I have wanted to be French since I was 16 and found French Elle magazine in the school library, with its adolescent catnip combination of lipstick, serious books and films featuring Daniel Auteuil brooding alluringly. The celebrity “my day” feature provided me with highly specific visions of Frenchness to aspire to: one day, I, too, would rise at noon for an espresso and a marron glacé, dress in Chanel and work on my creative projects, only breaking to eat oysters and smoke on a cafe terrace with one or more of my lovers. Thirty-two years later, approaching five years back living in England, fatally unchic, addicted to tea, vegetarian stodge and lowbrow television, I am finally French.
It feels unfair, like cheating. Married to a Frenchman, with the resources to pay for the translations, French test and trips from York down to London, the main obstacles I faced were Covid-related cancellations and my own administrative incompetence. But for most applicants, citizenship is – deliberately – arduous, an impenetrable, obstacle-strewn maze. It’s not me saying that, it’s the French Defender of Rights (an independent authority that “ensures respect for rights and freedoms”). Its 2022 report describes the process as “full of pitfalls”, with refugees, elderly people and those without a stable address (inevitably poorer people) left behind. Not just them: my sister, who has worked in a refuge for vulnerable people in Paris for years, had her application rejected on a technicality. She’s reapplying, but pessimistic. The situation for would-be citizens is much worse here in the UK (and the mere existence of a “defender of rights” holding the authorities to account is refreshing), but the égalité bit of the French national motto feels strained.
