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Why Can't I Ask a Brother to Lower His Music? By Steven Sellers I played college baseball for the University of Miami; I was the starting third baseman. One of the things my manager always preached was about how important it was to be on the same wavelength with everyone of the whole team. He stressed that chemistry, defense and teamwork win ballgames just as much as good pitching and hitting. Well, it was kind of hard to have kinship with teammates that didn’t lower their music in the locker room after a game. Our clubhouse was not big compared to the majors. So it really was rude to be blasting some rapper’s foul and obscene language while I was getting dressed and trying to relax. I asked Tyrell to please lower his CD player. (You should have seen how big this thing was.) Of course, Tyrell didn’t hear me. I walked over and tapped him on his shoulder. The big guy looked at me and said “What?” with as much contempt that a person can express. I asked, “Tyrell, can you please lower your music a little bit, please?” That’s right, I said ‘please’ twice in one sentence. He looked at me with his black eyes and snickered like I was nobody. He then proceeded to turn up the volume. I starred at him for 10 seconds before he turned his coconut head and spat, “Whatcha gonna do about it?” I delivered a hard and fast uppercut right under his chin that knocked him backward. Everyone was stunned. I quickly grabbed the huge CD player and threw it on his chest, and then I started to kick him and his damn radio. The plug pulled out of the wall socket. The next thing I know is that all of the guys are holding me back. Sure enough I got kicked off the team, and my baseball career was pretty much done. And Tyrell? He got expelled for possession and selling. I wasn’t really a rich guy. In fact, I made $25,000 a year as second shift manager at Wendy’s. So I didn’t live in the best neighborhood. It was full of white trash, PR’s, and ghetto blasters. I lived in an apartment, and one Tuesday night at 11:30PM I heard thunder. The booming sound was coming from a stereo system playing deep bass- from next door. A buddy of mine once told me that it’s illegal to bang on your apartment wall to get someone to lower his or her radio. I lay in bed for another 5 minutes before I put on my clothes, left my place, and knocked on the neighbor’s door. No answer. I knocked a little harder. Nothing. After a few minutes, the song that was playing began to fade out. I took the opportunity to knock on the door a few times. The door opened. A Haitian man with no shirt and boxers stood in the doorway. “Hi, sir…could you please lower your music? I’m trying to sleep right next door” “Uh?” “Uhm…could you please lower your music?” I repeated while pointing to my ear. “OK” he replied and then he closed his door. I went back into my apartment, took off the pants and shirt I hastily put on, and went back to bed. The music was not lowered. I waited 5 more minutes, thinking that maybe he went to the bathroom or something. I knew that the proper procedure would be to call the police, but I had work tomorrow, and I really don’t like taking police off the streets just for some illegal alien blasting his music 12 o’clock at night. I got up once again, took my aluminum baseball bat, and left my place. I stood in front of the window to his bedroom and shattered his entire window with my bat. The stereo stopped. He came out of his door, so excited and shocked. But that wasn’t for long. I bashed his face in with my bat; it was a homerun swing. Blood started spurting everywhere. I cracked the back of his head as he fell to his knees. Then I kicked his ears and jaw. I knew that after he got better he would probably try and kill me. He would never let it rest, probably getting one of his 8 brothers and 15 cousins to come and get me, maybe even rape me. Funny thing is that none of the other neighbors came out of their apartments. I calmly went back into my apartment, called the police, and turned myself in. I figured that being on the run would be too much for me to handle, and since I did the crime, I should have been ready to do the time. I learned about something in prison. It’s a fundamental law in the universe- something that can be seen firsthand. It is created anytime we have an extreme thought, feeling, or commit extreme actions. It’s called karma. I was sentenced to 5-10 years upstate. Every day here since Day One, I had to deal with people like Tyrell and the Haitian taunting me, jumping me, stealing from me…and dare I say it, raping me. When all of the inmates are hanging out in the courtyard, I have to listen to their music, blasting so loud. It’s amazing how just by asking a question, “Could you please lower your radio?” set forth a series of events that landed me in hell. When I’m not getting into incidents, I do a lot of reading in the library. Seems that the library is the place where they never hang out. I read a lot about Eastern philosophies and religions, and they really seemed to click for me. It made me see the world for how it really is. For example, way back in the locker room I took Tyrell’s insult personally. I stooped down to his level of ignorance and violence. And violence only can begat more violence. Gandhi once said, “An eye for an eye makes the world blind.” He was right. I should have just walked away to sit down with my manager to express my discomfort. And if nothing could have been done, I should have just accepted that some people are rude. The consequences of attacking Tyrell were instantaneous; I was kicked off the team and any possibility of making it into the big leagues vanished. It’s so fascinating how I had the same situation presented to me with the neighbor, and so ignorant of me to do the same exact wrong thing. It’s like I had a second chance to do the right thing, but my attitude and mindset were all wrong from the Tyrell incident. I should have just called the police or maybe buy some earplugs to sleep. But I was attached to my managerial job at Wendy’s and wanted to get a full night’s rest. Even though I was on second shift, I always wanted to sleep normal hours. You see attachment also leads to suffering. Here in prison, where I live with barbarians who commit unspeakable and unimaginable acts, I have finally learned not to be attached to myself, for there is no true “self”. I once looked at my baby picture, taken right after I was born. I was 20 at the time and I thought, “That’s not me. I don’t look like that at all. I’m not 7 pounds, bald, incapable of language or memory, or without teeth.” And then I thought, “That is me. Look how I have grown. Although my mind had changed – like all things- it was still my mind. And I still have the same birthmark on my cheek.” Finally I thought, “That is me and that is not me.” And I left it as that. Little did I know that I would be practicing that philosophy here in prison years later. I can’t control what the other inmates are going to do. I can’t become attached to my body or personality; they don’t exist anymore. I feel that I am already free now that I actually see a path in life. Even if I get shancked tomorrow, I know that there really is no death. There is only the Way. I’m no victim. In fact, anyone who believes he or she is victim of society will harbor negative views and anger, that will create bad karma one way or the other. I would like to thank the Daily Skew for allowing me a forum to express my views. I apologize if my language was strong at the beginning of this story; I just used it to help paint a realistic picture of how wrong my views were. Thanks for reading, and I hope that something I said stuck with you. Bye, Steven June 15, 2002 An inmate killed Steven Sellers shortly after he wrote this. It was only until last week when we finally received his letter. |