From the very beginning of my time at Iowa, I knew that the Old Capital and the buildings surrounding it were called the Pentacrest. This is why I was so mystified when my mom and dad insisted on calling it the quad. One day, fed up with their improper reverence for this “quad,” I muttered words that will always come back to haunt me.
“It’s called the Pentacrest.” At the time, I did not realize what a can of worms I had opened.
“Hey Savannah, go stand at the Pantomime for a picture,” insisted my mom.
“Savannah, do you have to cross the Parallelogram to get to class?” asked my dad.
“Hey, how snowy is the Pineapple in the winter?”
“Can you sled down the side of the Polka Dot?”
“Savannah, you should study on the Penelope when it’s nice out.”
You can imagine how tiresome this has gotten. Recently, on a phone call with my dad, I tried to correct this troubling trend.
“It’s a pretty easy word, Dad. Pentacrest.”
“Pentegram?” he asked.
“Pentacrest.”
“Paradox? Pentagon? Penthouse? Peninsula? Oh no, I’ve got it. The pergola, right?”
I guess the only thing left for me to do at this point is to wait until they run out of “P” words. I wouldn’t put it past them to whip out the dictionary, though, so it looks like this is going to last a long, long while.
