A Crusader Swan Song, sort of

 This issue of The Crusader is one I meet with bittersweet welcome. Hereby deemed "The Father McFarland Issue," this week's paper is a respite from the not-always-interesting news that usually fills it by celebrating Father McFarland and marking the end of an era in Holy Cross' history in which he presided. Quite timely, this issue also marks the end of my time as Co-Editor-in-Chief, so Head News Editor Lindsey O'Donnell can, along with Jimmy, take The Crusader by storm next semester. I am aware that my co-leadership over this flimsy newspaper cannot (and probably shouldn't be) compared to Father McFarland's leadership over this sturdy college, but I think both of their endings address similar issues: the authoritative organization of time, the turn of the familiar into the strange, and the detachment they can inspire.

    Time, whether it appears in a natural or manmade form, defines life by beginnings and endings equally. The end of each day greets the promise of tomorrow, the exit of each leader ushers in a new one, childhood ends after having finished preparing for adulthood. "In my end is my beginning," T.S. Eliot once penned. Despite this seemingly natural progression of things, most of the time, I've found, it is easier to speak of beginnings rather than endings, which is either because of an inherent reluctance to speak of each of life's small and everyday terminations, or just because of a difficulty to imagine possible endings in life when their quality becomes distinctly familiar while amid them. When I came to Holy Cross in 2008 and started writing for The Crusader, I could not have pictured being Co-Editor-in-Chief of it by my junior year. When I did assume that position, my enthusiasm for it kept my back turned to the ending I knew would arrive quicker than I'd think it would. Through all the drama and controversy at certain times, along with the gleeful inside jokes between past and present staff, time has grown short; with one semester left of college, my time as Co-Editor, as well as my time at Holy Cross, are things I no longer can turn my back to. It is for these reasons that leaving this position, and bigger yet – this position in my young adulthood – requires rational and emotional detachment from them. It is a requirement using conscious effort to look upon all that has become familiar with a new set of eyes that peer from a different perspective.  It takes a slightly self-alienating vantage point to see this paper as a set of sixteen flimsy pieces of paper rather than the entity that occupies many of my days' hours; to see this campus as a mere tangling of brick paths rather than four years' worth of familiar travel routes; to see this newspaper as a venue for the journalistic endeavors of not only myself and my peers, but of past and future students writing for the same purpose I do. This newspaper, as well as this college, will continue to exist after my own ending here. It will subtly but continuously morph with the propulsion of passing time, with the entrance of new students, new Editors-in-Chief, new Presidents.  

   I suppose this is the reason why it is often difficult to speak of endings: their particular quality can deem them "depressing" or "dismal." But more deeply is it humbling, then, to think of these endings and to think a decentralization of oneself as possible in this setting that is meant to serve the self during one's finite time spent here. Of course Holy Cross has served me, like most others, to help me develop intellectually, socially and spiritually, but being a part of The Crusader has served me as well: it has helped me improve my writing, heighten my confidence in holding a significant responsibility, and mature my ability to  handle conflict assertively. That which I owe both of them is inexpressible to me now, but having the consciousness of this inexpressibility is a signal that my ending is not only nearing, but also appropriate. Having the ability to reflect on the time with a sigh of completion instead of being caught up in the whirlwinds of the present days is a signal that it's time to begin showing myself the door.

   My enthusiasm for this paper, quite frankly, has waned; I rush to the ending of this editorial with a bit of impatience and no desire for deliberate verbosity. Much like Father McFarland, I look forward to moving outside the gates of Holy Cross; for me, I know I have taken what I can from this experience, and am forever grateful for and indebted to it. While I can't say that The New York Times has been written in the stars for me, I can say that just as both The Crusader and Holy Cross have served me the past three and a half years, so must they serve others. I hope that you, Lindsey, and all other future Editors-in-Chief, can benefit from the position, and that you never underestimate the effect it can have on yourself and others. While The Crusader is a relatively meager newspaper, I hope you continue to challenge the campus with the content you publish, and that you meet the possible backlash with unwavering confidence. Ensure that The Crusader sustains its inspired journalism rather than any mundane college propaganda, and never let your enthusiasm for this newspaper eat the apple of jaded cynicism. Though it may exhaust you, stand above backstage politics and laugh at the power trips of others, but always open an empathic ear to anyone who brings their concerns to you. Most importantly, keep this newspaper and everything surrounding it – the Wednesday night final edits, the Friday afternoon meetings, the occasional Saturday evening party – a pleasant diversion away from everyday tedium.

   With that said, I will keep this ending brief in effort to evoke sentiment over sentimentality. I do not intend to embark on a grand exit as most Swan Songs throughout literature often foreshadow; I've never been prone to high-drama so I intend for the opposite. I'd like to detach from life at Holy Cross, from life at The Crusader, quietly and fluidly, so that I may reattach elsewhere and find experiences that I find to be equally meaningful and never as transient as that authoritative organization of time might urge them to be. Despite this clear-cut finiteness of these four years, these years are ones that I'm sure will permanently endure. The impact Holy Cross has on its community is subjective and amorphous, but it is one that, consciously or not, becomes a backdrop to approaching life after leaving the College's gates. Holy Cross will live on without all of us, as we will without it, but this "living on" is not synonymous with any kind of definitive end: it is a continuation of what has already begun. It simmers in a kettle, whistling a steady, audible note.