Dating As A Latina: A Letter from Señorita Chirusa

Wait, it’s already 14th of February? You mean, the date before Singles Awareness Day? The most profitable day of the year for chocolate manufacturers? The date with the sickest discount codes since the ‘new year new me’ vouchers? Yes amigxs, yes it is. Happy Valentine’s, Galentine’s, Winelentine’s and Gaylentine’s Day to all of us. 

It is once again the time of the year in which we celebrate an over glorified version of romantic love. For many of us, it involves cringing at extensive love declarations on most social media platforms. Still, Valentine’s Day, like every other “special” day, comes with reflections. As a single Latina in her mid-twenties living in London, it got me thinking about the last few years of my life and the multiple horror stories I have lived through while navigating what I consider is the most toxic dating scene in the world. Spoiler alert: I date (mostly British) men.

I believe we all got the memo that says that dating in 2022 sucks. The variety of social media platforms at our disposal, alongside the reduction of in-person interactions during the pandemic, grew our collective online presence like never before. With enormous capabilities to communicate virtually, our in-person communication is worse than ever. 

Many of us find dating apps the most straightforward way to meet single people our age, where you can pick people in a similar manner to picking food from a menu. You can quite literally “order” a date, just say the time and place. With unlimited options and limited time, energy and money, dating involves disposing and being disposed of by people you never met before. I imagine most singles my age in London, regardless of their origin, gender, sexual orientation, or ethnic group, can relate to the frustrations of millennial and gen Z dating. Materialising a date into the real world is challenging enough, so what are the odds of liking each other when you eventually meet?

Let’s add a layer of complexity: what does it mean to date as a Latina in London in 2022? My experience dating as a Latina in the UK meant going through a daily dose of oversexualisation and fetishisation. I can’t count the number of times a guy I was talking to called me “exotic” or “spicy”. With our presence in this country being consistently overlooked, I dare say that the collective imaginary of the UK mid-twenties and early thirties male population imagines a Latina as a sexy olive skinned Mediterranean looking brunette with a thick accent, a large behind and a love for dancing and screaming. Basically, like a blend between Shakira and Sofia Vergara. 

Many questions come to mind:  How do we overcome stereotyping? How do we define the boundary between who I am, and the community I represent? What if I do incarnate some of the “Latina” traits imposed by others? What if I feel sexy in my Latinidad, is that bad? 

I believe identity is dynamic, and the way you present yourself changes with your surroundings. When you live abroad, you unconsciously become an unofficial ambassador of your country. It’s like all of a sudden you become “the Mexican girl” or “the Colombian co-worker”. When I moved to England, my Latinidad became a key part of my identity and the way I present myself. I started to find myself impersonating other people’s conceptions of what a Latin woman should be, sometimes naturally and sometimes performatively, especially in social situations. In the dating sphere, I began to capitalise on the sexualisation of Latin women for my own benefit, and most of the time it got me where I wanted to be. I don’t think that embodying characteristics of a mainstream narrative, a stereotyping one, is a problem. I believe the problem arises when the agency is taken away from the subject that inhabits this narrative; in other words, when the power of utilizing your Latinidad is taken from you and a vision of what you should be is imposed on you by others.

Dating as a Latina, as well as dating as a woman of color, involves the additional effort of dodging men who want to date you “for the experience”. In a country where the Latin American community is largely unrecognised, Latinas keep falling into the exoticsation trap. Every time I start getting to know someone who is interested in my culture or language, I can’t help but ask myself: do you like me or do you like what I represent? I guess in our case and the case of our other ethnic sisters in the UK, checking if someone is interested in us because of the person we are (and not the ethnicity we belong to) is just another step in the process of getting to know someone. Now let’s assume we meet a human who texts back, is somehow compatible with us, who we’re attracted to and who doesn’t fetichize us. How do we reconcile our cultural differences? 

The funny thing about British culture, speaking about general social traits, is the fact that their communication style is the complete opposite to what I am used to from growing up in Latin America. In my opinion, most Brits tend to be quite indirect and non-confrontational. While Latin Americans have a natural orientation towards keeping secrets (especially within family contexts), we are quite expressive people –unafraid to speak our mind about our emotional needs. 

After a year of dating around in London, I believe it is safe to say that the communication skills of the average mid-twenties Anglo-Saxon man have a lot of room for improvement. The cultural phobia of confrontation that characterises British society and the lack of accountability that defines modern dating leaves us with a dating pool that is majorly composed of emotional toddlers. Online dating only increases the lack of accountability in the way we relate to one another, yet what is the alternative? What are the chances of meeting someone “in real life” who is single, available and compatible with us, at the right place and the right time, when most of us are glued to our phones? How do we navigate the prospect of dating complete strangers since, as migrant women, most of us do not have deep roots in this country and therefore have limited connections? Are dating apps our only option?

I am yet to find the answers to all of these questions; I am figuring it out as I go. If you are a single Latina who can relate to this, I can only say hermana, you are not alone. Being single on Valentine’s Day should not feel like a “Bridget Jones drinking wine and crying” situation. By all means drink the wine, but instead of crying take a moment to reflect on the many ways you are loved by people other than a partner. Let’s fight against the concept of love we have been socialised into as Latin American women. We don’t need to be saved, we are not incomplete, we are whole. Let’s work on re-educating ourselves and learning new, healthier, and less glorified definitions of love. Let’s celebrate love in all its shapes and forms. 

Personally, I discovered that my friends are the loves of my life, and that for me is reason enough to celebrate Valentine’s Day today.

Yours dearly, 

Señorita Chirusa