by Trick Daddy
Although rappers and producers were always flocking to do shows in Miami, local rappers didn’t get to share in the spotlight. A lot of big records came out of Miami. Out-of-towners stole our records and made them theirs. People weren’t returning the love we showed them. Most people don’t even know KC and the Sunshine Band came out of Miami. It’s safe to say Miami was a forgotten stepchild on the hip-hop front. We were seen as nothing more than the folks who brought booty-shaking music. I wanted to shine a light on the other part of my city. I wanted to take folks to Overtown, Opa-locka, Ghouls, Liberty City, and the other ghettos. I wanted to introduce the world to that raw Miami shit. No other emcee was like me and no other city was like mines. That’s right. There wasn’t nann nigga in hip-hop like Trick Daddy.
37
“Nann”
IN 1998, WHEN I FIRST SHOWED EVERYONE THE LYRICS to “Nann,” the consensus was that it would never get played on the radio. People thought the lyrics were just too raunchy, with more references to private parts and what to do with them than in a sex-education class. Luke already had Congress all over him. I had already told Ted upon signing me that no one was going to make me change what I had grown used to. I was going to show my gold grills and do what I do. I wasn’t one of those flashy, drenched-in-glitter, made-for-TV rappers. If the critics didn’t like it, they could kiss my black ass. People felt my music because it was believable. I was just a two-time convicted felon that could rap that wanted to show the world the circumstances that made me who I was. After some heated rebuttals, everyone got on board, but I wanted to add a twist to the song. I needed a partner in crime, so to speak. It’s safe to say Miami girls got the most sass and attitude of any females around. You can’t find a more ride-or-die chick than a Miami girl. They’re the definition of what I call ghetto but classy. Hollywood’s ex-girlfriend Katrina was all the above. After leaving high school, she was trying her hand at cosmetology school and stripping on the side. I approached her with the lyrics to the song, and she initially thought I was crazy.
“Trina, there isn’t another bitch that can represent on this song like you,” I told her.
She finally agreed. We started pushing the record in strip clubs. It’s the best venue to break records because guys follow whatever music women like. Strippers certify hot music. Besides, I didn’t have to harass some well-known radio personality for airplay. Strip club deejays are always open to new music. Then we hit the road. We piled inside a rented white, fourteen-passenger van and hit small Southern towns to promote the song.
Soon the hook to “Nann” was blaring out of car stereos. All the clubs were playing it. The record became the first Southern rap song to get major radio play in New York, the mecca of hip-hop. I landed my first national hit. The major labels came knocking down Ted’s doors. Universal had signed that mega $30 million deal with Cash Money Records so all the majors were looking for that next big Southern act. With the stable of rappers we had, there was no question that Miami was the next town to take hip-hop to another level. Ted ultimately inked a deal with Atlantic Records. The money and everything that comes with it began piling in. The music video for “Nann” began popping up on MTV and BET, along with white spots on my face.
38
Hold On
AT FIRST I IGNORED THE CRATERLIKE SPOTS ON MY face. Black people tend to get dry skin, so I just went shopping for better lotion. As much as I rubbed the lotion, the spots just didn’t go away. At times I couldn’t go out in public. What I thought were spots were becoming large, painful, crusty sores that flared up sporadically. My friends tried not to stare when they spoke to me, but I could tell the spots had everyone sidetracked. It looked real bad.
Did you guys see the sores on Trick’s face? He probably got the bug. You know, with all those groupies he slept with on the road. Yeah, he probably has the virus.
Back then, people weren’t as educated about sexually transmitted diseases. So rumors about what caused the spots swirled. The first thing people would say when someone appeared ill was that he had AIDS. I was worried. I hadn’t lived the choirboy life. Magic Johnson had revealed his HIV status, and Eazy-E died of it in 1995. One of my brothers had also succumbed to the disease. AIDS was ravishing our community. If I did have HIV, I was determined to face it like a man. Hell, I had already survived riots, shoot-outs, and prison. I had seen everything but the wind.
Ted referred me to Dr. Betty Bellman. She ran a number of blood tests. Then she came back and told me I had discoid lupus.
“What!?” I asked, puzzled.
I had no idea what the hell lupus was or how to properly pronounce it. I was totally in the dark. When she broke it down for me, I thought my life had ended. This autoimmune disease caused my white blood cells to destroy themselves. My body was destroying itself. Ironically, I had spent so many years doing that in the streets now my anatomy followed suit. In its most severe form, the disease could reach my internal organs and kill me. My kidneys and liver were at risk. It caused my hair to fall out. The sun became my worst enemy. It’s like an AK-47 with a double clip on it.
The doctor put me on medication, but I soon stopped because the side effects were unbearable. For a moment I decided that this was the end of the road. The news took me back to that place in the desert I mentioned earlier in this story, where hope leads you without a pot to piss in.
Fate would give me a taste of happiness, but somehow pain just always had to come knocking on my door. Then I started doing my research on the disease. I and so many other people were in the dark about lupus for a damn good reason. I found out that I wasn’t alone with this condition. It killed hip-hop producer J Dilla.
The disease primarily affects black and Hispanic women. Little research has been done for the simple fact that it affects us. The powers that be don’t want to invest money to come up with a cure for a disease that targets my community. A lady that I considered my grandmother has the disease so bad she’s almost terminally ill. It’s affected her bones and spinal cord. As many as 1 in 250 black women are likely to get the disease. I figured the same way I was using my experiences in the streets to spotlight conditions in the inner city, I could use my current condition to bring awareness to a disease that is unnecessarily claiming the lives of millions of my sisters. It can be an embarrassing disease to have, but I’m letting people know they don’t have to suffer alone. I turned to family and friends for support. Joy became my anchor.
39
Sugar (Gimme Some)
ON THOSE LONG TRIPS PROMOTING MY FIRST ALBUMS, Trina’s cousin Joy would tag along. If you let her tell it, Joy, my wife to be, will say she was offended that I even contemplated hitting on her. The woman was a mahogany queen. I used to see her with Trina all the time, but I was too busy in the streets to try my hand at holding down a relationship. Besides, Joy wouldn’t have tolerated my large appetite for the ladies.
But she was a chocolate sundae this brother had to go add a banana to. Joy had the Miami attitude, but with a more laid-back round-the-way-girl aura. She was the kind of girl you could just kick back with at the beach. She wasn’t trying to be a diva. I knew if I was going to continue in the rap game, I needed an anchor. More important, I needed somebody that was levelheaded enough to cope with the pressures that come with dating a rapper. Joy never got insecure and jealous when we were promoting in strip clubs. She even befriended the strippers when they came over to hang all over us. Joy realized it was part of the game plan we came up with. She was a team player. Now don’t get me wrong. My wife isn’t a pushover. She’s won’t lose her cool often, but when she does, you better run for cover.
I could teach folks a thing or two about love. Love is about friendship. It isn’t about who’s wrong or right, to gain power or control over the other person. It’s about two people getting together to make something sane happen in this crazy, messed-up place we call earth. The first thing anyone who wants to love someone must come to terms with is that no one’s perfect. We all got flaws. Even your belo
ved pastor got some skeletons in his dusty closet. When you realize that, everything else in the relationship can be worked out. Once the other person’s flaws aren’t things that will make you throw him or her over a bridge, wedding bells will soon be around the corner. Our wedding ceremony was interrupted by me having to whup one dude’s ass, but you get the point. It was hot, the food was running late, and folks got to acting up. Besides the beatdown, the wedding was a beautiful ceremony.
At first, I wasn’t particularly Joy’s type. She liked the college, suit-and-tie-wearing brothers. Joy didn’t like ex-cons. Not in a million years did Joy see herself dating a guy with my track record. For that reason I liked her. She was innocent to my world. But like the old saying goes, opposites do attract, especially when one of those opposites was as persistent as I was. Every time I told Trina to set me up with Joy, she gave me the whole “Negro, please” look. I kept at it though. Finally, Joy got to know me for the person I was beyond the prison rap sheet. We’ve been best friends ever since.
40
God’s Been Good
AFTER THE SONG “I’M A THUG” TOOK ME TO THE TOP of the rap plateau, I focused on my other true passion—kids. It’s not a gimmick when I sing “Trick Loves the Kids.” When you listen to the “Children’s Song,” that’s some shit I’m rapping about from the heart. In my childhood, there wasn’t much for me to smile about. Like me, so many kids are growing up with nightmares as opposed to playful memories. Adults need to stop making kids the scapegoats for all their mistakes. They don’t deserve it.
I hate men who leave women in the dust to raise kids on their own. If you don’t want the babies, I’ll take every last one of them. Every time I see a teenage girl pushing a baby stroller toward a bus stop, I shed a tear. That’s right. Trick Daddy’s isn’t immune to crying. I wish I could have an amusement park in my backyard. I’d invite all the kids from the projects across America.
My daughter, Imani, was born on October 31, 1995. I got her mother pregnant the same week I was released from prison. Then my son, Jayden, burst into the world on November 16, 2001. I’ll take a bullet before I let them suffer the pain I went through at their age. I’m hoping to give them the support and guidance I never had. I want Imani to grow up to be a strong black woman and Jayden to be anything he wants. Look at Barack Obama. For the rest of my life, I’m going to regret not being able to vote for America’s first black president. That’s a privilege that was taken away from me as a convicted felon. But J won’t have to sell drugs. I swallowed that pill for him. Now he can go ahead and possibly become the scientist that comes up with a cure for AIDS. Imani can be the next Oprah. That’s one sister who I have the utmost respect for. I wish I could take her around my way to see how kids in the Beans and elsewhere in Miami are still suffering.
It’s why I started my nonprofit organization. I spent so many years tearing down my community that I felt it was time to put something back into it. I know that’s what Hollywood would have wanted. I’m not the richest rapper, but if I could give kids some school supplies to further their education, I believed I was able to move a mountain. It was high time Pearl left the Beans, so I got her a house in the suburbs. My niece Nene was the first person from Pearl’s side of my family to go to college. I’m planning on sending my other niece Zuki after she graduates high school.
While I was preoccupied trying to uplift my community and taking care of my family, the media chose to focus on my subsequent arrests. Bad habits are hard to break. The fame didn’t change who I was. If someone tried to disrespect me, I was still going to run up side their head with a pistol. The money afforded more weed and cocaine.
Then in August 2004, more tragedy struck.
By the time I was at the height of my fame, Tater and Tronne were at the same plateau in the dope game. I can’t help but wonder if things would have been different if I had been able to convince them to jump in on this rap game. However, we were cut from the same cloth. They were happy for me, but they were their own men. With the Feds crashing down on them, Tater cracked. I could never see one of us giving up the other. I guess the cops put the press on Tater, because he gave up everything. He told on the supplier, where the dead bodies were hid, and everything else. When the Feds caught up with Tronne, he didn’t plan on going back to prison. They caught up to him on a bridge in Atlanta above the Chattahoochee River.
Tronne jumped. He missed the water and broke his neck on the rocks. The dope life had claimed another of my closest friends. I was devastated. I’m not sure if I could ever forgive Tater for turning on Tronne. Now more than ever I wanted to keep the circle around me close-knit. My older brother Chuck stepped in as my manager. He had managed to go to a Manhattan performing arts school he always dreamed about. Law school was next. But a baby in Miami brought him back home and full swing into the music game. In 2006, I decided to leave Slip-n-Slide and form my own label. I had made folks millions of dollars, but somehow my kids weren’t playing with their kids. I guess it’s easy to exploit a kid fresh out of prison with no options who is blessed with God-given lyrical skills. It was time for me to make my own money and be my own man. I went out and got a stable of artists I believed in. It means I’ve had to become a leader because they depend on me. I can’t keep one foot on a banana peel and the other on solid ground.
I’d like Ice Berg, Fella, Murk Camp, Kasino, A-Dot, Chocolate City, Chronic, Beans, Bo, and Rick to go where I’ve been and further. Hopefully my younger brother Keyon gets out of prison in time to share in this dream. He was locked up for drug trafficking the same year I signed him to my fledgling label. That’s the part of hip-hop folks don’t focus on. Hip-hop saved my life. If it wasn’t for these beats and rhymes, I would probably be staring you down with an AK-47 or be locked up or dead. All I did was give you my life in some verses. Now my crew can feed their kids with ghetto rhymes much the same. Hip-hop allows young black men to come together and create an avenue for those around us. I’ve seen brothers that graduated Harvard hit a glass ceiling in the corporate world. Imagine the chances for a brother with a rap sheet.
Sadly enough, the same lack of hope in Miami that sent me raising hell in those streets still exists. Liberty City street corners are still dotted with vacant lots and dilapidated stores. The Beans is still infested with the dope holes. But nowadays, the fiends can’t even afford to buy the dope. People are still hurting in the hood. If the powers that be don’t do something about it, crack is going to make the biggest comeback ever in Miami. Instead of blaming hip-hop for the problems in the black community, society could turn to it as a savior.
41
Tears of a Grown Man
I HAVE LESS MONEY AND WORSE CREDIT THAN THE average rap superstar. My court cases and those of my comrades bled me dry, but I’d like to see us rappers take care of the communities whose life we rap about. I’d like to hold a town hall meeting for the young brothers out on the block. I’d tell them they can be bigger and better than me. I was once where they were. I was on that corner with that work on me. I was once broke and fucked-up. Hell, at times I forgot to wash my ass out there on the corner. I wrote this book on behalf of myself and the brothers I came up with to let the young brothers know they don’t have to suffer the pain we did. Opportunities are out there for a black man. A black boy can grow up to become president in this motherfucker. He won’t have to stare down a life sentence.
Black has been locked up since 1989 and I’ve never heard him make an excuse or blame anyone for his situation. I’ve never heard him talk bad about his partner and codefendant, Shrimp, whom he’s serving life with. When we speak, he’s always amused at the new gadgets out on the market. If he ever gets out, I’ll have to teach him how to use an iPhone. In many ways I owe him my life.
I ask one thing of the rappers who choose to mislead our kids while becoming pawns for an industry with no good intentions for our community.
Go shoot yourself. Slit your wrists. Hip-hop was our escape out this hell called the projects. It’s
not okay to write rhymes that make kids believe college isn’t the place to be. We have the entire world dancing and jiving to the rhythm of our pain while AIDS and incarceration destroy our community.
Some would say Trick Daddy is a hypocrite for speaking some righteous shit. My response is, listen to the entirety of my albums. As an artist I can only paint the picture society presents. Brothers, take care of your kids. Stop leaving them for the streets to devour.
The coke life and the pain it causes is real. Those of us lucky enough to escape it live with lifelong nightmares. I’m sure the drugs I used to chase away those demons affected my lupus. Maybe the dope I sold caused someone to overdose. It may have left a child orphaned. It may have caused an addict to rob, even kill, his mother for money to get high. What if one of the bullets that left our AKs during shoot-outs killed a little girl or boy? She may have grown up to become the next Michelle Obama. That boy may have grown up to be Barack. I wish all the made-for-television, studio hard-core rappers would think about all that when they sit to write some make-believe cocaine rap.
Rappers, let’s get together and build some community centers. Some child-care centers would be dope. I’ve always wanted to open a night-care center so the single mothers could go have fun while someone watches the kids. Mama gotta have a life too.
I’d like to tell my brothers who stay hustling in the street to deal with the consequences. Understand that when you put your hands on that white girl, there’s a good chance her father will lock you in a six-by-nine-foot cage for the rest of your fucking life. Don’t take down everyone with you to avoid that alternate ending. You made that choice. You made that bed. Now lay in the motherfucker.