Deciphering the Gentilics: The Evolution of the Term French
To understand what do we call people living in France, we have to look at the gentilic, which is just a fancy word for a name used for inhabitants of a place. Most of the world settles on les Français. Yet, the issue remains that France is not a monolith; it is a collection of former provinces that were forcibly stitched together by a centralized monarchy and later, a very stubborn Republic. Because of this, the term French acts as a blanket over a vibrating mess of Bretons, Basques, and Occitans. Honestly, it's unclear if the 18th-century peasant in rural Auvergne would have even recognized the word Français as applying to them, considering they likely spoke a local patois rather than the King's tongue. The thing is, the French Revolution of 1789 fundamentally changed the stakes by tying the name of the people directly to the state itself.
The Citizen vs. The Resident
Where it gets tricky is the distinction between nationalité and citoyenneté. In the United States, you are an American. In France, being un national means you hold the passport, but being un habitant simply means you occupy the space. We're far from a simple consensus here. If you move to Paris from London, you are technically a résident étranger, but in casual conversation, the nuances of your legal status often get swallowed by the overarching l'étranger (the foreigner). And yet, the French census, conducted by INSEE, prefers the term population résidente. But wait, does that include the roughly 6.8 million immigrants recorded in recent data? It does, though the public imagination often struggles to reconcile the legal definition with the cultural one.
The Legal Framework: How the Republic Defines its People
If you look at the Code Civil, the definition of what do we call people living in France becomes a matter of Jus Soli (right of the soil) and Jus Sanguinis (right of blood). A person born in France to foreign parents does not automatically become "French" at the moment of birth (unlike in the US), but they can claim it later—usually at 18—provided they have resided there for a specific duration. This creates a massive group of people who are "French" in every cultural sense—they eat the croissants, they endure the bureaucracy, they pay the impôts—but are legally étrangers until a specific birthday. I find it fascinating that we use a single word to describe such a fractured legal reality. It is a system designed for administrative neatness that ignores the messy human element of belonging. As a result: the label "French" is sometimes a prize, sometimes a default, and sometimes a shield.
The Concept of the Hexagon and the Overseas Territories
People don't think about this enough, but France isn't just that star-shaped piece of land in Europe. We have to account for the DOM-TOM (Départements d'outre-mer and Territoires d'outre-mer). What do we call people living in France when they are actually in Guadeloupe, Martinique, or Réunion? They are 100% French citizens. They vote in presidential elections. They use the Euro. Yet, if you call them "people living in France" while they are standing on a beach in the Indian Ocean, it feels geographically dissonant. They are Ultramarins. This creates a strange linguistic hierarchy where Français de souche (those of "native" stock) is a controversial and often racially charged term used to distinguish from those whose French identity comes via the Overseas Departments or recent immigration. It's a linguistic minefield where one wrong step changes everything.
Regionalism and the Death of the Local Identity
But let's look at the internal labels. Before the mid-19th century, most people didn't identify as French at all. They were Gascons or Normands. The Jules Ferry laws of the 1880s essentially beat the local languages out of school children to ensure everyone identified as "French." That changes everything when you realize that "French" is a manufactured identity. Today, you will still hear someone say "I am Ch'ti" (from the north) or "I am Marseillais" with far more pride than they say they are French. Is a person living in Strasbourg more "French" than a person living in Biarritz? Historically, the person in Strasbourg might have been German three times in the last 150 years depending on which way the border moved (1871, 1918, 1940, and 1944—dates that are etched into the Alsatian psyche). Which explains why regional gentilics like Alsacien remain so fiercely protected.
The Parisian Exception
Then there is the Parisien. In the rest of France, there is a very specific, slightly acidic way people refer to those living in the capital. You aren't just "living in France" if you are in the 75th arrondissement; you are in a different universe. To the rural agriculteur in the Creuse, the Parisian is almost a different species. This internal divide is so sharp that "French" becomes an umbrella term used mainly for the benefit of tourists and international treaties. Experts disagree on whether the centralization of Paris has saved the French identity or slowly strangled it. But one thing is certain: if you want to annoy someone from Lyon, just tell them they are exactly the same as someone from Paris because they both "live in France."
Modern Demographics: The Immigrant and the Expat
What do we call people living in France who weren't born there but have no intention of leaving? The terminology here is sharp and often unkind. You have the immigré, a term that in France carries a permanent connotation—even if you have lived in Bordeaux for forty years, the INSEE still classifies you as an immigrant because you were born foreign. Contrast this with the expat. This is a word mostly used by wealthy English speakers to avoid the "immigrant" label. (Why is a British retiree in the Dordogne an "expat" while a Moroccan worker in Saint-Denis is an "immigrant"?) It is a linguistic double standard that defines the social strata of modern France. According to data from 2023, there are roughly 5.3 million foreigners living in France, making up about 7.8% of the total population. Calling them all "French" is factually wrong, but calling them "foreigners" ignores the fact that they are the ones baking your bread and driving your Uber.
The Rise of New French Identities
The issue remains that the traditional republican model refuses to recognize ethnic differences. In the eyes of the state, there are no "Black-French" or "Arab-French" people—there are only citoyens. This colorblindness is meant to be egalitarian, but it often renders the lived experience of millions invisible. When we ask what do we call people living in France, we are bumping up against the laïcité (secularism) and universalism that form the bedrock of the country. But go to the banlieues of Paris or Marseille, and you will hear a different story. You will hear people calling themselves Beur or identifying with their parents' heritage while clutching a French ID card. As a result: the vocabulary is expanding faster than the official dictionaries can keep up with.
Common traps and nomenclature pitfalls
The Anglo-Saxon slip
Precision matters because words carry historical weight. People often assume that l'Hexagone is merely a chic synonym for the country, yet it specifically refers to the continental mainland. If you address someone from Corsica or the overseas territories as if they reside in the Hexagon, you are effectively erasing their geography. The problem is that many English speakers conflate the ethnic identity with the administrative one. Not every French national is culturally "French" in the baguette-and-beret sense. Because of the Republic’s strict adherence to universalism, the state refuses to count citizens by race or religion, which can confuse outsiders trying to find specific demographic sub-labels. But what happens when you call a Breton a Parisian? You get a very long, very stern lecture on Celtic roots. Data suggests that 72% of people living in France prioritize their regional identity alongside their national one, rather than beneath it. Let's be clear: "Frenchman" is a dated relic. Use French person or the collective the French to avoid sounding like a Victorian traveler.
Overseas identities
The issue remains that the sun never sets on the French Republic. There are over 2.7 million people residing in the DROM-COM (Overseas Departments and Regions). Are they people living in France? Absolutely. However, calling a resident of Reunion Island or Guadeloupe "French" without acknowledging their specific department often feels like a linguistic colonial hangover. In short, their identity is dual. Statistics from INSEE indicate that 85% of residents in these territories feel a "strong" or "very strong" attachment to their specific island identity. Using the term Ultramarins is the expert way to categorize this group collectively. It’s a mouthful. It’s technical. Except that it’s also the only way to be factually accurate when discussing the full breadth of the population.
The expert nuance: The "Citoyen" vs "National" divide
A legalistic labyrinth
You might think the terms are interchangeable. They aren't. A French citizen holds the right to vote, whereas a French national might simply possess the protection of the state without the full suite of political rights (though this distinction is increasingly rare in modern law). Why does this distinction still haunt legal documents? It’s a vestige of a complex administrative past. In the 2024 census, the number of foreign residents—people living in France who do not hold citizenship—reached approximately 5.3 million, which accounts for 7.8% of the total population. These individuals are residents, but are they "French"? Socially, yes; legally, no. The issue remains that the language must adapt to the 4.4 million dual citizens who navigate two worlds daily. My limit as an AI is that I cannot