The novel follows the journey of a white professor at a historically Black college in a small Southern town. Through his obsessive fascination with Black culture--and Black women--the professor finds himself drawn to The Chinaberry Tree, a local bar that becomes his window into a world both near and distant from his own. There, he befriends patrons and overhears conversations that reveal deeply personal, often painful, accounts of navigating the American experience as Black men and women. The professor stands at the threshold—engaged yet an outsider, intrigued yet uncertain of his place. The Chinaberry Tree is fearless in its approach to complex racial and cultural dynamics. Saintjones does not shy away from difficult questions or uncomfortable
truths. Instead, he crafts a narrative that is as raw as it is eloquent, as unsettling as it is enlightening. This is not a story told through the lens of voyeurism, but rather one that acknowledges the limitations and consequences of observing from the outside. (Dorothy W. Huston, Ph.D., Editor, The Valley Weekly - April 4, 2025 - valleyweeklyllc.com)
The novel follows the journey of a white professor at a historically Black college in a small Southern town. Through his obsessive fascination with Black culture--and Black women--the professor finds himself drawn to The Chinaberry Tree, a local bar that becomes his window into a world both near and distant from his own. There, he befriends patrons and overhears conversations that reveal deeply personal, often painful, accounts of navigating the American experience as Black men and women. The professor stands at the threshold—engaged yet an outsider, intrigued yet uncertain of his place. The Chinaberry Tree is fearless in its approach to complex racial and cultural dynamics. Saintjones does not shy away from difficult questions or uncomfortable
truths. Instead, he crafts a narrative that is as raw as it is eloquent, as unsettling as it is enlightening. This is not a story told through the lens of voyeurism, but rather one that acknowledges the limitations and consequences of observing from the outside. (Dorothy W. Huston, Ph.D., Editor, The Valley Weekly - April 4, 2025 - valleyweeklyllc.com)
Chapter 1
At 3:37 a.m., seemingly just this morning, I awake from
a dream of 21 Nubian phalluses suspended between two
dark caverns. I sit up in the bed, almost levitating, wondering
if I’m going crazy or if I’d simply become a pale slave
to The Chinaberry Tree and its endless, twisted branches.
Only I’m not really awake. I’m dreaming that I’m analyzing
a dream that isn’t quite over.
My brain relieves itself of my skull, pulling away from
its Newgrange, then transforming into a pulsating continent
of Africa and slowly, so slowly, spinning toward the
apex of some cold, dismal ceiling in 19th century Germany.
In the room below it are 14 mainly European men,
seven with shining silver sabers, severing a pure Ethiopian
princess into seven parts, beginning in the jungle of her
Nile, ripping fl esh and the last of Eden with it. Her eyes
are closed in noble pain, but as the swords reach her golden
breasts, the lids flash open and stare at me. My head
begins to whirl. Counterclockwise, so does the room, taking
with it space and time, as well as sanity, what once was
and what now seems to be. The beautiful, soulful brown
eyes, too, spin uncontrollably as their tears find their way
into my chest and begin to burn there like a magical bush
in ancient Kemet. But her ancient and futuristic eyes rise
upward, as they must, like a proud religious experience,
refusing to dignify King James. They rise to the heavens
and then gradually return to earth in their very own upper
room.
I’m staring at them now, those beautiful brown eyes.
To confuse me, they have divided themselves into several
pairs. Simultaneously, all the brown eyes in the place start
to work me over, as if I was a cheap thrill at a once-popular
house of ill repute, some round and gyrating, impeccably
ample rear end, perfectly designed for the best lap dance
of the evening. These eyes—transcending past and present,
reality and dream—now only await my answer with
gut-tightening anticipation. They are lustful in their taking
in, yet venomously vicious in their giving out. It is as
if my true citizenship, my very sense of belonging—even
after all this time—now hinged upon how I sculpted my
words. I had worked too damned hard, had listened too
well, and had come too far to get to this sorry point. This
town belonged to me as much as it did to any of these eyes,
including the stoic brown, golden brown and very brown
faces sitting in the room, all—all!—judging me.
2 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
So many times I had talked to these sojourners in some
booth in the dark corners of this bar, where they humored
me with their stories and I prodded them on, taking in all-
-at least to the extent of my liver. True, there were too
many times when I had fallen into a drunken stupor, only
to be shaken by black hands extending deep into my lucid,
vivid, white-tormented dreamscape.
Yet in this very instant, I want as much to say, “Kiss
my white ass,” as I do, “Let’s just move on.” But, the period
I had desperately hoped would be a fleeting moment
merely draped the room in a mahogany forever. Is this
happening? Has this already happened? Will it happen in
the next minute? Oh, what a world of African faces—some
wise, some kind and concerned, some unquestionably angry.
Still, there were other sets of noble eyes, affixed in the
sockets of dazed warriors, trying to regain their bearings
as they stared at me. I felt colonized. A limp specimen
under a microscope, helpless to an erect light hung perpendicular
over my head with a UFO’s laser beam under
my ass.
I had been brought up believing that all people were to
be respected and appreciated for their differences. And,
even in the Book of Common Prayer, the spirit of cultural
and spiritual tolerance was vividly plain, despite the fact
that there were few black people on the pews. So, Episcopalians
don’t recruit. Sue me.
When I was in junior high, I had a black friend ... Gray.
He was smart, too. He knew all about the popular rock
acts of the day and who were in the bands, like Uriah
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 3
Heep, Black Sabbath and Aerosmith. Most of the time,
Gray would outscore me on tests in science class. All the
time, he would outrun me on the track. Although he was
only around fourteen or fifteen, his body was already muscular,
and the first signs of a beard and moustache were
settling around his chin and upper lip.
During the lunch recess, we would join a group of guys
to form two teams. Someone would crush an empty halfpint
milk carton into a ball, and we would knock it back
and forth between the teams. The team whose member
missed the ball or knocked it out of bounds lost the round.
One day, Gray was missing. He was so good at the handball
game that his absence was immediate. We continued
to play, when I noticed Gray walking around the corner
of the building. Just as he turned to join us, Judy Ischenbaum
came from around the corner, planted a quick kiss
on his cheek, and sped back around the corner out of view,
deceptively coy.
“Ooh,” the boys chimed. “Gray and Ju-dee. Gray and
Ju-dee.” Gray just smiled. When he eventually looked
over at me, he sort of dropped his eyes. He knew I had
this thing for Judy. I just never got around to making any
move. Hell, I was just a teen, too. I was about to let it go,
but then one of the guys started teasing Gray.
“Hey, Gray … gonna get that Jooty booty?” Usually,
Gray was cool about such things. I expected him to say,
“Naw, man. It’s not like that.” But he instead reached into
his right pants pocket and pulled out a $20 bill.
“Who knows?” he said, with a devilish smile. “She’s
already paid for it.” Perhaps that was when I lost it. Too
4 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
many images. Too much pain. Too much brown, with
thrusting pistons and cylinders and kinky-haired phalluses
pushing in and out of things in which they did not belong.
How could this liver-lip monkey have thought Judy
could ever be his? How could he have thought it okay
to claim something that did not belong to his kind? Dad
might have called her a little Jew, but she was still mostly
our people.
***
“Our people?” Bo Willie had asked me. His words had
hit me so hard that I had traveled to prehistoric Ireland,
then soared throughout pre-colonial Europe and back
again. He wore a fitted black t-shirt with a gold necklace
that punctuated his chest with its much-too-large brass
“W”. His shaved head was a combination of solemnity
and old-school thug life, all tightly wrapped together behind
a forehead ridged by seven parallel lines, perched
above eyes of pure, unapologetic soul. He sat on a table in
the open seating area of the bar, a spot meticulously chosen
for its power and Eurocentrically perfect for being in
the center of Hell. And, when Willie was on his soapbox,
which was most of the time, the twelve or so disciples present
at any particular time, and seated along the long bar,
had to swivel around to meet the sound of his voice.
The thunderous Nubian bass bounced about the barroom
and now met my ears with a force I had only witnessed
directed at others. Bo Willie removed himself
from the table and pulled a stool away from the bar. This
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 5
was, I had learned as a lone white man in a totally black
setting, a sign of permanency, of fortitude, of positioning
to jump dead into someone’s ass. He wore slightly faded
black denim jeans and had a tendency to, like a few of his
kind do, constantly pull at a bulge in his crotch that should
have been massive from all the yanking, if not merely from
his perspective.
His was a simple question, but deceptively so. Truth
be told, it was an unexpected punch that sent me on another
cerebral spiral of time travel. I knew that time actually
had stood still, all while my mind was racing madly
about, exploring all ancient and current possibilities and
outcomes. A wooly-headed Joshua had urged the heavens
to hold the sun in its place. The maddening process
of thinking had become sheer hell. Should I play it cool?
Or, should I show this Bo Willie, his partner-in-crime Brad
and that juvenile delinquent Baggy Pants that I am a man,
too, and refuse to go down for the count? Yet the notion
of standing up in defiance vanished as quickly as it had
come. I thought about the importance of the question--
“Our people?”
That so much rested on it made me angry inside. I
was even more pissed that this question was formed by
one with such a minute brain. I really loved this town and
didn’t want some little oral mishap to mess things up.
Funny. Almost at once, the town of Ebonia had intrigued
me, from the time I parked on the edge of the small
black college campus that bears its name to three years lat-
6 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
er as a member of the faculty. It also was the captivating
backdrop out of which came the two dozen or so men and
women who frequented The Chinaberry Tree Bar on my
after-class visits. Ebonia was a pathetically small community,
not much to visit in terms of fulfilling a longing for
entertainment or good food or scenery, for that matter.
Perhaps it was something about the people, the way they
had gathered in this little black college town from the far
reaches of the world. It was almost as if they all had gone
on a pilgrimage, only to discover, at various points in their
lives and journeys, this remote piece of heaven and hell
and had decided to stake their dreams here.
Ebonia maintains its pull on a certain type of people,
and I had begun to think I had become precisely that type.
I—a man who had never really learned to place much faith
in the Nubian mystique, owing primarily to my upbringing—
had even scoffed at many of the “educated” blacks in
settings like these. I also had secretly hoped never to allow
myself to become so careless as to be found out.
Then, after completing my undergraduate and master’s
degrees at so-called flagship institutions, sheltered from
and invisible to this darker world, and after many an intimate
evening with some interesting brown sugars, I was finally
beginning to see the error of my ways. Soon, I would
also be completing requirements for a doctorate degree
from the huge predominantly white state university in the
neighboring city of Saxonville, just 20 miles away.
***
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 7
It was in Ebonia that my education--my quest--to learn
what it was really like to be a black man, really started. It
was here that, for the first time, I found myself admiring
the ones I had pitied. Soon, I began to willingly trust and
demand black doctors, pharmacists, lawyers and even politicians.
I finally realized that they were an ancient part of
me and that all this time I had been living as a transparent
shell. Perhaps more importantly, I came to realize that I
was rightly a part of them. It was indeed my heritage.
Little Ebonia could make you proud, yes. Witnessing
formerly and currently oppressed people carrying on in
their little slice of the world is a sight indeed. Seeing a
minority performing as a majority, in majority positions,
with majority voices, mannerisms and lifestyles is something
to behold. I had learned to celebrate my heritage.
For Africa!
This is partly the reason why the stares from all the
brown eyes so unnerved me. I had made so much progress.
Surely, they would not let one slip of the tongue
stand in the way of all we had meant to each other. I was
one of them, dammit! I know this town, like the back of
my hand. I know all about the people, their pride and their
filth. I have been like an onion, with layers upon layers
of accommodation, and have in only three short years
learned about the nuances of this town that many would
have taken an entire lifetime to learn.
Through quiet observation from my corner of the bar
at The Chinaberry Tree, I had learned of The Rift. I know,
for instance, that even now, a surprisingly large percent-
8 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
age of educated blacks live in Ebonia, perhaps to a fault.
Nowhere else in the country is there a more heavily concentrated,
educated black population per capita, particularly
in the above-forty age range. But this sect is both a
hellified and glorified group. It has to be the wisest, most
opinionated, honest, corrupt, virtuous, sodomic, Afrocentric,
Eurocentric, benevolent and downright stubborn lot
in American society. Indeed, it also represents the most
damnable dichotomy known to man.
On one hand, Ebonians are the type people destroyed
by Noah’s flood, the ones who shouted “Crucify Him!” and
the ones who discounted the wheel because it wasn’t their
idea. They are the kind of people you don’t turn your back
on, the kind you pass blankly on any busy sidewalk, and
the kind that rarely make contributions toward the development
of a better world. I guess that, in a sense, makes
them very much like most of the other people in the world.
Yet, when they are operating at their best, they masterfully
manage the political, economic and social sectors to no
parallel.
Through my personal evening encounters, I also learned
that on the social scene Ebonia’s elite divided their thumbnail
community into the “Have Degrees” and the “Have
Not Degrees.” Even the Have Degrees were then further
divided according to the rank of the degree. Further, unwritten,
unspoken law, according to where the degree was
earned or whether doctoral sheepskins read “philosophy”
or “education,” created a caste system within the Have Degrees
category.
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 9
How dare these guys try to single me out as though I
were some alien life form! I know about all of their monkey
shit! I have picked up enough smut about their personal
lives to smear their brown noses in muck for a long,
long time. They don’t want to fuck with me!
Besides, history shows that there has always been division
in our societies. Hell, there’s a market for it. Ebonia,
I had come to know, was simply a sliver of the larger pie
under a microscope. Many of its citizens really needed adequate
distance between themselves and other people, and
yet they yearned for the comity of association. They even
needed someone like me for occasional affirmation.
***
You can learn a lot about people by sitting quietly and
simply listening, rather than shooting your damn mouth
off ... or getting too drunk at The Chinaberry Tree to keep
it all tied together. Still, some of the bastards eyeing me
now need to learn this. Quit staring at me! You all ain’t
about shit, either!
Ha! What do you have to say about that? Okay, you
smug black asses. I can go some places you really don’t
want me to go. Like, why is it that Ebonia blacks with
lighter complexions dominate the social scene, while the
ambitious “darkies” are still fighting for acceptance in the
new millennium? Whoo-hoo! Now ain’t that some shit for
your black intellectual asses? Oops! I know: I shouldn’t
have gone there. It’s a road trip everyone wants to ignore,
but one no one has.
10 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
News flash, Bo Willie! Somewhere along the line the
intellectual elite in Ebonia has become void of its sense of
community. Without that, even the most Christian mother
cannot possibly view your child as her own. You people
just can’t get it together!
So you guys want to judge me, huh? I don’t need this
from you! I can pack my shit and hit the road tomorrow.
And it has nothing to do with the cost of living or what I
am or am not getting paid on my little side job teaching
at that little college. I’m leaving because of the high cost
of saving one’s sanity—my own. You’re only sane when
you’re able to see and recognize what is happening to you
and to tell yourself that you have some control over it all.
I have control, baby! To hell with all of y’all! I’m out of
here. In the wind, my friend; so long, I’m gone!
On second thought: I ain’t going no damn where! You
tree-climbing apes had better back off! I’m staying! Eat
me raw! This has nothing to do with my relationships with
people, because, surprisingly, the rest of this town accepts
me with open arms. I know this. No, I’m not drunk. I can
walk in and out of any place I want. I’m white. It’s you sick
asses who are trying to make me a victim. I don’t do the
victim act, see? I victimize and I prophesy. In fact, I see
the likely opening of several cans of black whipass!
***
All of these thoughts and dares kept rushing through
my mind at such speed that I felt even more dizzy. They
were daggers that ripped apart my flesh one mid-March
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 11
evening. It had finally come. That fateful day when my
delusions came crashing down on me all in an instant.
The people from whom I had learned so much about the
world were now opening the skies and allowing a downpour
to fall upon everything I had not yet accepted about
myself. I thought I had summed up Ebonia. But on this
dark, yet enlightening day, I quickly learned that Ebonia
had summed me up, as well.
That’s the bitter price of delusion, I guess. Surely, a
race, or a person, no less, can look within, take stock and
decide if it is better to be someone else or something else.
Sometimes the answers to life’s mysteries can be pieced
together from the stories people tell, from how their days
have molded their lives, as well as how their lives have
shaped their days. Some have so much to say, while others
say so much in only a few words. For three beautiful years,
the rapture and pain of this little town had captivated me.
At The Chinaberry Tree Bar, however, Ebonia’s eerie
dichotomy was fulfilled and yet vanished into thin air.
Men, and a few faithful women, entered its doors six days
a week for the latest, along with traditional drinks and provoking
discourse. Above a long mirror that extended from
the front of the bar all the way to the end of it was a small
placard with the words, “Dedicated to Melvin Hart.” It
was in this long, narrow hallway of an establishment that
I had received the equivalent of three Ph.D.’s. The conversations
often were lively, crass, sometimes downright
raunchy or unbelievably profound.
No library could hold the insights I gained from the
brilliant yet grassroots men and women who brought their
12 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
lives with them to this hallowed ground of shot glasses,
myriad fragrances and unbridled philosophy. These vibrant
and tired lives were emptied on the tile floors of The
Chinaberry Tree. An imperialistic anthropologist, I would
siphon their experiences like an addict snorting cocaine,
hopelessly transactional. I watched in amazement as, on
some days, someone would pick up a moment, hoist it over
a shoulder, and carry it home as a replacement for a soul
lost, only to have it evaporate before entering their doorways.
The men and women of The Chinaberry Tree represented
the beauty and repugnance of the human spirit. They
were both naïve and grounded; focused and misguided;
and proud yet sad. My frequent visits to the bar had afforded
me a chance to come to know many of them—some
perhaps too well—outside the bar setting. While The Chinaberry
Tree was open weekdays, I knew best the group of
patrons who tended to frequent the bar on Friday evenings
or throughout Saturday. Those were the primary times of
my visits. Depending on my visit, I would see a different
crew, although some would change their drinking routines
on occasion. There were about two dozen or so main ones,
but I had learned about them all. Each was on a unique
journey to their own sacred shrine.
For instance, there was Brad, a tall, college-educated,
opinionated black knight of sorts. He changed girlfriends
like underwear, and most regulars at The Chinaberry Tree
had given up on the possibility of ever getting a wedding
invitation from him. Whenever he entered a room, peo-
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 13
ple knew they were in for a speech. He had this penchant
for weak women, but in a matter of days he would hate
them for being so emotionally fragile. Nonetheless, women
seemed to like confiding in him, and he often provided
very good advice, although the price of the counseling often
ultimately entailed their having to go to bed with him.
Enoch, on the other hand, was a likable five-foot, nineinch
man of average build and light brown complexion.
Although a nice fellow, he was a hopeless underachiever.
He countered this by countless forays about how life was a
game already decided. He worked for the local retail store
as a stock clerk and had been employed there for a number
of years. While there was absolutely no opportunity for
advancement, he did not seem to mind.
Then there was James. He was like a brother to me,
and sometimes I’d call him that. A big mama’s boy, he was
compassionate, without being too soft. He headed the local
senior citizens center and could incite an Old Fossils
protest at the snap of a finger. An elderly family member,
who died only recently, reared him. We talked about
his inner feelings a lot here at Bo Willie’s bar, especially
during the days immediately following her funeral.
Even ancient ass Piper is staring at me now, and with
a hint of pity. The oldest of The Chinaberry Tree gang,
Piper, a retired theatre director and playwright, decided to
make Ebonia his home. After all, his best friend had died,
and now he was able to screw the deceased geezer’s wife,
14 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
when and if he could get it up. Sure, he has a pantry of
experiences and “the heart of a young buck,” but how dare
he try to judge me!
Trent, tucked over in the corner, was a starving artist
whose luck in New Orleans landed him atop—literally—an
older, well-off woman. He anguished over her fatal illness,
but she took care of him handsomely. Now established, he
selected Ebonia as his quiet homebase to carry out his first
love and to listen to jazz.
Ruth, Ruth. I really like Ruth. Single and independent,
yet not quite as emotionally strong as she pretends to be.
We have lunch together sometimes near the campus of the
big state U over in Saxonville. Sadly, Ebonia sometimes
had a way of making you see the world in simplified terms
of black and white. There was Ebonia and the accepted,
and the rest of the world. Ruth worked at a firm in Saxonville
that was headed by a domineering black guy going
through a midlife crisis. She hated him, but she loved the
money. When she visited a favorite cousin in Ebonia on
Friday evenings, she’d often stop by The Chinaberry Tree
for a drink. Although she intimidated the shit out of a lot
of the guys at The Chinaberry Tree, the two of us seemed
to hit it off from the onset.
A Vietnam veteran, Bo Willie was perhaps the saddest
and most interesting character of the whole Chinaberry
Tree lot. He had the heaviest voice, which he turned up
like an expensive concert amplifier whenever he wanted
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 15
to make a point. He shared ownership of the bar, served
as its bouncer in a heartbeat, and was often approached
by the barflies with kid gloves. To many of us, he seemed
invincible.
But then there were those few occasions when Bo Willie
completely lost it. One such time was during a conversation
at The Chinaberry Tree that centered around those
things in the past that have led to black folks in America
being so, as he put it, “fucked up” at times. Bo Willie unloaded
his past like a machine gun of flashbacks, a Prufrock
stranded in a Detroit titty bar. No one who happened to be
in earshot that particular afternoon ever saw Bo Willie as
the same person again.
The Very Wrong Reverend Wright worked with James
at the Senior Citizen Center. Irreverent, but a lot of fun,
the good pastor had some serious issues, especially when
it came to his perception of women. A true shepherd
he wasn’t, but his charisma kept him afloat at work and
among his flock.
David was a pretty nice fellow, too. He kept to himself
and was the choir director at Ebonia College. He had a love
for the Negro spiritual that was unsurpassed, and he had
perfected its delivery using the Ebonia Spiritual Singers as
his instrument. He worshiped the work of William Dawson,
considered the father of the spiritual, and Dawson’s
influence was evident throughout his work. Because of
David, Ebonia College boasted the most respected choral
group among historically black colleges and universities.
16 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
Now, every town has its unofficial mental case. For Ebonia
that was Crazy Hezekiah. As a once-sane high schooler,
he helped Papa Schaumburg compile the town history,
which the latter referred to as “a prologue to the Black Experience.”
Ebonians believe there was something in the
old man’s records, later lost by fire, that drove Hezekiah
out of his mind.
Mr. Lewis was often the voice of reason at The Chinaberry
Tree, unless, of course, Bo Willie or Brad were on
a pure rampage. He had garnered quite a bit of property,
along with a respect in Ebonia owing to his generosity.
From a poor Alabama background, he had transformed
himself into a major landowner. A retired superintendent,
he had taught at several school systems in the Southeast
and was known for his connections.
Ebonia College had a gifted archivist named Franklin.
His forte was the documentation of the administration of
former Ebonia College president, Hamilton Savery, whose
past he had reconstructed through massive interviews
held back in Mississippi and partially with assistance from
Savery’s old friends. Franklin usually quenched his thirst
with gin and tonic on Saturday evenings.
Another regular was Peter, whose return visits to Ebonia
had become more frequent. His father had been elected
city councilman and lived in a newly developed neighborhood
on the west side of town. A Chicago psychologist
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 17
by trade, Peter was trying to move closer to home and even
had placed a resume with Ebonia College’s psychology department.
His younger brother Paul was a down-to-earth
guy working on his master’s at Tuskegee.
Isaac Speights was no doubt the smartest man in Ebonia.
The principal investigator behind several major higher
ed STEM grants, Isaac could lead a discussion on a wide
variety of topics. His pet peeves, though, were slow learners
and lazy people.
Shit. Shit. Ray-Ray. He was a wannabe militant who
passed around often-memorized statements from black
historian John Henrik Clarke as though they were fried
chicken. He preached that African Americans needed a
well-crafted master plan in order to really excel throughout
this century, but he never wrote anything down.
Pookie was the walking pessimist who never got over his
childhood experiences. The end result was an embittered
man who regarded life as something that simply had to be
endured rather than lived and appreciated.
The forever-suave Tony had serious political aspirations,
but ironically he was also saddled with irrepressible
fears that someone would look into his closets to discover
skeletons that could dramatically alter his life.
Most women left a bad taste in Tommy Lee’s mouth.
A borderline misogynist, he manipulated a bitter taste for
18 | J e r o m e S a i n t j o n e s
women into his expansive ownership of several local businesses.
Tank was Ray-Ray’s best friend and top cheerleader.
He had become so accustomed to serving as back up to
Ray-Ray that he failed to develop a mind of his own. Despite
his black militant rhetoric, he harbored a weakness
for white women of which not even Ray-Ray was aware.
Melvin Hart was a sickly dude who died about a year
ago from sickle cell disease. He made quite an impact on
people, though. The rumor had it that he was bartender
Porter’s illegitimate son.
Of all the people who frequented The Chinaberry Tree
during the afternoons and evenings of my visits, the biggest
set of balls belonged to an old woman named Ethel
M. Mann. A lesbian of legendary proportions, she was another
perfect example of how even the most Christian of
towns can ignore the detestable, if it stands a better chance
at benefiting through the association.
There is a fairy tale about a little boy who honestly exclaims
that the king he sees parading on the street before
him is naked. If Ebonia were a fairy tale, Sonny would be
that boy, and Reverend Wright would hold the indubitable
distinction of being His Royal Highness.
Finally, Joseph could be called Ebonia’s Prodigal Son.
He rarely visited the place of his birth. When he returned
THE CHINABERRY TREE | 19
home, he did everything he could to remain detached from
the community, so even many longtime residents knew
nothing about him. He treated the hallowed Chinaberry
Tree like the wayward stepchild he had become. He had
thick, curly hair, and his voice was that of a traveler from
a faraway place.
***
Never has there been such a range of pain and ecstasy,
promise and futility, in so small a space. I know all
of these people, these beautiful, strong and brutally hurt
human beings. Because of their words and souls, I know
I have an answer to Bo Willie’s question. But it is buried
deep inside me and has to be actively sought with the right
probing.
Long ago, I had cast down my buckets among them,
down in the filth and splendor of a modern and Chaucerian
human essence. My eyes had never seen life as pure as
I had found it in the dark, dark eyes of these African souls
assembled in Alabama’s Black Belt, where each weary
heart seemed destined to balance a world upon the shoulders
while going about a pilgrimage of unknown end.
These souls were the magical moments in time who
gathered for the pilgrimage each week, seeking nourishment
and shade at The Chinaberry Tree. They formed a
world within a world that I had learned to savor like fine
wine. They left an imprint in my mind, despite its endless
stream of consciousness, and they were my people.
Brilliant, biting, and deeply human, The Chinaberry Tree floored me. It’s a masterful modern take on The Canterbury Tales, set in a town forgotten by the world yet not untouched by history.
The story is narrated by a white professor at an HBCU. He is so steeped in the study of Black American history (and the pants of Black women) and so engaged with the regulars at a local bar in the fictional town of Ebonia that he convinces himself he’s a member of the Black community. If that sounds a bit uncomfortable to read, it should be. But it’s the kind of discomfort that invites the reader to engage, not retreat.
As in Chaucer’s work, we meet a range of characters—each given a vignette, a voice, a life (though many of these vignettes are filtered through the lens of a white narrator). Their stories unfold with sharp wit, deep pain, and language that’s both playful and profound. Some of the wordplay had me scribbling several exclamation points in the margins.
Saintjones explores themes of race, trauma, abuse, mental illness, dehumanization, redlining, adultification, the sexualization of Black bodies, and more. This is not a light read, and Saintjones does not hold back, and yet he writes skillfully and without sensationalizing. There are moments in this book that echo Toni Morrison’s The Bluest Eye in their raw honesty and emotional weight. I found myself annotating so much that I could easily write an academic paper on this novel, though it reads like art, not lecture.
The closest I can come to a critique is this: the ending caught me off guard (don’t worry, no spoilers). That said, the end of The Canterbury Tales is notoriously missing an emotionally satisfying resolution, and Saintjones seems to nod to that tradition. In a way, I think withholding what the reader expects is particularly fitting in this work.
It’s hard to put into words how much I admire this book. It has to be the most under-hyped book of 2025, and I would enthusiastically recommend it to anyone who appreciates literary fiction that’s bold, incisive, and unapologetically honest.