Francesca. Unique, bold, foreign… depending on where you live. 

In Italy, where it derives, it’s common. It’s more like a steaming bowl of spaghetti. Long thin yellow noodles. Chunky tomato based sauce. One perfectly cooked meatball. The smell of fresh basil. Simple and traditional but forever loved. 

In America, it is a zesty pasta fresca filled with veggies. It’s what my mom always orders at Noodles. There’s sauteed carrots, vinegar, garlic, cucumbers, spinach, onions, tomatoes, parm. So many ingredients that happily coexist. Bursting with flavor and excitement. 

In Italy, Francesca’s a burnt yellow color. It’s the color of the villas- flowers hanging off the windowsills and sloped tile roofs. The ones that embrace the birds chirping in the morning and fall asleep to Dean Martin at night. It’s historic, feminine, and formal—all of which I’m not. 

In America, Francesca is neon yellow, brand new, with no tint to show its history. It’s like the crazy girl that dances on top of bars when she has a few too many drinks. Or the awkward but outgoing protagonist in every hallmark film. It’s fun, happy, and free-words that perfectly describe me.

According to the books, Francesca stands for freedom, or French. But it’s not French—so I choose freedom. Which is silly considering the lack of freedom to my name. 

I acquired my name from my mother’s favorite uncle, Francesco. He died from cancer, or maybe drugs—or both. Either way, my mom adored him. I had never really understood what she liked about him. He died before I was born. Which makes my name a walking memorial. Or maybe an exhibit to my mother’s love for me, either way, it’s a little cheesy. 

I appreciate it’s meaningfulness, but the family ties take away the freedom in it. It’s bound to the dead. I will always be tied to Francesco, as I’m legally tethered by my name. 

Where is the freedom? Where is the uniqueness? My name is just the spin off of his. The cheesy Bollywood film that aspires to be just as popular and great as the original. But it never is, nor will be. To everyone else I’m just Francesca. But to my family, to the ones that matter, I’m Francesco. At most, a low budget remake of what he was.

In America, I’m Francesca. I’m that outgoing main character with adventure waiting at the door. I’m the freer half of my name, far from most of those who remember Francesco. The clouds that form dino nugget shapes in the sky. I’m the catchy pop songs on the radio.

I’m me.