But as they looked ahead and faced returning to the United States, my mom wanted to be sure that beyond the Tongan love story, they had a future. She wasn’t going to let my dad get away, so she moved to Minnesota. They married on June 22, 1985, not long after their return.
But enough about my Tarzan and Jane parents. This is where I come in. Fast-forward seven years later, to when I arrived in the world, though my story is less exotic and a lot more chaotic.
My home town of La Crescent is nothing special. Population: 4,500. Climate: interchangeable between very hot and very cold. Two gas stations, a pizza place, a couple of shops, and a school or two. The community that neighbors mine is the city of La Crosse in Wisconsin, situated on the other side of the Mississippi River, which acts as the state border. My charming home town, which sits beneath an expanse of rolling bluffs just south of Lake Onalaska, is pretty sedate, with people apparently as friendly as the Tongans. “Minnesota nice” is a real thing. My town earned its name because way back, landowners wanted something “romantic sounding” to attract the settlers (2015 update: it didn’t work). Locals apparently saw the crescent shape that the Mississippi formed, and that’s how it got the name. Or so the story goes. Everything aside, it’s all I’ve ever known, and I loved growing up there.
My childhood home was a large, light-blue, two-story house with a big front yard to play in. I shared a bedroom with my little brother, while the others had their own. What a rip-off! We didn’t have a big TV or video game console growing up, so we spent most of our time outdoors. We lived on a big hill at the north end of town—where there wasn’t as much to do as at the south end—so we frequently rode our bikes to a nearby playground or pool—hell, even a parking lot would do! Regardless of where we went, the scenery never changed: small houses as far as the eye could see, with green yards and tons of sick trees to climb.
When I think back to those days, all I can smell is Mom’s exceptional home-cooked meals, which she seemed to spend half the day preparing. Oh, the smells that those works of art produced! I can also recall how meticulous and orderly everything was at home (it still is—MOM, PUT DOWN THE VACUUM!!). She kept the place sooooo clean and tidy that you could literally eat dinner right off the floor. No joke, you really could (and I probably did once or twice during my chubby preteen years).
While we’re on the topic of her amazing meals, let’s talk about her amazing meals. My mom was a traditional stay-at-home mother and cooked meals for her family five to seven nights a week. And boy, did I love that. She cooked everything from cheesy broccoli casserole with a bread-crumb topping to baked salmon with lemon sauce and crispy asparagus. Other family favorites were white chicken chili, spinach and walnut pasta, and every baked good you can think of. Ugh, now I’m hungry. Thanks, Mom.
While she held down the fort, my dad was off being the hero of our little town. He’s the local doctor, and nearly everyone in La Crescent is his patient; he’s truly a celebrity in his own way. Like me, he’s a gadget enthusiast, although he often doesn’t know how to operate the latest devices initially. One time, while sitting in front of his laptop with the blankest of stares on his face, he looked up and asked me, “Hey, Con. How do I copy and paste on this thing??” I nearly cried myself to sleep. Not, but really, beyond his inability to comprehend Apple products and social media, he remains one of the smartest people I know.
And I’ll say this: Dustin, Nicola, Brandon, and I are lucky to have parents who have supported us every step of the way. I could go on and on about my amazing family, but, hey, this book is about me. So back to me.
My siblings and I thrived in our innocence by living life one game of tag and one peanut butter and jelly sandwich at a time. Take me back to those days. I loved everything, from going to the local swimming pool with friends in the hot summers, to staying up late and playing flashlight tag under the stars.
I actually spent half my childhood hanging around the YMCA and its swimming pool in La Crosse, a brick building that could easily be mistaken for an old prison. (Just kidding, but at times, it appeared like that to me.) We’d all pile in the car at 6:00 a.m. and, as a small child, I’d be left to play in the YMCA supervised play area while my parents joined friends on a 10-mile run. Parenthood didn’t get in the way of their marathon training. I commend that.
When I turned nine, Mom signed me up for the La Crosse Area YMCA Swim Team. I swear she did this during my chubby phase so that I could lose a few pounds, but I took to swimming like a duck to water and I attended swim practice for the next ten years. Basically, the YMCA was my second home. If I couldn’t be found at the house, I’d be in the pool, doing lap after lap, practicing for the big future I thought I’d have as an athlete. It was where I learned to interact socially from a young age. It was in that environment, more than school, that I felt less shy.
Memories of childhood: Mom’s cooking and the YMCA. Oh yes, and summers at the family cabin on White Earth Lake in Minnesota (basically, borderline Canada). Every summer, we’d drive eight hours north to stay in an old log cabin that had been handed down through the generations. We’d fish, hike in the woods, run down gravel roads, swim in the crystal-clear lake, picnic by the water, and sit around the campfire several nights a week. They were idyllic times, filled with togetherness—and lots of mosquitoes. Those were the days when people spent more time together as a family. We had electricity in the cabin but no TV or Internet. No smartphones or iPads to get in the way of bonding time.
I look back on my childhood and everything feels homely: the house, the YMCA, the log cabin. If I’ve learned anything in retrospect, it’s that family and home are the bedrock of everything we’ve gone on to do. It’s our base camp. Our refuge. Our only place in the world where we feel completely safe and wholeheartedly ourselves. Home, and Minnesota, is the seat of many fantastic memories that I hold near and dear to my heart.
But if you really want to find out what I was like as a child, there are only two people to ask.
Letters from my Parents
OKAY, PREPARE YOURSELF. I’M ABOUT to do the unthinkable and hand the pen over to my parents. Yes, the people who created, raised, and essentially shaped me into who I am today; the people that know all my secrets and aren’t afraid to blab them to each and every one of their friends in a phone call while on their way to work or the grocery store.
I already regret letting this happen. As a child, most of us dread the thought of having our parents opening up about us to ANYONE.
“Please, anything but that! I’ll do whatever chore you want me to! Just, please, don’t talk to my friends about that one time when I was four. IT WAS YEARS AGO. LET. IT. GO.” And yet, if you are to know a little more about me, this part of the book is a necessary step. So this is what my uncensored parents thought of me as a child. The floor is yours, Mom and Dad.
Dear Connor,
As a baby, you giggled and smiled a great deal, lapping up the attention from everyone and anyone, whether we were at home or in the street. I think you liked the limelight even then. Singing and playing with you brought a smile to your face that melted my heart.
You were particularly verbal from a young age. I remember the time you said the word “stupid” . . . aged 23 months. Once, when you had learned a few phrases, and after we had put you in a time-out, you said “Settle down, Mom!”—your way of telling us that you had calmed down and were ready to be released from the time-out. Speaking your mind and expressing your thoughts came easy!
Looking back, you were always independent, determined to stand on your own two feet in the world. At 18 months, you wanted to feed yourself and walk without help. Everything was done fast, too. “Fast”is your natural speed. Be it a chore or a school project, it wasn’t necessarily important for you to complete it perfectly; not at first, anyway. But as your creative side started to shine—when you started taking art and computer classes in high school—that proved to be a turning point: you cared more about the execution of things. Everything had to be JUS
T SO.
We quickly learned that change unsettled you. I had to let you know as soon as I could if there was going to be a change in our schedule because you found it so upsetting. You preferred order and stability and could become quite moody if things didn’t go your way. But even though you tried us at times, there was always something special about you—a certain sparkle. Your charisma was magnetic. Out of our four children, you were the one our friends—and total strangers—would talk about. On those occasions when I was upset with you, I would repeat over and over to myself, “I know he is going to be something special.”
You have definitely proven that statement to be true.
Today, I see a happy and fulfilled Connor who is in charge of himself, blazing his own trail. As your mother, I also see the love you have for your family and where you came from—and that warms my heart like your smile did twenty-two years ago.
Love, Mom
Dear Connor,
Connor Joel Franta, where do I begin? When I think of you as a child, many wonderful things come to mind. I would like to take all of the credit, given the fact I gave you billions of genes twenty-two years ago. Alas, I cannot. Your mother rightly deserves credit for the other half.
But I do see similarities between you and me: we share a passion for the water, we love anything to do with videos and photography, we both like to lead by example and we were both “chubby” as children (those genes you also got from me!). Growing up, you had a strong-willed personality, from the long and arduous time-outs that your mother has mentioned, to the early morning wake-hugs for school that brought grumpy replies of “Stop it, Dad!”
That will of yours ultimately translated into a fierce work ethic too, be it at sports or certain art projects. Such a tireless energy. Propelling your drive and determination, even motivated me!
I tried turning you into a wrestler. I had this image in my head that you’d be the next Dan Gable. He won gold in the Olympic Games in Munich in ’72, and I envisioned you on that same podium. Wrestling was something I loved growing up, so I pushed you to like it, too. You never did.
Granted, you went along with my expectations for a while, trying to please me. We traveled to junior wrestling tournaments, and I felt proud that you placed fourth . . . out of four. You made the podium, and that was all that mattered! Even your sister, Nicola, tried to help you perfect your moves, teaching you how to do a single-leg take-down. That too ended in defeat with an injury. We have the video. It was painful to watch you struggle; even more painful for you to participate! I knew the Dan Gable dream was over when Nicola proved more into it than you were.
But looking back on that time, it was evident that you had a mind of your own. If you didn’t want to do something, no one could make you. Stubbornness and a feisty nature were all part and parcel of that same strong will, as your younger brother Brandon could testify. You took out many of your frustrations on him!
Angry one minute, charismatic the next, we never really knew which Connor was going to show up, but your funny, dynamic personality made you popular with classmates. You were always going to blaze a trail of your own through life; of that, we were sure. There would be no stopping you.
It doesn’t surprise me that you have built yourself into a techie, artistic, savvy, creative, brilliant YouTube sensation. You have always known your direction in life and carved out your own path, mile by mile. You will never know how proud I am of the man you have become. Not even words said face-to-face, or via text message, can do that pride justice.
Love, Dad
♦ ♦ ♦
Is it safe to come out from behind the sofa now?
It’s funny reading about how I behaved in the days before memories formed. So thanks for that input, Mom and Dad—wasn’t so bad after all.
Now, this is normally the part of a memoir when the author spends ages retracing the steps of childhood, recounting endless episodes that are supposed to shed light on the adult he or she became. But my mind doesn’t work that way. For me, childhood is a collection of snapshot memories and milestones, some of which might seem trivial to outsiders but left a lasting impression on me.
Here they are.
When I Was . . .
One: Dad taught me that life is all about being thrown into the deep end. My family was on our annual summer trip north to our cabin at White Earth Lake. With careful consideration, and after consulting a 1993 good-parenting guide, Dad decided to introduce me to the large body of water by throwing me in. Cool, Dad, real cool. He came with me obviously—and I didn’t flail or freak out. And that was the moment he knew I was a water baby.
Four: I broke my brother’s arm. It was a typical evening in the Franta household, until, that is, utter chaos unfolded. My younger brother, Brandon, was annoying the crap out of me (as much as any two-year-old could) and he pushed me to my breaking point. So I decided to push him off the chair he was standing on. He toppled, landed awkwardly, and broke his left arm. To this day, he hasn’t let me live it down.
Five: Dad showed me and my siblings his prized roses that he’d nurtured and grown to perfection, impressing on us the importance of always keeping them watered. A few days later, he scolded me when he saw me standing there, peeing on them. I think I misunderstood. Look, when you gotta go, you gotta go. Plus, the plants looked veryyyy parched.
Six: I inadvertently became a shoplifter. I walked into a local convenience store and desperately wanted a piece of candy. When my parents said no, I defied them. We were just about back at our van when Dad noticed what I had done, hauled me back to the store—as any good parent trying to set an example would—and made me return the candy with a groveling apology. All I wanted was a Tootsie Roll. Geez.
Seven: I knew what I wanted to do when I was older: I wanted to have the same job as my dad and help people. I wanted to be a doctor. I recorded that in black and white, writing down my goal as part of a homework project.
Nine: I joined a swim team. My lovely mother signed me up. Being a chubby, relatively immobile child whose physical activities included eating and sleeping, let’s just say I wasn’t happy in the slightest. Begrudgingly, I started swimming lengths against the clock. I’m still convinced it was Mom’s version of signing her son up for fat camp. Fortunately, it worked.
Ten: I accidentally killed a chipmunk. We were spending yet another summer at the family cabin, and my siblings and I were equipped with sick slingshots. Eager to practice my aim, I saw a tiny chipmunk crawling up a tree in the distance, so I took a shot—never thinking I’d get close—and hit him directly in temple. Suddenly I was Legolas from Lord of the Rings or Katniss from The Hunger Games. Cool? No. I felt horrible. I buried it on the beach and made every one of my family members attend the funeral.
Twelve: I ran away from home. My brother and I got in a fight about something so minuscule and irrelevant that I can’t remember the details, but things got really heated and I hopped on my bike and fled, vowing never to return. After pedaling two miles out of town, I got tired, a little hungry, and bored, so I went back. Life on my own was rough.
Fourteen: I landed my first job, at the local pool. I was excited to work a lengthy twenty hours a week, stacking baskets and manning the concession stand in hopes of working my way up to being a full-time lifeguard. I would live that dream the following year.
Fifteen: I received my first real kiss from a girl. It was in the hallway after school, and, afterward, I awkwardly stumbled away because my mom had pulled up in her minivan. The kiss felt weird, mainly because I didn’t really enjoy it. Hmm, I thought to myself, maybe I’ll grow to like it.
Sixteen: I had a brush with death. My sister, older brother, and I were returning home from some light Christmas shopping across the state border in Wisconsin. My sister was behind the wheel, and while on the bridge crossing the Mississippi River, we hit some black ice, spun out of control, and bounced off both sides of the concrete structure multiple times. The car was totaled, but we were lucky. My sister hates driving in
the winter to this day.
Seventeen: Mom’s faith in my athleticism paid off: I won my first state championship swimming title. It was a Friday night at the Wisconsin YMCA State Swim, and I was competing in the mile (1,650 yards). After racing neck and neck with seven other skilled competitors for just over seventeen minutes, I finished, looked up at the scoreboard, and saw the words: Connor Franta—First Place. I cried and ate a whole lot of spaghetti that night.
Levels of Friendship
OKAY, LET’S IMMERSE ourselves in a universally hated topic: school.
For me, grade school can be summed up to in two words: pleasant daze.
I never particularly enjoyed the mindless routine task that was the public education system. You’ll never hear me say, “School days are the best days of your life,” but then again, I didn’t find them distasteful either. School was school—that necessary transition between being a kid and a grown-up; that bridge we all have to walk across—or, in my case, amble across.
I could write my own school report that summed me up as a student: “Connor is easily distracted, forever daydreaming, and, when not daydreaming, never stops talking. Yet learning inexplicably comes easily to him.” Yes, I was one of those annoying kids who could pay attention 50 percent of the time, still absorb all the information, and walk away with A grades. Looking back, the best and most important part of school was developing my interests and, in turn, friendships. If you’ve seen any of my videos, you might rightfully assume that I never had trouble making friends growing up. I can be a little, um, in your face at times and pretty easy to talk to. I’m also just like incredibly likable *smiles and bats eyelashes.* Yes, I have friends and don’t just sit on my computer all day.
A Work in Progress: A Memoir Page 2
