Inside a Binary Interface: The Construction of Gender and Identity in Mainstream Dating Apps
By Avery Garritano
Abstract
Historically in western-influenced societies, binary conceptualizations of gender identity and sexual orientation have been socially and politically reinforced to fulfill the dominant assumption that, for bodies to ‘make sense,’ there must be a stable sex which corresponds to and supports a stable gender presentation and compulsory heterosexual preference. Applying Judith Butler’s framework of the cis heterosexual matrix to critique ruling sex-gender-sexuality regimes, this paper contends that the interfaces and infrastructure of popular online dating applications Tinder and Bumble not only reflect dominant cisgender (cis) and heteronormative values, but also establish and perpetuate a binary-heterosexual model of gender-sexuality intelligibility. Data from larger studies and past analyses of gender construction and presentation on dating apps are synthesized to demonstrate the ways in which the interfaces’ static depictions of masculinity and femininity permit aggressive displays of male sexuality and normalize the commodification of women. Furthermore, this work explores how transgender (trans), gender non-conforming (GNC), and queer users are structurally excluded from and rendered unintelligible by the binary-dependent interfaces and infrastructures of Tinder and Bumble, a situation which lends itself to increased harassment and often forces these users to realign themselves with binary gender expressions for the sake of both functionality and safety. Suggestions for improving inclusivity in dating apps include making identities distinct in code, adding a selection box where users can choose the identities of individuals they would prefer to see within their potential matches, and providing more methods of protection from harassment.
Keywords
gender, dating apps, heterosexual matrix, sex-gender-sexuality regime, transgender, gender non-conforming, Tinder, Bumble, compulsory heterosexuality
Introduction
Social values and norms, including those related to gender and sexuality, will inevitably be programmed into software based on developers’ cultural perceptions. “There is no technological reason for these [binary gender] constraints,” remarked authors Caitlin MacLeod and Victoria MacArthur (2019) in The Construction of Gender in Dating Apps: An Interface Analysis of Tinder and Bumble; rather, “they are the product of a hegemonic cycle of heteronormative design practices.” However, the structure and function of software not only reflect hegemonic cisgender (cis) and heteronormative values, but also operate as the cis heterosexual matrix — constructing and naturalizing a binary-heterosexual model of gender-sexuality intelligibility. Utilizing Judith Butler’s framework of the cis heterosexual matrix, this paper analyzes how the interfaces and infrastructures of two high-grossing dating applications, Tinder and Bumble, create barriers for transgender (trans), gender non-conforming (GNC), and queer users through the reification of compulsory cis heterosexual dynamics, the reinforcement of structural exclusion for those existing outside of binary sex-gender alignment, and the allowance of harassment. Contextualized by data from larger studies and previous gender analysis of dating apps, additional research was conducted through interviews with three queer Western Washington University students. The goal of this study is not to find a causal relationship, but instead to consider how the presentation of information on each interface influences users’ perceptions of their own genders and reinforces stereotypical binary expectations regarding gender presentation and expression.
App Background
Tinder
In 2012, software developers Jonathan Badeen, Justin Mateen, Joe Munoz, Dinesh Mrjani, Chis Gylczynski, and Whitney Wolfe founded and launched the popular mobile dating app Tinder. Featuring a simplistic design for matchmaking based on name, age, gender, and location, this virtual dating interface was invented in response to “CEO Sean Rad’s own experiences of being too worried about rejection to approach groups of women in person” (Bivens & Hoque, 2018). The app’s central design has users connect with or pass on potential matches with a simple swipe right (connect) or left (pass). Users are presented with photos (up to 10), name, age, and proximity first, while the biography and additional information of potential matches can be revealed with a finger swipe up. This presentation of user information makes the user's matchmaking decisions primarily based on the outward appearance of potential matches. As reported by Aaron Hess and Carlos Flores (2018), “over 50 million people have been active on Tinder with over 1.6 billion profile views and 12 million matches made.” However, as Tinder’s userbase expands, female Tinder users, in particular, argue the app’s hook-up culture and disproportionate amount of male users nurture misogyny and crude male behavior (Titlow, 2016). In 2013, a study conducted by the Pew Research Center found that 42% of women who have frequented online dating applications “reported being ‘contacted by someone through an online dating site or app in a way that made them feel harassed or uncomfortable,’” while only 17% of male users reported similar experiences (Titlow, 2016).
Bumble
In response to unsolicited male aggression, hypersexualized messages, and explicit photos impacting women, executive Whitney Wolfe left Tinder to craft the now mainstream mobile dating app Bumble. Intended to alleviate trends of masculine violence, the app’s trademark “women message first” feature removes men’s ability to initiate conversations. As of 2017, the app had a reported 12 million users (Bivens & Shah Hoque, 2018). Bumble’s mechanics are similar to those of Tinder, mirroring the swipe right (connect) or left (pass) function for matching. However, after a successful match, Bumble deviates by offering a 24-hour period for female users to initiate a conversation, followed by a second 24-hour window for the potential suitor to send a response.
The Cisgender and Heterosexual Matrix
In her feminist theory of gender performativity, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, American philosopher Judith Butler (1990) examined the binary interpretation of bodies grounded in core essentializations about gender identity and sexual orientation. Butler’s observations of the socially and politically reinforced binary conceptualization of gender, which she labels the ‘heterosexual matrix,’ are characterized by the notion that:
for bodies to cohere and make sense there must be a stable sex expressed through a stable gender (masculine expresses male, feminine expresses female) that is oppositionally and hierarchically defined through the compulsory practice of heterosexuality. (151)
This hegemonic epistemic model of gender comprehension indicates that bodies are predominantly understood through the facile notion that biological sex and physical attributes directly signify one’s alignment with binary gender presentation. Narrow public understanding of gender identity paired with the individual desire to label and categorize peers leads to the expectation that one’s gender identity will align and remain consistent with one of two strict categories: ‘masculine’ or ‘feminine.’ This binary understanding of gender identity is perpetuated by compulsory heterosexuality, wherein it is socially assumed and politically reinforced that the only ‘natural’ sexual relationship is that between a man and a woman. Individuals who do not align with cisgender and/or heterosexual identities are socially and politically ostracized and perceived as ‘unnatural’ or ‘other.’
Individuals who do not align with cisgender and/or heterosexual identities are socially and politically ostracized and perceived as ‘unnatural’ or ‘other.’
Systems built consciously or unconsciously aligning with these cisgender and heteronormative values will inevitably limit access to users who exist and act outside of these standards. For the purpose of this analysis, Butler’s framework will be referred to as the ‘cis heterosexual matrix,’ given that the cultural perception of an ‘innate’ gender identity congealing around an ‘innate’ biological sex is central to her analysis of the heterosexual matrix; in other words, cisgender identity and heterosexuality are interconnected and mutually reinforcing norms. Regardless of surface-level initiatives for inclusivity, this cis heterosexual norm is exceedingly evident in the case of both Tinder and Bumble’s structures, op due to “a priori epistemological conditions” of sex, sexuality, and gender (Bivens & Shah Hoque, 2018). Following the performative structure of Butler’s theory, these applications not only passively reflect the cis heterosexual matrix, but their structures and functions also actively construct cis heteronormative values.
Prior to further analysis, it is essential to acknowledge and critique the atemporal and aspatial nature of Butler’s concept of the ‘heterosexual matrix’ (Patil, 2018). While the heterosexual matrix remains deeply embedded in western perceptions of feminism, gender, and sexuality, Butler’s work forgoes critical analysis of historical imperial impacts, colonialism, and structural racism alongside the subsequent influence on sex-gender-sexuality regimes across nations. Author Vrushali Patil (2018) used a framework of webbed connectivities to re-embed the heterosexual matrix into space and time and asserts that this concept must be “understood as a relational effect, emerging from cross-border networks of imperial relations” (29). The cis heterosexual matrix, as author David Valentine (2007) further elaborated, is rooted in the racialized views of early twentieth-century European sexologists and mid-twentieth-century United States psychiatrists and medical practitioners.
Race exists as an intersection of identity-forming systems alongside sexuality and gender that continues to institutionally other and depict certain peoples as ‘deviant’ in order to uphold the legitimacy of the state. Colonial and post-colonial states alike endorse “the symbolic capital of sexual and gender respectability in colonialism’s aftermath” as a tool to reproduce the legitimacy of the state in ways that parallel the western cis heterosexual matrix (Patil, 2018). That is not to say that the same framework is consistent across nations; instead, “the broader network of imperial relations [. . .] from which the western heterosexual matrix emerges — and within which other regimes are multiply situated — must be acknowledged” (Patil, 2018). This brief recount centers the cis heterosexual matrix into time and space to acknowledge the relational effect of this framework when addressing the social and political construction of gender within and beyond the United States, as well as interrelated perceptions of racial and sexual ‘deviance.’
Due to the very manner in which Tinder, Bumble, and similar dating sites reference and rely upon binary interpretation of gender, this paper primarily investigates gender identity and sexuality. Gender identity is uniquely situated at the core of dating application development; thus, it is key to understand how the affordances of dating applications both reflect and promote social and political sex-gender-sexuality regimes and uniquely ostracize gender non-conforming and queer-identifying users. However, analysis in this study remains limited by a lack of data on queer people of color, queer disabled people, or queer Indigenous people. Future studies may develop more complex analysis through a focus on different intersectional identities.
Compulsory Heterosexual Dynamics in Straight Cisgender Users
Tinder
A demographic look at Tinder’s user base reveals that, of the 50 million people who have been active on Tinder since its launch in September 2012, the number of male-identifying users outnumbers female-identifying users at least two-to-one (Hess & Flores, 2016). Along with this skewed gender balance, Tinder has developed a reputation for crude male behavior, a culture of misogyny, and notable participation in ‘hook-up culture.’ Hess and Flores (2016) maintain that hook-up culture is a practice deeply entrenched within hegemonic performances of masculinity and femininity “through which men ‘[experience] both subtle and overt pressure from other men to achieve and maintain a socially acceptable level of ‘masculine’ behavior and displays.’”
Male exertion of masculinity, and by extension compulsory heterosexuality, through the affordances of Tinder are most clearly displayed through the scores of hypersexualized pick-up lines sent from men to women among the collection of the 845 Tinder conversation screenshots shared on the Instagram page Tinder Nightmares (Hess & Flores, 2016). “I just finished a round of golf, wanna be my 19th hole today?” is one of many intrusive conversation openers featured on Tinder Nightmares, based on the overt sexualization and commodification of the female body and the assumption that direct sexualization of women’s bodies will lead to successful heterosexual courtship (qtd. in Hess & Flores, 2016). In numerous cases, these messages from men to women are not only toxic but are framed in a way that presents (heterosexual) sex as obligatory instead of optional. This occurrence is seen in another conversation featured on Tinder Nightmares, where user A insisted, “Hey Devon – glad we matched! Any interest in grabbing some drinks and having some obligatory sex? If you’re not into drinks, I totally understand” (qtd. in Thompson, 2018). While the message framed the drinks as optional, the sexual aspect was deemed inevitable. Thompson (2018) asserted that these conversations, as well as those that are more outright and sexually aggressive, pressured men to display a socially acceptable form of masculinity, which:
constructs an insistent, sexually aggressive style of male sexuality as healthy, normal and desirable (Hollway, 1989; Jackson, 1978) and thus positions sexual strategies from persuasion to coercion — and sometimes even aggression — as legitimate means of “getting” sex from women (see Wood, Lambert, & Jewkes, 2007). Women, on the other hand, are positioned by this discourse as “naturally” resistant to the idea of casual sex and in need of persuasion, so a “no” may be safely ignored or even considered “token resistance.”
Tinder’s infrastructure and male-dominant demographic have shaped and perpetuated the ways in which men reassert their masculinity to align with social expectations and compete with other men through the app’s embrace of hook-up culture. Through such encounters on Tinder, women have been disadvantaged and disempowered. That is not to say that Tinder is the sole cause for these aggressive compulsory acts of heterosexuality, but that the creation of a competitive virtual dating platform that both normalizes aggressive displays of male sexuality and the commodification of female users reflects and reinforces values held in the cis heterosexual matrix.
Bumble
With the development of Bumble, Wolfe intended to create a ‘feminist Tinder’ with a design that restructures online courtship in a way that suppresses male violence and aggression towards women. However, the goals behind the trademark “women message first” feature seldom carry through when Bumble users connect beyond the first message. In fact, users have consistently noted that the “feminist design did not extend past the first contact and that, when it came to setting up in-person meetings, the norm that men should ask women reasserted itself” (MacLeod & McArthur, 2018).
Bivens and Hoque (2018) note the way Bumble seeks to manage and protect users based on an overgeneralized heteronormative view of gender relations. The app’s founding construction of masculinity presupposes that “male bodies are the carriers of masculine traits and their masculine gender performance is equated with their sexual preference (i.e., women)” (Bivens & Hoque, 2018). The ‘women message first’ feature reifies the idea that men must be managed due to their supposed inability to perform non-violent masculinity. Meanwhile, female bodies are viewed as ‘at risk,’ innocent, and reluctant. Not only is heterosexuality implied, but these gendered generalizations impact what approaches to safety and control are built into the application’s infrastructure (Bivens & Hoque, 2018).
This limited depiction of gender further assumes that only cisgender women are victims of online harassment and aggressive masculinity, failing to provide protection to those outside of the cis heteronormative dating field.
This limited depiction of gender further assumes that only cisgender women are victims of online harassment and aggressive masculinity, failing to provide protection to those outside of the cis heteronormative dating field. Transgender and queer users and users of color experience similar violence, fetishization, and harassment on these dating platforms. Despite the advertised intentions to empower women, Bumble instead creates a narrow depiction of gender and gendered relations tied directly to respective male and female bodies that reestablishes gender stereotypes and norms (Bivens & Shah Hoque, 2018).
Structural Barriers for Trans, GNC, and Queer Users
To develop an understanding of the profile creation process on Tinder and Bumble, I personally downloaded and created profiles on both apps. I aimed to analyze how each application guides users to present their personal identities and select how they would prefer to be viewed by others, specifically their expressions of gender and sexuality. As a queer-aligned nonbinary college student, I have experienced some of the structural limitations that inhibit an accurate online expression of gender identity and sexuality. However, I acknowledge that as a white individual, I lack firsthand experience or personal understanding of the racial barriers posed by the affordances of dating applications, nor can I speak to the experiences of individuals who align with other gender identities and sexual orientations. I wanted to expand my knowledge on how those who identify outside of the established ‘norms’ of cisgender and heterosexuality are uniquely impacted by the constructed interface of online dating apps and how said structure is navigated or avoided completely. Thus, I interviewed three white LGBTQ+ peers about their experiences with Tinder and Bumble to further understand the structural barriers within the apps’ interfaces for trans, gender non-conforming, and queer users.
Structural Barriers on Tinder
When first creating an account, Tinder’s opening screen presents the application’s rules and expectations. The first requirement is to “be yourself; make sure your photos, age, and bio are true to who you are.” This guideline is significant and perhaps the most controversial given how Tinder polices identity. Upon initial profile creation, the gender options presented are ‘male,’ ‘female,’ and ‘more,’ with the third option redirecting the user to a new page containing a text box to input whatever identity the user chooses along with approximately 40 selectable identities. Added in 2016 in response to rampant harassment of transgender users, the ‘more’ option resembles Facebook’s 2014 push for ‘inclusivity,’ in which a ‘custom’ gender choice and 56 identity options were incorporated into the application’s profile creation page (Bivens, 2017). On a surface level, these initiatives seem like a step in dismantling binary perceptions of gender and allowing users beyond the binary to express their respective gender identities. The catch, however, reveals itself as the Facebook sign-up page contains “a mandatory, binary gender field” along with a prompt for users to select binary-aligned pronouns (Bivens, 2017). Similarly, directly under Tinder’s nonbinary options box is a mandatory question with only two options: whether the user wishes to be included in searches for men or for women. This required question nullifies the gender non-conforming option by forcing users to select a binary-aligned gender that the system and other users will use to view and comprehend them, a feature which, when asked, “Is there anything that stood out in the structure of Tinder?” nonbinary student and user B. Adams (personal communication, May 28, 2020) mentioned immediately.
In this way, Tinder’s constructed interface and programming only allow for users to search for matches among men, women, or both — recategorizing users who initially selected a nonbinary-aligned gender as either ‘male’ or ‘female,’ based on binary-aligned pronouns and search options selected during the profile creation process. Consequently, Tinder relies upon binary-aligned gender signifiers to craft an infrastructure that presumes cisgender and heterosexual identities as the default, while rendering nonbinary identity illegible — unable to be understood within the limits of the system (MacLeod & MacArthur, 2018). The limitations of Tinder’s gender selection process do not necessarily mean that gender non-conforming users are barred from expressing their identities — gender non-conforming users can add additional information in their biography, such as pronouns or other specifications regarding their gender — but they do face additional steps in regards to justifying their manner of gender presentation or, potentially, the legitimacy of their existence on or off the platform.
Cisgender users do not face further steps establishing gender identity beyond the initial ‘male’ or ‘female’ input, yet users who identify outside of the gender binary must work around the unavoidable binary categorization within Tinder’s infrastructure. MacLeod and MacArthur (2018) contended that “interfaces that only allow for the production of heteronormative identities act as ‘regulatory regimes’”; in regulating alternative identities ‘out of existence’ through the denial of their intelligibility, “users [are forced] to align themselves with a rigid binary system.”
Although user profiles are presented to potential matches based on what binary sex the user chose as their search presentation, the requirement for photos allows for users to demonstrate their gender identity implicitly or explicitly. This structure also exemplifies how Tinder’s interface was built within binary perceptions of gender identity, as the concept of gender expression and presentation was assumed to align with cisgender norms, catering profile creation to cisgender male and female users.
“Tinder makes me feel like I have to put my own gender aside until I find someone who is willing to accept that I am not a woman.”
– B. Adams
When regarding gender non-conforming users especially, selecting pictures is heavily influenced by the perception of potential matches. When asked if they were comfortable outwardly presenting their nonbinary identity on Tinder, Adams (personal communication, May 28, 2020) responded, “Tinder makes me feel like I have to put my own gender aside until I find someone who is willing to accept that I am not a woman. [. . .] I feel the need to present more feminine, to only post feminine photos because I get more matches that way.” This obligation to align with a binary gender while navigating Tinder is consistent with commentary from nonbinary-aligned participants who sought matches with men in a 2020 study conducted by MacKenzie Christensen, a student at the University of California, Irvine: “As Tinder directs all users, regardless of their indicated gender identity, to choose between man or woman, nonbinary femme users chose to align themselves under the category of woman.” This directly correlates with Tinder’s structural inaccessibility to gender identity outside of the binary (Christensen, 2020). Despite methods to reassert nonbinary-aligned gender identity through photos and profile biography, transgender and gender non-conforming users feel the need to obscure their identities and re-insert themselves into binary sex-gender-sexuality regimes in order to successfully navigate Tinder’s interface. In this way, Tinder enforces and promotes the cis heterosexual matrix as individuals are pressured to realign with the gender binary for the sake of success, safety, and/or functionality.
Structural Barriers on Bumble
Bumble’s profile creation process remains similar to that of Tinder. Bumble offers users the option to create a profile based on their Facebook information; yet as aforementioned, Facebook’s representation of gender is deeply entrenched in the binary and requires a user’s full legal name, forcing individuals with chosen names to negotiate with their comfort and identity (Duguay, 2015). As explained by MacLeod and McArthur (2018), this reliance on legal documentation for confirmation of identity:
removes users’ ability to make their own risk-management decisions, as information pulled from Facebook onto a dating profile may divulge more to strangers than the user would choose to if they were given full control over what to present to an audience of prospective partners.
Furthermore, if using Facebook to create an account, Bumble pre-selects a binary gender for the user based on information inputted in the respective Facebook profile. The user is allowed to change that preselected gender once to the other binary-aligned option, and any subsequent changes can only be achieved through contacting Bumble’s customer service (MacLeod & McArthur, 2018). This process is a clear depiction of how Bumble operates as the cis heterosexual matrix, presuming and policing the idea that gender is not only binary but unchanging.
If users decline using Facebook, they are brought to a gender selection page with the options ‘female,’ ‘male,’ and ‘more options.’ This design choice, much like Tinder, suggests that male and female are preferred and the default. There are approximately 40 selectable genders in the ‘more options’ category, but once again there is a mandatory field where users must select whether their profile will be shown to those who are looking for men or looking for women, nullifying gender selection outside of the binary and forcing gender non-conforming individuals to pick how they would like to be perceived and categorized on a binary scale.
Despite inclusive initiatives, this binary recategorization is a choice designed to support Bumble’s restricted messaging capabilities. The ‘women message first’ feature assumes the exclusive pursuit of heterosexual relationships on the application, and by extension relies on ‘male’ and ‘female’ gender identities while failing to account for functionality outside of this limited context. For same-sex pairings, either user can message first within the 24-hour period, rendering the empowerment and protections provided to women seeking heterosexual relationships useless for any individual outside of that categorization. As one user cited by Bivens and Hoque (2018) explains, “while LGBT people can download, match, and interact on Bumble, it doesn’t appear to have been designed for us.” Since the app understands gendered relations as predetermined behavior assigned to biological sex in a heteronormative context, it cannot account for alternative performances of gender from differently sexed bodies (Bivens & Hoque, 2018). In effect, these assumptions restrict and regulate alternative behaviors; Bumble’s interface both preserves and enforces the cis heterosexual matrix through static depictions and categorizations of gender to promote heterosexual relationships.
Harassment Faced by Trans, GNC, and Queer Users
In catering to a predominantly cis heterosexual audience, Tinder inevitably regulates ‘authenticity’ based on a binary view of gender (Duguay, 2015). In an attempt to eliminate profiles with falsified details, Tinder allows users to file complaints or reports against profiles deemed to contain inauthentic information. Over time, this feature disproportionately targeted transgender users, following high rates of unwarranted complaints filed by transphobic members who were uncomfortable with the existence of transgender users on the platform. Additionally, Tinder views names as static and prohibits any changes to inputted names following profile creation. Nonbinary Tinder user K. Bauer (personal communication, January 28, 2021) noted that they were unable to change their legal name presented on their profile; instead, Bauer had to clarify their preferred name in their biography. For numerous transgender and gender non-conforming users who undergo name changes, the inability to alter legal names not only has the potential to invalidate the user’s personal identity but also to endanger them in instances where they are forced to justify their identities to others. This design choice reflects the assumption that users’ identities are static and presumably aligned with legal documentation.
Crude behavior and harassment directed towards trans, gender non-conforming, queer users, fat users, and users of color seems to go consistently unaddressed on dating applications. When asked about his experience as a trans man using Tinder, student L. Spring (personal communication, May 28, 2020) mentioned countless profiles that promoted exclusionist mentalities based on identity within profile biographies, explicitly stating that users with certain outward presentations, weights, and skin colors were not allowed to interact with the profile. Spring recalled that biographies with standards such as “masc4masc, no fats, fems, trans, or poc” were “a common occurrence.” Spring himself presents more feminine but stated that the aforementioned profiles shaped insecurities about his femininity and made him hesitant to disclose he was trans on the platform out of fear of being fetishized. On Tinder, in particular, Spring said he felt safer using the ‘nonbinary’ option rather than trans/male due to the past fetishization he had experienced, compromising his own identity for a label that felt safer. He described his experience on Tinder as “short-lived” and “scary.”
Although there are no significant studies on the collective impact of Tinder on transgender and gender non-conforming users, Spring is not alone in his fears of fetishization. In fact, participants in a 2019 study conducted by Lindsay Ferris and Stefanie Duguay reported frequent exploitative messaging directed towards lesbian and bisexual Tinder users from heterosexual couples or women. Interviewed lesbian and bisexual users “experienced several accounts immediately asking for ‘nudes’ after matching” and “participants from both studies encountered heterosexual couples looking for sexual encounters with bisexual women” (Ferris & Duguay, 2019). To the women interviewed, these encounters felt as if heterosexual users viewed their identities as exploitable for “experimenting” (Ferris & Duguay, 2019).
Student G. Lee (personal communication, May 28, 2020) shared a similar critique of the prominent fetishization of queer identities, stating, “being a lesbian on mainstream dating apps is just dealing with a lot of fetishization and complete disrespect for our identity.” In particular, Lee mentions how despite altering her search settings to display only ‘women interested in women,’ she would constantly encounter men on her feed. Another common occurrence was couple profiles looking for a “third,” often seeking out bisexual, pansexual, or lesbian women for a heterosexual couple to fetishize. Lee expressed great discomfort with seeing these profiles, and admitted she had to leave Tinder as she made “not even one lasting connection.” Her experiences are similar to those of other lesbian women on Bumble, who reported that the app fails to exclude straight women seeking friends from the list of potential matches shown to lesbian users (Bivens & Shah Hoque, 2018). Thus, numerous women-seeking-women found themselves meeting straight women seeking platonic connections following accidental overlap between Bumble’s ‘BFF’ feature and lesbian Bumble. This design failure is inconvenient for queer users, but it also places them at risk of being outed to potentially dangerous individuals:
Living in a heteronormative society, queer users are naturally aware of the risks imposed by exposing their non-normative identity online (e.g., profile descriptors or images), but infrastructural failures like this one—where an allegedly secure same-sex-only space is actually vulnerable to leaks from other sets of users—is not likely to be on their radar. (Bivens & Shah Hoque, 2018)
Bumble, like Tinder, encourages the ‘othering’ of trans, gender non-conforming, and queer individuals through a cis heteronormative infrastructure that resituates users into binary and heteronormative sex-gender-sexuality regimes.
Conclusion
The distinct use of binary gender identity within the programming of dating applications like Tinder and Bumble is influenced by and promotes a binary-heterosexual model of gender-sexuality intelligibility. Tinder and Bumble therefore operate as part of the cis heterosexual matrix, in which gender identity falls into one of two unchanging categories, male or female, and that the only ‘natural’ sexual relationship exists between a man and a woman is socially assumed and structurally reinforced. Advanced by app infrastructure, the stagnant depictions of gender coupled with the competitive nature of virtual dating platforms dangerously normalize the commodification of female users and the aggressive displays of male sexuality. Furthermore, the limitations in the interface and programming of both Tinder and Bumble render these applications largely inaccessible to transgender, gender non-conforming, and queer users. Users who do not fit into the assumed cisgender heterosexual identities have repeatedly reported a pressure to obscure their identities and realign themselves with binary sex-gender-sexuality regimes both to access the same benefits of online dating interfaces and to ensure their personal safety.
The findings in this paper are additionally subject to several limitations: the focus on sex-gender-sexuality regimes does not include a detailed investigation of critical intersections with race and disability. While dating applications uniquely rely on and reference a binary interpretation of gender and sexuality, it is undeniable that the intersections of race and disability along with gender and sexuality further otherize and exclude users who do not fit into the applications’ assumed identities. Historically, the intersections of sex-gender-sexuality and race and disability exist as identity-forming systems which have been used to institutionally other individuals as ‘deviant’ in order to validate the legitimacy of the state (Patil, 2018). These findings would benefit from further research that investigates beyond the western cisgender and heterosexual matrix and interrogates the use of identity within dating applications while acknowledging the influence of historical networks of imperial relations.
It is difficult to fix these exclusionary issues given that profit, via the number of consumers or users, continues to be the main, if not the only, motivation for implementing initiatives for superficial ‘inclusivity’ in mainstream apps. Initiatives and campaigns advertising the diversification of user experience on both Tinder and Bumble, such as the inclusion of additional gender options during profile creation, allow for companies to reap the benefits from the appearance of inclusivity without doing the work to reorganize or reprogram these platforms for meaningful inclusion, as demonstrated by users being forced to realign themselves with binary pronouns. Currently, Tinder and Bumble include identities outside of the cisgender heterosexual matrix in name only while excluding them in structure and design. Since functionality for their target audiences and revenue take priority, it is not likely that these dating apps will take the steps necessary to function in a truly inclusive manner. Rather, startup dating apps may have the opportunity to build gender inclusivity into their programs while benefitting from inclusivity’s marketability, much like how Bumble set itself apart by declaring itself the ‘feminist Tinder.’ Inclusive design is critical for transgender, gender non-conforming, and queer users to safely navigate dating apps without being forced to compromise their identities for the sake of functionality.
To effectively create a platform for users of varying identities, dating apps must reframe and reprogram the ways in which gender and sexuality are categorized in the respective application’s database.
To effectively create a platform for users of varying identities, dating apps must reframe and reprogram the ways in which gender and sexuality are categorized in the respective application’s database. Each identity must be distinct in code, and questions that force users to select binary-aligned pronouns should be removed. In particular, replacing current gender input — where ‘male’ and ‘female’ options are separated from selections outside of the binary — with a customizable textbox is one option dating apps can implement to improve inclusivity (though admittedly with its own limitations). Similarly, the inclusion of a selection box where users can choose the identities of individuals they would prefer to see within their potential matches would increase accessibility to all users without limiting functionality to those who fit the normative gender categories. Moreover, dating apps must provide more methods of protection for transgender, gender non-conforming, and queer users as well as for those in other identity groups who currently lack adequate support. Such alterations could help dismantle stereotypical binary perceptions of gender and identity in not only dating applications, but also in society at large.
Definitions
Gender non-conforming (GNC): Refers to individuals whose appearance, behavior, and subjective self-image diverge from societal norms of masculinity/femininity.
Queer: Historically a derogatory term now used in reclamation; refers broadly to individuals whose identities do not align with cisgender identity and/or heterosexuality.
Symbolic capital: The emphasis on "symbolic" facets of social life from which people derive honor, recognition, or prestige, as used in Pierre Bourdieu's sociological theory. Whiteness is reinforced through 'socially acceptable' gender performances, as people of color historically performed gender in ways that did not fit this colonial binary. Colonial and post-colonial states support this symbolic performance of binary gender as it is embedded in a westernized heterosexual matrix.
Hook-up culture: The engagement in casual sexual encounters without long-term commitment to a partner.
Nonbinary: An umbrella term used to describe individuals who do not align their gender identity with the male/female binary. The term does not refer to a monolithic group and is not a third gender. There is no single ‘correct’ way of identifying and presenting as nonbinary.
B. Adams: The three students interviewed are referred to by aliases to protect their safety and security.
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Author
Avery Garritano is a nonbinary writer from Henderson, Nevada. In Spring 2021, Avery is graduating from Western Washington University with a degree in Environmental Policy and a minor in Political Science. They will be pursuing further education in law and are considering attending the University of Washington's Master of Jurisprudence program.