What's in a name?

My last name is also a first name, but that’s okay, it’s not really my name anyway. Legally, yes — emotionally, no. As I understand it, the name Franta comes from Central Europe. It’s a common first and last name in the Czech Republic and Romania. For the most part, it’s an uncommon name in the United States, unless you’re in Minnesota or Nebraska, where many Czechoslovakian émigrés settled years ago.

Franta is my husband’s paternal surname. It’s a pet form of FRANTIŠEK, which is Czech for Franciscus and translates further as Francis, Frank, or Frenchman. It’s a distinguished name. In Prague, you’ll find the Hotel Franta, and all sorts of businesses named Franta something or other. There are quite a few renowned Frantas…of the first and last name. There is Franta Belsky the sculptor, and Roman Franta the painter, and Greg Franta, an award-winning pioneer of environmentally sustainable architecture, which has played a major role in the development of many successful “green” buildings throughout the world. It seems that my husband is in good company. He also wears his name well.

When someone asks my husband the origin of his name, he says that it’s Bohemian. I always laugh, because he’s referring to Bohemian as in a location — Bohemia, the western part of the Czech Republic. I see the look of surprise on the faces of those who ask him this question, and it’s obvious that his response invokes visions of barefoot gypsies dancing, painting and reciting poetry in the moonlight. Either way, Franta suits my husband, especially as he never wears shoes unless it’s absolutely required. It’s a bust on the poetry and dancing though, although the thought is amusing. My husband’s name is his name, his ancestry, and to some extent, his identity. It is not, however, my ancestry or identity.

Here in the United States, the majority of the Frantas remain in Minnesota or Nebraska. In recent years, more have migrated west to California, and states beyond the Mississippi. How do I know this? My husband and I (and his ex-wife) are no longer the only Frantas in the phone book. Because of its uniqueness, and partly because I’m soft-spoken, no one ever understands me when I say Franta, especially on the phone. I’m accustomed to spelling it out automatically, as in “F” as in Frank, “R” as in Robert, “A” as in apple, “N” as in Nancy, “T” as in Tom and “A” as in apple. On a regular basis, after spelling it out in such detail, I still get mail addressed to Teri Frant, Teri Fanta, Teri Frana, Teri Frank, and my personal favorite, Mr. Kerry Franka. Prior to marrying my husband, all I had to say was “Gray” with an “A.”

I’ve been told on numerous occasions that my maiden name, Gray, is insipid and boring. Years ago, when I incorporated my agency, I bypassed Gray and went with Franta. Not because I think Gray with an “A” is boring. I beg to differ. I’ve heard of Teri Gray the porn star, and keeping with the body theme, there’s “Gray’s Anatomy.” No, not the popular Television drama — that’s “Grey’s Anatomy,” with an “E.” The title is a clever take-off on Henry Gray’s Anatomy of the Human Body, written in 1918. Wait a minute; I think the porn star is “Grey” with an “E.” Darn. Oh well, I went with Franta because I was newly married and after finding out that my stepsons and husband would be crushed if I didn’t legally take on their last name, I acquiesced — with one condition. I took my maiden name as my middle name (no hyphen, please). I knew that “Franta” needed to become my professional identity to appease the home front. Personally, I didn’t mind. It was a nice gift of faith to my husband, especially since I worked in a male-dominated industry, and everyone knew that Franta was my “married” name.

As several years went by, I finally grew accustomed to my new last name. Eventually, I stopped signing everything with “Gray” in the middle, and opted for the easier “Teri Franta.” Somewhere along the road, I even stopped thinking of myself as “Teri Gray.” However, I did not, and still do not, go by Mrs. Franta. I’ve always felt that this name belonged to my husband’s mother and his ex-wife. To this day, kids that grew up with my stepsons, and who are now in their 20s, call us Teri and Mr. Franta. That’s fine with me…just a simple Teri will do. Or, will it?

Recently, my husband and I attended a delightful, almost surreal, rooftop party in downtown Laguna Beach. The weather had cooled from the unbearable heat of the day, and the evening was breezy, with an odd assortment of tropical storm clouds hovering above. We were six stories high and overlooking main beach, which was crowded with people trying to escape the much higher temperatures inland. Frank Sinatra and an assortment of Supper Club songs were playing on the rooftop stereo and the cadence of beach bongos and street musicians down below drifted up to complete an ambiance that one might think only existed in the movies. We dined alfresco on delicious food, while enjoying an assortment of great wines. We were further entertained by nature’s fireworks — a lightening storm off Santa Catalina Island that mingled with vibrant blues, pinks and purples that streaked the sky as the sun slowly dipped beyond the horizon. The electrical storm continued into the evening and the moon rose to the occasion just as Dean Martin began crooning “That’s Amoré.” As I sat there looking around at my dinner companions, the word “eclectic” came to mind. Then I thought of the word anachronistic...and smiled at the fit. Yes, I felt as if I were attending a party of a much earlier time and place. It was a true dinner party from back in the day.

Just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any better, I met a wonderful woman in her eighties. She looked twenty years younger and carried herself with the sophistication of a woman who has lived a full and interesting life. As we chatted over dessert and coffee, she told me that she was a forensic handwriting analyst and that she had worked in the legal profession longer than I had been alive. As she was sharing many interesting stories related to her profession, I was trying to figure out how to ask politely if she would analyze my handwriting. Her daughter, the birthday honoree of this enchanting soiree, saw us chatting and came over to join our conversation. It seems that this friend could read my mind — I guess it runs in her family. She asked her mother to analyze my writing, because she and my other friends wanted to know what makes me tick. Her mother laughed and then agreed, but said we needed a quiet place to concentrate. She sent me off to write the date and then three paragraphs on any subject I chose on a clean piece of paper. She cautioned me that the subject matter was irrelevant, she wouldn’t be reading the words, and she reminded me three times to sign my name at the bottom of the page.

Easier said than done. After scrounging around for a suitable piece of paper, a pen that actually worked, and then something to write on, I had to find a quiet place to write. Both bathrooms were occupado, so I opted for a small corner settee hidden from view. As I started to write, I realized that I rarely hand-write anything anymore, other than my signature. What came out was an odd combination of handwriting/printing. Finally, I completed the task and started to sign my name. I signed “Teri” straight away. Then I hesitated and finally wrote “Gray” and then “Franta.” A few minutes later, my charming little forensic expert came and found me.

There we were, huddled in our little corner as Fly me to the Moon played in the distance. She took the paper from my hand and looked it over for quite a while. Then she started telling me all about me…and she was spot on. I thought it was entertaining and interesting. She even told me I was pragmatic; a word I reserve for myself and seldom share with others. She talked about my loyalty as a friend, my consistency, the importance of my sexuality...and then she really got me. She looked down at my signature once more and told me that my name is very important to me. As I started to shake my head and say that Franta was my husband’s name, she put her finger to my lips and stopped me. She said that my name is intrinsically tied to my identity — somewhere on my journeys I had forgotten, or became confused about, who I am and where I came from — and this bothers me. She was right. I hadn’t signed my name as “Teri Gray Franta” in years, but for some reason I did on that little scrap of paper. I’m sure she couldn’t decipher my name, as my signature is really just a scrawl. Nevertheless, she knew of my internal conflict. I wonder if my hesitation gave me away.

As my husband came looking for me, I took the piece of paper and put it in my pocket. I thanked her and told her that she was amazing, and I meant it. The birthday girl came by and asked if her mother had me figured out yet. I responded yes, but that it was for her mother to know and for everyone else to keep guessing! I wasn’t ready to share this revelation — the fact that I had lost track of my identity and my history. I didn’t doubt the truth of the statement. I knew she was right. I see now that I knew this was true long before I arrived on that rooftop. All the signs were apparent; I just hadn’t acknowledged them yet.

I’ve had a few weeks to put my name game dilemma into perspective. Does it mean that I need to change my name? No, I like my married name and the symbolic nature as it relates to my husband and his family. Nor will I always add the “Gray” with an “A.” So what’s the big deal then — what’s in a name? Nothing. A name is just a name. My history and identity are mine regardless of what I call myself...or what others call me. I don’t need to change my name. I just need to remember that I’m a “Gray” with an “A” more often, and acknowledge that Franta is a part of my history too, albeit my more recent history. Most importantly, I need to acknowledge that Franta is a part of my future. I need to own who I am and remember that my name is just my name, even if it involves spelling it out repeatedly and receiving mail addressed to Mr. Kerry Franka. No more hesitation. Next time someone calls me Mrs. Franta, I’ll not only answer, I’ll try my best not to cringe. That’s my her-story, and I’m sticking to it!

Postscript: Now that I think of it, I like to dance, paint and recite poetry barefoot in the moonlight…and up on the rooftop. Maybe my Scottish and English ancestors mixed it up with some of those Bohemian gypsies back in the day...or at least I’d like to think so!

Dedicated to Victoria...a woman of extraordinary talent, grace, wisdom and beauty.

© 2006 Teresa G. Franta