When I finally came out in college, I was at a predominantly white school.Many queer folks were closeted, and of the few who were out, most of them were white.All of this has shed a glaring light on my internal struggle.About a year ago, I came across an article entitled "28 Questions for Black Men Who Only Date White Men." Each question from the article was a damning indictment of my apparently not-so-simple dating choices.I’m quickly approaching my 25th birthday and have come to the realization that I’ve never been in a long-term relationship. That's not uncommon among millennials, but as a Black gay man, I've begun to wonder how my race has affected my chances of finding love.I like to think of myself as someone who’s adventurous when it comes to love and sex, someone who’d never rule out potential partners or new experiences.As a dark-skinned Black man, I have faced both overt and subtle instances of racism from white gay men.The ways in which I have been objectified and fetishized by them has often made me feel that I’m only good enough for sex and not for a relationship.
It can be frustrating, but also deeply enriching, to teach someone about my cultural upbringing.
Statements like "no fats or fems" or "no Blacks or Asians" litter profiles in hookup communities on Grindr, Jack'd, and similar platforms.
Thankfully, marginalized queer communities have started to call out those hurtful comments as acts of discrimination rather than statements of preference.
When I read a recent essay by Michael Arceneaux, his words hit me hard.
He questioned why Black men in particular want so desperately to be acknowledged as desirable by white men who have no interest in dating outside their race.
But when I discussed my issue with friends, other queer men of color, they all said I have a type: white men.