There's an amazing website called Femsplain that has monthly themes for female-identifying writers to contribute pieces for. This month's theme was "filters," but I completely missed the deadline due to the holidays and moving into a new apartment. I really wanted to submit a piece, because it fit perfectly with something that's been in my mind the past couple of weeks. Then I remembered I had my own blog.
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The first time I heard the now-iconic “Bye, Felicia” phrase was on Twitter on October 4, 2012, from a hip gay guy I semi-knew from University of Texas’ Theatre and Dance department. (We now share an apartment with his boyfriend in New York City.)
My initial reaction to his virtual shade was hurt and confusion. How did my name -- a name that I could NEVER find on touristy keychains or mugs -- suddenly become associated with an 11-character hashtag insult?
My confusion continued as the “Bye, Felicia” retort became rampant. More friends using it on Twitter. More people I didn’t know using it on Twitter. A CHILI’S BARTENDER AS SHE HANDED ME MY RECEIPT? I was no longer safe anywhere, not even in Chili's on 45th and Lamar drinking a frozen strawberry margarita with sugar on the rim.
Soon after, “Bye Felicia” had exploded into a full internet meme. And I continued pushing back. WHY MY NAME? A name that had been so unique and individualized for me growing up, the only pop-culture reference to it being a .05-second mention by a cartoon penguin in Mary Poppins. (Thanks Sherman brothers, by the way, for having my back.)
Somewhere along the way, I discovered where this phrase actually derived. Friday, a 1995 stoner buddy crime comedy film, starring Ice Cube, Chris Tucker and a character named “Felisha.” Ice Cube’s character “Craig Jones” dissed Felisha, the neighborhood mooch, with a simple “Bye, Felicia,” and the rest is history. I certainly didn’t see the movie when it came out, (The Little Mermaid and Harriet the Spy were more my aesthetic at the time), so I can only guess that the phrase became a staple within black culture, and then white gay men came in to claim it.
By 2013, it was definitely mainstream. I tried turning it around with a creative “#byeyou” to anyone who said it to me, and even wrote a BuzzFeed article defending the sanctity of my name -- suggesting 27 other names we could say bye to instead. Notable suggestions: Regina George, Rebecca Black and Shawanna, that polyester braid-wearin’, jeepin’ hussy from Clueless.
It didn’t work.
It has come to the point where “Bye, Felicia” is mentioned within my first few seconds of meeting someone. It’s either excitedly exclaimed or cheekily mentioned when they ask, “Bye, Felicia - you get that a lot right?” with a self-satisfied smile.
It's such a common occurence, I have an on-and-off switch for my “Bye, Felicia” identity. When someone enthusiastically mentions “Bye, Felicia,” I instantly get a little bit sassier, a little more theatrical. They get a little bit friendlier, a little more excited. It’s as if they snapped their #ByeFelicia filter on. They expect me to act a certain way, and because I’m pretty extroverted and like people liking me, I give in.
But I'm starting to get a little possessive of my name. My name is mine! I want to choose the identity that goes along with it. I'm frustrated that others have started applying their own filter of what they expect “Felicia” to be or act like. They place their own identity onto me -- which is usually a sassy, black woman. I'm frustrated that I go along with this indicative identity. What’s worse, I'm frustrated that this filter is being applied from people who probably aren’t the best allies to women of color. I'm frustrated that they’re accustomed to women of color -- or black women, specifically -- being a spectacle, a source of entertainment.
It's literally like an Instagram filter. Taking something real, and distorting it to look the way you want it to. Up the brightness, increase the saturation, and you have my "Bye, Felicia" persona.
I'm also frustrated because I'm not sure what to do about it. I normally like to write blogs after I've already surmised a solution to my problem, but that's not the case in this situation. To a certain extent, this "sassy black woman" is a part of my identity. So isn't okay for me to just highlight that part when people bring it up? Maybe if it's by choice, not because there's a certain expectation. And for better or for worse, I've found that I can also benefit from it. It helps people remember me. A cool Broadway performer remembered me and followed me on Twitter because of it. How can I dismiss the trend that makes my Klout score higher?!
I know that #byefelicia won't be going away anytime soon, and it may take me a long time to understand how it integrates into my identity. For now, I'm going to make sure that I stay in control of how intense the filter is, and be happy that my name isn't Kelvin...
