Fart. Boobie. Penis. Remember when these words caused you to giggle? For most of us, that time was second grade, and as immature children, it was appropriate to laugh or feel uncomfortable when you heard or saw “anatomy words.”

But in a Minnesota high school, that playground-mentality has drifted up into secondary-school classrooms, and school administrators are the whistle-blowers barring students’ free-speech rights.

After attending “The Vagina Monologues,” Winona high school seniors Carrie Rethlefsen and Emily Nixon decided to show their support for women’s rights by wearing homemade buttons at their school. The buttons displayed a simple statement: “I Y My Vagina.”

School officials, however, didn’t Y the buttons, or the “inappropriate and discomforting” message they said the pins sent. They told the women their message was vulgar and disruptive to the school and, thus, unprotected speech, and that they must leave their pins at home.

But Rethlefsen and Nixon, both exemplary students who have nary a blemish on their scholastic records, refused to de-pin, and instead started a campaign to support their controversial badge. The pair created “I Y My Vagina” shirts for women and “I Support Your Vagina” counterparts for men. So far, more than 100 students have placed T-shirt orders. Winona school officials say any student who wears one of these vulgar vagina shirts will be expelled.

The issue here isn’t about lewd or disruptive speech. It’s about comfort levels. Although students and faculty at Winona may be uncomfortable viewing “vagina” in print, it doesn’t make the first buttons any less protected by the 1st Amendment. With “I Y My Vagina,” Rethlefsen and Nixon are expressing a feminist viewpoint, and in their own words, they want to “spark discussion about violence against women and women’s rights.” This is political speech, and the law protects it.

In the United States Supreme Court case, Tinker v. Des Moines, students wore black armbands protesting the Vietnam War. Much like at Winona, school officials in Des Moines, Iowa, said the armbands were disruptive and inappropriate. But in the 1969 case, the Court decided student political speech couldn’t be restricted or punished unless school authorities could prove it "would materially and substantially interfere with the requirements of appropriate discipline in the operation of the school" or impinge other students’ rights.

The vagina buttons are not interfering with Winona school operations or impinging others’ rights. No brawls or mobs have appeared since the women donned their buttons. And the only rights impinged upon thus far are Rethlefsen and Nixon’s.

By banning the buttons, Winona High School is engaging in viewpoint discrimination. If it wants to ban one button, then it must ban them all. No more “I Y Math” buttons. Throw out the “I voted” and “Winona pride” buttons, too. To fairly eliminate one message, it will need to eliminate every message.

The crux of the problem is this: “I Y My Vagina” just makes some people uneasy. Which begs a different question: why is the scientific word for a woman’s reproductive organ taboo?

Why, in a high-school setting, is the mention of anatomical parts considered bawdy-talk? Rethlefsen and Nixon had a slew of vagina synonyms they could have used for their pins, many of them vulgar, but they chose “vagina” because of its cultural history — in connection with “The Vagina Monologues,” — and because a mature audience should accept it.

Winona principal, Nancy Wondrasch, told Rethlefsen that by wearing her button she was “giving people the wrong ideas,” and “sending an open invitation to guys.” If that’s the case, why not wear an “I Y Your Penis” button?

If that’s the perception, Winona High needs serious education. The principal needs to learn the difference between a political statement and a potty-humor come-on. And students and faculty bothered by the V-word need to know that just because you don’t like it doesn’t mean you can ban it.

Stephenson is a Tonganoxie

senior in journalism and international studies. She is a managing editor for the Kansan.