“Hello,” I said with a bright smile. “I am M’s mom. She is so thrilled your daughter invited her to the birthday party. She’ll be very happy to join you. Oh, my name is Sylvia.” I rattled this off to the other mother in my nearly fluent French, my hand out, ready to shake.

“Oh, very well” was the rather dry response. The rejection hit me like a cold shower. Whatever had I done to offend this woman that she wouldn’t even tell me her name? Our daughters were seven, went to school together and spent most of their afternoons at the playground with each other. The mom had a full-time job, so our paths rarely crossed. I could not for the life of me figure out what I had done wrong.

Such was my introduction to French society. This mother was an extreme example of traditional French manners, so extreme that she eventually pulled her daughter out of public school because it was just a bit too much for her. But the story stuck with me and taught me a very valuable lesson about French culture. Names here are a valuable commodity and not easily shared.

Understanding this helped me feel less ostracized from the neighborhood. When I met other moms at the park, and other parents who joined our coffee circle every morning at the café, I no longer took it as a snub if we did not exchange names. Eliminating the “Hi, my name is Sylvia” introduction put them at ease and let them know I was one of them. Eventually I’d learn their names. Or not.

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