I’ve written for the past couple weeks about some heavy issues, including language politics and salary equity, but this week I want to talk about what really matters: fish pics. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, you’re probably older than 30, in a relationship or think that “swiping right” is what the masked fox did to Dora the Explorer.
I am, of course, referring to Tinder, the mobile app that is billed as “a fun way to connect with new and interesting people around you” but which has developed a reputation for facilitating casual sexual encounters.
The concept is simple. You create a profile consisting of pictures from your Facebook account, and write a short description. You specify whether you’re into men, women or both, and you set a geographical radius from 0-100 miles. Tinder then uses your location to show you potential matches within your area.
After having been off the market for a couple years, I decided to get Tinder to see what the fuss was about. I was almost immediately addicted. The genius of Tinder lies in its anonymity; you only “match” with people who like you back, so you never feel rejection. As I accumulated matches, I started to feel sexy, confident and desired.
I met people within 50 miles of me that I never would have met otherwise — people from different socioeconomic, racial and educational backgrounds. I went on fun dates and had stimulating conversations, but what struck me most about Tinder was the representation of traditional gender roles in this virtual environment.
And this is where fish pics come in.
When I talk to people about Tinder, I almost always show them my fish pic gallery. In Knoxville alone, I have collected over 50 screenshots of young men holding fish they have caught. If I had to guess, I would say at least 30 percent of male Tinder users in Knoxville have at least one picture featuring a fish. Seems odd, right?
But wait. If I counted all male Tinder users in Knoxville that have either a fish, a dead deer, a dead duck or turkey, a car a truck,or a motorcycle in their profile, I would probably be looking at a solid 60 percent of the demographic. What do all these things have in common? They are symbols of masculinity.
When I questioned one a-fish-ionado about his fish pic, he told me that he wanted to appear “outdoorsy” and show that he is “a provider.” This conjures up images of a grunting caveman bringing his catch back home for me to wash and prepare over the fire. Men are still trying to attract women by proving their strength and ruggedness and ability to bring home the bacon. We are in 2015, right?
If men are posting fish pics on Tinder, what are women doing? On this question, I’ve turned to my male friends who use the app.
Apparently, women frequently state in their profiles that they are not looking for hookups, even though they must be aware of Tinder’s reputation as a hookup app. Seems like a contradiction, right? But it makes sense. While men are socialized as sexual beings who need to prove their virility, women are taught to be nonsexual. Women, we’re told, don’t like sex as much as men, and we need to protect our sacred bodies from ravenous men at all costs. We have to make men chase us and work hard for the chance to sleep with us. Hence the Tinder profile statements.
These ideas are harmful to both men and women. From my many conversations with men, I have gathered that it is exponentially more difficult for them to find sexual partners on Tinder. This is because women are protecting themselves socially by trying not to appear “easy.”
I’ll tell you a secret. Women want sex too. But we’re not allowed to be frank about it. So there’s this weird disconnect between what men and women seem to want, and it results in confusion, bad sex or no sex. Everyone loses. So when people tell me we don’t need feminism anymore, I point them to Tinder. Strict gender roles and repression of female sexual desire? The evidence is just a swipe away.
Summer Awad is a senior in College Scholars. She can be reached at [email protected].
