I’ve never been one for casual relationships. Following a romance in my early twenties with an older man who, I eventually accepted, was simply at a different stage of life, I went through a series of short relationships of varying significance. I met lovely men—many of whom remain my friends—but by my mid-thirties, I still hadn’t met anyone with whom I felt that same degree of connection and passion I had known with my first love. I was searching for a committed relationship with a supportive partner, someone I could love deeply and who shared my values and goals.
Like many singles, I had created an online dating profile. But I rarely logged in. Now I decided to take it more seriously—these days, I seem to hear fewer and fewer stories of real life meet-cutes. Meanwhile, online, I could decide between sites with free memberships, such as Plenty of Fish; paid sites with an older, more earnest clientele, such as eHarmony; niche sites such as jdate and Gluten-Free Singles; and many others, all slightly differentiated by price, demographics, and objectives. I signed up for Tinder and Bumble—two apps with simple interfaces that invite users to swipe on pictures of people they find attractive—as well as OkCupid. The last includes more substantial personal profiles. Through a series of questions, the company’s website and app invite you to describe what you are doing with your life and to list your favourite music, books, and TV shows. Theoretically, the online world offers greater odds of finding a partner than does a chance meeting at a party. Being online is like going to a party without encountering all the people who trap you in boring conversations. It made me feel that I was more likely to find someone with whom I actually connected—not just another pretty face.
I decided that an objective test would be the best way to assess the impact of my brown skin on my dating prospects. After all, such strategizing is one of the oldest playing-field levellers in the dating world
I uploaded pictures and filled out my profile with basic demographic information—height, body type, religion, and education. Over the following months, I would play with this slightly: I variously described myself as a dreamer, book lover, learner, educator, and writer, someone who views the world with a glass half-full of optimism and a dash of sarcasm. I noted that my friends describe me as “sincere and hilarious,” “fun to do things with,” and “a great trivia partner.” I peppered my profile with jokes and references to climbing, yoga, learning, eating all of the things, and drinking all of the drinks. I mentioned my penchant for ’60s soul, ’90s hip hop, indie rock, and the writing of Kurt Vonnegut—and alluded to my fondness for the board game Settlers of Catan to attract hot nerds. That first night, after crafting what I thought was a suitably witty, cool, and interesting profile, I let the site’s algorithms work their magic.
I liked the concept of OkCupid’s “match percentages.” The site projects the compatibility of its users, assessing it on a scale from 1 to 100. I was a high match with a seemingly large number of men—quite a few of them were in the 99 percent range. The most mathematically promising one—at 99.5 percent—turned out to be one of my existing friends from law school. But almost immediately, I began to notice peculiarities about my experience. Among my single friends, and even in the conversations I overheard between strangers in coffee shops, women using dating sites described being “overwhelmed” and “flooded” with communication.
On the day I completed my profile, I received one message; four more appeared over the next two days. This trickle continued for the next year and two months, averaging two messages a day.
Dating While Black
What I learned about racism from my online quest for love
BY HADIYA RODERIQUE
https://www.pexels.com
picture from
11 BLawyerisH/July, 2017