From Falls to Troy and Back: The Quirky Name Journey of Fall River, Massachusetts

Nestled along the Taunton River in southeastern Massachusetts, the city now known as Fall River has a history as turbulent as its famous waterfalls—complete with a brief identity crisis that saw it rechristened Troy before snapping back to its watery roots.

The story begins in the late 18th century, when European settlers, inspired by the Algonquian word “Quequechan” meaning “falling water,” began referring to the area for its cascading Quequechan River that powered early mills. 

By 1803, as the population boomed with seafarers and tradesmen pushing for independence from neighboring Freetown, the town was officially incorporated as “Fallriver”—all one word, a nod to that vital stream slicing through the landscape. But not everyone was splashing with joy over the moniker.

Residents farther from the falls grumbled, and just a year later, on June 1, 1804, the town reinvented itself as “Troy.” The inspiration? A local’s memorable visit to the bustling upstate New York city of the same name, which had left an indelible mark during a trade trip. 

For three decades, Troy it was—evoking classical grandeur amid the grind of emerging textile mills—until practicality won out. By the 1830s, mail mix-ups were rampant; letters meant for Massachusetts kept landing in New York’s Troy or other similarly named spots across the young nation. Compounding the chaos, the village hub where most commerce hummed along was still casually called Fall River by locals, making the official name feel like an ill-fitting coat.

On February 12, 1834, sanity prevailed: the town reclaimed its hydraulic heritage, splitting the name into the more poetic “Fall River.” This reversion wasn’t just bureaucratic housekeeping; it celebrated the falls that would soon fuel Fall River’s rise as a textile titan, earning it the nickname “Spindle City.”

Today, as visitors stroll the boardwalk by those same thundering waters, the Troy tale serves as a cheeky footnote in a legacy of reinvention—proof that even rivers, and the towns they name, sometimes need to course-correct to find their true flow.