My Dating Life Does Not Determine My Blackness
By: Gabrielle Smith
Tags: Relationships, Race, Equality, Dating, Black Women

My Dating Life Does Not Determine My Blackness

Photo: Image Source/Getty Images

This past August, I started making resources on Instagram for folks interested in practicing ethical non-monogamy (ENM). The face of polyamory and ENM is overwhelmingly White and typically displays structures that replicate monogamy or coupledom. In this, I wasn’t really represented as a queer Black person who practices solo polyamory (meaning I am essentially my own primary partner). So I began working on ways to expand that. I’ve cultivated a humble following, but with that, naturally, comes the trolls.

Even though my work is about relationships, I try to stay vague about my own love life, though I occasionally show my partner and some of my friends in my stories. Because the approximately three people I’ve chosen to show my followers are White and I am loudly pro-Black on the internet, I was suddenly dubbed a fraud. I was pestered about whether I dated Black people, the number of folks I date, the race of my partner(s), along with a litany of other invasive comments on multiple posts. I decided not to answer directly, because I don’t think I owe anyone an explanation.

However, I wonder if these trolls, who are often Black men, see my choice in friends and lovers as hypocrisy. If I’m claiming to further the representation of people of color in the community, why does it look like I only spend time with White people?

The answer to that question is multifaceted and relies on proximity and coincidence, not intention. Ultimately, the folks I’ve chosen to show are the few people I currently spend time with. Why? We’re in a pandemic, and few people can agree to the strict guidelines my bubble follows. I do have other partners within my bubble, but I don’t show them because the relationship isn’t there yet. When I do spend time with people outside my bubble, it’s infrequent. Sometimes I post when I’m with my friends. Other times, I don’t because I’m more preoccupied with catching up on much-valued time with my non-White friends and lovers. I know that I have non-White partners, but I didn’t realize I needed to display them in order to reaffirm my commitment to my community, as well as my identity.

This is a commonality for Black women on the internet, especially those who dare to talk about politics. Our partners are policed because we advocate for ourselves and our people. Dancer and actress Kelechi Okafor has written about her experience of “hiding” her White husband. My friend and fellow bisexual polyamorous advocate Gabrielle Alexa Noel has also gotten hate for having a non-Black partner.

Black women are hit with the double punch of misogyny and racism. In so many ways, Black women are told that we are not desirable to anyone but Black men and fetishizers. Or we’re haunted by the misogynistic dating gurus of the past who say we’re asking for too much and not giving enough. With this rhetoric, we’re told to stay in our place.

Why does proximity to Whiteness invalidate our Blackness? How can it invalidate Blackness?

A study published in the American Sociological Association’s journal Sociology of Race and Ethnicity shows that some Black men (like my trolls) perceive Black women who date White men as “social climbers.” They perceive Black women who date White men as tending to be higher educated and more attractive and less like Black men. Is this the problem I’m facing? Is the assumption that I think I’m too good for Black men? Is the assumption that I think I’m better than them? Or is the assumption that I think White men are better than them? Do Black women belong to Black men? Is that what it is? How did we get here?

I’m still trying to figure it out, but either way, the backlash has been painful.

I grew up in quiet, conservative southern New Jersey, where Confederate flags were common and I was the only Black girl in my AP and honors courses. I’ve had to unpack so much of the anti-Blackness that has been thrown at me—desirability politics, comments like “Well, you’re not like really Black,” fetishization, and outright slurs — and I’ve learned to fortify.

I’ve bypassed my shame from adolescence and am now able to fully fall in love with Blackness. I love it in myself. I love it in others. I appreciate myself so much more now, after being taught to have disdain and hatred for my features. I can see the undercurrent of White supremacy, patriarchy, and capitalism that rules the country I live in, and I try to thrive in spite of it. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I falter.

So you could see why someone claiming that I don’t have this love for Blackness is incredibly jarring. I’ve fought to find it my whole life.

What seems to be missing in the criticisms of folks who date outside their race is nuance. Of course, there are folks who date outside their race and fit into problematic tropes. There are women and men who fetishize interracial relationships, assuming they’re eradicating racism one beige baby at a time. There are folks who claim non-Black folks are so much better to date because they’re exotic or have a fairer temperament. And there are folks who enter interracial relationships and allow themselves to be worn down by constant microaggressions, letting the anti-Blackness at home seep into their soul.

That’s not me. It never could be me. I thought that would be more clear, considering how often I express how we need to advocate for ourselves in relationships.

When I meet prospective partners, I must be prepared to combat homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, classism, and a thousand and one other sociopolitical factors.

I date folks who align with my values. I date folks who make me smile. I date folks who love me hard and long, and show up every day, and make fun of me when I drop everything all the time. There is no race requirement for that. In fact, I’ve seen many women date other Black folks and still experience bigotry within their relationships. Anti-Blackness is universal. We all must unlearn it. Racism is not the only landmine we face when choosing partners. When I meet prospective partners, I must be prepared to combat homophobia, transphobia, misogyny, classism, and a thousand and one other sociopolitical factors.

Having a White partner will not ensure that I get paid my worth as a Black woman. Having a White partner will not make a cop stop seeing my hair and skin color as dangerous. Having a White partner will not erase the systemic violence inflicted upon my family.

The reality is that many people of color do not view women dating outside their race in a favorable manner. Whatever the reason, whether it’s self-preservation, jealousy, entitlement, misogynoir, or just general hotep-ery. It’s important to understand that there are people beyond the timeline. Instagram is a snapshot into people’s lives. I show silly little moments spent with the few friends this pandemic allows me to share space with. I don’t show the deeply intimate moments between me and my partners. I don’t share each moment I spend on the couch, cackling with my cousin. I don’t share the conflicts or the resolution. I share the lessons I learn.

The rest is for me.