my name

My grandfather’s name was Francisco. He died before I met him. In Iberian name giving tradition, you often name your child after one of your parents. For some reason, my older brother didn’t get this treatment, hence his name, David. I, however, got a name that nobody remembers, nobody pronounces correctly, and few, if any at all, learn to spell.

Francisco, the French guy. Teachers always struggled with my name. Francesco, Fernando, Fabrizio, Franco, Pablo (yes, Pablo) I’ve heard it all. Nothing phases me at this point, I already hate my name so much I couldn’t care less. For the first fourteen years of my life, everyone called me Franz, which is, surprisingly, the only name that is  worse than the one I have. I hated that name, I hated myself, and not much has changed.

My last name, at least, was rather unique, exotic, Spanish sounding. It gave me a sense of difference (from the other Portuguese, that is). But still, discovering that the only famous person you share your family name with was a genocidal conquistador, well, that’s a conflicting source of pride. What ARE family names, anyway?

My brother David had another friend, also David, growing up. For that reason, the other David remained David, and my brother was nicknamed “Corti”, a diminutive for our family name, cortes, with the suffix -i, as is often added in Wallis German. He was Corti, I was Franz. This only changed when I started high school in 2011, following in my brother’s footsteps. I soon became “little Corti”, or “Corti Junior”, only to fully take over the name “Corti” when my brother dropped out. I stepped into his shoes, no longer a Franz, but a representative of our entire nuclear family of four. I had a reputation to tarnish, and a name to defend.

When I graduated high school, I was Corti, and I had become quite popular at the time. I panicked at the thought of having to start all over again in college, and make myself a new name again. In 2017, when I started university in Luzern, a kind young man by the name of Laurent kept calling me Franky. I know he did it because he genuinely did not know how to pronounce my name. But over time, Franky, then Frank, caught on like wildfire. No more misspellings, no more comparisons to brothers, no more fucking Franz. I was Frank, like the Swiss money, the Frankenstein monster, an apple not too far from the Victor tree (my dad’s name). To be frank is to be honest. But Frank isn’t me. It’s a persona I created to convince myself I exist. And now, I struggle with introductions: do I go straight for Frank? Or introduce myself as Francisco first? Is it confusing? Do they care? Surely they don’t.

Everyone has a name to bear. I just happen to really, really hate mine.

Depending on how you call me (Franz, Corti, Frank) I know exactly how well you know me (or Chico, for my Portuguese family) and for how long we’ve been friends. I wonder if I’ll change again.