Banlieusard

I voluntarily use some of the suburb’s clichés, I play with some truths and I transform some other ones. I laugh at myself and I claim my pop part as much as some others would present their curriculum vitae.

I’m not Parisian, I’m a “banlieusard” and I wear that label like nobles have a “particule” (the “de” before the last name of the nobles). I’m a true product of the suburbs. I was born on an exotic land at the Paris border, just beyond the highway belt. My route is called RER A, bus n°272, or n°9, found between country and concrete blocks. Change of scene guaranteed.

I come from a country where diversity is queen, like a Saturday afternoon in Châtelet - bling bling and color, every type of color.
Nothing sad in the suburbs, ghettos bear the names of flowers, and on Saturday nights, we burn cars, and call it a block party. Observing the suburbs also means being sensitive to the broken glass of bus shelters that strew the asphalt like thousands of little diamonds, while barbed wire protecting the postal services warehouse changes into hundreds of stars as they twinkle from the glare of the streetlights.

Undeniably, the suburbs are poetry: “fuck”, “nik” (fuck), “tamer” (yo momma) are tagged on the walls or on the bus benches. Regarding the fantasy, just look at the styles. The new generation mix English pleb with French thug styles - David Beckham haircut look-alike, Italian branded jeans and vintage sneakers. Style is also on the older ones’ arms. Old school tattoos directly made with a needle and Indian ink.

I come from a place where cats chill in halls, hold the project’s walls. Decoration workgroups get organized in the stairwell - the lighter’s flame helps to express with rhymes on the ceilings, or to customize containers in the trash room.

My city stimulates dreams - a three star flowery city, and the project aside is called Les Indes (The Indies), but not really a postal card. No thousand and one night’s palace or Maharajahs here. A wooden horse’s merry-go-round just settled not really far from the old farm, close to the rail track. But for an ultimate rodeo, a paving stone through a car window and to know how to start it without the keys would be enough.

My building is my pride, I’m a real supporter - my concrete is my life and even if my links with it are double-edged, I love it, I claim it, I protect it and I’m ready to fight for its honor. My tower is also a Nike Town, no cash to take the bus, you have to be impeccably dressed. Always dressed like a “gravure de mode”. Sportswear on every floor, logos and swooshes. The big shopping plaza sells cheap dreams. Walking around there don’t cost a buck, and it gives you the illusion of escaping the daily grind. The ultimate sight, just observe what you crave the most. A dream that don’t ruin you. And also, there are the allotment gardens at the bottom of the buildings that allow you to spend bucolic and sunny long Sundays just like in the countryside. Nothing sad in the suburbs, maybe just a load of clichés that it is stuck with, and also a feeling of neglect from those who are living on the other side of the highway belt.