I was a 21-year-old California transplant who’d been tossed into my first music video after a fateful meeting with director Hype Williams. A single mother raising my son on my own, I jumped at the chance to make $2,500 a day to dance around and look pretty next to the artist — Jay Z. He was a long-time friend of my cousin, Chuck, and after a call from him, Jay knew to keep me close, making sure I got loads of camera time. This was the beginning of my stint as a video girl, and one day Jay and I stole away for some time alone toward the end of the day.
Chauffeured away from the set, down the winding road, and closer to the shoreline, Jay and I feasted on our attraction to one another — rabidly and quickly. After just a few minutes, I lifted my head from his lap, wiped my lips, and knew we’d made a mistake. Over the next few years, I would see Jay again, as I became close with his then business partner Damon Dash. We never mentioned our Malibu melee and acted as if it never happened. My cousin Chuck would be livid.
This was pre-Yoncé, of course, but the fact is that a Becky is a Becky, and I was the Becky for many men, and they were all my salvation and my destitution. They were my reason and my rationale, my life and my death, and eventually, my fame and my infamy.