Love and hate at the Cultural Interface: Indigenous Australians and dating apps

Literature review

Tinder and Grindr are the most popular mobile dating apps on the market. Grindr is a ‘hook-up’ app for gay men, while Tinder is primarily used by heterosexual populations. Recent research by Blackwell et al. (2014) has described Grindr as an app that is predominantly used for casual sexual ‘hook-ups’, and its uptake and ubiquity has been described as being responsible for ‘killing the gay bar’ (Renninger, 2018: 1). Tinder, likewise, is most often used for hook-ups, but still markets itself as being a platform for finding romantic partners and long-term love interests. Both are ‘location-aware’ (Licoppe et al., 2016; Newett et al., 2018), in that they enable users to identify potential partners within their geographic vicinity. With its location recognition software, Tinder and Grindr blur the boundary between virtual and geographical spaces. Tapping a person’s profile picture will reveal details of the individual including, location and preferences such as preferred physical attributes, personality characteristics and so on. Users then make a judgement about whether they ‘like’ a person’s profile, and if the other user also ‘likes’ their own profile, they are able to connect with one another. Research reveals (Blackwell et al., 2014; Duguay, 2016) a tension between participants wanting to be seen as attractive on the app and fearing being identifiable or being recognised in other settings by people who view the app negatively (or by users of the app whom they do not wish to meet).

Research has also explored the ways in which these sites promote and facilitate the production and expression of users’ identities. This work has revealed the labour and strategy that goes into managing our online sexual selves. Gudelunas (2012), for instance, explored the ways in which gay men on Grindr manage multiple identities. For example, sexual orientation might be indicated on an app such as Grindr but might not be revealed on other social media sites such as Facebook. Some participants said that they did not reveal their sexual orientation on Facebook until they were in a relationship and it became obvious. Some altered the spelling of their names on social media so that family, friends and co-workers would not find out their sexual orientation. Others expressed fatigue in managing their profiles and identities across multiple apps and websites indicating the labour and associated stress involved in maintaining an online persona. However, moving between sites was often seen as important for validating the identity of people encountered on more ‘anonymous’ apps, such as Grindr. It was also important for people who were managing multiple identities in their offline life. Gudelunas’ research revealed that the different profiles were not seen as fabricated, but as representing different aspects of themselves. He argues that, ‘the versions of themselves that they presented online were based on their actual identity but often times “edited” or “elaborated” depending on what site was hosting the profile’ (2012: 361).

By conducting interviews with LGBTQ individuals Duguay (2016) found that participants engaged in various tactics to separate audiences when negotiating sexual identity disclosure on Facebook. Duguay (2016) draws on Goffman’s early work on social communication (1959, 1966) to discuss how social media users manage their identities across various social media apps. Goffman’s work focuses on the everyday interactions between people, which he argues are based on performance and a relationship between actor and audience (1959: 32). For Goffman, as individuals interact with others, they are making an effort to construct a particular persona in which the other person sees them and understands who they are (1959: 40). In this way a ‘desirable self’ can be displayed by an individual. However, Goffman argues that this persona is only the front-stage aspect of such performances and suggests that the individual has a private place where a different self can be presented, what he calls ‘back stage’ (1959: 129).

While Goffman was referring to face-to-face interactions, his theory translates to online contexts. His work helps in understanding the way users create certain images and desired impressions of themselves, and the way they negotiate various social media sites and identities. However, as Duguay (2016) reveals, the situation is more complex online, where individuals are negotiating multiple personas across various platforms and apps. Drawing on the work of boyd (2011), Duguay (2016) presents the idea of ‘context collapse’, which is described as ‘a flattening of the spatial, temporal and social boundaries that otherwise separate audiences on social media. Following boyd (2011), Duguay highlights the implications when one’s ‘back-stage’ persona is disclosed unintentionally and ‘outs’ the individual (2016: 892). This work demonstrates the dangers that are inherent in users managing identities on dating apps.

Research has also begun to explore the ways in which dating apps are implicated in the reinforcement of normative ideas of gender, sexuality and ethnicity. Tinder’s advertising, for instance, reflects the characteristics of desirable and ‘authentic’ partners. People are represented as ‘real’ by engaging in particular activities that ‘fit in’ with the site’s projected self-image, and also through demonstrating certain defined standards of physical beauty.

Older, gender-variant, homosexual, low socio-economic status (SES), and rural-dwelling people are absent from Tinder’s marketing and featured actors are predominantly white. (Duguay, 2016: 8)

Tinder users are drawn to the idea that, by using the app, individuals can create lifestyles similar to those portrayed (Duguay, 2016: 35). As Duguay argues, ‘acceptance of Tinder’s framing of authenticity as aspiring to normative ideals is reflected in countless profile photos exhibiting normative regimes, such as gym selfies and participation in affluent activities like posing with exotic animals or volunteering abroad’ (Duguay, 2016: 35). In a type of virtual border patrol, users police profiles, demonstrating commitment and dedication to the role. As stated, those who do not adhere to unstipulated yet ‘known’ norms are at risk of being called out publicly on other social media sites, or even having memes created condemning users with undesirable profiles for presenting ‘unattractive selves’.

This research has shown clearly that dating apps are deeply entangled in the production and expression of diverse identities, that users put work into managing often multiple selves online, and that that there are risks when things go wrong – including users attracting abuse and violence. Despite the growth in academic attention to the topic, however, we know little about how these factors play out for Indigenous Australian users of social media apps.

Methodology

This article draws on data collected as part of a national research project funded by an Australian Research Council Discovery Indigenous grant (for details see note 1). The purpose was to gain a better understanding of how social media is entangled in the production and expression of Aboriginal identities and communities.

Data was collected using mixed methods consisting of in-depth interviews and an online survey. Eight communities across New South Wales, Queensland, South Australia and Western Australia were included in the project. Participants came from a wide variety of ages (18–60 years of age) and backgrounds. Over 50 semi-structured interviews were conducted. While this project was not specifically interested in dating apps or experiences of ‘hook ups’, stories related to looking for love, relationships or sexual partners online emerged organically as a theme within the broader context of Indigenous use of social media. This article draws on interviews with 13 participants.

The emergence of Indigenous research methodological frameworks has provided strong critiques of dominant Western-centric social analysis (Martin, 2008; Moreton-Robinson, 2014; Nakata, 2007; Rigney, 1997; Smith, 2012). Following this critique, in this article analysis is guided by Martin Nakata’s idea of the ‘Cultural Interface’ – a concept he developed to denote the everyday site of struggle that continues to envelop colonised peoples. For Nakata, the Cultural Interface represents a site of interaction, negotiation and resistance, whereby the everyday articulations of Indigenous people can be understood as both productive and constraining. It is a space where agency can be effected, where change can occur, where Indigenous people can ‘make decisions’.

As both a symbolic and material site of struggle, the Cultural Interface allows the scholarly exploration of everyday Indigenous experience. It encourages researchers to see that, as Nakata explains:

there are spaces where people operate on a daily basis making choices according to the particular constraints and possibilities of the moment. People act in these spaces, drawing on their own understandings of what is emerging all around them … in this process people are constantly producing new ways of understanding and at the same time filtering out elements of all those ways of understanding that prevents them from making sense at a particular point in time and trying in the process to preserve a particular sense of self. (Nakata, 2007: 201)

The Cultural Interface is a particularly apposite mode of analysis for this project. On the one hand, it encourages us to see social media, including dating apps, as always already mediated by existing Indigenous–settler relations of colonial violence. However, and inversely, the Cultural Interface is also a space of possibility, in which these mediated relations can always be challenged and dismantled. Dating apps, then, present an opportunity in which intimate relations between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people might be reimagined and performed differently.

Findings 1: Strategic outness and managing multiple selves

As discussed above, the use of dating apps involves the active curation and expression of our identities, with often multiple selves being presented to different audiences. Similarly, in fieldwork for this project, gay Indigenous men spoke about the ways they navigate social media sites such as Facebook and dating apps like Grindr while maintaining separate identities across the apps, suggesting what Jason Orne (2011) describes as ‘strategic outness’. ‘Strategic outness’ describes a process where individuals assess specific social situations, such as one social media app compared to another, before determining what they will disclose (Duguay, 2016: 894).

For example, one participant, a gay Aboriginal man in his early 30s from NSW mentioned he had not ‘come out’ on Facebook but regularly used Grindr to hook up with other gay men. Strategies that were deployed to maintain distinctive identities across different social media platforms included the use of divergent profile names and avatars (i.e. profile pictures) on each of the social media sites. The participant mentioned that he saw Facebook as his ‘public’ self, which faced outwards into the world, whereas Grindr was his ‘private’ self, where he disclosed private information meant for more discrete audiences.

The demarcation between public and private is an unarticulated yet understood feature of the demands of self-regulation on social media sites, particularly for Indigenous people. For example, the participant in question explained he was very aware of the expectations of family, community and his workplace. His performance (particularly through the construction of his profile and posts) depicts his perceptions of the required expectations. In his interview this participant indicated that his standing in his workplace was extremely important and, for this reason, he did not want his activities on dating apps to be public. He understood, then, that different settings (work/private life) required him to enact different performances. His Grindr profile and activities are described by him as his ‘backstage’ (Goffman, 1959), where he could perform a different kind of identity. In this way, he navigated what Davis (2012: 645) calls ‘spheres of obligations’, where users tailor the online profiles to meet various expectations and reveal their multiple personas.

This participant also described moments when the boundaries between selves and audiences were not so clear. He spoke of one instance where he recognised a potential hook-up on Grindr who was in close proximity. The potential hook-up was another Aboriginal man and a member of the local community who did not know him to be gay in the community. Møller and Nebeling Petersen (2018), while discussing Grindr, refer to this as a ‘bleeding of the boundaries’ arguing:

The apps fundamentally disturb clear distinctions between ‘private’ and ‘public’, demanding users to work effectively to distinguish these domains. The disturbance is felt as troublesome, disorderly or a ‘bleeding of boundaries’. These disturbances occur when different categories of social relations are conflated through the use of hook up apps. (2018: 214)

The above example reflects similar stories from other participants who identify as gay, whereby users ‘move’ between identities as a way of securing some kind of anonymity or safety. Homophobia continues to be an issue in Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities as it is in society in general (see Farrell, 2015). The fracturing of identity therefore, is a response to perceived reactions and, in many cases, the threat of violence that can pervade these sites and spill into physical communities. Judith Butler (1999) draws attention to the ways that subjects are often forced into a state of self-fracture through performative acts and practices that threaten any illusion of an ‘authentic’, cohesive or unified self (which has long been challenged by Butler and other theorists of identity as an impossibility). Drawing on Butler’s ideas, Rob Cover (2012) argues that social media sites themselves are in fact performative acts. He identifies two online performative acts: modifying one’s online profile through choosing categories of online identity and exhibiting the tastes and preferences in keeping with those, and, second, identifying in various ways with friends and networks that are similar, or deleting those that are not. Cover’s work, although not dealing with online dating apps (he focuses on Facebook and MySpace) is useful here in that he pinpoints the ‘workload’ involved in identity production that, in the case of online dating apps, is arguably more rigorous and demanding than it is on other platforms. Users of Grindr, for example, are often subject to extreme homophobia where issues of race hatred are also present.

As this example demonstrates, for gay Indigenous men, careful boundary work goes into maintaining identities on dating apps. They can be caught between managing multiple selves that are curated, on the one hand, to fulfil personal desires and, on the other, to navigate the external expectations of employers, the community and the violent presence of homophobia.

Findings 2: ‘Sexual racism’ on Grindr

Racism directed towards Indigenous people in Australia is widespread (Berman and Paradies, 2010; Bodkin-Andrews and Carlson, 2016; Hickey, 2015; Lentin, 2017; Mellor, 2003). It is ‘alive and kicking’, notes Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Social Justice Commissioner, June Oscar (Karvelas, 2018). Racism persists as one of the greatest barriers to overcoming inequalities suffered by Indigenous people in Australia (Bodkin-Andrews and Carlson, 2014). It is experienced by Indigenous people daily on social media (Carlson and Frazer, 2018) and in all social sites where the Cultural Interface is navigated on a daily basis.

Grindr has been accused of being a site where racism flourishes (Renninger, 2018: 8; Robinson and Frost, 2018), which has led to the recent launch of ‘Kindr’, an initiative that is supposed to encourage users to ‘play nicer’ (Leighton-Dore, 2018). The reaction to the campaign has been mixed, from praise through to doubts that the effort will be effective (Leighton-Dore, 2018). Many claim a broader cultural shift in the gay community is needed.

As Indigenous women are beginning to speak out about the misogyny and racism on Tinder, gay men are also joining their ranks to identify the incidence of homophobia that intersects with racism. Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander men who identify as gay have been subject to violence and racism online when using ‘hook-up’ apps. In 2016, Dustin Mangatjay McGregor, an Aboriginal university student, shared the frequent racist messages he receives on Grindr. He claimed he did so to demonstrate that there is a distinct hierarchy of preference in the gay community that he suggests, places ‘the white attractive male is at the top of this pyramid’, and that Aboriginal men ‘are usually at, or come close to, the bottom’ (Verass, 2016: np). McGregor claims that he is sent racist messages frequently that include derogatory comments about his Aboriginal status. These are usually slurs that mock Indigenous claims to the land and make reference to issues of petrol sniffing and other stereotypical jibes. McGregor was also asked if he is capable of speaking English (Donelly, 2016).

The Indigenous men in this study who spoke about their experiences on dating apps also explained that they had been subject to racism after connecting with potential partners on Grindr. This screenshot (Figure 1) was provided by one participant, a 21-year-old gay Aboriginal man from NSW who was chatting with a possible ‘hook-up’ partner on Grindr. After a racial slur about Aboriginal people the young man commented that he took offence and identified himself as Aboriginal. He was then sent a barrage of texts similar to this one.

OPEN IN VIEWER

Figure 1.

Screenshot from Grindr.

Dating sites allow users to express and reinforce sexual preference based on racial characteristics. Indeed, McGregor (Verass, 2016) explained that it is common practice for Grindr users to express a sexual preference and that often profiles will include statements such as ‘no rice or spice’, or ‘Euros only’, ‘Aussie only’, ‘GWM [gay white men] only’ (Donelly, 2016; Rafalow et al., 2017). Likewise, in an Australia-wide online survey of gay and bisexual men on the topic of sexual preference conducted in 2016, it was revealed that many of the respondents discriminated among partners on the basis of race (Callander et al., 2016). The results revealed that Aboriginal men were deemed less attractive than most other categories, including white men, and that they would most likely be romantically or sexually excluded on the basis of race. The study provided no information in relation to the characteristics or phenotypical traits that were ascribed to the category ‘Aboriginal’ therefore it is presumed that such bias stems from stereotypical views about Aboriginal identity in Australia.

This issue of ‘sexual preference’ and ‘racial exclusion’ is regularly referred to as ‘sexual racism’ (Bedi, 2015; Callander et al., 2016; Robinson and Frost, 2018). Some however, argue that it is ‘sexual freedom and individual preferences’ as opposed to racism (Callander et al., 2016: 4). ‘Sexual racism’ refers to the practice of racial discrimination and prejudice in the context of looking for a sexual partner or seeking romance and is generally based on phenotypical characteristics (Bedi, 2015; Callander et al., 2015; Robinson and Frost, 2018). Bedi (2015: 998) suggests it is ‘nothing more than a kind of blatant, even ugly (pun intended) kind of racial favoritism or disgust’. Situating sexual racism firmly in the realm of racial discrimination, Bedi claims that it is not about sexual preference but ‘problematic conditions that structure the very formation of romantic relationships’ and argues that this should be of public concern (Bedi, 2015: 998).

For Indigenous men, however, phenotypical characteristics are not necessarily the defining factor in the decision to exclude. As the examples above make clear, the elimination and vitriol often only comes after the person reveals they are Indigenous. Prior to the revelation, there is evidence of chatting and flirting and often an intention to ‘hook up’. So, for Indigenous people then, ‘sexual racism’ is just racism. This form of structural violence has a constant presence for Indigenous people navigating social media and dating apps. It reveals a deep-seated hatred of Aboriginal people that has little to do with phenotypical characteristics and much more to do with conventional racism. For gay Indigenous men, the potential for love, intimacy and pleasure on Grindr, then, is always threatened by the violence of existing colonial discursive forces.

Findings 3: Playing ‘swipe logic’, constructing a ‘desirable self’

This section explores the experiences of Indigenous women on Tinder. Newer to the online dating scene, Tinder was established in 2012 and it is estimated to have over 50 million users. Tinder connects with users’ Facebook profiles and publishes a user’s name, age and a photo profile picture. The link to Facebook also provides information to the person viewing the profile about any friends they may have in common along with providing a sense of safety that the profile is ‘legitimate’ or ‘authentic’. As Baym (2011) suggests, a Facebook profile is akin to a passport to the internet. Selecting a ‘date’ (i.e. a virtual meeting) on Tinder requires the user to set preferences such as age, gender and geographic distance. Based on the profile pictures, the user can swipe right to ‘like’ or left to ‘dislike’. In order for two users to connect, both users have to ‘like’ each other. According to Stampler (2014: np) Tinder was designed to ‘take the stress out of dating, being a type of “game” that requires less time and emotional investment to play’. The ‘game’ does however require some investment (see Sales, 2015) from users if they want the gratification of being ‘liked’ or being successful in hooking up. As one of Sales’ participants explained:

‘It’s such a game, and you have to always be doing everything right, and if not, you risk losing whoever you’re hooking up with …’ By ‘doing everything right’ she means ‘not texting back too soon; never double texting; liking the right amount of his stuff,’ on social media. (Sales, 2015)

Tinder is more successful than previous dating apps and websites. Bilton (2014) argues that this is because it relies on images and one’s appearance. Bilton draws on the ‘science of attraction’ to suggest that this, in the initial stages, is more likely to predict the success of a relationship than other factors. He claims he is not suggesting that choices are made only on how good looking someone is, but that people are able to scan other people’s appearances for various signs of ‘compatibility’. Bosker (2013: np) suggests that Tinder, ‘offers the digital equivalent of stepping into a party and immediately knowing which of the people you find attractive think you’re good looking, too. It’s as if singles suddenly had mind-reading super-powers.’ Baxter (2013: np) describes Tinder as ‘shopping for partners’, claiming, ‘Love is now a capitalist enterprise, and Tinder is the Tesco of the dating mall: cheap; convenient; predictable produce.’ Earlier forms of online dating involved carefully curated profiles and an assumption that the purpose was a search for ‘compatible’ partners. Yet, with ‘location-aware’ dating apps, the criteria are often simply proximity and appearance.

Tinder, according to David and Cambre (2016: 5–7) is an example of ‘molarisation’ – reducing the complexity of the world to a simplistic, Manichean ‘good/bad’ binary. In the process, dating itself is reduced to a more simplistic logic; the person is lifted out of their social context, stripped of their individuality. When seen alongside a catalogue of countless others, the face is seen not as that of a unique individual, but as variations on a theme. The image becomes an alienated version of the body, ‘commodified’, in a sense, for the consumption of others. Online dating apps have engendered a ‘hook-up culture’ which is more about casual relationships and sexual encounters with relative strangers, more so than looking for life partners (Hobbs et al., 2017; Sales, 2015).

Thus Tinder is based on what David and Cambre (2016) have described as ‘swipe logic’: the imperative to make rapid decisions about potential partners based solely on immediate reactions to fetishised images. They suggest this logic disrupts conventional notions of intimacy based on closeness, familiarity and duration of connection; rather, Tinder privileges immediacy and levity (David and Cambre, 2016). Tinder’s matchmaking features are by nature mediated and depersonalised and the speed of profile viewing on the app, according to David and Cambre (2016), is a potential hindrance to intimacy. Given that selection is based predominantly on images, photos are generally used as profile pics, constructing a ‘pseudo self-authenticity’ (David and Cambre, 2016: 4). The originality and quality of photos becomes important; an image must stand out given the number of profiles to select from and the way in which users engage in swiping.

Like the Grindr app, users on Tinder can also link to other social media profiles to allow for more extended self-promotion than the Tinder interface allows. However, the linkage to a Facebook profile also creates problems for users by limiting them to a specific presentation of self-identity:

Facebook’s real name requirement guides users towards policy abiding, peer-approved behaviour, precluding the performance of fluid identities or the differential self-presentation desired (and often needed) by diverse minorities, such as queer subcultures. (Duguay, 2016: 7)

In short, one’s success on Tinder can depend on having ‘a datable Facebook self’ (Duguay, 2016: 7). The ‘workload’ previously mentioned is considerable, therefore, if users are to construct any semblance of a recognisable ‘self’ that exists beyond the swiped image. The maintenance of a user’s personal profile can be an all-consuming act subject always to discipline and regimes of surveillance (Foucault, 1977) that, if not adhered to, will incur penalties. This is particularly the case for Indigenous users, whose performativity on social networking sites can also involve the added labour of navigating an unfamiliar cultural landscape or context, especially in remote areas. The policing of identities by other users, both non-Indigenous and Indigenous, often demands a high level of maintenance and self-surveillance that can be time-consuming, laborious and, indeed, injurious to many users (Carlson, 2016; Lumby, 2010). Inconsistencies, or ‘errors’, such as erroneous statements about oneself, or conflicting information, are often ‘weeded out’ publicly, resulting in penalties of humiliation, and in some cases ostracism, being imposed. The task of identity construction thus becomes a daily ritual of performativity, demanding time, energy and scrupulous attention to detail (Carlson, 2016).

The workings of ‘swipe logic’ have real consequences for women who do not fit the normative racial mould of online dating. Three Indigenous women, one aged in her late 20s and the other two in their early 30s in one small and more remotely located community spoke about the use of carefully constructed and simulated profile pics. It was their judgement that people seeking any form of connection on dating apps would not consider their profiles. Because of this they reported that they used images obtained on the internet, of (often) blonde, and blue-eyed women. Most women in this community were neither blonde nor blue-eyed. They explained that they used simulated profiles to attract attention that would lead to chatting and/or textual romances.

Such performative acts are indicative of knowledge of regimes of surveillance, but, as importantly, they demonstrate knowledge of what needs to be done in order to fulfil the basic requirements of ‘hooking up’. Ellison et al. (2012) suggest there is some flexibility in self-presentation in online dating, though they also suggest that the likelihood of a face-to-face meeting tends to curb such identity manipulations. In this instance, the women realised they would never actually have any face-to-face interactions with interested parties. This was determined by their remote location and also, to some degree, dictated by cultural and social norms which would not necessarily accept online dating and conversations that involve flirting and sexual innuendos. Engaging in online chatting and ‘textual romances’, however, was seen as a way of avoiding transgressing social norms regarding male–female interactions, which would be more restricted in physical settings, and avoiding the corporeal risks often associated with physically meeting men from outside of the local community and who are generally non-Indigenous.

These women, therefore, navigated the critical operation of ‘swipe logic’ that worked to exclude racially non-normative users, instead producing a desirable self through intentional misrepresentation. Online dating thus offers an ‘under the radar’ possibility for ‘textual romances’ which carries less risk of disapproval from family and community. Interestingly, the women expressed distrust in the authenticity of the people they were chatting with online just as they themselves openly commented on their own manipulations. Reflecting on online dating as a game, most interviewees did not regard their online relationships as particularly serious.

Findings 4: When romance turns to violence – Indigenous women and Tinder

But it is clear there can be serious consequences to online dating. There are very real potential dangers with location-aware apps as they provide real-time locations of users. There have been multiple reports in Australia and internationally of violence and murder of women stemming from online dating apps (Cumming, 2017; Ferguson, 2016; Guthrie, 2014; Wood, 2018).

Highlighting violence against women as the most prevalent human rights violation in the world, ElSherief and colleagues (2017: 52) acknowledge the potential for social media to be a pervasive open platform that provides a unique lens into gender-based violence. Violence against women is currently the subject of widespread media coverage, including debates about policy interventions and the need for social media platforms to respond more effectively. However, as argued by Jane (2014: 558), there is ‘ample evidence to support the contention that gendered vitriol is proliferating in the cybersphere’.

Thus Tinder is not necessarily a safe space for women in general who are looking for relationships or to hook up for sex. It is rife with examples of misogyny that manifest in sexually aggressive behaviours and demands of dominance and control. As Hess and Flores explain:

These heterosexist performative displays often conform to dominant stereotypes about men’s sexual prowess – of being on the hunt and seeing sex as a competition […] which may encourage some men to engage in deliberate misogynistic behaviours when seeking dates with women. (2018:1088)

Yet little attention has been given to how the lives of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women are impacted by such mediated violence. Recent media reports (Carey, 2018; Graham, 2018; Moran, 2016) have shown that, online, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women are exposed to racist, traumatic diatribes, and often experience direct threats of violence, including rape and murder. For Indigenous women who utilise dating apps, sexism and misogyny are often accompanied by racism and threats of violence.

In one of the few documented examples, an Aboriginal woman posted comments from her Tinder to highlight the racism to which she was subjected (Clarke, 2016). The woman received what she described as a ‘vile message’ from a man who was identified on Tinder as being only ‘5 kilometers away’ and who sent her a message asking, ‘is it true abos have two sized nostrils – one for unleaded and one for leaded?’ (Clarke, 2016). The message came after the man had expressed he ‘super liked’ the woman then realised she identified as Aboriginal (Clarke, 2016).

Likewise, in fieldwork for this research, eight women, aged in their 20s and 30s spoke about the moment when potential partners/hook-ups realised they were Aboriginal. Several interviewees revealed that they have received numerous messages on Tinder that could be described as having ‘sinister undertones’ that generally relate to sexual violence. In one particularly violent response one of the interviewees, an Aboriginal woman in her 30s from Queensland was told: ‘you black cunts are only good for fucking’. The person threatened to locate the woman to sexually assault her stating he would, ‘fuck you in all your black holes’.

Much like the experience of gay Indigenous men on Grindr discussed above, interviews also revealed that the violent, ‘unexpurgated ugliness’ (Jane, 2014: 567) only began after a user’s Indigeneity had been revealed. Interviewees stated that prior to the revelation of cultural identity, chatting could be described as friendly, and often intimate and flirtatious. So, following the rules of performativity is a permanent act; the adopted blonde, blue-eyed identity described by participants in the previous section often cannot be rescinded for fear of real violence. Online dating apps differ from sites such as Facebook where a friend can be added, rejected or removed, and a ‘self’ can be constructed through a diverse range of likes, dislikes, advertisements and other paraphernalia. In the online dating schema, initial swiping is an action of instant judgement where future variations to, or amendments of, the original representational image are invariably not tolerated. In the best-case scenario, explanations are demanded; in the worst, as above, violence is threatened. This online violence can take many forms, such as abuse via content/posts/images/memes, stalking and harassment, which can also lead to offline physical violence (Barlow and Awan, 2016).

Instead of thinking about online violence and racism as different to offline interactions we need to consider online violence as an extension of offline gender and racial relations, which are marked by notable levels of violence and abuse toward Indigenous women more generally (see for example the cases of Ms Dhu and Ms Daley) (Langton, 2016). Tolerance towards violence directed at Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander women transcends the ‘offline’ world via social media.

Closing

The Cultural Interface, Nakata argues, is where Indigenous people negotiate both symbolic and real sites of tension. Online spaces, in this context, constitute the ‘overlay of myriad intersections and sets of relations’ (2007: 210) and can be understood as digitally mediated ‘site[s] of struggle over the meaning of [our] experience’ (2007: 210). Dating apps constitute relatively new sites of culturally and politically mediated encounters, in which identities are (per)formed, resisted, marginalised and reimagined.

This article has sought to develop modest insights into the experiences and performances of Indigenous Australians’ personal forays into the complex interface of online dating. It is clear that, for many Indigenous users, these spaces of potential love, intimacy and joy are often circumscribed by broader structural processes of homophobia, racism and misogyny. In this context, users must actively produce and manage often multiple desirable selves. The dangers of failing in the performance can be devastating for the users, who can be ‘outed’ within their communities, racially abused, or threatened with corporeal violence. Thus there is a strong sense of danger felt by Indigenous users of these apps that can manifest in strict self-surveillance and vigilant performativity, and in high-level anxiety, and also, in some instances, self-removal from a site due to fear of actual bodily violence. Heterosexual Indigenous women must navigate both misogyny and racism, while gay Indigenous men must navigate both homophobia and racism – in any case, they must all fracture their identities in order to keep safe.

Whether or not racism is presented merely as ‘sexual preference’, it is always blatant and aggressive towards Indigenous people. But we still know little about the actual impact of this online racism, or about effective strategies for mitigating its negative effects. Equally, and inversely, we still know little about the stories of positive relationships and sexual encounters, where enjoyment has been found and ongoing relationships have been formed. Empirical studies in relation to Indigenous engagements on dating apps remain lacking and a major limitation of this study is its ability to generalise beyond the relatively small sample of gay men and heterosexual women. Having noted this, the findings have shown categorically that dating apps, while providing a meeting place for ‘hook-ups’, romances and friendships, are also sites of acute tension for many where rules must be followed to the letter in order for penalties not to be imposed.