “When are you and Saint getting married?Â
After awhile, I ceased being embarrassed and replied, “We’re both domineering, and he’s bigger.”
I have no regrets. When we met, Saint was filming Langston Hughes, Dreamkeeper, a film commissioned by PBS. Shooting at the Harlem YMCA where my day job was membership secretary, Saint drafted me as an extra in the film, giving me my only professional acting credit.
For a while, things worked out well. He hated cleaning, but was a great cook. We both loved cats. His closest associates were people like Amiri Baraka, Max Roach, Woodie King and William Greaves. Saint was impressed with celebrity friends from my St. Louis posse, people like Lester Bowie and Phillip Wilson. West Coast writers and African filmmakers slept in his office or on our couch.
Saint’s determination was legend, his work ethic unflagging. He forged a path unequaled to date, producing and directing more than 40 films in a 36-year career. His subjects included Paul Robeson, Gordon Parks and Baraka. His 1996 documentary, John Henrik Clarke: A Great and Mighty Walk, covered the noted historian and leader of the Pan-Africanist movement.
I understood his immensity, but what I loved most about Saint was his humor, which could get zany. An O’Jays devotee, he did a mean interpretation of Eddie Levert, bellowing, “Don’t you call me brother … unless you really mean it!” I like to think I’m the only one that knows about this.
Each December, I brace myself for the memory of his final week. He called on a Tuesday. He was “letting the family know” he was scheduled on Friday for removal of a brain tumor, to be performed by the leading surgeon in the field. He giggled, saying he needed help with medical bills, so I should dress up in hot pants and give some poetry readings. On Sunday, I received a call from my editor, also a friend of Saint’s, asking had I heard and was I all right.
Not quite, but I’m getting there.
Ruth-Miriam Garnett’s newest work is Concerning Violence, New & Selected Poems (Onegin).
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