One pointless, lazy night, a couple friends and I decided to conduct a little experiment, borne, as many random ideas are, out of curiosity and boredom. We downloaded Tinder, helped each other pick photos and craft bios (mine was comprised simply of the fire emoji and nothing else — genius, I know), and then sat in a circle, swapping phones every 15 minutes or so, breaking the silence occasionally with raucous laughter at outrageous profiles or exclamations at a match.
I actually surprised myself with how brutal and vicious I could be. I was incredibly swipe-happy — and not in the positive way. I often didn’t even pause to read bios, discarding person after person; whether it came to males or females, it turns out I’m extremely harsh on an individual’s virtual presentation.
Let’s face it. No one really chooses Tinder, or any online dating experience for that matter. Everyone I’ve ever talked to, from ages 18 to 27, has said that he/she would far rather have an “organic” relationship. The ideal is as follows: You meet someone, become very good friends, and then realize those beautiful, budding feelings and enter a romantic relationship. It’s not just the friends-first phenomenon that’s widely preferred, though; it’s the concept of a relationship based on something without an ulterior motive, that’s founded on wanting to get to know the person simply to get to know the person.
But this is not an ideal world, and “real world dating” is all the more difficult without the accessibility of something like Tinder. In the days following that night I entered the world of Tinder with my fellow social experimenters, the notifications kept lighting up my screen (eventually I turned off those notifications out of combined annoyance and self-consciousness) — but I never dared open that app. When I was alone, I couldn’t bear facing real people holding phones, looking at my frozen, virtual self and judging me. And I think I also deeply feared facing a very real future reality of the impending doom that we call real world dating. And yet, Tinder seems so far from the “real world.” It shocked me how people choose to represent themselves. How could so-and-so think it’s OK to post that picture? How on earth could any self-respecting human being write that in his bio? Why would anyone use a bathroom selfie as her profile picture? The questions were endless.
I read a hysterical Medium article entitled “Tinder Dealbreakers That Wouldn’t Be Dealbreakers IRL” last week that I promptly forwarded to the guys who participated in this little foray with me. After the residual chuckles faded away, I felt guilt niggling at the back of my mind; I realized the swiftness of Tinder had made it easy for me to reject people based on a first impression formed over the span of a half-second. Objectification is made so simple, so easy on apps like this, and it seems that “a dime a dozen” is a common thought when using such apps. But it goes beyond simply judging a person’s physical appearance through cursory selfies and posed photos.
Over the past month, a friend and I have had numerous discussions about the increasingly widespread topic of interracial and intercultural dating. Recently, he sent me an article about alleged sexual racism on dating apps. One gay man claimed he merely had a sexual preference in his declaration of “no blacks”; apparently, this is not uncommon, and is something men on Grindr and similar apps have readily available on their profiles prior to any individual interaction. It’s amazing that people are so open about their unwillingness to date members of certain races — so much so that they’ll actually put it on a public profile, as if personal information like “no blacks” was casual as something like “pizza aficionado.”
It’s not, though, and an immediate, targeted rejection of an entire population based on race, without any consideration of an individual’s actual character, marks a serious issue that cannot be conceived as anything other than blatant racism.
I remember I asked this particular friend if interracial dating is something he thinks of often (and I meant as a subject separate from the general topic of dating) and he responded, after a beat of pause, “I kind of have to — I’m black.” His words struck me hard; this forced me to recognize that some individuals have preconceived “preferences” and perceptions foisted on them as representations of themselves, whether it be on Tinder or in real life. Dating apps have made sexual racism all the more prominent, and some might go so far as to say it’s perpetuated it. But I don’t think that’s the case. Tinder didn’t create racism; it’s always existed, and it still does despite all the progress, all the proclamations that it’s universally wrong to segregate and discriminate. True, we all acknowledge that it’s still there, in dark corners and sequestered communities, among those we assume are the worst of the worst human beings. But dating apps have made it apparent that seemingly regular, everyday individuals, who might very well be those we work with or have gone to school with, declare openly that they simply do not accept a particular population of people.
Many say Tinder is ruining dating, and who knows? Maybe in some way, it is. Perhaps Tinder is guilty of making it too easy to reject people who might not know how to represent themselves with dignity in five photos and a couple sentences. Yet, at the same time, in some ways, it's incredibly revealing. People are bolder online. People are more straightforward about their intentions; a screen is easier to deal with than a face with expectation and disappointment.
The same guy who proclaims “no blacks” on his online dating profile would probably have some issues saying that to a black individual he’s met in person. Instead, he might ghost that man, leaving him wondering what on earth it was he did wrong, if anything’s wrong with him; while online, the black man would know immediately that this sexually racist guy will reject him for no one’s fault but his bigotry.
Yes, the “organic way” is probably everyone's preferred method of finding that special someone, but for now, maybe we should be grateful that members of the general Tinder population haven’t yet grasped how to deceptively package themselves as wholesome, attractive, perfect human beings.
Stay honest, and, in return, maybe we social experimenters can swipe a little more slowly.
