Da baddest, p.1
Da Baddest, page 1
Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.
Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.
To my niece Suga.
No matter where life takes me,
I will always find Sugaland.
Foreword
The first time I heard “Da Baddest Bitch,” I remember thinking, Who is this talking mad shit? She wildin’! That was the first song I ever heard from Trina, and it wasn’t like anything else that was out at the time. By then, Lil’ Kim had opened the door for women to be risqué with their lyrics and even their style, but Trina was able to catch everyone’s attention because she was bringing a completely different vibe being from Miami. Play the player but don’t ever get played! Trina had this strong Southern accent, and her delivery was just hard. Even the beat for “Da Baddest Bitch” was different from anything else I had heard at that time. The song was just dope. Then when I heard the rest of her first album, I just knew: This girl got some shit.
I still remember the day we met. It was 2001, and I was getting my glam done at BET’s Spring Bling when someone mentioned that Trina was there. I knew of her at that point, and I definitely wanted to meet her. As soon as she walked in, I could tell she was good people. Her energy was pure—that’s the best way to describe it. We exchanged numbers, and I hit her up shortly after that, as I was working on “One Minute Man” and wanted her on the song. I knew she would go crazy on it! I sent her the song, but it took her some time to get to it. When she finally recorded her verse, she was hoarse and wanted to do it again, but to me, the raspiness actually made it better. And she of course went crazy on her verse—just like I knew she would. I told her, “This is IT right here!” With any track she jumps on, Trina always understands the assignment. She knows how to adapt to evolving sounds, generations, and trends without losing the core of who she is as an artist. That’s why she’s been able to transcend and stay relevant for so many years.
Trina’s feature on “One Minute Man” was just the beginning for us. When we linked up to shoot the video, I knew I had made a dope friend for life. The whole time we were on set, we laughed and laughed like we had already known each other for years. It was one of those real connections from the start. In this industry, you run across a lot of people who end up being business associates, but finding a sisterhood is major, and Trina has been that—my sister—since we met over twenty years ago. I’ll never forget the time I paid a spot to install some speakers in my truck and the employees had the nerve to joyride my whip around Miami! Trina went up to the shop and went off, on my behalf. She laid into them like it was her car. I could tell a dozen stories about the different times Trina has ridden for me like that. Trina is one of the most loyal people I’ve ever met and not just to me. There is nothing she wouldn’t do for the people she really loves and cares about. She is the backbone for so many of her friends and family; she will stay ten toes down to make sure they’re good.
What has always separated Trina from everybody else is that she’s real. It comes across in her music, and it comes across when you’re in her presence, even if you just met her. Her closest friends will tell you that she doesn’t take bullshit from anybody, and she will put anyone in their place if need be. She’s always good to have a laugh with and will crack a smile at the drop of a dime. But I’ve learned not to trust that smile all the time because she can go from zero to a thousand so quick. I’m talking seconds—hell, maybe half a second. Y’all have seen the “Light the blunt!” video. But all of that intense energy is there because Trina is real. She’s a sensitive and extremely passionate person, and she’s not the kind of woman who’s going to pretend like she’s not. But she’s smart enough to use good judgment about which situations she puts herself in and who she can trust to be her full self around. When you know her story, you understand why. Her story is one of strength. You have to be strong to survive in this industry for as long as she has. People remember the raunchy lyrics and the sexy videos, but not a lot of people really understand the storms she’s had to weather. I’m so proud of her for making it this far, and I’m glad that she’s finally telling her story. Trina can teach anybody how to talk their shit and be a baddie living the good life, but the best thing you can learn from her about being the baddest is how to stay real and keep your head up through those dark times.
For almost twenty-five years, Trina has been a consistent presence in hip-hop. There is no denying that she has shaped the sound, the look, and the energy of today’s female rap. Every time one of the mainstream female MC’s songs or videos comes on, you can see and hear the blueprint that Trina laid out in 2000. What’s so beautiful about her spirit is that she welcomes the new generation with open arms. Trina appreciates what they bring to the table because she knows what she brought to the table all those years ago. She celebrates the new girls, collaborates with them, and lets them learn from her wins and mistakes along the way. Trina is living proof that being a legend is not always about how many albums you’ve sold; it’s about the impact you’ve had. I hope reading Trina’s story will have a positive impact on your life, as I can tell you for sure—knowing Trina has definitely had one on mine.
—Missy Elliott
Chapter 1
My voice is such a distinctive part of who I am. It has a high pitch that can be raspy or sharp. It penetrates any track I’m on and makes my presence on a song that much more memorable. After the unapologetic, explicit lyrics, it’s my voice that hooks people in my music. I didn’t know just how far it would take me, but I was primed to use my voice from a young age. I was born into a huge family full of loud talkers, in a city that boomed with electricity and rhythm, in a neighborhood that was constantly radiating with energy.
My mom, Vernessa, was just a teenager when I was conceived unexpectedly, and it was anything but easy for her. It was the ’70s, so she was forced to transfer to a high school for pregnant teens. Then, three weeks before I was born, she took a nasty fall that almost ended my unborn life and put her on bed rest until I was Earthside. But Vernessa was resilient. She hadn’t planned on becoming a parent so soon, but she was determined to step up to the plate. Unfortunately, my biological father was not. Apparently he didn’t want anything to do with fatherhood, and my mom was ready to raise me on her own. God had other plans. She met her husband, the man everyone called Mr. Wonderful, before I was old enough to remember. He raised me like I was his flesh and blood, and he was the only father I had. By the time I started kindergarten, we were a family of four that included me, my parents, and my sister, Laura, who is four years younger than me.
My immediate family was just the tip of the iceberg, though. Vernessa, who went by Nessa, was one of six siblings born to Bahamian parents in Miami. I had a whole network of aunts, uncles, and cousins who constantly shuffled between the city and the islands. On any given day, they would step in for my parents to get us to or from school, host sleepovers with our cousins, and celebrate our birthdays and holidays. My mom’s youngest brother, Uncle Clifton, was regularly present in our lives before he passed away. He was a ball of energy and not as laid-back as her oldest brother, Vin. However, the women in my family were a different breed. My aunt Sheila was the professional businesswoman. She owned a bank and always looked so put together. Aunt Sany was never far away, with a joke to crack and a story to tell. A party was bound to happen when we had family in town from the Bahamas, but when my great-aunt Lou Lou came, Laura and I knew that we were losing the extra twenty minutes of sleep our mom normally let us have. She had traditional Caribbean values and didn’t believe in young women participating in smacking their lips, putting their hands on their hips, leaving their bedroom without fixing their bed, or being late. She was loud about it, too. When she gave us marching orders to get out of bed, clean up, or get dressed, the whole house could hear it. We knew better than to challenge anything she said because it was customary to get your butt whooped for being disrespectful, but we couldn’t wait until she went back home.
My parents lived in a four-bedroom house with a pool in Aventura, a suburb just north of Miami, but my grandmother’s house in Liberty City was home base for my entire family. The modest single-story house with the short gate is where my grandparents raised my mother, her siblings, and their kids. It was there that I got used to the nonstop yelling, laughing, and singing. God forbid an argument break out. My family has always been animated and colorful. We love music, dancing, laughter, and joy. One of my uncles could tell a story, and listening to it was like watching a one-man show. Unlike a lot of moms who shushed the little girls they raised, Nessa pushed me to speak my mind because that was a sign of strong character and dignity. If she ever thought I wasn’t saying something with enough confidence, she would say, “Girl, speak up!” I got comfortable expressing myself early because the people I respected the most encouraged me to do so.
In the summers, my skin was permanently tanned from playing up and down Sixty-Sixth Street in the blazing sun with other kids from the neighborhood—some of them my first, second, and third cousins. There were so many of us we could have started our own gang if we wanted to, but our only rival was our no-nonsense grandmother. She was a heavyset woman who never lost her smooth Bahamian accent. Unlike the rest of the family, my grandmother wasn’t quick to raise her voice. We respected her words and rules so much that she only needed to tell us once to clean up or be quiet. If she got upset enough to yell, it was already too late. She ruled her house like a kingdom, perched near the open front door where she could catch a rare breeze and see what was happening inside and out at any given moment. My grandmother often spoke in parables. One time she told me, calm as day, “In here, there is nothing bigger than me.”
That was the day my little-girl brain started to think my grandmother might actually be God. If not, she had to be the closest thing in human form. She commanded so much respect with just her presence, even from the adults in the family. Her power intimidated me sometimes because I didn’t understand it, but I loved her.
My grandmother’s house—the Taylor house—was a second home, and she was part of what made it comfortable. It was filled with the people I love and always smelled like a mixture of cleaning supplies and spices. My grandmother cooked island food on the regular. Boiled fish and grits. Johnnycake. Baked chicken. You name it, and she could whip it up in the kitchen. I come from a family of foodies, and my taste buds were developed on freshly cooked meals. There was never anything appetizing to me about fast food. Thankfully, everyone in the bloodline inherited my grandmother’s cooking gene. We came together often for celebrations, for grief, for Sunday dinner, for huge weekend cookouts in Morningside Park, or sometimes for no reason at all. Whether it was a backyard bash at my mom’s house or a cousin’s sleepover at my aunt’s, no one ever left hungry.
Laura and I both attended Liberty City Elementary School. It was only about a ten-minute walk from my grandmother’s house. Nessa or Mr. Wonderful drove us to school from our house in Aventura in the mornings, and in the afternoons, we walked ourselves to our grandmother’s. My cousin Stella, Aunt Sany’s daughter, was closer to my age and made the after-school commute with me before Laura was old enough to join us. I knew the different routes like the back of my hand. We walked past some of the same faces every day, like the older woman who always sat outside of her duplex apartment and waved to us. Liberty City was my stomping ground, and I felt safe there.
One day when I was in fourth grade, Stella and I were on our normal route home. We were just two girls in a crowd of screaming kids excited to be out of school. I didn’t have a care in the world except what we might eat and how much playtime we would have before my mom picked me up to head back to Aventura. Nothing was out of the ordinary until a loud screeching sound broke through the rest of the noise on the street.
The next thing I heard was Stella’s screaming, and I realized I was on the ground. My face burned like someone had just touched it with a hot comb, and it was wet. A crowd of people gathered around me; some of them were trying to talk to me, but some of them were just hollering. Confusion took over my mind, but my whole body was in pain, especially my face. I started to panic, then I saw a pickup truck. It was so close—on the sidewalk with us where it didn’t belong. Everything was just wrong. I wasn’t supposed to be on the ground. Stella wasn’t supposed to be screaming. My face and neck weren’t supposed to be wet. I looked down, saw my bloody clothes, and wanted to scream or cry. Before I could do either, someone scooped me up into their arms, and I blacked out. It was the older lady from the duplex.
This time it was Nessa screaming. Only a few minutes had passed, and in that time the neighbor got Stella and I the rest of the way to the Taylor house. My mom was normally composed, even in a crisis, but the sight of her firstborn’s bloody face made her hysterical. The force of her panic was enough to snap me back to consciousness. She put me in the car and sped me to the hospital. Thankfully, I looked to be in worse shape than I actually was.
We learned that the pickup truck spun out of control and jumped the curb, but by the grace of God, it didn’t hit me. As it spun, a piece of wood hanging over the edge of its flatbed swiped me. It knocked me over and split my face open from my lip to my ear, but I didn’t have any major nerve damage or life-threatening injuries. The wound was big, though, and I was at risk for an infection, so doctors still rushed me into surgery to stitch it up. They wanted to minimize the chance of me having a permanent scar, so the surgeon used a technique where the stitches were placed from inside instead of on top of my skin like they normally are. It turns out that Dr. Grossman, who did my procedure, was on the team of doctors who helped Richard Pryor recover from his burn injuries after he set himself on fire in 1980. Thanks to his blessed hands, my skin healed over the area naturally, and the only mark left from the accident is a small scar above my lip. I know my mom was so grateful that the lady from the duplex was compassionate enough to bring me home.
Liberty City had its problems, but there was a close-knit community there, and my parents were well-known in it. My dad owned a store on Sixty-Fourth Street, two blocks away from the Taylor house. Mr. Wonderful Grocery was the quintessential hood corner store in the ’80s. The storefront was painted a dull blue with big black block letters. He had a pay phone attached to the wall outside and bars across the windows that had been painted to say MR. WONDERFUL GROCERY in fancy print. He sold candy, snacks, beer, grocery essentials, cigarettes, and cleaning supplies. Laura and I had free rein to explore and didn’t have to pay for anything we wanted off the shelves. We knew exactly what the saying kid in a candy store meant.
The store was perfectly located in the middle of all the action in Liberty City. It was across the street from the Liberty Square projects—also known as the Pork ’n’ Beans because the buildings were painted shades of burgundy and brown, the same colors you would find in a bowl of pork and beans—on the very busy Fifteenth Avenue. Local churches, restaurants, and houses lined the block, so there was constant foot traffic: kids running in and out for a sugar fix, men lingering around after they bought a beer or cigarettes to shit-talk, women pushing strollers back and forth, and people hopping out of cars with the music blasting. It seemed like all of them knew Mr. Wonderful, and he knew them. He couldn’t make it from the curb to the door without someone greeting or stopping him to talk. Even the guys with thick gold chains and shiny rims on their cars, who made everyone stop and stare, would pull over, hop out, and shake my dad’s hand. In the summers, he threw block parties outside the store that attracted the whole hood to come out. Sometimes he had speakers, a DJ, and huge smokers set up to grill hot dogs, ribs, chicken wings, and burgers. In the wintertime, he bought toys and handed them out of the trunk of his Cadillac. The neighborhood kids and their parents swarmed him, trying to get their hands on a little something extra to put under their Christmas trees. I loved knowing it was my dad bringing so much happiness to our community.
If Mr. Wonderful was the king of Liberty City, ruling from the throne of his corner store, Nessa was the gracious queen. She grew up on those same streets, so these were her childhood friends and neighbors. She was always warm and friendly with the people she interacted with, whether it was the local drunk or one of the church ladies. I could never tell a stranger from someone she’d known for years. In our family, she was the person people turned to for advice, support, or a little money if someone was in a tight spot. Sometimes she extended that same nurturing spirit to friends and people she knew from around the way. If she was hosting a party, everyone wanted to come. She was the woman you trusted to look out for your kids or help your elders.
Nessa was a beautiful person, inside and out. She hardly ever wore makeup, except for a little lip gloss, unless she was going out, but Nessa knew everything there was to know about beauty because it was her business. She was the go-to hairstylist in our family. She put ponytails in my and Laura’s hair with precision, parting them different ways, adding bows and barrettes to match our outfits. She always made sure we felt beautiful. All the women in my family counted on Nessa to slick and mold their hair into updos and French rolls or give them a fresh silk press. She was a naturally gifted stylist (so is my sister, who still does my hair), but she was also licensed. When I was in middle school she opened her first hair salon, on Sixty-Fifth Street. She decorated it with pops of orange because that was her favorite color. Eventually, she rented out the attached space next door to the salon and opened her own beauty supply. She was one of the few Black women who sold weave, hair-care products, and styling tools because beauty supply stores were—and still are—mostly owned by Koreans. But it was such a smart business move because she could upsell the clients who came to get their hair done and turn customers who came in to buy products into clients.
