Every Black woman I know has struggled with the dating sphere on this campus. Whether they were queer or straight, they have experienced white partners by whom they felt tokenized and Black partners by whom they felt disrespected. “I have other choices,” is what it feels like the Black men on this campus are saying. They believe they are taking advantage of the exoticism that white women regard them with, when really they are (predictably) contributing to a cycle of racial abuse. But what particularly hurts is the ways that queer Black women have struggled on this campus. Many people come to Wesleyan with the expectation of pursuing relationships with women and non-binary folk who claim to be more open-minded than most. For a school that projects itself as overwhelmingly gay and liberal, why is it that such a large portion of the queer community is obscured from the larger sexual narrative of this campus? The dating situation between Black and white students at Wesleyan is wholly peculiar, and this is a specific facet of a much larger phenomenon that I would like to address. 

I use the term narcissistic lesbianism to describe the phenomenon across liberal arts campuses where skinny white lesbians only date other skinny white lesbians. Someone once asked me, “Does this mean you expect white women to be more aware of their own biases than Black women because of their queerness?” And the answer is yes—their compounding status as both women (or woman-presenting) and queer should give them a sense of prejudice and discrimination that allows them to empathize with the plight of queer Black women. But I never expected them to actually follow through. The fact of the matter is that, regardless of their queerness, white women overwhelmingly benefit from a patriarchy that functions under white supremacy. Their proximity to whiteness (and particularly white men) protects them. And when those cultural status markers compound with being able-bodied, wealthy, and thin, it creates a recipe for privilege. And most of these women refuse to interrogate the internal biases that affect their dating choices and sexual preferences by hiding behind the blanket of their queerness. But guess what? Lesbians can be racist too. Lesbians can be fat-phobic too. Lesbians can be just as bigoted as everyone else, especially when they’re white. 

I choose to adopt a white-Black binary in this article because of the distinctive positions that white and Black women hold on the spectrum of cultural desirability (see NPR’s report on dating apps by race). In America’s highly racialized culture, Black women are consistently positioned as the least wanted, the least cared for, and the least worthy of love. In direct contrast are white women, who are positioned as the pinnacle of Western beauty, the most in need of support and validation, and the object of (supposedly) everyone’s romantic and sexual fantasies. Meanwhile, when white women do fawn over Black women, it is a highly fantastical, hyper-feminized, and often Eurocentric ideal of the Black female body: think Megan Thee Stallion, Zendaya, and Zoe Kravitz. (Note that two thirds of the women I mentioned are mixed race and hold a closer proximity to whiteness than other Black women). They hide behind these women to avoid confronting the deep racism that they hold, and yet their objectification of the aforementioned women’s physical bodies is proof of a continued lack of respect and a disregard for the humanity of Black women. 

But I acknowledge the complicity that my Black peers and I have had in the systems that we earnestly denounce. It’s not that no one should be attracted to white women, but I wish to interrogate why we view them as this coveted prize in the first place. What are the internal and external biases at work in my own life as a Black woman that makes white women’s denial of Black female sexuality (except in selective circumstances) particularly painful? How can I deconstruct the ways that I have been taught to value the thin, white, able-bodied woman above all and even, at some points, against my own interest?

Some may ask what I believe will come of this, and the truth is: nothing. The fact of the matter is that white women are deeply afraid of confronting their own whiteness because it would require an analysis of how they benefit from patriarchal systems. I think about how early white suffragettes used the end of slavery to justify acquiring the right to vote. I think about how women of color were slowly pushed out of the movement at the realization that it would be easier to achieve suffrage if they framed it as a white right rather than a female right. It has always been easier for white women to function socially because of their all too willing alignment with their whiteness. In the scaffolding of white supremacist patriarchy, they fall second in line right behind white men.

To the white lesbians who read this article and feel a tinge of conviction brewing in their gut, perhaps yielding an immediately defensive response that yells: “That’s not me! That’s not everyone! That’s not true!”—I hope that this encourages you to confront the racism that operates within the complex network of relationships that have accrued within your life. Honestly though, I don’t have high hopes. If history can prove to be any sort of measuring stick, asking white women to acknowledge their own prejudice is a Herculean task.

Celeste McKenzie is a member of the class of 2026 and can be reached at cmckenzie01@wesleyan.edu.