My Take on the Politics of Interracial Dating

I was born one year before my home state of Alabama finally legalized interracial marriage — in the constitutional sense, at least. In 2000, when the question was placed on the ballot, 40% of Alabamians voted against the measure.

Forty. Perecent.

That number haunted me growing up. I saw it — in stares, in silences, in the way people talked (or didn’t talk) about love, in the way people looked at biracial kids. It reflected the environment around me, showing how fear, history, and generational trauma can politicize, and sometimes poison, something as human as love.

How upsetting that someone would turn down someone they’re compatible with, attracted to, and interested in simply because of their race.

I am not one of those people.

I often joke that if you gathered everyone I’ve been romantically involved with inside of a room, it would look like a DEI conference.

I’m attracted to people who value intellect and humor and work towards becoming smarter and funnier, people obsessed with curiosity. I’m also drawn to people who are kind, confident, self-aware, and treat all people with dignity. People like that exist across all kinds of races, backgrounds, and socioeconomic statuses.

I am not in the business of putting limitations on love, race included.

The barrier that seems to complicate relationships most is class and upbringing. History teaches us that race and class are often interconnected, but it’s much harder to find commonality with people who don’t look at money, hustle, or ambition in the same way. When your values don’t add up, building something real is hard.

But dating apps don’t include “grew up poor” as a descriptor option. People understand that just because you may have grown up a certain way doesn’t determine how you currently move through the world, even if it shapes how you see it.

I understand why race isn’t always met with the same compassion. But maybe it should be. Life is short. We should spend it with people who make us happy — not just those who fit into the box society gave us to stay separate.

From conversations with myself and my friends, especially with those in interracial relationships, one thing is clear: compassion and mutual trust—not race—determine when a relationship lasts and the value each person gains from it.

History Matters

The argument some Alabamians made back in 2000 — “God wouldn’t have made us so different if we were meant to be together” — can be applied to anything. Gender. Sexuality. Religion.

I don’t think we choose who we’re attracted to. But I do think it’s worth questioning where our preferences come from. Are they truly ours? Or were they planted?

Don’t miss out on the love you deserve based on someone else’s idea of what love looks like.

Like gender, race has never informed who I’m attracted to. As long as you can embrace my experience, it feels strange for me to disregard yours based on something as arbitrary as skin color.

I’ve never felt the need to explain my attraction to people. But that doesn't stop them from asking. I’ve talked to many different people, but it’s only when I talk to someone who’s white that it somehow becomes a conversation.

Once, a friend asked if I was drawn to white people because I secretly craved acceptance or proximity to power — that dating white men gave me access to whiteness. I was shocked that someone who knew me could even think that. I blocked white men on dating apps for the rest of college (it was my last semester, lol).

Another time, a Black friend told me I seemed to have a “thing” for white guys — this, coming from a man whose white boyfriend of two years was literally waiting at home. I didn’t bother defending myself because…. le.

Why did none of them care when I was sprung for a brown woman the summer before? Or dating an Asian guy a few months later?

It felt like getting a six-pack of cookies from Insomnia, one of them oatmeal raisin, just for someone to say, “Damn, grandpa. What’s with the oatmeal?” (Also happened to me before.)

I know it’s not only a black people thing. In high schools, the white girls who typically dated black guys were categorized as “n*gger lovers” by both white and black people. There’s also a weird double standard: when white people date someone Black, they’re seen as progressive. But when Black people date someone white, we’re seen as traitors and sellouts.

Not all of the apprehension is unwarranted. Emmett Till was lynched in 1955 for allegedly flirting with a white woman. Over 50 years later, the woman admitted she had lied. That kind of fear that someone’s word can be believed over yours simply because of their race sticks with you. And the lesson is passed down. I still tend to cross the street if I find myself walking behind a white woman, just to be safe.

Then there’s legacy. Some Black people don’t want to “water down” the culture. They want to preserve our lineages and identity, which have been erased and stolen. And I understand that. (Which makes the judgment I’ve gotten from dating white men even more bizarre. Biologically, we can’t have kids anyway.)

But I can’t ignore my history either.

At my high school, there were very few openly queer people — but most of the few who were out were white. I had deep emotional connections with black guys in high school, but they always happened privately. It made me feel hidden.

My first heartbreak was with a Black boy who told me I wasn’t “worth” coming out for. That rejection made me associate Black love with secrecy and shame, even when I didn’t want it to.

This trend continued in college. Every single black guy I was intimate with is still, as far as I know, in the closet. But the white guys I would date came from more accepting and open families. I met parents and siblings. And it changed what I thought was possible for queer relationships.

It shifted my entire concept of what queerness could look like in public.

I don’t disregard how history, globally and personally, can change how we view race. Race is a social construct, but it’s a powerful one. But it shouldn’t shape how we love.

Sometimes, love is simple. Most times, it’s not, especially when history is in the room with us.

The Stories We See

We learn what love looks like by the love we see. Exposure to different kinds of relationships, whether at home, at church, or even on social media, can open us up to different version of love.

People pretend that more people are queer today, but I think more people are embracing their experiences because we’re finally seeing them without shame.

When I watched Moonlight, it changed me. It helped me shed shame I didn’t even know I was carrying. But recently, one of the most affirming portrayals I’ve seen of a gay interracial couple happened on my current favorite television show, Abbott Elementary.

Abbott Elementary featured the only conversation I’ve seen on a gay interracial couple that happened with one joke.

Jacob, played by Chris Perfetti, is a white progressive who lives for Black culture — quoting facts no one asked for, trying to stay relevant. When we meet his Black boyfriend Zach, portrayed by Larry Owens, his colleagues are surprised. It’s never made a big deal, but the acknowledgment of their interracial relationship was funny but also meant something to me.

Eventually, the couple break up (spoiler alert, sorry), but it’s not because of their race. The two realize they aren’t compatible but have tried to make it work regardless. It not only taught me that my experience as a queer person navigating relationships is not singular, but it also showed me what matters more than race in a relationship.

And for once, I saw a version of queer love that acknowledged race and looked familiar, but wasn’t tragic. Rare.

Making It Work

Here’s what I’ve learned, again: the most significant factor for whether a relationship can last is not race, gender, or class.

It’s trust.

That’s it.

Trust leads to communication and shared values and makes space for compromise.

We are all different from each other. Even other black people have different experiences than me. I don’t think race automatically separates us in the same way that it doesn’t automatically connect us.

Race doesn’t automatically separate us — but it doesn’t automatically connect us, either. We all benefit when we let people make their impression rather than making them compete with our assumptions.

Some people only date within their race. I don’t think that makes them small-minded. And I don’t think people who date outside their race are inherently more open-minded.

It comes down to trust, mutual understanding, and genuine curiosity about one another.

When someone loves you, they’re excited to learn about your differences, especially if it helps them to love you better.

And when it comes to other people’s relationships, maybe the best thing we can do is mind our Insomnia cookies.