Trigger Warning: this paper contains foul language, descriptions of sexual harassment and verbal abuse on dating apps.

I had to download Bumble to get into a Kappa Alpha Psi Halloween party in the fall of 2019. My dating history is nonexistent, due to a few factors: misogynoir, insecurity, general introversion, an intellectual superiority complex, and deep-rooted mistrust in men. All of my close friends either used dating apps or had done so in the past, and the idea was intriguing to me, but not enough for me to go to the App Store and download one. 

A few days later, during one of my biweekly therapy sessions, my therapist and I built myself a Bumble profile. I had it for about three months, then the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic meant I no longer felt safe even entertaining the idea of meeting up with men, so I deleted the app.

My roommate at the time also went to the Halloween fraternity party, also downloaded Bumble upon arrival, also had a similar lack of experience with men, and also built a profile shortly after I did. The differences in our experiences were stark, however. My roommate went through a two-week period of meeting up with every person she matched with — I began to ask her how her “daily date” went. Overall, all of her dates were respectful and kind to her. 

Meanwhile, on the rare occasion I did get a response from a man, it often resulted in them divulging their violent sexual fantasies—choking, slapping, spanking, kicking, biting, the works—and how they desperately wanted to enact them with me. 

My roommate and I often joked that we were the same person: we have a series of hyper-specific things in common. So why was the reception I was getting on Bumble so starkly different from hers?

The answer is because she’s a skinny white woman. I, on the other hand, am a thick, biracial black woman: in the context of this story, that is the only difference between my roommate and my experiences with Bumble.

Her race and her build are obviously not things I hold against her, but the juxtaposition of our interactions with men does make me bitter. It made me realize that systemic, antiblack racism is inescapable, even in the digital realm. 

Dating apps’ transactional natures warp romantic interaction in real life and perpetuate racism — primarily in the form of microaggressions — and misogyny at a drastically more rapid rate than face-to-face interactions. Due to the already existing structures of patriarchy and racism ingrained societies across the globe, isolation (both in the pandemic context and in the context of interacting with someone in a phone application rather than in real life) and homophily and the growing cultural impact of Instagram and TikTok influencers, dating apps are yet another realm where women of color are routinely traumatized, sidelined and assaulted.

Through my own experiences and those of three other people of color I interviewed, I will aim to contextualize the nature in which racism and misogyny intersect in interpersonal relationships between two strangers on Tinder.

A Wall Street Journal Study found that within the first few days of national U.S. lockdowns due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the average household internet usage increased by 25%  (Rizzo, Click). While there is a decentralized culture of interaction with others on the internet; via fandom, chatrooms and social media, using the internet is a one-person experience. No matter how many people one talks to online, no matter how many posts they like, interacting with online content is a private experience for one person on their device of choice.

This physical isolation and the highly individualized Internet experience leaves ample room for misunderstanding, be it stereotyping or racist aggression. It’s easy to be mean to someone when you haven’t interacted with them in any way other than seeing a picture of them on Instagram.

Christian Kenoly (they/them), a 23-year-old junior cultural strategist for Sparks and Honey, primarily uses Tinder (when they decide to use dating apps), and has used Grindr in the past. They said they have many experiences being verbally assaulted on Tinder and they believe it is because of this social isolation that comes with internet usage.

“I do think that (dating apps do) create a barrier for more objectification and fetishization because now you’re just some hot bitch on the internet that doesn’t really exist,” Kenoly said. “Even contextually, there’s no difference between you and a chatbot, there’s no difference between you and some girl that they could just be paying with Bitcoin to talk to, like there is actually no difference.”

Kenoly said when they receive ignorant or offensive messages, they fire back with an insult or other remark that lets the other party know their behavior was harmful.

“Texting just removes all personal and physical context. You have no idea how this person actually worded something. For me personally, there have been times where someone has said something to me that was kind of offensive, and I’ve been like, ‘Yo, Don’t say that.’ And then there’ll be like, ‘oh, like I’m sorry.’ I think a lot in terms of race and gender, there are so many productive conversations to be had, but they can’t be had without having a personal relationship with someone, and I don’t think that that’s on (people of color), I don’t think that that’s on us at all to do that labor.”

Part of this aggression that all three of my sources spoke of in our interviews could be due to the nature of Tinder itself: unlike Bumble or Hinge, when someone matches with another on Tinder, either party can respond however rapidly and in any fashion they want to. Obviously, sexual assault existed before the birth of Tinder, and it is not fair to say that Tinder is the only dating app on which women experience assault, but Tinder has created a new way for people to assault women from the comfort of their own home. According to a study by the Pew Research Center, 48% of dating app users said receiving sexually explicit images or videos they didn’t ask for is a common experience (Pew Research Center, 10). I can attest to that: I’ve been sent so many unsolicited nudes by men just assuming I am immediately down and ready to have sex with them, and the reality is, I absolutely am not. The assumption that women want to see a person they’ve just met’s penis is absurd, but because of internet social isolation (and the coronavirus pandemic exacerbating said isolation) as well as patriarchal structures that privilege male sexual aggression over female emotions, many male dating app users genuinely don’t believe they’re doing anything wrong when they are quite literally sexually harassing someone online.

However, dick pics aren’t the only form of harassment on online platforms. McGill sophomore Alia Shaukat (she/her) said men make comments or assumptions about her ethnicity as a conversation starter on Tinder.

“I don’t know what it is about me. I think it’s just the combo of light skin and dark hair, but everyone thinks that I’m Latina queen,” Shaukat, an English literature and environment major said. “So that’s really great. I have a lot of people calling me ‘mami.’ They say ‘hey, mami,’ and then I do get a lot of questions (about my race) as openers. I think they’re just trying to be original, but they’re not at all.”

Shaukat is mixed Pakistani/white, and says that many label her as “exotic” to try and compliment her.

“I know that with Arabic men in particular find it very attractive that I am a light version of (their) ethnicity,” Shaukat said. “And they’ll say things like: ‘I know where that name is from.’ And I’m like, ‘alright. I don’t care, and first of all, shut up.’”

Many women decide to download dating apps regardless of the established expectation of secual harassment, and approximately 12% of Americans have “married or been in a committed relationship with someone they first met through a dating app” (Pew Research Center, 3). As I’ve already mentioned, I have been sexually harassed time and time again on Bumble. There are blocking and unmatching functions, but for the most part these interactions of a man breaking my boundaries by sending an explicit photo is remedied by cutting off the conversation. The only encounter I’ve had that left me traumatized was when I was scrolling through Bumble during a depressive episode, engaged with a man who wanted  to sext me (which I half-heartedly reciprocated), and then as soon as he finished, he unmatched me. I felt dirty and used, and that was one of the key experiences that led to my deleting of the app.

I later learned that what he did is a relatively common practice in the online dating world, which made me feel even worse for falling into that trap. However, all three of my interviewees told me that they mostly treat dating apps as a game, similarly to how all but two Tinder users responded in Janelle Ward’s “What are You Doing on Tinder? Impression Management on a Matchmaking Mobile App.”

“I think that general boredom has led to me and my roommate spending a lot more time on the apps, just like laying on the couch swiping and making fun of people,” Shaukat said. “Honestly, it’s not even like we’re going to meet up with them.” 

Oluchi Akinfenwa (she/her), a sophomore computer science major at McGill University, also said she doesn’t take dating app interactions to heart.

“My parents are Nigerian, so very strict. So literally when I came to university … I downloaded them, I used them for a week. Then I’m like, ‘What the fuck,’ and then I just delete it. And that’s happened to me with Tinder and with Bumble. I don’t really know other ones.”

Kenoly, Shaukat and Akinfenwa all recounted multiple instances of fetishization from men of all colors. Kenoly said that the racism they witness so often on dating apps doesn’t affect the way they use Tinder.

“I’ve now just accepted (racism) as a reality of what is going to happen on dating apps, and that doesn’t mean I don’t feel any type of way about it — I definitely do,” Kenoly said. “It’s just now, I’m more willing to put myself through that, which is also the product of white supremacy and patriarchy. For me in particular, it’s almost like now, I’ve accepted it with a certain level of absurdity that I’m also projecting into dating apps. Cuz I’m like, ‘this isn’t real.’ I’m gonna treat you however the fuck I want to, like if you say some shit to me I’m gonna say some shit back to you.”

However, Akinfenwa approaches dating app interactions with more skepticism.

“It is discouraging, especially because I feel like I definitely turned to dating apps during a time in my life where I was like, ‘nobody around me likes me,’” Akinfenwa said. “Where I grew up, it was primarily Asian. And, Montreal, is it a bit better? It’s okay. I automatically assume that this person does not like black women because it’s just a thing, statistically. So I was like, ‘oh, dating apps seem cool’ but then you kind of see the same pattern occurring in the apps.” 

Akinfenwa’s statement rings true to statistical patterns. While Tinder and Bumble do not have “race filters,” or a way you can set your racial preferences — which is a whole other eight-page paper waiting to be written — but Match.com does, and even refused to abandon said filters in light of the 2020 Black Lives Matter protests while other dating apps like Grindr and Scruff did remove those measures from their platforms (Thomson et al). OkCupid released match data in 2014, and across the board, Black women are rated as the least desirable, with only Black men’s rating being marginally positive by 1% (Baker).

So where does this leave the homophily — or seeking out others who are morally, personally, and aesthetically aligned with oneself — argument of dating apps? For me personally, the men who most often express attraction to me are Black or latinx. However, Kenoly, Shaukat and Akinfenwa all have differing experiences with people of their same race or ethnicity.

Kenoly said they feel most aligned and safe with Black men they match with on Tinder.

“I’m not (on Tinder) being like, ‘let’s shack up,’ but I am looking for a genuine connection that isn’t solely based off of fetishizing my race, my gender or my identity in any type of way,” Kenoly said. “(black men’s understanding of) their own race and positioning in society is more aligned with mine. I think I am now able understand the differences between a white man that’s trying to talk to me like he wants to fuck me and an actual legitimate conversation with a person who just happens to be aligned with the things that I believe.”

Shaukat is more neutral on the matter of interracial versus intraracial matches on Tinder.

“I realized the fact that like, even though (compliments about my ethnicity) are disguised in flattery, it’s never actually good intentionally, especially with the people who are really intrigued by the ‘exotic’ aspect of how I look,” Shaukat said. “I’ve gotten (comments about my mixed identity) from brown boys a lot. It’s because they want to, like, stay true to their culture. But then they still want the (white) dilution, because, you know, brown boys always like white girls. Also brown boys are literally terrible to the women of their respective cultures.”

Akinfenwa, a Canadian-born child of Nigerian immigrants, said she “has a bone to pick with black men.”

“I’m such an introvert. I give off a big virgin energy. But apparently, on dating apps, I’m not what people perceive me to be. Men are like, ‘I want to have sex with you chocolate queen, I love your African body!’ Especially the black men. I would find that white men were more willing to have a conversation with me. And black men will be like, ‘hey, when we gonna meet up baby girl?’” Akinfenwa said. “They do not, in my opinion, see a black woman as someone that they would want to pursue a relationship with. It’s so frustrating because it’s like, aren’t you surrounded by women that go through this? Don’t you have empathy for them?”

As a Black person, I relate to Akinfenwa’s experiences of simultaneous hyper-invisibility and hypervisibility. I have been bullied and cast aside throughout my childhood for being too fat, for having big lips and a flat nose and for having a ginormous butt. Meanwhile, white influencers and celebrities like Kylie Jenner are celebrated for their surgically-enhanced features that emulate black ones.

“That’s the most frustrating,” Akinfenwa said. “The fetishization of black features like big lips, big butts, you know, like our badonk, our behind. The shape becomes something to desire, but not the actual black women.”

Obviously, Kenoly, Shaukat, Akinfenwa and my own online dating app usage and experiences are all unique. In my case, I’ve never matched with an Asian man on Bumble, which is the only racial pattern I’ve really noticed. The most prominent pattern is the messages I received: like I said earlier, many men divulged all the violent sex acts they wanted to do with me — assuming that, because of my build (thick) and my race (black) that I am promiscuous, that I’m incredibly sexually experienced and that I even entertain the idea of engaging in violent sex with a random man I matched with two minutes ago on the internet. 

The speed at which dating app users can evaluate whether they should match with someone is evidence of how racism is perpetuated in digital spaces generally: subconsciously, without intention, and more rapidly than any microaggression could be inflicted in real life. Waking up to multiple messages of “chocolate queen” in Akinfenwa’s case, or messages detailing hijab corruption kink fantasies to Shaukat — who isn’t even Muslim — or messages explaining in excruciating detail how many bruises a man wants to leave on my “big fat ass” all inflict pain and trauma onto women of color.

Does this mean every single man on every single dating app is secretly a member of the KKK, waiting in the Tinder shadows to send nude photos and make racist remarks? Of course not. However, it is clear that women of color’s experiences on dating apps are more strained and complex than their white counterparts. 

“I always gaslight myself, and I’m always like, ‘my experiences are not a big deal. So many people go through things that are way bigger,’ which is obviously true, we all know this,” Shaukat said. “But that doesn’t mean that I should be invalidating my own feelings. So then I do feel the anger, where I’m like, ‘I can’t believe that I’ve been so conditioned to think that this is not a bad microaggression’ when it actually is. I’ve been conditioned to just swallow it and take it as normal.”

Works Cited

Baker, Monica. “OkCupid’s Dataset Proves Dating Is the Worst.” Medium, The Post-Grad Survival Guide, 18 June 2020, medium.com/the-post-grad-survival-guide/okcupids-dataset-reveals-inequalities-in-dating-51a7a36e2d84. 

Pew Research Center. “The Virtues and Downsides of Online Dating.” 6 Feb. 2020

Rizzo, Lillian, and Sawyer Click. “How Covid-19 Changed Americans’ Internet Habits.” The Wall Street Journal, Dow Jones & Company, 15 Aug. 2020, http://www.wsj.com/articles/coronavirus-lockdown-tested-internets-backbone-11597503600. 

Thomson, Amy, et al. “Match Opts to Keep Race Filter for Dating as Other Sites Drop It.” Bloomberg.com, Bloomberg, 8 June 2020, http://www.bloomberg.com/news/articles/2020-06-08/dating-apps-debate-race-filters-as-empowering-or-discriminating. 

Ward, Janelle. “What Are You Doing on Tinder? Impression Management on a Matchmaking Mobile App.” Information, Communication & Society, vol. 20, no. 11, 2016, pp. 1644–1659., doi:10.1080/1369118x.2016.1252412.