Da baddest, p.9
Da Baddest, page 9
A kid of my own was something I hoped to have in my future, not my present, though. It was the wrong time. Slip-N-Slide had invested so much into my career and my album. There was a lot of money riding on me being able to show up and show out as “da baddest bitch.” Pregnancy is a beautiful thing, but it wasn’t going to help the brand I had just started building. My career was going in the direction everyone wanted it to go. Plans for a follow-up album, additional tour dates, and a bunch of promotional appearances were already in the works. A baby was about to bring all of it to a halt. I cried when I delivered the news to Nessa, who tried to convince me that a baby didn’t have to mean the end of my life.
Resigned to the fact that my career was going to fold in a few months, I tried to look forward to my life as a mother. In the meantime, I committed to making the most of what time I had left. I chose to keep the pregnancy a secret from the public and my label for as long as I could. Forging ahead, I kept up with all my scheduled appearances and shows for the next few weeks. I was able to stop drinking without anyone noticing, and I tried to limit how much smoke I was exposed to. One morning, I woke up on the tour bus and noticed I was spotting, and I didn’t feel right. I dreaded going to the emergency room, because I didn’t need them to tell me what I already knew. But I went, and they delivered the news I was expecting: I was losing the baby.
As quickly as I had gotten my hopes up about becoming a mom, they came crashing down once I miscarried. It was a quick sadness, like having an ice-cold bucket of water thrown on you from the inside out. It numbed me, but not in any way that brought relief. There was no bottom to the emptiness I felt, and it made me grateful to have so much to distract myself with. There was no time to dwell on that sadness, especially when not many people knew what was going on with me in the first place. I stayed busy to keep the overwhelming disappointment away. I threw myself into my career and took my miscarriage as a sign that the timing just wasn’t right.
I would have been a fool to slow down at that point. I said yes to every red carpet, every event, and every party. My man and I probably should have used our alone time to process what had happened, but I was still a twentysomething, suddenly afraid that the world would pass me by while I was sitting at home. Up until that point, I liked that my man brought so much order and organization to my life. I didn’t mind that he, a classic Aquarius, liked to keep his partying to a minimum and stay behind the scenes. He was my calm in the storm of a hectic industry. Meanwhile, my Sagittarius was on full display. The promise of the next adventure was the only thing that kept my attention. After Da Baddest Bitch dropped, Trick and I had the city in a frenzy. His third album, Book of Thugs: Chapter A.K., Verse 47, came out a month before mine, so we both had music in circulation, getting radio play. We were the only artists from Miami getting that level of national notoriety at the time. The level of access and respect we had in the city was unmatched. We pulled up with groups of twenty to thirty people at every spot we hit, and the venue always made room to accommodate us without question. Any event with our names on it was the one everyone wanted to be at because we brought out all the baddest bitches, all the ballers, and all the celebrities. We shut shit down every time. I was in my prime. If there were any questions about Trina being the baddest bitch of Miami, I laid them to rest after my album dropped. The limelight felt like a remedy for the discomfort I felt in a body that betrayed me.
It was hard to articulate how complicated my feelings were, so I just didn’t. Instead, I went out for days at a time without coming home when we were in Miami. My man was more patient than I ever would have been in the same situation, calling and pleading with me to come home so we could talk about our issues like adults. I’d give him an excuse for why I couldn’t. When I’d finally make it home, I’d try to dodge the issue some more. No relationship can survive when the lines of communication are severed, and a few months after I lost the baby, we had to accept that our romantic relationship was at the end of its rope. He was ready to show me what a life of peace could look like, but in 2001, I wasn’t ready to settle down, and I didn’t want to see it.
Chapter 13
This might come as a surprise, because the entertainment industry has a reputation for being isolating, but my first two years as an artist brought some beautiful connections to fruition. In Miami, people knew me before I signed a deal, so I didn’t think I was being treated any differently at home. My cousin Joy worked at the swap meet, which was always popping on the weekends. It was to hood Miami people what a mall was to white teenagers in the suburbs. You could get your hair braided and buy a knockoff Gucci bag all in the same place. One of the shops at the swap had pictures of me posted to promote their services. Joy’s coworker Camari saw it, and when he found out we were related, he wanted to know if my Dominican blowout was all my real hair. It became an ongoing point of conversation between them, and when I was finally at the swap to see Joy, she insisted that we be introduced. I playfully confronted him. “Why you so worried about my hair? Yes, it’s real!”
Camari tried to act nonchalant, like he wasn’t pressed, and it became a running joke that he “knew I had a weave” every time I saw him. A few months after that first interaction, the “Nann” video was released. Joy let me know that when Camari saw his new friend with the pretty hair in it, he freaked out. But when I saw him again, he was back to his normal sassy self, acting like he wasn’t impressed at all. I loved his genuine good energy, and that was the beginning of another endearing friendship that’s still going today.
* * *
Part of the press leading up to Da Baddest Bitch was a Vibe magazine feature about the rise of female rappers. I did a group photoshoot with Rah Digga, Solé, Mocha, Charli Baltimore, and Eve, the first lady of Ruff Ryders from Philly. Eve was so gorgeous that she could effortlessly rock a blonde fade, but she rode motorcycles, handled pit bulls, and mean mugged with East Coast realness. We were drawn to each other on set and chatted casually in our downtime. We had a lot in common. Our careers were taking off at the same time, we’d both danced at strip clubs, and we were both trying to adjust to our new normal. We were young women in an extremely competitive field where support and advice aren’t always readily available. I didn’t know how badly I needed the camaraderie of another woman who understood what I was going through as a new artist until I met her. We exchanged numbers so we could stay in touch after the shoot and were always texting or calling each other. Eve became my first friend in the industry. We made it a point to link up when we were in the same city: New York. LA. Miami. We let loose on both coasts and in between.
Watching Eve’s success was such an inspiration for me. Her first album, Let There Be Eve… Ruff Ryders’ First Lady, debuted at no. 1 on the Billboard 200 in 1999. A few years later, she proved her crossover appeal when she collaborated with Gwen Stefani on “Let Me Blow Ya Mind.” That song got Eve her first Grammy. She made me feel like there were no limits on what I could accomplish as an artist.
* * *
In 2000, I was getting ready to perform for BET’s annual Spring Bling, a televised weekend of live hip-hop and R & B music for Black spring breakers in Daytona Beach. My stomach flew into a fit of butterflies when I got a call from Mona Scott-Young. She was a power player in the industry after she cofounded the game-changing hip-hop label and management company, Violator. Her company was responsible for taking the careers of superstars like A Tribe Called Quest and Busta Rhymes to new heights with innovate partnerships and brand deals. She said, “Someone wants to meet you.” That someone was her artist, Missy Elliott. I was shook. Missy was already a legend. She could rap. She could sing. She could dance. She could come up with some of the most mind-blowing visuals. She could produce the records. She wrote some of my favorite Aaliyah and Total songs, and her album Supa Dupa Fly stayed in my rotation. Everything Missy touched was fire. I knew she was going to be at Spring Bling with her new artist, Tweet, but I couldn’t believe she wanted to meet me.
I made sure my team carved out time for us to connect, and we made plans for me to go to her trailer. I was a ball of giddy nerves leading up to it. She was in glam, getting ready for her set, when I got there. She opened her arms wide to pull me in for a big hug. Then she made a joke about wanting to meet the woman who had been “talking so much shit” in her songs. She’d heard my music. I could have melted on the spot.
Later that day, I watched Tweet and Missy give amazing performances, still smiling to myself about the meeting. On TV, Spring Bling looked like a music festival, with a bunch of performances and interviews happening on a beach. Experiencing it in person was completely different. It was a huge party weekend in Daytona in a time before social media. As artists, we would turn up on the beach during the day and hit the clubs at night. Missy invited me to come hang at the party she was going to that night, and I didn’t hesitate. We got so drunk, let go of all our professionalism, and made one of those legendary nights that still lives online as grainy archival footage. I don’t regret a single minute of it, because that weekend Missy became my friend for life.
When we were in Daytona, Missy mentioned that she had a record in progress that she wanted me to hop on. I was so flattered that she would want to work with me. I didn’t know if she was just trying to be nice and feeding me industry lip service. But she was dead serious. A few days after we left Spring Bling, I was back on the road, and she called to formally ask me to be a feature on “One Minute Man.” As soon as I heard the title, it clicked why she wanted me on it. The song is about separating the good sex from the bad, a topic that fit right into my musical catalog. I wanted to meet the Missy standard, and she was on a deadline to get the song done. She wanted me to send the verse as soon as possible, but I’d just come down with a horrible cold, complete with a stuffy nose. My voice was even more nasally than normal. The timing couldn’t have been worse. I started working on the verse on the road, but I waited until I was back in Miami to record it. I still wasn’t feeling any better, and my voice hadn’t bounced back. But it was now or never.
The day after I sent the verse off, Missy called. She loved it. She was raving about how using my raspy, sick voice made it even better. I thought she was crazy, but who was I to argue with Missy Elliott about what sounded good? Then she told me they were shooting the video the following week, so I had to make my way to Los Angeles.
When I walked onto the set, I was immediately blown away. It was like I’d stepped into a different world. The crew had built a hotel set that could have been straight out of Alice in Wonderland or a sex-dungeon fantasy. All the colors were super rich, from the murals on the walls to the carpet. I shot two scenes decked out in emerald green. The first one was in the hallway as a sexy housekeeper wearing a corset and skirt. She had access to any room in the hotel—which one would she choose? They’d painted the dancers gold and strapped them to the walls so they’d look like statues coming to life. In the other scene, I wore a sparkling bra top and shorts set to wind my waist on a round bed that rotated around the room. In that role, I was the ultimate seductress, controlling the bedroom on my own time. That’s why all the clocks were melting. Missy had such a clear vision for the shoot, giving me pointers on how to move and engage the camera, right alongside the director. I left that shoot understanding the true depth of her genius.
Missy embraced me like we were old friends from the moment we met. A light like hers can’t be contained, and it’s brought love and friendship into my life beyond the two of us. I met the extremely talented R & B legend Monica through Missy. Monica started working in the music industry when she was a teenager, but she stayed true to her Atlanta roots and kept it real as an around-the-way girl like me. Our mutual respect for each other made it easy for us to get along once we were connected through Missy, and the three of us have made memories that I will never forget. Like the time they pranked me for my birthday weekend.
I flew to LA with my friends Camari and Tawanna to celebrate. The plan was to meet up with Monica, Eve, and Missy to party like only we knew how. I called and texted all of them when I landed but couldn’t get in touch with anybody. We checked in and got settled into my hotel suite. It had its own living room and bedroom with a luxurious bathroom and a huge tub. A balcony overlooking the city connected the rooms. Rather than waste the day waiting around for the rest of the girls, I suggested we hit the town to get food and shop. A security detail tagged along with us to the mall, then Rodeo Drive, and finally the strip on Melrose. I was in a great mood, buying stuff for myself and my friends. I didn’t know those same friends were mischievously plotting on me the entire time.
Missy finally called me back as we were arriving at the hotel. She was on her way, and she’d heard from Monica, who had to handle a few things before meeting up with us. I also got a text from Eve that she’d landed. Everything was falling into place, and I was getting excited. I looked over all the clothes I bought, trying things on I might want to wear that night and packing everything else away. I decided to take a bath, and Missy arrived while I was still in the tub, so Camari let her in and kept her company until I was done. I was back and forth between the living room and bedroom, trying to get dressed and enjoy the hotel pregame with everyone else at the same time. I was almost done and let everyone know I was ready to hit the streets. But Missy stalled. “Have you heard from Mo?” she asked. I went back into the bedroom to add finishing touches to my look and call Monica. Still no answer.
All of a sudden, I heard someone banging hard on the living room door. I decided to let someone else answer it, and then it happened again, even louder. Camari peeked his head in from the balcony door, acting concerned and asking if I could hear the pounding. “Yeah, they’re knocking like the police,” I told him.
We went to inspect the living room where Missy sat looking just as hesitant and confused. Tawanna was still on the balcony. Camari opened the door to two big, buff police officers and a third man who looked like the head of hotel security or some kind of private investigator. The sight of law enforcement made me stiffen up. The third guy took the lead. “We’re looking for Katrina Taylor,” he said.
I had no reason to lie. “I’m her. What is this regarding?”
“Were you on Melrose today?”
“Yes. What’s the problem?” I motioned to some of the bags in the room and confirmed that I’d spent the day shopping. I wanted to know what the problem was, but he kept firing off questions.
“Were you with anybody else?” he asked.
I called for Tawanna, wanting to get to the bottom of whatever this was so I could continue my night. She shuffled into the room, and he turned his attention to her.
“Were you on Melrose with her today?” he asked. Tawanna told him she was. “Did you happen to steal anything when you were there?”
To my absolute shock, Tawanna mumbled, “Yeah,” with the most pitiful look on her face.
What the fuck?! I scanned the room in confusion and frustration. The police were at my door to bust my friend for stealing—in front of Missy Elliott! I was so embarrassed. I tried to run some damage control and told the officer I had receipts for every purchase we made. But he wasn’t hearing any of it.
“I need you both to come with me.” As he said it, one of the officers stepped closer, grabbed my arm, and started to turn me around. The situation was going from bad to worse, and I burst into furious tears and let my emotions take over.
“Wait a minute—I didn’t do anything!” I was still trying to talk some sense into these men. “I have all my receipts!” He ignored me, and that made me indignant. “Do you know who I am?! I’M TRINA! I got money—I don’t have to steal shit!” With both hands now behind my back, I was desperate. “Camari, call my mama!” In the chaos, I hadn’t noticed Missy trying to hold back fits of laughter.
At the exact moment I expected to be handcuffed, I heard a loud boom from a speaker I couldn’t see, followed by blasting dance music. The officer let me go, and when I spun around, both he and the other buff one ripped their shirts off and started dancing. From behind them, the hotel door swung open again, and Monica walked in, cackling and grinning from ear to ear.
In the movies and TV shows, a surprise stripper prank is funny and lighthearted, but I was livid. Their script had been so realistic. They even had copies of my and Tawanna’s IDs printed out to prove they knew it was us. (That was part of the ruse Camari concocted with a sales associate while I was in a fitting room.) One minute I thought I was about to be put into a squad car on my birthday weekend, and the next minute these men were picking me up and bending me over to grind all over my butt. I relaxed just enough to let the dancers do their jobs, but I kept shooting Monica and Missy horrible looks because I couldn’t wait to lay into them.
Once I calmed down, the rest of the night was amazing. Missy booked a private dinner at a restaurant and invited Janet Jackson. I grew up watching Janet on Good Times, dancing to “Rhythm Nation,” and thinking her Velvet Rope Tour was some of the sexiest shit I’d ever seen. I was absolutely humbled to meet her. Eve joined us later, and we went to a couple of parties. Monica, Missy, and the rest of my friends made it an epic night.
* * *
The first time I was ever on MTV’s Sucker Free, La La Vazquez was the VJ and host. TRL was the network’s main countdown show, where crowds of teenagers from the suburbs stood outside in Times Square trying to get a glimpse of a celebrity and maybe even end up on TV. Sucker Free was the network’s opportunity to capture the hip-hop crowd. La La was new, but she was a natural on camera, full of energy and personality. She was vibrant, funny, and not above being silly when the mood called for it. She even had me laughing and feeling good when I stepped on set. I liked this girl from the moment I met her. After the show, I invited her out to dinner with my crew.
