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In this powerful memoir, the creator of the viral videos "Before You Call the Cops" and "Walking While Black", Tyler Merritt, shares his experiences as a Black man in America with truth, humor, and poignancy.

Tyler Merritt's video "Before You Call the Cops" has been viewed millions of times. He's appeared on Jimmy Kimmel and Sports Illustrated and has been profiled in the New York Times. The viral video's main point—the more you know someone, the more empathy, understanding, and compassion you have for that person—is the springboard for this book. By sharing his highs and exposing his lows, Tyler welcomes us into his world in order to help bridge the divides that seem to grow wider every day.

In I Take My Coffee Black, Tyler tells hilarious stories from his own life as a black man in America. He talks about growing up in a multi-cultural community and realizing that he wasn't always welcome, how he quit sports for musical theater (that's where the girls were) to how Jesus barged in uninvited and changed his life forever (it all started with a Triple F.A.T. Goose jacket) to how he ended up at a small Bible college in Santa Cruz because he thought they had a great theater program (they didn't). Throughout his stories, he also seamlessly weaves in lessons about privilege, the legacy of lynching and sharecropping and why you don't cross black mamas. He teaches readers about the history of encoded racism that still undergirds our society today.

By turns witty, insightful, touching, and laugh-out-loud funny, I Take My Coffee Black paints a portrait of black manhood in America and enlightens, illuminates, and entertains—ultimately building the kind of empathy that might just be the antidote against the racial injustice in our society.

FOREWORD

In June 2020, in the days following the murder of George Floyd, the Black Lives Matter protests awakened the country to inequities and injustice we’d turned a blind eye to for too long. I thought hard about what I might say on television, about how I’d benefited from being born pink, about the systemic racism I had ignored and how I could share my thoughts in simple terms with those who reject and/or simply don’t understand what has come to be known as “white privilege.”

That night, my wife, Molly, texted me a video titled “Before You Call the Cops.” In that video, a man named Tyler spoke about himself, sharing his likes, dislikes, habits, quirks, upbringing, and fears. Tyler spoke directly to the camera, shattering stereotypes with small details and encouraging us to look harder at one another, beyond skin color. Tyler told us that he enjoys basketball and hockey, NWA and Bon Jovi. He subtly and kindly reminded us of how much we have in common and that assumptions are made by fools.

Moved by Tyler’s words, I reached out to ask permission to air his video on television. Tyler agreed, his work was exceptionally well received, and here I am opening for him again. Tyler and I have a lot in common. We are of similar age and were both raised in our beloved Las Vegas. In our correspondence, we bonded over Vegas things: our rival high schools, our neighborhoods, hotel buffets, the lizards every Clark County kid calls “horny toads”… the usual subjects children raised in a very adult city share. Over the next several months, Tyler shared the rest of his story with me—a sad, happy, moving, troubling, inspirational, humorous, and brutal account of the people and experiences that formed this exceptionally well-formed man.

Now he shares it with you. I am very fond of Tyler Merritt. I hope and expect that you will be as captivated by the stories and thoughts on the pages to follow as I was. The man has been through a lot and somehow remains funny, optimistic, and strong. I feel lucky to know him.

—Jimmy Kimmel

AUTHOR’S NOTE

People! If you’re reading this, then you done chose well!

Congratulations!

So… first, I want to thank you.

Second, I want to warn you that as you get deeper into the pages of this book, things are about to get real, REAL.

So as a courtesy, I have changed the names and identifying details of a few people who appear in this book.

Got it? We cool? Dope. Let’s go.

CHAPTER 1 IF SHE ONLY KNEW

(PART 1)

Every single day, I try to exercise.

I have a five-mile route that takes me down my block, through some city streets, and then out to the J. Percy Priest Dam, where I can look out over the lake and the water. There’s a bench along that route that is my bench.

I even call it that.

When I see it, I say to myself, “That’s my bench.”

Sometimes, when I see people sitting on it, I get a bit indignant. “Yo. Why are you sitting on my bench?”

But I digress.

I have done some of my deepest thinking on that bench, and though it’s a common bench, I’ve had some uncommon moments on that bench.

Also, it’s a place to rest my tired black butt and drink a swig of Smartwater.

It was a fall day in Nashville, and the air was crisp. I put on my Alabama sweatshirt, because my family is from the South and if I don’t Roll Tide, they will disown me. I put on my bandana to keep the sweat out of my eyes and my sunglasses to keep the sun out of my eyes. I put on my wireless Bluetooth Beats by Dre headphones because I am an audiophile, and stereophonic sound while exercising keeps me going.

You think I’m going to listen to Bon Jovi on crappy-ass, low-end Walmart headphones?

Please.

Now, some geography. On my walk, I go down some busy Nashville streets, and then I cross a fairly busy intersection on my way to the trails and quieter side streets that lead to the dam and the lake. As I was walking down the street this day, I approached the crosswalk.

And there…

On the other side of the street…

Parked at the curb right in front of the crosswalk…

Was an older white woman…

In a blue-and-white older-model Ford truck.

She had her driver’s-side window down, which meant that I would be passing by her open window, and at some point, I would be less than a few feet away from her.

And I knew. I knew in that instant. Because… well, life. When you live in the South, and you’re six foot two and black with dreadlocks, you know how some people perceive you. I have had a lifetime of white women reacting to me in fear, not because of my size, or because of my clothing, but because of my blackness.

But—let me be clear—I have also had a lot of white women react to me because of the complete and utter magnitude of my sexiness.

But in this moment, I was keenly aware that my blackness was going to be a problem. As the light was getting ready to change, I realized that I was going to have to pass right by her. And at some point, she was going to see me walking toward her. And I knew that she was going to be scared. That I was going to frighten her.

I decided, at that moment (like I do in most moments), that I was going to do everything I possibly could to keep an old white lady from freaking out. Everything I could. I took off the hood to my sweatshirt to expose my face. I wanted to appear like a black Mister Rogers, just taking a stroll through the neighborhood. I took off my sunglasses so that she could see my eyes. I took off my headphones so she would know I could hear her. I put on a smile. A big one. A bright one. Have you seen my smile? It’s pretty dope.

I was trying to say to her, “I am not menacing.”

“I am not a thief.”

“I am not a thug.”

“I am just me. It’s me! Tyler!”

The light changed. And as I walked toward her car, I slowed down. I was saying to myself, in hushed tones, “Black Mister Rogers, black Mister Rogers.” I figured that would be less threatening. And as I got within a few feet of her, she saw me. And her reaction was not at all what I thought it was going to be. It was worse. Her reaction was like something out of a Bugs Bunny cartoon. I thought I was in a Key & Peele sketch.

This. Woman. Lost. It. For. Real.

First, this woman practically jumped out of her seat, her gray hair nearly touching the roof of the cab.

“Oh my GAAAWWWD,” she said, terrified like she’d just seen a velociraptor attack Betty White. I am sorry for that visual. Betty White is a national treasure. This woman grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and then frantically rolled up her window. I heard the click of her automatic door locks activating. And then she stared straight ahead at the stoplight. She wouldn’t look at me. She tried to pretend I didn’t exist.

And as I crossed in front of her truck, in that crosswalk, I stopped. I looked at this poor woman, and I laughed.

I was not laughing at her.

I was laughing because I wanted to say, “Lady. If you only knew.”

Lady, if you only knew how much work I just put into trying to make sure what just happened didn’t just happen.

Lady, if you only knew my purposeful, intentional effort to disarm myself of all aggressive black man ish, anything that might be misconstrued as frightening.

Lady, if you only knew that I taught Sunday school every week at church, to kids, because I want kids of all colors and backgrounds to know the universe-changing reality of the love of God.

Lady, if you only knew that I love my mother more than my own life and that just the sound of her voice is like cocoa butter to the skin of my soul.

Lady, if you only knew that mere seconds ago I was listening to the soundtrack of the Broadway show Bring It On: The Musical.

But she did not know. Instead, this woman saw me as a threat, clear and present, and clutched her pearls and locked her doors.

That moment ruined my walk. As I walked back home, I began trying to process this. And the thought came to me.

If she knew me, maybe she wouldn’t be afraid. But even more than that, if this woman knew me, I mean, if she really knew me, I bet she might even like me. Oh, but more than that! I bet I could make her smile. I bet I’d make her feel valued. I bet I’d make her feel joy at just being alive. I bet I’d be one of her favorite people. If she knew me, I bet she would love me.

But she didn’t.

She gasped in fright and locked her doors.

That moment was seared in my mind.

I walked through the first stage of grief: denial. “It’s not her fault,” I said to myself as I sat on my front porch, weary from so much more than the walk. I reasoned with myself. “We know from biology that humans like things they are familiar with, and I don’t look like someone that she’s familiar with. She doesn’t have anyone in her life who I look like, so I’m alien, foreign, different. Her unfamiliarity with people who look like me is what the issue is. It’s basic biology,” I said to myself, trying to sound convincing.

I sipped my water and felt the second stage of grief descend. Anger.

Nah.

What just happened was some bullshit.

It is not my job to make sure that some older white lady isn’t scared when I am walking on a public street in broad daylight. Listen, lady, the fact that you’re scared is YOUR problem, not mine.

Why should I have to diminish myself because you feel uncomfortable with who I am?

Why should I have to edit all my behavior and hide and shrink and apologize because your preference is that I don’t exist?

Why should I have to make myself smaller?

If you knew everything I had to go through in my entire life to get here to this moment—all the failures and heartbreaks and triumphs and tragedies that have made me who I am in this moment in this instant—if you knew my heart, and all the love I have tried to give to this world, then you would leap out of the cab of your car and run to me and say, “Who is that brilliant, beautiful, kind, loving man?”

And I would say, “You forgot ‘sexy as Denzel.’” And we’d laugh.

But you didn’t.

Hey, white lady. I am in front of you. And yes, I am a black man. I am from a proud heritage of beautiful black people whose impact on this planet and on this nation cannot be understated. How I see it, you wouldn’t have barbecue if it weren’t for my people. And your sports would be boring. For real, sports would suck without black people. Except for hockey—that would stay the same. And let’s keep it real, most of the good music—the really good music—that’s ours too, homie. I am a proud black man from a proud black heritage.

But more than that, the same Bible we both probably read declares that I am created by God Himself. As a person of color, I am not less, I could NEVER be less because I am made in the very Image of God. In the very beginning, in Genesis, when the Almighty Creator forged the heavenly bodies, He made them to reflect His glory and goodness, and He placed them in the night sky, and in the same way, God Almighty placed me on this earth to shine. I am the reflection of the Image of God, and I wear that as a royal robe, bright as starlight.

But none of that matters to you.

Does it?

Because you don’t see that. All you see is a no-good n*gg*r.

And then the third stage: depression. I tossed my empty water bottle against the wooden railing of my porch.

“I give up,” I said, to no one in particular, and I sank into my chair, and even deeper into helplessness.

This wasn’t fair.

The point was not that my desperate attempts to make this woman feel at ease failed. The point was that—had I been white—this NEVER WOULD HAVE BEEN AN ISSUE. If I had been white, this woman wouldn’t have noticed. This situation was not because I was tall. Or big. This situation happened because the color of my skin is black.

And in this moment, I knew this was true.

Because when I first saw this lady, walking up the street, toward the crosswalk, a white guy—roughly my size and roughly my build—walked right across the exact path I was going to take. He didn’t think about this woman. He didn’t have to, because his skin color was not a threat to her. I have no idea who that man was, but I guarantee no one has ever said to him, “Listen, have you ever tried changing your hairstyle, you know, just so that you’re a bit less threatening?” I guarantee no one has said to him, “Be sure not to wear a hat and sunglasses, because if people can’t see your eyes, they’ll think maybe you’re up to something.”

This was because I was born with black skin and no other reason. This was not fair.

It’s not my job to try to make every human with fearful or racist thoughts feel comfortable.

I did not cause this mess.

I am tired of trying to clean it up.

I sat on my porch, wrapped in sweat and sorrow.

I think maybe the reason so many people in our world cannot lament well is that it requires us to be brave enough to be truly honest about our hurts. About the brokenness. About the pain. About reality. It’s tough to face that. I don’t care what color you are.

Lord, I am tired of making myself less. It’s not fair.

Why did I tell you all this?

Well, I tell you all this because, for me, it’s not just a story. For me, it could very well be a matter of life and death. I want to remind you, my friend, that there are a lot of people who won’t give me—or people who look like me—the benefit of the doubt. And I don’t have the privilege to guess who those people will be. Even when I try my absolute HARDEST, there is still nothing I can do to make some people feel safe.

I was thinking that maybe walking together in this book might be a start.

I’m going to tell you some of my stories in this book. My guess is that you’ll relate to some of them. Especially if you think that banana-flavored anything is straight-up disgusting OR that spiders are mini-Satans—teeny-tiny little Lords of Darkness just crawling all over the earth.

I was thinking that maybe if you got to know me, you wouldn’t be frightened. Or better yet, maybe you’d see that we have more in common than you thought. Or better yet, at the end of this book, you would think to yourself, “Man, that Tyler Merritt. We could kick it. For real.”

Or at the very least, the next time a six-foot-two black man comes near, you might think to yourself: “Maybe he’s listening to Bring It On: The Musical.”

And maybe we’d grab a cup of coffee, and you and I could laugh about it. Because I think you’d like me if you took some time to get to know me.

CHAPTER 2 LAS VEGAS IS A TERRIBLE PLACE TO RAISE A RACIST

Wow.

Okay.

I think we can all agree: That first chapter was fantastic. In fact, I think I just cured racism. You’re welcome.

For real, though, before we move on, I want to go back—all the way back to my childhood. I grew up in Las Vegas, Nevada.

That’s right.

Vegas, baby.

And—let’s be honest here—Las Vegas is a supremely unique city.

We moved to Las Vegas when I was six because my father was a world-renowned zoologist specializing as a behaviorist for large felines. He went to work with Siegfried and Roy to train their tigers for their live shows at the Mirage.

Y’all know that ain’t true.

Black folks ain’t trying to kick it with tigers.

Did you hear about that time in Vegas when that black dude was mauled by a tiger? No. No, you didn’t. Because it never happened. That’s some white people nonsense. Black people look at that stuff and say, “Nah, bro. I’m good.” My father is a black man born in Alabama during the 1940s, and in general, his motto is “My people did not survive slavery and Jim Crow by being stupid, so no, I will not voluntarily get into a cage with a tiger.”

The real reason we moved to Las Vegas was because my father was a military man. Air Force, in fact. I was born in an Air Force hospital in Albuquerque, New Mexico, then my father was sent to Fairbanks, Alaska. He was transferred to Nellis Air Force Base in June of 1982. I turned six years old somewhere in the middle of Canada, as my family drove from Fairbanks to Las Vegas, with only my mom and dad and some moose around to sing me “Happy Birthday.”

What I did not understand at the time, but what I know now, is that Las Vegas is an uncommon place.

In fact, I’d wager that Las Vegas has one of the strangest, most bizarre, and most unique stories of any major American city.

Every city has a past, a history, and a character to it, so let me tell you a little bit about my hometown. Kids, this is the time to sit back and grab some popcorn, because I’m about to get all History Channel on you. Prepare to learn you something.

Civilization always follows water, and Las Vegas is no different. Because it’s surrounded by mountains, the Las Vegas valley is a basin that collects every drop of rainwater and snowmelt, storing that water in aquifers that lead out to small springs. The Mojave Desert, which was legit known for killing people, because you know, it’s a giant desert, was a barrier for people trying to make their way west. So Las Vegas became a key stopover in the 1800s for settlers heading west, because what’s better than fresh water in the middle of a desert? Later, it became a pivotal place for trains and railways going to LA.

Then, when the Hoover Dam was built in the middle of the Great Depression, the small town of 5,000 swelled to 25,000, mostly unemployed males wanting a steady job. Because hardly any of these migratory job-hunting young men had any family ties to the community, they got bored. And quick. So theaters, showgirls, and gambling venues popped up, largely built by the Mafia. Because it was Prohibition, and the Mafia had alcohol, and young men like alcohol—let’s just say that’s when Vegas as a city started having a drinking problem.

After Pearl Harbor, the US entered into World War II, and Las Vegas became a military area. The war effort needed raw materials, and what do you know, the desert around Vegas was filled with copper and silver, leading to a boom in mining and the building of several military bases. The US Atomic Energy Commission also reserved an area outside of Las Vegas as its official atomic testing site. Vegas was the bomb.

(I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist.)

So. To recap:

Settlers.

Railroads.

Military.

Tons of young men.

Gambling.

Showgirls.

Mafia.

Atomic bombs.

That’s all kinds of crazy, right? What other city has that kind of story?

Because Las Vegas’s financial interests have always been so diverse, its citizens have always been diverse, too. Devout Mormons made their way west through Vegas. Chinese and Irish immigrants working on the railroads settled down. Black folk, unable to find jobs in the South after the Civil War, moved out to be cowboys and seasonal ranchers. Did you just imagine Will Smith in Wild Wild West? I did. All sorts of first-generation immigrants made their way out during the Depression to work on the Hoover Dam. Jewish and Italian Mafia families moved out from the East Coast to run business and entertainment ventures. In fact, the 1870 census found that 44.2 percent of the new state’s population was foreign-born.

That’s insane.

I guess it’s true.

Immigrants. They get the job done.

Las Vegas has always been friendly to people from a wide range of backgrounds. So growing up in Las Vegas meant, by definition, I was part of an incredibly diverse community. With that in mind, let me introduce you to my seven closest friends who I hung out with at J. E. Manch Elementary School.

Keep in mind, this is in the middle of the 1980s in the United States.

Sandra Padilla. Sandra was Spanish and Mexican and Native American. And she is also the entire reason that—to this day—I am still obsessed with Bon Jovi. In fifth grade, she was standing by her locker and asked me, “Hey. Tyler. Do you like Bon Jovi?” I had no idea what a Bon Jovi was. But Sandra was super pretty, and I wanted to impress her. So I said, “Of course! Who doesn’t?” To which she said, “Oh! What is your favorite song?” I had no idea, so I responded, “Ohh, yeah, that’s tough, I think I’d have to say ALL OF THEM.”

After school, I went to the Base Exchange (BX) and bought the cassette tape of Slippery When Wet. That night, I listened to that whole damn album. I did this mostly because I wanted to impress Sandra Padilla, but also because it was dope. Now I had a conversation topic for Sandra the next day. I had a line in my head: “I play for keeps ’cause I might not make it back.” That blew me away. Those New Jersey white boys are some gangstas. Those lines? That’s some Run DMC shit, right there. And that’s how I became a black kid with an LL Cool J poster—with his bright red Kangol hat and ghetto blaster on his shoulder—on one side of my room and a Bon Jovi poster—with them looking like eyeliner-wearing white women—on the other. All because of Sandra Padilla.

Jennifer Smith. She was a white girl, as if you couldn’t tell by her name. Her family was military, like mine. Here’s what I remember about Jennifer Smith. One time, I was at her house, and her mother told us that her dad was out golfing. And in that moment, because I wanted to impress Jennifer, I said to her mother, “That’s awesome. I like golf.” But I didn’t know anything about golf. Jennifer’s mom said, “Oh, you golf.” But, instead of saying no, I said, “Yes.” Because did I mention Jennifer was cute? And Jennifer’s mom said, “Oh, that’s great. So, what’s your best score?” She might as well have asked me how many points a hit wicket is worth in cricket. I had no idea how golf scores worked. This is before Tiger Woods and therefore before black people liked golf. So, I just said, “It’s tough to say.” Then I quickly left the room and ran my lying black butt back home.

Bridget Rodriguez. She was Filipino and Chinese. The first time I met her was in first grade. We were in the sandbox, and Bridget said, “You’re going to mess up your nice brown pants.” And in that moment, it was as if the world had stopped turning on its axis. I thought to myself, “Wait. She likes my nice brown pants.” For the next four to five minutes, I was in love with Bridget Rodriguez. I planned our life together. As I was thinking about what we’d name our twins (Luke and Leia, obvs), Brian Garrett walked up, and Bridget said to him, “Oh my gosh, I like your shirt.” I was devastated. She didn’t have a crush on me—she was just really nice. Dammit.

Robby Longbrake. Robby was Vietnamese. Las Vegas is what’s called a “secondary hub” for immigration, but that’s not why Robby was there. Robby was there because his dad was a white man in the military who just happened to like Asian women. Anyway. Robby was really into baseball and was easily the most athletic person I knew. One time, I made the mistake of not immediately knowing that the Orioles were in the American League. And he never really stopped making fun of me about it.

Todd Thompson. You could probably tell by the name that he was a white kid. His dad was in the Air Force, too, and he had also lived in Alaska and had also been recently transferred to Las Vegas. So he got that whole “Throw out your ice skates and go buy some flip-flops.” Our parents sort of knew each other, so they thought we should get together, and as I walked into his house, Todd said to me, “Do you want to play Star Wars?” And I was like, “Hell to the yes, I want to play Star Wars.” And that was that.

Rudy Reyes. Rudy was a little Hispanic dude who had double dimples in his cheeks that made the girls go crazy over him, like he was A.C. Slater or something. I remember being so jealous of him that I went home and tried to make dimples in the mirror. I was like, “Screw this kid, I can make myself have dimples.” Turns out, I could not.

Brian Moana. So Brian was from Hawaii. Did you know Vegas is called the “Ninth Island” because of all the Hawaiian people who move here? Well, it is. The main thing you need to know about Brian is that he had great handwriting. This dude’s handwriting was so epic that girls would ASK him to write them notes. I looked at this and was like, “Whaaaaaaaat? This dude is pulling ladies with his penmanship

Genre:

“A sad, happy, moving, troubling, inspirational, humorous and brutal account of the people and experiences that formed this exceptionally well-formed man... (Tyler Merritt) … subtly and kindly reminds us of how much we have in common and that assumptions are made by fools.”
—Jimmy Kimmel
“Stunning.”—Publishers Weekly
“Tyler Merritt had me laughing, crying, and learning throughout I Take My Coffee Black. His writing and humor are brilliant, but his authenticity shines through above all. We really are beautiful in the broken places, and I’m better because he shared that beauty so transparently.”
—Jud Wilhite, senior pastor, Central Church, Las Vegas, Nevada, and author of Pursued
“I’ve never been schooled in such a charming way! Relevant, funny, poignant, and powerful, Tyler takes us on a deeply personal journey as he recounts his coming-of-age experiences and the devastating impact of America’s harsh realities. With delightful prose and meaningful intention, Tyler skillfully guides us toward our shared humanity yet doesn’t pull any punches discussing the historic facts about systemic racism. His deft and accessible storytelling offers us fresh perspective, allowing us to see with our eyes and hearts wide open, like his, and we leave feeling inspired and knowing, without a doubt, that we are all kindred.”
—Moira Walley-Beckett, Emmy Award–winning writer/executive producer, Breaking Bad, Anne with an E
“Listen. I don’t know what I expected when I picked up this book, but I know what I didn’t expect. I didn’t expect to laugh out loud multiple times, cry real tears, learn complete history lessons, and truly feel seen as a black person. If I’m being honest, it was more than feeling seen, it was feeling explained to the point of others being able to see me. Tyler does this in the most charming and disarming way. I will give this book to everyone I know who truly wants to understand the depth and breadth of what it is to be black.”
—Melinda Doolittle, recording artist, actress, and author
“Tyler Merritt invites us into his life with genuine, vulnerable humor that reveals deep truths. I Take My Coffee Black begs readers to consider the stereotypes and assumptions we all carry about one another and push against them for a higher chance at deep, lasting relationships with those who don’t look like us or live like us. As a Black man, this book speaks to the inner self that society, stigma, and stereotypes often push into the dark. A must-read.”
—Albert Tate, lead pastor of Fellowship Church and author
“I could not be more honored to be writing this endorsement. I am not only endorsing this book but also a man who has held a sacred and special place in my life over the last year and a half of knowing him. Tyler has used his life as a testimony to love others well and to encourage us to be more loving, kind, empathetic, and authentic humans. I Take My Coffee Black is a work that flows with truth, story, and conviction. Over the last few years, I have recognized just how uninformed I am. Tyler has been a voice of reason, truth, belief, and love to me and now we all get to hear from him in this book. If you are human, you should read this book. Take a seat and allow Tyler to speak into you like he has done to many. I am excited for you to read this book.”
—Benjamin Higgins, television personality, entrepreneur, and former Bachelor
“To know someone is to love them, and Tyler Merritt reveals himself completely in this poignant and vulnerable memoir laced with Black history, the personal effects of systemic racism, show tunes, Jesus, and his brilliant sense of humor. The antidote to our nation’s current divide is understanding…and the intimacy at which Tyler shares his life experience as a Black man in the US makes you understand. You have no other choice but to love him…and this book.”
—Laura Bell Bundy, Broadway actress and singer
“I Take My Coffee Black is equal parts endearing, eye-opening, and insightful. It makes me, as a white woman who has had a vastly different upbringing and experiences (I grew up in the suburbs of Minneapolis), thirsty to do better in my expansion and interactions with more people around me—especially those who I wouldn’t normally pass walking down the street in said small-town Minnesota. Tyler has a way to grab ahold of the reader to push them to genuinely want to connect with others, all races, religions, ethnicities, socio-economic statuses encompassed, and to get to know them for who they are to their core. Because if everybody did this a little bit more, our country—and world—would look like a much different place. Hopefully a more peaceful, accepting one. He incorporated the perfect combo of wit, realness, growth, and openness that I don’t often have the privilege of receiving in many books. It was a real treat for me to spend my time reading through these pages. Maybe one day I’ll be so lucky as to sit down face-to-face with Tyler, share a cup of joe, and dive deeper into all things life (of course, black for him and a splash of oat milk for me).”
—Rebecca Kufrin, television personality, The Bachelor and The Bachelorette
"Tyler is a gifted storyteller that masterfully threads the needle of pain and triumph. Though this book is Tyler’s journey, his trajectory is warm and reassuring to those who have walked that path, and eye opening and informative to those who didn’t know this side of America existed. The highs and the lows, the laughs and the struggles. This is one man’s story, but you soon see that it is connected to a great consciousness that connects through us all."
—Roy Wood Jr, Correspondent ‘The Daily Show w/ Trevor Noah’
"Tyler Merritt is a national treasure. His insight is exceeded only by his empathy. And his stories of the joys, pathos and terrors of being a Black man in America will make you laugh, leave you in tears, and feed your mind and your soul."
—Joy Reid, host of MSNBC’s “AMJoy” and author
"A whole bunch of love wrapped in a nice warm cup of coffee. Black, of course. Tyler takes me back home to Vegas in a way I haven’t thought about before. He shares his journey in life in ways we can all relate to. It’s poignant, inspiring, with splashes of humor that give you just enough of a release. A beautiful perspective on his bravery to face his truth and live in it as a black man in America."
—Rutina Wesley, actress on HBO's True Blood and AMC's The Walking Dead
“When I first saw Tyler Merritt's video "Before You Call the Cops" I thought, “If there are more powerful things on Twitter tonight, I haven’t seen them.” Amid the noise of our debates over race, his voice was honest, passionate, human, and challenged our deepest assumptions about one another. It still haunts me. Fortunately, he has a lot more to say; and in I Take My Coffee Black, he takes us into life – all of its triumphs, pratfalls, frustrations, and triumphs. It’s an entertaining and provocative read from one of our most important voices, at a time we need it most. And, by the way, he’s a vegetarian and he can sing every single word from Oklahoma."—Charles Sykes, Founder, Editor-at-large, The Bulwark
“I first met Tyler at a gig in Nashville when my pal Rob Cureton brought him backstage to say hi. We hung out together while Immer and I wrote that night’s set list. He reminded me of Rob and a lot of my best friends, just a nice friendly guy. I felt like we had a lot in common. Like all people though, I’m sure we’re different in many ways, the most obvious being that he’s black and I’m not. You may or may not think that matters but it does. The skin we live in is the first thing anyone notices about us and Tyler tells the story of living in his with understanding and a truly warm heart. Reading Tyler’s book I Take My Coffee Black about his life in his skin reminded me a lot of that night backstage: however different our stories are, however different our skins are, Tyler is the friend we all need in our lives.”
—Adam Duritz, lead singer of Counting Crows
“Tyler Merritt makes me think. He makes me cry. He makes me laugh so hard I pee a little bit. Tyler doesn't just make me feel something, he makes me feel all the things. "I take my coffee black" is a wonderful insight into what it is to be a black man in our world. His stories are educational, relatable, touching, thought-provoking, and as I said, will make you laugh so hard you might pee yourself a little bit.”
—Wells Adams, radio host and television personality

On Sale: Apr 4, 2023
Page Count: 320 pages
Publisher: Worthy Books
ISBN-13: 9781546029427