In my family, I stand out like a sore thumb. Everyone else has that strikingly maroon passport. Everyone else can leave on a jet plane, all the way to Europe, and not know when they’ll be back again. Why? Well, they have Italian passports. Those of you that have read Il Bel Centro: A Year in the Beautiful Center will remember that when Keith applied for his Italian citizenship while we were living in Spello, he asked if I wanted him to put my name on the application. And I literally answered, “Nah.” More on this in my post on Keith and the kids getting their Italian passports.

So really, one could say this is all my fault. I prefer to consider it a cosmic injustice.

At this point, I could apply for that Italian citizenship by marriage, but now the wait is four years and includes a language test. I don’t think my dedicated reading of Pride and Prejudice in Italian is going to be enough. If we want to live in Italy, I don’t need the elusive passport. I mean, I can request a permesso di sogiorno from the community we live in, via Keith’s citizenship. That would be easy. But we leave in six months for our our year around the world journey, for which I’ll require a passport of my own.

Why? Well, the rules are complicated, but let me, as Inigo Montoya says, “just sum up”. Without an EU passport, I can only be in Europe for 3 months of our trip. Or at least most of Europe. The UK doesn’t figure into that sum. Nor do the Balkans. Both of which have their own rules, not being part of what’s called “the Schengen Zone” (click here for a detailed list of countries and rules regarding traveling within the zone).

Since Keith and the kids have their Italian citizenship, they can saunter about, footloose and fancy free as long as they’d like. But not really, since they can’t leave me behind (right? RIGHT??). So I need a way to not hold everyone back. The answer lies with my French citizenship.

And if I’m honest, I’ve been wanting to get my French citizenship for years. I started the process before we left for Italy, but it took so long to get my Panamanian birth certificate, I simply lost steam.

So after Keith and the kids got their Italian passports in January of 2019 and we realized getting mine by marriage would not be feasible, I decided this was just the push I needed to follow through with my plan, and I started accumulating documents to submit an application for French citizenship.

France, like Italy, grants citizenship to children of citizens. So, just as Keith got his citizenship through his bisnonno (great-grandfather), I’d be getting mine through my mother, who was born in Paris to parents who were born in France, going back for generations. A much more direct route, so one would think a lot easier to manage, but like in most things bureaucratic, one would be wrong.

It took months to gather all the requisite birth and marriage certificates, get the American ones translated, get them apostilled (a fancy official stamp required for international documents). I finally submitted my application in August. I had to go to the one post office in Charlottesville that offers priority mail to France.

I let my fingers linger over the envelope, before reluctantly handing it over to the very patient postal employee.

I felt bare.

And I couldn’t figure out why. My grandmother’s voice whispered just beyond me. The swish of her scarf. The feel of her hands.

A spotlight suddenly lit a previously darkened corner of my heart. I wanted this for me. But I wanted this for her, too. I fought back tears of memories, a sense of vulnerability. Sending that envelope had released a long-held desire, that for too long I told myself didn’t really matter. But it does. Not just for the right to travel freely. But because it connects me to a people. There are a host of stories about my family, none of which I can go into here (though I have decided to sneak them into my spin-off series). But they vibrate within me.

In any case, I figured it would take at least six months before I heard anything. Yes, I wanted the citizenship before our leave-taking, but I understood that to be the longest of long shots. Meanwhile, we started thinking about how to shorten the Europe part of our trip, which previously included Lithuania, Amsterdam, Belgium, Spain, Spello, and the Italian Alps. Could we really remove Spello from our itinerary? We wanted to be a month in most places, but maybe if we shortened Amsterdam to two weeks…

Before it could even occur to me to start stalking my mailbox, I got a letter from the Tribunal (sounds like some Hunger Games thing, right? Nah, just garden variety European bureaucracy) saying they needed more information. Information like my father’s birth certificate and the justification for why I should get granted French citizenship.

Both head scratchers. After all, if my mom is French, why is my dad’s birthplace relevant? And isn’t my application my “justification”? I emailed random French consulates and asked people who live in France and got essentially this answer: “You idiot. You’ve been going about this like an American. It’s time to stop acting entitled and start getting beseeching. Explain why you deserve French citizenship. Make it moving. And French people have a family book that really will need to be filled out, so of course every member of your family is relevant.”

Merde.

It took some time, but I gathered even more documents and sent in all the random bits of information they asked for, along with a beseeching letter my friend Sandy translated for me (she helpfully threw in a few bits of French grace, which even my thoughtful letter had neglected to include). Going all in, I also threw in a copy of my grandmother’s membership card to the mushroom society (yes, my grandmother was a card-carrying mushroom hunter) and a photo of my grandmother, my mom, and me. I also included a notarized letter (remembering how Italians, anyway, love anything stamped) from my mom declaring that she didn’t become an American citizen until 1991, and never renounced her French citizenship. Which therefore means she was French at the time of my birth. I felt a bit embarrassed that it hadn’t occurred to me to include this before. Of course this would be important information. Getting off my high horse made me feel less American. Which I count as a good thing.

A page from my family book, sent to me from my aunt in Nice. Really throwing any information I can at the application this time.

I waved au revoir to my revamped application and sent it off in October. In December, I got a letter in the mail.

A thin letter.

Is this like college?

With trembling hands, I tore open the envelope. My eyes shot all over, looking for something, anything, to give me a clue. Finally I realized that my shaky ability to order steak frites in Canada didn’t extend to understanding this bureaucratic French. I typed the letter into Google Translate. In summary, the letter says that the Tribunal has delivered the decision to the consulate, and I need to make an appointment by email, and bring an ID. If I don’t do so by February 28th, the decision will be kicked back to the Tribunal.

I emailed the consulate to set the appointment and asked if I’d be receiving my Certificate of French Nationality (the document that proves I’m French, and what I’ll need to apply for a passport). I quickly heard back with a possible date, but crickets in response to the second question. I confirmed that date and asked again if I’d be getting my CNF. And threw in an extra question about if I present myself to the address listed under the consulate worker’s name.

More crickets.

So…am I getting it?

Beats me.

Though, there are some clues my relentlessly American brain can’t help but notice.

1) Why would they ask me to drive 2 hours to collect a denial? Well…why not? My French-ified brain tells me that my convenience isn’t really their concern.

2) It doesn’t make sense that they would kick back a denial to the Tribunal for review. That part only works in the context of an acceptance. Right? Or is this more American entitlement?

3) The first time I heard from the Tribunal, the letter was addressed to Lisa Michelle Damiani, the name I wrote on my application. This time, the letter was addressed to Lisa Hullin. My birth first name and my mother’s maiden name. As if I’d been put into a system. In a land where bureaucracy is everything, this feels important.

4) I can see them asking for additional proof, drawing out this process by asking for things that are nigh impossible. For instance, my Panamanian birth certificate is many years old (rather than the 3 month they specify), which I justified by saying that it is not possible to get a birth certificate issued by Panama and then send it for that fancy apostille and get it back within the three month window—which is true, it took me a year last time, and when I recently asked the Panamanian consulate about current the process they totally ignored me. They said I had to order it through them and it could take a year and then when I asked a follow-up question, they stopped responding. So, I literally can’t order it. France could certainly send me another letter saying, too bad, this one is too old, tell us when you get it. But can France deny me when I literally do meet the listed criteria? Well…yes. Possibly.

To my relentlessly optimistic American brain, it seems the odds are ever in my favor (please sweet divine, let the Hunger Games references end here). BUT. Is there more? Is there a test I must pass? Do I need to look stylish? Will they reject me for not knowing French? But it’s not up to the consulate, as far as I know. It’s up to the Tribunal. That decision is made. I just don’t know it yet.

My friend Sophia who is accompanying me guesses that the final exam is differentiating between a grocery store and a bakery croissant. I sure hope it’s that easy.

One way or another, that decision is waiting.

It’s strange.

I’ll find out if I’m French in a matter of days.