By Deena BustilloPLAY Editor
So, the boys in my sophomore high school HONORS history class (no, I’m not bragging, just reinforcing the fact that these bozos were actually the smarties at my school) played a game every class period. It went something like this: The willing, semi-brainless male participants arranged themselves in some sort of order, scattered about the classroom (Joe would be after John who was after Rick, etc.). Then, as soon as we were all seated, the game began. Seems harmless enough, but it gets better.
These charming guys then went around the room saying “penis” in turn. It had to be loud enough so that people could actually hear what they were saying, but not loud enough that our teacher would catch on and send the brats to the dean. She was usually so caught up in her involved lectures about the French Revolution and guillotines that she barely noticed students blantantly sleeping in her classroom – let alone screaming about male genitalia.
The girls in the class chalked it up to immature boys being immature boys, which they were, and then giggled and rolled their eyes. But I took great offense. No, it wasn’t because I was a raging feminist and thought it was piggish and demeaning. It wasn’t because I was embarrassed for the evolution of the human species. No, it was something far more pivotal.
One day our teacher came in from talking to a student outside – allowing the boys to go buck wild with their shrill outbursts – and asked, “Why do you keep yelling Deena’s name?”
Oh. My. God. My name sounds like “penis.” I was clearly mortified. I wanted to die right then and there. I couldn’t actually reveal to the lady that, no, the dumb boys were actually playing their normal second-period game – I would be hated by half my class for life, and frankly, admitting that the teacher had made such a blunder was a territory I didn’t want to enter, even at my own expense. I just kept my mouth shut.
The thanks I got for it, though? The rest of the year – hell, the rest of the time I knew all of those morons – they called me Deenis. I was the girl who’s name actually blended into the word penis.
The worst part – not that there was a contrasting good part – was that I have an obsession with having a cute nickname. There’s no easy, adorable way to shorten Deena. Dee is too cool-sounding for me, Didi sucks (and ever watch Rugrats?) and after some slut in a hot tub called me Dino, it was just not pretty. So there I was, in my high school prime, stuck with a male appendage as a nickname. I actually have no reasonable idea why I’m writing a column about this – willingly advertising my unfortunate experiences – but I guess the first step to recovery is coming to terms with the issue. But call me Deenis again, and I will hunt. You. Down.
Medill junior Deena Bustillo is the PLAY editor. She can be reached at d-bustillo@northwestern.edu.
