Airbnbing While White with a Black Boyfriend
I hesitated to write this piece when the first “Airbnb-ing while black” stories and hashtags started popping up. The way I saw it, the last thing this “movement” (a term now warranted given the company’s push to implement anti-discrimination policies) needed was a white girl whining about her “struggles” on the site, like Abigail Fisher crying about the need for white affirmative action in the Texas state university system. Spare me, I know.
But the more that’s been written about Aibnb’s unintended but inherent discrimination, the more I’ve been reflecting on my own experience using the site. Not as a white person (“I don’t get what all the fuss is about. All the hosts I’ve contacted have been so responsive and accommodating…”). Not as a woman (“Does this host look kinda rape-y to you?”). But as a white woman with a black African boyfriend.
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Here’s what happened.
My boyfriend (let’s call him T) was turning the big 4–0 and wanted to celebrate by renting a house in Cape Town and having all of his closest friends come down for the week. After a string of no replies and polite “Sorry, but the house isn’t available that week,” it became apparent that T’s Airbnb profile pic wasn’t getting us anywhere. Recognizing that “this is something we’re gonna have to deal with,” I tapped in and took over contacting potential hosts, choosing my words carefully (“Should I mention that we both live in Uganda?”), playing on outdated social norms (“If they see that I’m white, they’ll assume T is white, too.”), and thanking my lucky stars for his Anglicized first name.
In the end, we got our reservation, and I got a bad taste in my mouth. I was upset that this was even an issue, that the simple act of finding accommodation could draw out in harsh detail the uncomfortable, unspoken and underlying power dynamic of my romantic relationship. That we were not just boyfriend and girlfriend. That we were black African boyfriend and white American girlfriend, and that this was “something we’re gonna have to deal with” for the duration of our relationship.
But I was also upset with myself for accepting that dynamic as given. For slipping so quickly, so seamlessly into that position of power that society cum Airbnb had bestowed upon me. When T told me he wasn’t having any luck getting replies, what moral indignation I felt (and still feel) barely registered. I didn’t rail against a system structured to close doors to those with more melanin than me. I didn’t write a strongly worded email to a company that perpetuates racial bias within its business model, within its hiring practices, and within its community. I didn’t write this piece.
Instead, I sighed, said something about how fucked up this was, and then offered to perpetuate the system by making the reservation myself. I donned the cloak of white privilege, mounted my white steed, and rode in to save the day, with Barbie Savior and Louise Linton smiling benevolently upon me from on high.
There are so many subtle, unseen ways in which people like me benefit from structural racism (getting a loan, not getting shot by police at routine traffic stops, etc.) and I am constantly grappling with how to address (and redress) the silent injustices built into my daily interactions with the world around me. Yet, when faced with a blatant, discrete example, what did I do? I sighed and accepted my complicity. I found a way to beat the system — to work around it, rather than to challenge it.
When T and I finally arrived at our Cape Town Airbnb, our (blue-eyed, blond-haired) hosts were standing at the end of the driveway, waiting to greet and welcome us into their home. And all I could think was, “Please don’t disappoint me. Be cool. Don’t make me regret this.” But as they leaned over to open the car door, I saw a flash cross both their faces as they registered T in the passenger seat, followed by a look of what I thought was betrayal, as their eyes settled on me. “How could you?” they seemed to say. “We trusted you.”
But over the next couple of days, over meals and meandering drives around Table Mountain, the looks faded. Our conversations, at first punctuated by tense silences, flowed deep into shared interests in architecture, farming, yoga, and bubbled over with laughter. When we finally said our goodbyes, it was with warm embraces and plans to stay with them again during our next visit. The bad taste in my mouth had faded, if not entirely gone.
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This is the paradox of Airbnb. It has the power to perpetuate discrimination, and the power to erode the fundamental biases that sustain it. When Airbnb hosts open their homes to strangers from different countries and cultures, they open themselves up to interactions that challenge their preconceived notions of that country, that culture, that person. But when Airbnb hosts can filter those interactions to include only those that look like them, that potential is lost and those biases endure.
Like our Facebook Newsfeeds, Airbnb allows us to filter our interactions and experiences down to those core components that we find comfortable and familiar. Through profile pics and personal messages, hosts can filter out those who don’t share their skin tone or love of artisanal pickles, while guests can filter out homes and neighborhoods that don’t fit their “AirSpace” aesthetic of minimalist furniture, reclaimed wood, industrial lighting and overpriced drip coffee. Airbnb allows us to create and reinforce our own personal bubbles that shield us from the discomfort of engaging with the foreign, the unknown, the “other”.
With this new wave of non-discrimination measures, Airbnb has a chance to break itself, its hosts and its users outside of their bubbles and force that engagement with the “other.” And, who knows, maybe this whole “Airbnbing while white with a black boyfriend” dynamic won’t be something T and I will have to deal with for much longer.
