Why is a Flat POC the Go-To Order for Interracial Romance?

Teal Deer (TL; DR)

Why is a Flat POC the Go-To Order for Interracial Romance?

With the success of Rachel Reid’s Heated Rivalry as a book series and a limited TV show, and the resulting requests for someone to adapt Alison Cochrun’s The Charm Offensive, I’m thinking deep thoughts about why interracial romances by white authors always seem to gain more traction than those by authors of color. (Casey McQuiston’s Red, White & Royal Blue, I’m looking at you too.) Particularly when the characters of color in these books are underdeveloped compared to their white love interests. That disparity doesn’t appear to be a deal-breaker for the people involved in the project or the target audience. If anything, it often seems to be the incentive for a popular screen adaptation.

More often than not, the diverse representation we see is some surface characterization that involves a Bollywood reference, or somebody making lumpia or arroz con gandules, or “my parents are from [insert foreign country here]” and whatever else a quick Google search can cough up. Whereas interracial romance by people of color, at least in the American publishing sphere, is more likely to flesh out white characters as much as it does its brown ones. And why is that?

They don’t have to know and understand other cultures the same way we do the default, since it’s not an adjustment that they have to make in order to navigate society. So many white authors automatically write us in ways they relate to and seldom dig any deeper—which makes it easy for their target audience to relate to as well.

And that’s where the criticisms like “white guy with a tan” or “basically white” come in. Hackles are raised. Writers and readers alike get defensive. Without considering that the comments stem from how the characterization lacks authenticity and falls flat. Sure, a writer can slap an ethnic name on someone and call it a day, but that doesn’t cut it—it shouldn’t cut it. We are more than a name, a movie genre, and a takeout order pasted on top of a character rooted in the white default—but, all too often, that is what we’re expected to accept. I’ve read reviews and discussions that say Cochrun’s The Charm Offensive does at least that bare minimum for its desi protagonist, Dev Deshpande. I’ve experienced for myself how Reid’s Heated Rivalry and The Long Game barely bothers with even those broad brushstrokes—at least when it comes to Shane Hollander. (The portrayal of Ilya could be a whole separate piece and is not my lane.)

Readers from marginalized backgrounds shouldn’t have to infer things about an Asian-Canadian hockey player that are laid out on the page for the white Russian guy. Shane speaks both French and English flawlessly—it’s noted in the text more than once. He could easily speak Japanese, too. If Ilya Rozanov can knock back vodka, why not have Shane enjoy saké and sushi? It’s lazy shorthand and eyeroll-inducing, yes. But I’ll take the shallow identity check-box over his negative qualities being the only nod to his heritage. Because what we get instead is “Oh, Shane is obviously under stress to be perfect and emotionally closed-off because his mother is Japanese. See? His culture’s not being ignored!” Or arguments like “Well, his mother was born in Canada so he’s third-generation and that’s why he’s not connected to his heritage!” Is any of that shown throughout the story, via Shane’s interior POV? No. It’s readers and viewers extrapolating and building their own head-canon based on Asian stereotypes—which isn’t much better than the character lacking any explicit cultural characteristics at all.

Two episodes in, the screen adaptation seems to be expanding on those stereotypes, rather than developing Shane’s individual relationship with his identity—crafting Yuna Hollander as a bitchy sports Tiger Mom while his white dad is laid-back and a little clueless. There’s an additional sting, too, in that the actors cast to play Shane and Yuna aren’t of Japanese descent. Don’t get me wrong, veteran actress Christina Chang is great and newcomer Hudson Williams shows immense promise. But in 2025, showrunners are still casting with the mentality of One Asian Fits All. Because the primary audience that most western shows are courting doesn’t care enough to differentiate between us. “Here’s your representation!” What’s the message being sent to people who’d like to see themselves depicted with more authenticity and depth? “Be happy with what you get, otherwise you’re unreasonable and ungrateful.” That’s the message that’s almost always being sent.

I’ve actually been racking my brain trying to think of the last interracial romance by a white author that I felt gave BIPOC the same kind of depth and attention as its white cast of characters. (Still loading. Lolsob.) I mean, this is why I pretty much avoid reading IR by non-POC. I’ve been burned too many times by half-assed research or no research at all. Hell, it’s not even about the research. It’s about acknowledging the basic humanity of the characters and the cultural environment that makes them who they are.

A Nice Indian Boy, directed by Roshan Sethi and based on a play by Madhuri Shekar, is a lighthearted subversion of the default narrative. Where we see how Jonathan Groff’s Jay was shaped by supportive Indian adoptive parents—completely opposite to Karan Soni’s Naveen, closeted and struggling within the constraints of cultural expectation. (Sidebar: Not having Groff sing a full version of “Tujhe Dekha Toh” over the closing credits is criminal.) There’s this extremely resonant sense of “Dude, why does this white man get to thrive in the world that’s been so damn hard for me? And how does he do it so easily?” The screenplay was penned by Eric Randall, kudos and hats-off, but questions like that don’t generally get explored by white writers. It’s the exceptions that prove just how much we’re missing in other texts and depictions.

So what does all this parade-raining and criticism of questionable racial representation boil down to? We need more marginalized voices to be heard, more people of color in the acquisitions meetings and in the writers room. You want interracial romance with BIPOC that’s easily adapted to the screen? Awesome. We’ve got those! You want to tell queer stories? Great. Yay. Let us tell them, too. Set aside the default perspective and make space. And, for fucks’ sake, let our creations be just as richly drawn and deeply messy as their white equivalents.  

But I can’t let it end on that hopeful rallying cry. Because it’s been our ask for years now and I’m so fucking tired. If the people with the power and money to change things, to give our stories platforms, really wanted to answer, we’d have heard something already—something more significant than “Be happy with what you get.” Am I ungrateful? Maybe. Unreasonable? Nah. I think I have plenty of reasons.