A Fleur by any Other Name

Self-renovation or restoration is, to a large extent, the great American hobby.

Those of us whose ancestors were either driven out, ran out or got shipped out of other countries to the great wilderness of the Americas often covered tracks with a new moniker for a fresh start or to hide an unsavoury history or rank and a past best left behind.

In olden times… nobody left home for kicks or because they were wildly successful and well respected. Immigrants to the Americas from early days were desperados.

Name tweaking was often a first step.

Sometimes it happened intentionally, often it was a fortunate accident. Occasionally, an immigration or ship’s clerk got confused by an unfamiliar language and just wrote things down wrong. Some immigrants produced documents not their own to muddy the waters. Others made up new spellings or masked their country of origin if its behavior was less than stellar.

Changing of names

My paternal great-grandparents, anglicized their family name from Helmbrecht to Helmbreck in the face of Great War (WWI to Americans, the Great one to the French) anti German sentiment. My French ancestors were likely Quebecois settlers who drifted south to Louisiana and Mississippi with their French-like name that can’t be found here in France.

There are at least four spelling evolutions of my English family’s name, that amended sporadically over the centuries after they landed in Virginia in 1610 on the second boat of misanthropes who sailed west to land grants across the big, dangerous pond. (I gotta say, it took some “solides paires” to give away land that didn’t belong to you in the first place, a habit the English seem to have practiced routinely not only in the Americas but around the globe.)

Some of the most bizarre tales of re-invention come with fabulosity like the stories of disgraced GOP congressman, George Santos, whose made up CV was so patently false it made the Rapist in Chief’s tales of a billion-dollar real estate empire seem almost amateurish.

The most bizarre American tale of name change I know of was the story of a young woman who, not fond of the name her parents gave her, took on the names (first and last) of a character she portrayed in a high school play. When her parents attended her graduation, they were stunned when their daughter collected a diploma in the character’s name.

None of this kind of identity conversion seems odd to Americans, who change their names as casually as most of us change underpants.

Name changes unusual in France

To the French, name switching is an anathema, a disgrace, a veritable bête noire.

No, here in France you are legally and for freaking ever your “nom de naissance,” your birth name, the one your parents (and sometimes grandparents, sibling, aunts and uncles) gave to the government when you were born. In France, that name can only be changed, legally, under exceptional circumstances and by a stern French judge who’ll probably say “Impossible” the first dozen times you ask. (In France, the answer is always “Impossible” until somebody blinks and says “Peut-être.”)

Well, it used to be that way.

Historically, French law was super restrictive about name altering. Trying to pretend you weren’t an aristocrat or bourgeois by changing your name was a life-saving strategy for many French folks during the government changes, revolutions, counter-revolutions and terror reigns of the past 300 years.  Killing rich or pretentious citizens was something of a craze (kind of like collecting Stanley cups, only a lot classier ). The French even invented special equipment to do it.

The restrictions didn’t only extend to surnames (last names). France also limited given names to a small number of popular saints until the end of the 18th century. 

Until recently, in order to obtain a name change, any name change, it was necessary to prove a “legitimate interest,” such as getting rid of a ridiculous-sounding name (if Mom put “Tea Pot” on your birth record), a disreputable namesake (Hitler or Trump or Mussolini) or to avoid the extinction of a name (heaven forfend the name Le Blanc fade into obscurity). The procedure was long, expensive and uncertain. Most judges turned down such requests.

Then, in 2022 there was a slight revision: Any adult may now change their last name once in their lifetime to add to or substitute the name of the parent that was not passed down to them at birth. This means adults can cast off their father’s name in favor of their mother’s. This can be done by simply making a declaration at the town hall using a dedicated form, (you need a “dedicated form” to paint your garage here in France)  without having to justify the request.

If, on the other hand, a French citizen wants a completely different surname, the original, draconian rules remain. It won’t happen.

Women here often have a “nom d’usage” or “usage name” that they take on marriage if they like, but it’s not their legal name.

Their legal name’s now and forever their birth name.

The name issue not to be lightly dismissed

For expats and immigrants, this name issue often becomes a stumbling block to legal life in France.

Want national health insurance?
Give us your birth certificate, translated and apostilled (notarized in France) proving the person on it is the person with the passport or residence card being presented.

If the names are even minutely different — just shoot yourself now.

It can take years to provide the paper trail that lets a French functionary sleep at night and keep his breakfast down. I know a French couple who couldn’t get married because immigration officials almost a century ago added an accent mark to the man’s grandfather’s name. Really, just shoot yourself. It’ll be faster, cheaper and less trouble to get yourself a gun. In America.

The official art of translation

In most women’s cases, this will mean turning over their marriage license along with an officially translated version of the document. An official translation cannot be done by scanning the document with Google Translate. It must be done by a professional translator certified by the French government who puts their registered “tampon” (numbered seal) on the translation.

There are huge numbers of unofficial translators on the Internet and they charge half what the official ones do. But just try getting an unofficial translation past a French functionary. Good luck or as the French say, bonne courage.

For transgendered French citizens, the process is, as you’d expect, long, pricey, difficult and handled by a court. As the French often say, “C’est normal, c’est  La France… In this case, you have to prove your trans status by offering up medical evidence, witnesses and court appearances. Again, bonne chance and bon courage.

Documentation is a serious business

All this goes to show French wanna-be expats that French life isn’t all strolling through the Orsay, eating croissants, and dodging dog doo on the sidewalk.

There is proving who you are…

Over and over and over again…

Most of us who make the move here keep all the documents that confirm our identity in see-thru plastic pocket folders in files that we carry with us to meetings with the Préfecture de Police, OFFI (Office Français de l’Immigration et de l’Intégration) and Assurance Maladie (Health Insurance).

Because in France you can be somebody. You just can’t be somebody else.