Once again, I mull over the idea of flipping through the seemingly endless Rolodex of potential romantic prospects on one of the infamous "apps." It's an act I repeatedly contemplate after bouts of disappointment following my innumerable failed attempts at finding "the one." I have experienced a slew of misshapen dates — from dates that never were when I was stood up to feelings of dread on getting ghosted after months of building a rapport that amounted to believable chemistry, albeit these are the perils of modern dating.
Screens now occupy our once cherished third places where an unexpected encounter could lead to the trite origins of a love story. Dating in the digital age now presents infinitesimal options, particularly for Gen-Z, a generation inundated with social media since adolescence. And yet, I have this faint ounce of optimism that the next time I download one of "the apps" it might just be the sole decision that catapults my long-awaited chronicle of romance.
As a Black woman, the luster has worn off as I ponder the flurry of reasons why I have come up short in my search. I can't help but dissect every memory from my hapless romantic journey up until this point. Could it be the algorithm, lackluster responses to prompts, or that I simply have formidable barriers up? These are just a few of the possibilities encircling me as I find myself defeated, wondering when that spark will be found.
As a 20-something woman, it appears that the majority of my peers have had better odds in the romantic realm, meeting their partners online, finding long-term relationships, and exploring the array of options out there. This reality is not newfound, as I have observed this pattern since high school, where I watched my white friends partner up effortlessly, not having any apparent trouble securing a date to the dance or being asked out on an actual date. As I reflect, I was not once pursued seriously by anyone in my teens. I was even a dateless prom queen my senior year, which made that celebratory moment even more confusing as I sifted through my identity. Was I too confident, intimidating, or too strong? These speculations continued as I finally decided to try dating seriously in my junior year of college following behind my friends with multiple names on their list of exes. I downloaded an app, determined to put an end to this romantic drought that spanned my teens and 20s. Without any promising initial dates, it dawned on me that maybe it was me, or maybe it was that I moved from one very predominately white town to a less-white, but still predominantly white, neighborhood here in Seattle.
The desolate dating pool may not be a result of the cacophony of reasons clattering around in my head, but simply that my identity has made the journey not just uncharted, but traumatic. As a biracial Black woman, I was faced with the quintessential conundrum of the "straddling two worlds" right of passage that many belonging to mixed-race heritage families wrestle with. From feeling "not Black enough" to being wedged into a reality where I was "the only" more often than not, my upbringing showed me fairly quickly that I was not perceived as white as my mother's side of the family that raised me. I was never more fixated on the ambiguity of my identity than when I first began dating. Of course, I had recognized my Blackness before this point in my life, but defining that for myself was now amplified in hyperspeed as I fended off remarks amounting to micro-aggressions and subtle racism. From referring to me as "exotic," feeling comfortable and inclined to welcome their wandering hands on my hair without permission in public, and even comporting themselves as if AAVE was typically found in their lexicon. As many women face being hyper-sexualized as an unfortunate given when meeting strangers on a dating app, the obscenities men have hurled confidently have been more than confounding. These ill-fated romantic interactions may be me, or a more plausible assertion is that cultural competence must be intentionally built and intentionally cultivated. And well, as a Black woman, I have been thrust into the brunt of implicit bias in my daily life, irrespective of my efforts to vet these people even before I consider grabbing a coffee with them.
I have felt this daunting veil over even the fleeting thought of entering the dating pool again creep into my mind — not because I don't feel worthy or am bereft of confidence, but because it appears that the underlying emotion I have refused to grapple with is the perilousness of a society rooted in anti-Blackness yet simultaneously obsessed and infatuated with everything that comprises being Black. And yes, they were, for those who internally begged the question if the assailants were white men. In a city where the majority of available singles are white, it is ostensibly the case that I will continue to go on more dates with white men and ultimately be exposed to the discomfort that begets curious perturbations even if they are well-intentioned and misguided. I don't believe many of these men intended for me to perceive their ill-timed probes about my culture as offensive, but it is the reason that I hesitate to extend my weary soul once more into the throes of the digital dating pool out of self-preservation.
With each swipe, the next act of fetishization will inevitably surface the past years of buried micro-aggressions, invalidations, and assaults that leave me coping with inescapable racial trauma coupled with the natural precarity that dating brings everyone who puts themselves out there. While unfettered implicit biases plague our society in many facets, even down to the endeavor of finding love, I understand that other non-Black individuals are not exempt from these unpleasant and jarring encounters as women and non-binary People of Color. So while at this time in my life, I can recall these memories with a helpful bit of levity like when a near stranger began inquiring about my nighttime hair routine or invited themselves to touch my hair like I am a spectacle, in all seriousness the precarity of dating feels insurmountable.
My first advice to Black women — and all women — would be that your boundaries should never have to be justified, and secondly, to understand that your inability to secure your aspirational life partner who ticks every box is not your fault. Also, I would be remiss not to mention that of course colorism and texturism are another layer that Black women are faced with even in our communities where Eurocentric beauty standards are still upheld in various forms, and the further that separation is from this set point, another more painful particular isolation can be felt. While this piece falls uncannily in the month that is categorized by Valentine's Day, I particularly felt that it was critical to express my struggles with owning my Blackness during Black History Month.
While I still beg the question if I will download "the apps" again, I am certain that abounding self-love will allow me to continue to lead with an open heart balanced with a dash of idealism even when I discover that I am a deviation from the track record of the dating history of most men. For now, I will assume positive intent and hope that "the one" appears before I find myself subject to another biased algorithm or peculiar preoccupation with my Blackness.
Tiana Cole has a passion for storytelling and furthering diversity, equity, and inclusion and she strives to uplift marginalized communities through sharing authentic narratives. She has covered sports, the arts, nonprofits, and culture throughout her journalism work and honed her skills for fast-paced reporting as an intern at Sports Illustrated. She enjoys giving back to the community when possible, advancing racial and social justice efforts, and cohosts a podcast that highlights Black professionals in Seattle.
The South Seattle Emerald is committed to holding space for a variety of viewpoints within our community, with the understanding that differing perspectives do not negate mutual respect amongst community members.
The opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints expressed by the contributors on this website do not necessarily reflect the opinions, beliefs, and viewpoints of the Emerald or official policies of the Emerald.
Help keep BIPOC-led, community-powered journalism free — become a Rainmaker today.