The Evolution of My Fraudulent Surname

What’s in a name? Asking for a friend

One of the one million photos I took of my so-called name in Paris

For my entire life, I’ve taken great pride in my maiden name, d’Orsay. It’s so classically French—I’ve long been enchanted by, and felt a connection to, the Musee d’Orsay. When I traveled to Paris in my early twenties, I proudly presented my ID to the museum. Somehow, there was much less fanfare than I expected.

Nary even a free admission. Mon soir!

Nevertheless, I took pictures in front of every sign I found with my name on it—which probably became quite tiresome for my travel companion at the time. The Rue d’Orsay is quite a prominent throughway in the city, with many signs marking its path.

Joie de vivre

In my mid-twenties, I had the French phrase Joie de Vivre tattooed on my foot. No, I don’t speak French. Oddly enough, in middle and high school, I always took Spanish despite my affinity for my surname. But the tattoo was both an homage to that post-collegiate European backpacking adventure as much as to my grandfather, a king in my eyes and the bearer of the d’Orsay name.

Growing up, we were told that our ancestors were a prominent family in France. Hence the popularity of the name in the Paris. When anyone asked what my family lineage was, my answer was always the same…