Your faith was strong, but you needed proof...

One month. It's been about one month since I moved in here. And already, there are some things I miss from home.

My old friends for example. That's one thing about friends from home as opposed to friends you meet at school - your friends from home know all about you, and accept you regardless. They know your quirks and idiosyncrasies. They can pretty much predict what you're going to say when.

But here, they don't know you. They only know what you've chosen to expose. Anything you've kept hidden will stay hidden until you release it, as they're not suspecting anything. You may live with these people, but it doesn't mean they know you.

I came into college with the mindset that I could be whoever I wanted to be. I could try to be different than I was in high school. For instance, I could try to be quieter. In high school, I talked too much. Not in class, but when among friends. I spent too much time injecting my own opinion and not enough listening.

I tried to amend that somewhat my first few weeks here. I tried to be more ears than mouth, more Mickey than Goofy. But I ended up reverting to that which I was before, talking too much and listening too little. I could be whoever I wanted to be, and I tried to be something new, but couldn't.

Disappointing. I wasn't able to make this simple change in myself given a clean slate and a whole group of people that didn't know me. And now it's too late to try and begin again. They know I talk.

I tried this, once, back in junior year of high school. I was in my Driver's Education class after school, at the time, and it seemed that the easiest way to get by in that class was to not speak unless spoken to. I wanted to take this philosophy into my classes, see how it worked.

It lasted all of a week and a half.

I was enrolled in a General Semantics course (which has really shaped the attitude I take toward English today), and the class was very discussion-oriented. I tried to sit back and watch the debates unfold, such as whether language is necessary for communication to exist. But, as my hometown friends, and just maybe my Northeastern friends have realized, I'm an opinionated person. And when I have an opinion, I typically share it. There were just some arguments I was compelled to enter, and from that point on, I spoke incessantly in that class. The teacher was somewhat pleased at my level of participation, but I found it somewhat disheartening that I couldn't succeed.

And now I've failed again. Of course, I still have secrets, and I plan on working feverishly to protect them, but it doesn't mean as much as trying not to talk.

Ironic, then, that I write such long entries to this journal.

the baffled King composing Hallelujah.

I like it here. Honestly, I do. Please try to keep that in mind while reading the next few paragraphs.

The thought has often crossed my mind as to whether I could have done better. Better in the sense of a more prestigious school, a better name to put on the back windshield of my car, a better school according to the rankings given out by US News and World Report.

I felt, going into the whole process, that I was settling. Settling for a school when I could have gotten into a higher one, settling for some qualities I liked, while giving up on others.

I legitimately considered applying to Harvard, just to see what would happen. I ended up not doing it, as the cost off applying was rather prohibitive, but now I wish I had, if only for the knowledge of what I could have done.

Northeastern was not my first choice throughout the process. I fell in love with a small, Catholic college in Worcester called Assumption College. The standards for getting into Assumption were lower than those of Northeastern, but the one aspect that sold me to NEU was the co-op. Assumption just couldn't compete with a program that gives you a resume upon graduation. And, almost as important, the course catalog selections for journalism at Assumption were very slim, while Northeastern just about has every course I would ever want to take in the field.

Assumption's median SAT score is less than 1100. Northeastern's hovers around 1250. I got a 1510 combined, out of 1600. (I have pity on the students that now have to complete an essay.)

Could I have 'done better'? I don't know. But some of my classes lead me to believe that I could, and maybe, should have.

I'm enrolled in Interactive Math. At orientation, I was given the impression that the Interactive Math class was comparable to the other entry-level math class. The difference was that Interactive Math featured group work, as opposed to a lecture-style class.

I'll be the first to admit that I don't like math. I've always been reasonably good at it, as logic prevails, but I don't like it. Some high school math experiences left me with a less-than-favorable view of the subject.

However, this class never fails to leave me feeling less intelligent than when I entered. My homework at one point this week was so far below my level that my brother could have done it in his sleep.

Most of the students are transfer students. From community colleges. I can nearly guarantee that I'm the only person in that room in the Honors Program. And it's pretty pathetic. At times, I feel as if my intelligence is insulted when I have to find the properties of a line. And people are having difficulty with it.

I've contemplated approaching the professor about my concerns. But I have to maintain a 3.4 to stay in the program, so I guess I'm just going to suck it up and use this as a way to get out my frustrations with the intellect in that class.

the minor fall, the major lift...

I might be the only one who finds it ironic that all first-year students now have to take an alcohol education course. Hell, I'm closer to being a teetotaling advocate than I am to drinking to the extent that some people close to me do. And yet, every student is subject to this online 'course.' It's supposed to take about three hours, not including the 'final exam' in a few weeks.

What an absolute waste of time. I already blow enough time as it is, watching the Red Sox games religiously and movies whenever it strikes my fancy.

In high school, becoming part of a clique is somewhat inevitable. Be it the 'cool kids', the jocks, the math nerds, or even the outcast clique, you have a group of friends with whom you spend your free time. Same table at lunch, proximal seats in class, emails, the whole nine yards.

I expected college to be somewhat different, but I've been disappointed. The people you hang out with, at least as a Kennedy Hall resident, are the people you live near. This random assortment of people has nothing in common but living on the fourth floor without an elevator. I don't share a major with anybody on my floor, and only share a class with two, and with them, only one class. Where is the networking we were promised all those times we came out to the campus to visit or become oriented? Where are all the journalism majors? Hell, where are all the Arts and Sciences students? My floor has seventeen residents, of whom at least ten must be Engineering majors.

Since nobody else will say it, here it is: college is just as cliquish as high school. Within the first week, you will meet the people with whom you will spend the next year. And like it or not, they're going to be close enough to visit you whenever they please.

Just a quick rant while I'm thinking about it:

How dare Devil Rays fans hold up signs mocking the Red Sox for not winning a World Series since 1918? This is a franchise that has been in existence for a decade and never finished anywhere but the cellar of the AL East. And the fans have the gall to mock a team that consistently places second, more often than not qualifying for the postseason? I truly hope the Rays never play better than .500 baseball. Their fans don't deserve anything. The area can't support sports anyway. Contract the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, and put Detroit back in the East.

I was pleasantly surprised the other day to find an email in my inbox commending me for using proper English in my online journal. I made an attempt to respond, but for some reason, the email was declined. If that person is reading this now, I want to apologize for not knowing who you are, and would kindly ask that you contact me so that I may know to whom I should address a thank-you.

It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth...

They say that college is a place where a student can really catch up on sleep lost. After years of having to get up far to early to make it to public school, in college, you might not have a class until noon. And yet, somehow, I remain just as tired as ever, if not more than I was. Besides for the seven or so hours that I got last night, I slept for an additional three hours before my music class, and another half an hour now, and I will still have difficulty completing my reading due to dreary eyes.

I bought some caffeine pills last week in an effort to solve my problem of drifting off during my music and math classes. I took one last Thursday, and it worked. I did not have trouble sleeping. The issue is that I did not feel truly awake, either. I was in that distinctive area between sleep and wakefulness, hovering just above the crashing point. Ironically enough, when it was time for me to turn in for the night, around two o'clock-ish, I had difficulty falling asleep, many hours after the caffeine pill seemed to have worn off.

The box claims to have the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee. If that were so, would I not have been much more alert to my teacher's describing the different words for tempo and volume?

I had an improv group rehearsal today. At the end of rehearsal we were asked how our weekends went, and I said, truthfully, that my weekends are dull, at least in comparison to these rehearsals. There is nowhere else that I've found yet where I can really relax the Maginot lines I've put up to keep from pushing new people away. As I said to my roommate via instant message this summer, I tend to come across as obnoxious if I don't make an attempt to control myself. That's what I've been trying to work on since moving in - tempering my attitude so that I don't inadvertantly alienate myself.

In case whatever audience I've maintained hasn't noticed, I don't necessarily report on what's interesting or important in my life as it is, rather, I discuss (with myself, so I guess 'discuss' isn't the right word) what I observe and the effect it's had on me.

On that note, I don't think our toilet is functioning properly.

I don't feel my situation regarding the T token is fully resolved. I did return the token to its' rightful owner, and in so doing, asked its' owner if she would accompany me for coffee after Mass yesterday. She responded by saying she had a great deal of homework to complete, and would be unable to join me.

I'm not sure exactly how to take this. Is it an out-and-out rejection, or just a delay? Is it deflecting my proposal until a later time, or is it a genuine request for a different time to be set?

While I can't say these questions have been keeping me up at night, they do weigh on my mind on occasion. So that next step, should there still be a staircase available for me to ascend, becomes the question.

I don't even like coffee. I would have gotten tea.

but you don't really care for music, do you?

Going on my third entry. Happy about that.

Just returned from Mass at St. Ann's on Gainsborough. I'm deeply moved over the occurrences. The Gospel was the parable of Lazarus and the rich man, and the text quite literally came to life. Fr. Unni spoke of the homeless, the immigrants, the mentally deficient. And after the Homily, when the majority of the congregation had meandered to the front, he invited a man, David, to open the back doors to the Church and join us at the front. This man, Hispanic, seemed to be very much down on his luck, a modern-day Lazarus.

David joined us at the front, startling Fr. Unni in the process, as David came up onto the altar behind Father. Fr. Unni spoke with him briefly during and after the "Holy, Holy, Holy". He offered this homeless, dirty man the chair of the priest. I was touched myself, but I can't speak for anybody else. This is the seat of the Man of Christ, sacred within the Church and treated as a throne, and here was Fr. Unni offering it to a vagrant.

Truly Fr. Unni is a Man of God.

It just boggles my mind that any man can have that kind of a commitment to God. It impresses me beyond anything.

Short entry. I might elaborate on some other things tonight.

that David played, and it pleased the Lord...

Day 2. Already that breaks my record for consecutive posts in a blog. How sad.

A friend told me I should put together an online journal (I will henceforth refuse to refer to this as a blog, and use the abbreviation OJ when discussing the writing I put here.) so other people would know about what goes on in my life while I'm here at college. And the thought crossed my mind: 'Who cares?' I have this linked from my Instant Messenger Profile, but I can't imagine anybody making the effort to read through the long paragraphs I put in here.

I'm not your typical online junkie. I embrace proper grammar. There's nothing I can't stand more than seeing "btw, u hav 2 get it" when I peer over someone's shoulder to see what's going on. That's not English, and it will do nothing but further degrade the quality of English, spoken and written, by the youth of this country. Even as early as a year ago, you could hear "bee-ar-bee" and "ell-oh-ell" in the lunchroom. These are not words. When I instant message somebody, I won't use proper capitalization, due to the extra keystrokes, but I never fail to attempt proper grammar and spelling.

Tangential. Not a surprise when it's my writing you're reading.

I doubt you've read this far, if you've read any of it at all, but I'm going to keep typing anyway. And maybe you'll catch a glimpse of what it's like to be in my size eleven shoes.

Today was Yom Kippur. It didn't affect me directly, as I'm Catholic, but there are two Jewish females on the floor, and they invited the entire floor to break fast with them at Bertucci's over in the Longwood Medical Area. It was a good time, twenty-seven people had a nice meal, dressing up for the first time since moving in on the third. I wouldn't even report this to you guys except for one small detail: a T token.

I hadn't any, and I chose anyway to ride the T back to Northeastern. This left me in a bit of a dilemma, as inbound trains cost money until Symphony Station on the E train. A girl from down the hall, whose name I don't feel I should release, offered me a T token. I took it, grateful, and proceeded with a few others to the T station a couple blocks away, having promised to return the favor upon arrival back at the dorm.

Well, here I am, two to three hours later, and I still have the compensatory token in my pocket. Don't get me wrong, I did get caught up for a lengthy amount of time following the Red Sox game, which the Boys in Red won, 12-5. But there is another reason to my delay in the return of the token.

I like this girl. She accompanies me to Mass on Sundays, and really seems interested in my Archdiocesal issues. And as corny as it sounds, I just enjoy listening to her. I'm not going to try to wax poetic about it.

I've gotten up to try and return the token and ask her out a couple times, but chickened out each time so far. It's like I'm back in fourth grade, trying to muster up the courage to leave a note on a desk two classrooms away. Some girls would call my hesitation and anxiety 'cute' or 'sweet', but I find it to be a nuisance more than anything.

I'm only so transparent. You know who you are, and I hope you read this, though I don't expect it, cause nobody reads these things.

I've heard there was a secret chord...

I never thought I'd be doing this. Writing a blog, seems like the lowest of the Internet junkie activities. And to make my initial post after one-thirty in the morning, just goes to show what kind of a life I live here. All my roommates are out. Two of them are drunk, staggering back to Kennedy Hall, and trying not to rearrange the features on their faces by mis-stepping on the stairs. My other roommate goes home on weekends to work. So for the next few minutes, I'm completely alone here. And I can't say I'm complaining.

Considering my propensity for starting an activity and never following through, I have no idea if I'm ever going to update this. Wouldn't be a new thing if I didn't. I've got a blog somewhere, with one entry of a few short sentences. I can't even remember where, that's how bad a 'blogger' I am.

Blogger. What a vile word. It sounds so forced, contrived, ejaculatory. I absolutely despise it. I refuse to be categorized as one. I am a writer seeking a media.

I suppose you might be wondering about the origin and explanation of the title of my online journal, A Cold and Broken Hallelujah. The words are taken from a song lyric in Leonard Cohen's singer/songwriter piece, "Hallelujah." This selection is one of my most favorite songs, and one I feel I can perform reasonably well; at least better than some of the recorded and published fools I found on iTunes. But the lyric has a double-meaning for me, as an abandoned Catholic.

You see, my home parish is St. Jeremiah in Framingham, Massachusetts. We were selected as one of eighty-two parishes (of three hundred and forty-six parishes) to close before the year 2004 is out. The criteria the Archbishop of Boston says he used in his decisions for the closing parishes does not fit our parish, nor many other vibrant, community-oriented parishes. We are a Vatican II parish, we believe in a community, a congregation coming together to celebrate Mass. We don't buy into the 'pay, pray, obey' style of Mass that was prevalent before the Second Vatican Council. And it seems that the Archbishop is closing just the good parishes, the lively and beautiful churches with pastors that genuinely love the flock they lead.

My trust in the hierarchy of this establishment is gone. I stayed with them through the sex abuse scandal, thinking surely some of the claims are for money, not for vindication. That belief became solidified when some cases were thrown out for that very reason. But before that situation had died down at all, the next major catastrophe of this Archdiocese began. And that was too much. I cannot believe that this process was carried out in a democratic way. I cannot believe that we were fairly represented at any, let alone every stage in the process. I cannot believe that the pastor of a vibrant parish has less say that the Diocesan bishop who's never seen the church firsthand. And I cannot believe that the money brought in from these 'supressions' will not be used to pay for abuse settlement claims.

My faith has not been shaken. I will still attend Mass every Sunday, pleading to God for the salvation of my parish and the others, while decrying the Archbishop for his hypocrisy and baldfaced lies. But my Hallelujah is no longer an obedient one. My Hallelujah is bitter and doubtful. My Hallelujah is spiteful and angry. My Hallelujah is distraught and desperate. My Hallelujah is cold, and broken.