Tiffany Cross has no fairytale notions about love. Instead, she embraces what’s real: her sister circle, wisdom from the ancestors, and an undying commitment to Black people, from the stoop to the board room.
Her second book, Love, Me: A Letter to Black Women in a Toxic Country, Career, and Relationship demonstrates that love over the course of 17 chapters, where the former top-ranking MSNBC host and Harvard Institute of Politics fellow shares all but her Social Security number on the page. The book is not window dressing for a future campaign, nor does it run cover for a political party; it’s an impressively vulnerable testament that weaves both the personal and philosophical into an insightful love letter to Black women in America—one that, above all, values their humanity.
From sharing details of ugly text exchanges with old flames that put your favorite battle rappers to shame, to relating the bloody details of an unnecessarily career-threatening surgery, to questioning if America’s democracy can withstand the backwinds of its own history—this book lives up to its title in holding up a mirror to the Black woman and depicting something not many can say so authentically: I see you.
I caught up with the veteran mediamaker to talk about the inspiration behind Love, Me, where she shares everything from her thoughts on what tools are needed to build today’s Black press, to the flaws of the founding fathers, to the extended sister tribe she’s found through her book tour.
MERCURY: I don’t know if you purposely released this book around America’s 250th anniversary, but it makes it all the more timely—the conversations you’re having are equal parts contemporary and about the past.
TIFFANY CROSS: I wanted to write a story that was a snapshot of this moment in time, independent of any 250th anniversary of the founding of America, as they call it. It was really just a reflection to Black women, that we are not alone in the multiple ways we’re being crushed right now. I know I felt personally, professionally, and patriotically crushed all at the same time, and I really didn’t know what to do with myself, how to peel myself off the floor. I tried on my own, but it was really other Black women around me who were extending their hands, who were also being crushed—maybe crushed in different ways—and so we lifted each other up as we climbed, as has always been the case with Black women.
Our labor, our bodies, our blood made this country a superpower, and [the current administration’s] stupidity is eroding that power on the global stage. I don’t know that that’s necessarily a bad thing, because the United States is the empire, and we have been soul crushing to a lot of entities, including its own people. So perhaps it’s a time for us to reflect on who we are as a people as this empire falls.
What has been surprising to learn as you’ve been talking to people across the country since publishing this piece?
I think the most pleasant surprise is the way the book has resonated with so many people. I briefly got caught up in commercial success, and was looking for these very plastic accolades. But every tour stop has welcomed hundreds of people who speak very intimately with me.
I found open arms and people saying “yes, I’ve been there too,” and “yes, I sent hate texts like that,” and “yes, I remember crying over somebody I shouldn’t have been messing with,” and “yes, I would have cursed people out at my office, too.” So that’s why I say it’s not a memoir, because everything that I was navigating while in a newsroom, so many other Black women are contending with the same things.
What do you feel is the biggest challenge for Black folks right now in navigating the media landscape?
The media landscape has shuffled Black women in front and behind the camera. When you look at newsrooms across the country, pre-Donald Trump, only 6 percent of journalists were Black. Now those numbers have, for sure, gone down.
I think we’re going to have to acknowledge the importance of the Black press. When you think about the role the Chicago Defender played during key points in the last century, you think about the role that Ida B. Wells played during massive lynchings in America. And so we have to start finding those [contemporary] sources and supporting them. Michael Harriot, the amazing author of Black AF History, runs a site called Contraband Camp. It’s kind of like the Black Atlantic— a lot of think pieces from the most amazing writers of our time.
Joy Reid is getting better ratings on her YouTube show than a lot of the cable news outlets are. Roland Martin has over two million subscribers.
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You talk about going into surgery for fibroids while you were auditioning for a full time position at MSNBC—how does centering your story shift conversation?
I wanted people to know that this is what I was going through, and why I had to get surgery, and I share very personal details of things that women will understand—of being in a newsroom makeup chair and having to get new clothes. I mean, just awful things. And I also understood that my story was not so unique, and what I had to juggle from my hospital bed. I named that chapter “They Make Me Sick,” because it was an attack on my physical being and dealing with things at MSNBC. The stress of that process literally impacted my health. It kept me in the hospital days longer than I should have.
So it was a little purple piece of vibranium that I could offer my sisters out there who are struggling with the same thing.
There’s a part in the book where you’re talking about ancestry and imagination, and this kind of debate between (former Florida gubernatorial candidate) Andrew Gillum and LaTosha Brown (Black Voters Matter). What do you imagine for Black people in this country?
I try not to read that passage on the tour, because it always makes me choke up.
All of us are, in some parts, the dream and the hope of the enslaved—although I question that in the book as well. Perhaps the dream and the hope of the enslaved was to go home to their home—to West Africa.
I hope collectively we as Black people are all asking, “What are we sowing into our lineage that is going to be our dream and hope for future generations of Black people?” I don’t equate Black liberation with America—I think Black liberation is achievable anywhere. I’ve been having conversations with LaTosha, where she talks about liberation. Perhaps we can consider liberation a state of being, a state of mind. The example she gave was Harriet went to the plantation, liberated. So I’ve been contending with myself on what that looks like.
Okay, “speed round” time. I’m going to ask you questions and you tell me which you prefer, and why. Gina or Pam?
Pam. I just thought it was ridiculous that Pam was on the receiving end of so many insults when she was so fine, gorgeous, and beautiful—and it seemed to highlight a level of colorism in the community. It was just nonsensical. And she was like a manless friend, and I was like, “She’s so dope! She can sing, and is so talented.” I love the friendship between Pam and Gina. I just always felt like, “Why are we making fun of Pam?”
Ebony or Jet?
I’m gonna go with Jet, but this is a shallow reason. I think Ebony documented so many amazing moments in history for Black people, so I think they matter. Jet was a little more like pop culture, you know? It may have been controversial, but there was that “Jet Beauty of the Week.” I feel like there’s something to be said about celebrating Black women on their terms and our beauty—because we were so overly sexualized.
You even see politicians like Kamala Harris… who is gorgeous, a naturally beautiful woman… but she will swallow it sometimes in her attire and her suits. I dare say that we can be taken seriously—as fine, talented, educated, informed, sexy, and all the things.
13th. I don’t really have a big connection to the incarcerated, other than I just give a fuck. I just think it is so god-awful how punishing the criminal justice system is, particularly when it comes to us. I thought Ava DuVernay did an amazing job on the 13th, and I think we need to pay more attention to how we treat our prisoners here.
If it were up to me, I would kick open those bars and free probably 99 percent of those people, and at this point, in this moment in time where you have a president who is convicted of 34 felonies, and you have at least 500,000 Black men in prison who are fathers, and then millions of Black people in prison everywhere. I have to ask America, “what is a law?” Who decides what is a law, and who decides when and how it’s enforced? So, fuck your prisons.
‘90s hip-hop or ’90s R&B?
I will say ‘90s R&B, because I feel like that was the last iteration of love songs and ballads where we’re singing about falling in love, making love, having crushes, heartache, heartbreak. Like, men were just fine singing and begging on a record. Women were fine saying how heartbroken they were, how much they love their man. It was also the last iteration of life where parties have slow songs—you knew at the end of the night it was going to be Jodeci, Forever My Lady and who you were going to dance with.
Couples were made at these parties and dances—not to diss the hip-hop that was coming out of the ‘90s, because that gave us Biggie, Pac, Nas.
If you had to write a headline for Black women in America today, what would it be?
“This Is Crazy, But We Will Survive.”
Love, Me is available in all places where books are sold, but if you are in Portland, we encourage you to buy from Third Eye Bookstore. This interview has been edited for clarity and brevity.
