Why you have to fill out a Google form to date me

Now or Never10:46Why you have to fill out a Google form to date me

Alicia Bunyan-Sampson found dating as a polyamorous woman frustrating at best and downright abusive at worst. After too many surprises and hidden red flags, she created a Google questionnaire as a way of getting to know people better before meeting them in person.

This First Person column is written by Alicia Bunyan-Sampson, who lives in Pickering, Ont. For more information about CBC's First Person stories, please see the FAQ. 

Throughout my dating history, I have learned that people are rarely who they appear to be and it takes a good amount of time to figure out exactly who or what I'm dealing with. For example, while using dating apps, I'd initially think that I had connected with a feminist, politically-aware guy only to learn — after sharing things like my body and my time — that he's actually a podcast bro preoccupied with gold diggers whilst having no gold for anyone to dig and describes all his ex-girlfriends as "crazy." 

This was incredibly frustrating to me for a host of reasons but primarily because I was being lied to. Whether it was unintentional or intentional is largely irrelevant. The reality was I had given folks intimate access to me based on what they had shared or who they said they were, and after a while, it began to feel like pieces of me were being erased by these interactions. I didn't feel safe. 

One day, I came across a video by a woman on TikTok who would send a Google form she created to folks she matched with on dating apps. No "hello." No "how are you doing?" Just a link to the form, which was essentially a survey of clever, probing and playful questions that illuminate a respondent's values and politics. I recognized the radical feminist brilliance here and decided to follow her lead. 

I created my own Google dating form for all potential daters. 

In about 30 questions, it sets out to learn three things about my dating prospects:

1.  How fun or playful they are. If they are willing to fill out a Google form to date me, hanging out with them is probably going to be a good time and they don't take themselves too seriously. Or they recognize the brilliance of the form itself. Or both. 
    
2. It gives me direct insight into their politics and how they move in the world. 
    
3.  It gives them a clear glimpse into who I am, so they can make informed choices about dating me — and whether that's actually something they want.

The concept behind my Google form is rooted in creating a safe space for myself in relationships and in no longer wasting my divine energy on men who look nice, but aren't that smart and have suppressed violent tendencies.

I felt I needed this because dating has unfortunately always been exceptionally challenging for me. Whether it be my race, my gender or my identity as a polyamorous person in Canada, there are always complex hurdles in my quest for intimacy and online dating has presented a plethora of unique abuses. I remember reading about a dating app study that talked about how Black women and Asian men were the least desirable people to date. I wanted to be angry, because I believe myself to be a blast in a glass. But when I took the time to reflect on my dating experiences, it rang painfully true. 

The exchanges were always sexually charged — some more directly than others — but sex and race were always at the centre of the guy's desire. Some non-Black folks enjoyed communicating how anti-racist they were — all while saying incredibly racist things. 

Some men would read my very detailed profile bio, which includes me identifying as a polyamorous person, and somehow that gave them license to confidently ask me questions about polygamy (a completely different relationship structure), and describe their lifelong desires for threesomes and group sex. 

But not all of the red flags were immediately apparent. There were times when I was even hopeful that perhaps, this time, I had found a solid connection. And nearly always I was absolutely incorrect. 

Key things like politics, views on gender and how they would describe their exes revealed to me deep incompatibility. I discovered that I had wasted my time. 

So, I've been giving out the form since the pandemic started. There have been quite a few submissions from folks, primarily based in the United States, and I've connected with a few of them. They were all pretty interesting to start out and seemed to be quite enthusiastic about getting to know me, which is always nice. It was also refreshing to have interactions with Black men who weren't repulsed by my being polyamorous, didn't make assumptions about sex or were polyamorous themselves. But those relationships didn't last long, because their expectation was to date "Polyamorous Black Girl" — my internet alias — and not Alicia.

Something I failed to consider in this whole experiment is my micro digital fame and how it impacts dating. A good chunk of people who filled out the form also follow me online and act as if they know exactly who I am based on my content. Unfortunately that gives me a very small space to be exactly who I am. That's not to say my content isn't a reflection of me. It is — but it's a very small piece. A curated glimpse. 

I don't think this means the form is ineffective or unhelpful but it absolutely needs some reshaping. I think the best move at this point is to only share the form with folks I connect with in real life and maybe dating sites. Also, based on some of the interactions I've had since making the form, I think adding some questions about communication, consistency and reciprocity are important. The form right now is largely focused on long-term compatibility for me, but I've realized that regardless of the length of the relationship, there is a certain level of attention and care I need immediately. So, why not say that?    

Overall, what I've learned is that being arrogant and clear about what I want and need in dating is the best thing I can do for myself. Even if it means fewer dates or no dates at all. There is this unspoken but loud expectation for women to make ourselves small in relationships. To lower our standards. To never be "too much" when the reality is that men are never asked to do the same. A single man in his late 30s is a handsome bachelor. A single woman in her late 30s is subjected to jokes about being a "spinster" or a "cat lady."

From what I can see, the key difference in people's perception of arrogance and confidence is gender. Once I recognized that, I realized that the cost of betraying my own needs or diminishing my value — or not asking the important questions early on just to "have" someone — is a cost I am no longer willing to pay. I'm giving myself permission to take up space in the world, to dare to know what I want and to tell everyone. 

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For more stories about the experiences of Black Canadians — from anti-Black racism to success stories within the Black community — check out Being Black in Canada, a CBC project Black Canadians can be proud of. You can read more stories here.