With all of the cogs that must fit together to make a date function, it's no surprise we often end up dating people who are essentially just like us. But in a subculture that puts such a premium on other types of diversity — religions our parents don't belong to (#2), being the only white person around (#71), having black friends (#14) — it seems odd that we're so often content to date our clones.
When my friends directed me to Stuff White People Like, it was with one unified endorsement: "It's so true!" They not only saw themselves in the site, but all of their past and present romantic partners. When I complained that the site bummed me out because it highlighted my homogeneous dating history in one of the world's most heterogeneous cities, one friend argued this was inevitable when one interacts solely with people in their same tax bracket. "I've been on a bunch of dates in New York," she told me, "and not all of the guys have been white, but all have been middle-class. I just don't meet many people outside the middle class through my job, school, or social network." (The blog understands this — it's not really about white people. Dedicated readers will have noticed that certain kinds of white people are "the wrong kind of white people," i.e., white people who like Dane Cook.)
Before moving to New York, when I had fantasized about experiencing a range of love affairs with people wholly unlike myself, I never took into account the fact that it takes special effort to meet such people.
"When I think about the sort of 'diverse experiences' I'm into, they tend to be some version of the tourist idea — something I can go and check out, and then leave."
I never imagined I'd work in an office full of people just like me, live in a neighborhood full of people just like me. I figured just inhabiting a diverse city would mean I'd inevitably cross lives with a diverse sampling of people, like in Crash.
Steven, twenty-nine, thinks the problem comes down to fear-based cultural self-segregation. He'd be interested in picking up girls other than the familiar types, he says, if they ever showed up at the bars he frequents. "Honestly, I don't even know any bars in Manhattan that aren't full to the brim with people, essentially, like me. And if I did, I'd be afraid to go, not for fear of having trouble with the women, but of dealing with the other guys."
Colin, a twenty-seven-year-old graduate student, tried dating outside the Stuff White People Like sphere a few times before retreating to more like-cultured mates. "I had dates with two girls from Chinese families, and there just ended up being a lot of non-intriguing non-communication," he says. Because the distance toward middle ground was so far, each date was almost entirely basic "get to know you" conversation, so much so that they hardly got to know each other at all.
For Colin, there isn't much inconsistency in seeking diversity in the daytime and familiarity in bed at night. "When I think about the sort of 'diverse experiences' I'm into, they tend to be some version of the tourist idea — something I can go and check out, and then leave," he says. "I like weird foods when I go out, for instance, but I eat cereal at home. Since relationships aren't something I can do tourist-style, I end up dating familiar types."
Stuff White People Like often lampoons the touristic nature of white people's interest in the world — the idea that by merely sampling from various cultures, we become more worldly, more sensitive, more refined. And maybe the idea that we could sleep our way through various cultures in order to feel more "urban" isn't any different. If doing so is just another way to pick up ego-fueling diversity points, we should be glad it's uncommon. n°
Personal Inventory by James Stegall
Remembrance of things past, via the Lands' End catalog.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Joey Rubin is the managing editor of Flak magazine. His work has appeared in the San Francisco Chronicle and Publisher's Weekly, among other publications. He lives in Brooklyn. See more of his work at joeyrubin.com.
