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It’s where the heart is, and be it ever so humble, there’s no place like it. It stretches before us as the reward for months of hard work.
BROCKLESBY
THE SUITE LIFE
Friday, 14 September 2001
Friday, 21 September 2001
Friday, 28 September 2001
Friday, 5 October 2001
Friday, 19 October 2001
Friday, 26 October 2001
Friday, 2 November 2001
Friday, 7 December 2001
Friday, 25 January 2002
Friday, 1 March 2002
Friday, 12 April 2002
Friday, 19 April 2002
Friday, 26 April 2002
‘You’ve missed the point entirely. It’s not my house that I pine for. It’s my home!’
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COMMENTS ON THE PASSING PARADE
Where the Heart Is
By Michael J. Ballway
CRUSADER FEATURES COLUMNIST
A
s we pack up our bags and take our semester exams, there seems to be one overriding thought on everybody's mind. No matter how much that P-Chem final may stress you, no matter how heavily that English paper weighs upon your mind, no matter how often you, gentle reader, are driven to the point of madness by the demands of your professors, you share in common with your classmates one image, one concept, one underlying theme that intrudes upon your thoughts and dreams whether you're trying to concentrate on Present Value, Calorimetry, Keats, or the Hapsburgs: home. It's where the heart is, and be it ever so humble, there's no place like it. It stretches before us as the reward for months of hard work, beckoning us with the familiar and the comfortable, the acquaintances of years past and the family that will always be there for us. All across the college community, from Mulledy to Autumn Chase, we hold it up as the ideal to which we all aspire to return, soon. Nowhere was this nostalgia for home more apparent to your faithful correspondent than the recent Christmas Dinner of Chicken Cordon "Bleu" and Prime Rib. It was like old times at home: a hearty meat dinner, cookies and hot chocolate for dessert, green trays etched with messages such as "John Smith Loves Sheep," et cetera. So strong was the feeling of homesickness that the ever-present mealtime companion, Joey Brocklesby '03, broke his monthlong retreat from unsolicited comments. "What a lousy deal this is," he suddenly remarked. "I mean, to taunt you with the glories of home and then kick you back out again, and for what -- for a few measly weeks to torture you until you're able to get back home again!" Far from celebrating the landing at Plymouth, Joey seemed to be taking a fairly dim view of Thanksgiving break. But the kid had a point: what student doesn't return from home in late November, dreading the exams and papers ahead, and wishing for just one more night with the big-screen TV in the rec room, or one more meal of mom's cooking, or one more ride around town with the old gang? What student doesn't treasure that short, late-November snapshot of the old stomping grounds when the stress of early December takes its toll? We launched into a loud discussion over the relative merits of Thanksgiving break, and whether the school had the moral right to taunt us in this fashion. If the Church is going to take a stand against infringements upon human dignity, is it too much to ask that we, students at a college embracing a Catholic, Jesuit identity, be spared this yearly episode of "nyah, nyah, here's the home that you'll be missing while you're cramming for the Calculus test." At this point, Joey, overcome with emotion by the overwhelming opinions of his fellow sufferers, broke in tearfully. "You're all wrong," he said as drops cascaded down his cheek. "You've missed the point entirely. It's not my house that I pine for. It's my HOME! "They're taunting us," he said, "with this brief respite of college life between the purgatories of Thanksgiving and Christmas. I don't want to go back to Vermont for the holidays, and wait until mid-January to return home. I want to stay home. The home of Linden Lane and Easy Street. The home of Carlin and Loyola and Hanselman and Wheeler. The home of $5 equivalency and Chicken Footballs. The home of RADD and HRAs. The home of me, my friends, my professors, and my eternal struggle against school alcohol policy. This is comfort! This is family! This is home!" We were dumbstruck by Joey's sudden profession of love for the institution that has (in this year alone) destroyed his beloved V-Stairs, ruined his favorite 10 p.m. Mass, his favorite parking space, and his will to leave the common room couch. How can you seriously consider this gated hillside to be your true home, we asked him. Surrounded on all sides by drunken college students! Stuck in the unfashionable southern end of the unfashionable city of Worcester! Banned from possessing such simple life necessities as candles, microwaves, and large, metal beer kegs! Is this any way to live? Can this truly be a home? "Why, sure," he responded. "I've been here for three years, and this is where all of my friends are. I have my freedom and my independence here. I've figured out which showers on my hall don't work and which times are busiest at Kimball. This is where I live. They say a man's home is his castle -- well, this is where I feel like a king." This article appeared in the 7 December 2001 edition of The Crusader, on pages 11 (front page of Features section) and 12. Strangely, the inside headline was "Holy Cross Happy to Head Home for the Holidays." |