DOMA and Proposition 8: The perils and benefits of an activist Supreme Court

The Supreme Court rulings on the Defence of Marriage Act and Proposition 8 stand in stark contrast to the day before, and show a split activist court.

The Supreme Court giveth, the Supreme Court taketh away. Just a day after a landmark ruling that rolled the civil rights movement back several decades on race, two more rulings were handed down by that most august of bodies today that roll it several decades forward on gender. One, by denying the right to appeal of a group of supporters of California's Proposition 8, effectively legalised gay marriage in the US's most populous state.

The other, a much more direct – and therefore important – ruling, found a central clause of the hated Defence Of Marriage Act (DOMA), which denied gay couples equal protection under the law, unconstitutional. So while the day before was a bad day for black Americans, yesterday was a great day for gay Americans.

The one anchovy in the trifle was Justice Antonin Scalia, whose enraged dissenting opinion laid into Justice Kennedy's striking-down of DOMA, and who hinted that, while the Court had chosen not to directly address the national constitutionality of a ban on gay marriage in any state – dismissing the Proposition 8 case and sending it back to the 9th Circuit court of California's decision instead – it is inevitable now that one day the Court will take a similar case on merit at some point in the future. He went on grumpily to say that Kennedy was acting with “real cheek” by saying that the constitutionality of gay marriage wasn't up in front of the court yet.

This kind of judicial activism infuriated Scalia. “We have no power to decide this case,” he raged. “And even if we did, we have no power under the Constitution to invalidate this democratically adopted legislation. The Court’s errors on both points spring forth from the same diseased root: an exalted conception of the role of this institution in America.” This was pretty ironic, actually; just the previous day, Scalia had no such qualms about judicial activism when the court was addressing a conservative issue: he voted enthusiastically to gut the Voting Rights Act – which had been reaffirmed in Congress in 2006 by a huge majority.

It would be wrong to say that hypocrisy about juducial activism is unique to the conservatives on the bench. Justice Ginsberg's anguished dissenting opinion on striking down the Voting Rights Act is in contrast to her full-throated support of Justice Kennedy's majority opinion on DOMA; though she, along with Scalia, voted to send Proposition 8 back to California rather than address its merits there and then it is probably that had they debated the issue she and Scalia would be on different sides. Justice Kennedy is, as usual, the tipping-point between conservatives and liberals on the court – he joined Justice Roberts in voting to strike down the VRA. He is therefore probably the most important Justice.

But Scalia's prediction is probably also correct. The majority opinion by Kennedy on DOMA contains language that will allow for plenty of challenges to the constitutionality of marriage inequality down the line. He said, for example, that DOMA constituted nothing less than a “deprivation of the equal liberty of persons that is protected by the Fifth Amendment, and also that it “humiliates tens of thousands of children now being raised by same-sex couples,” and bases an argument around giving “dignity” to same-sex families. All of these give immediate legal precedent for challenges to state gay-marriage bans. So while this wasn't a day of final victory on marriage equality, it was decisive nonetheless. Sometimes an activist court isn't so bad.

San Francisco's City Hall flies the rainbow flag. Photograph: Getty Images

Nicky Woolf is reporting for the New Statesman from the US. He tweets @NickyWoolf.

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The Tinder dating app isn't just about sex – it's about friendship, too. And sex

The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, as I found out quickly while using the app.

The first time I met someone using Tinder, the free dating app that requires users to swipe left for “no” and right for “yes” before enabling new “matches” to chat, it was an unqualified success. I should probably qualify that. I was newly single after five years in a committed relationship and wasn’t looking for anything more than fun, friendship and, well, who knows. A few weeks earlier I had tried to give my number to a girl in a cinema café in Brixton. I wrote it on a postcard I’d been using as a bookmark. She said she had a boyfriend, but wanted to keep the postcard. I had no date and I lost my page.

My Tinder date was a master’s student from Valencia called Anna (her name wasn’t really Anna, of course, I’m not a sociopath). When I arrived at the appointed meeting place, she told me I was far more handsome IRL (“in real life”) than my pictures suggested. I was flattered and full of praise for the directness of continental Europeans but also thought sadly to myself: “If only the same could be said about you.”

Anna and I became friends, at least for a while. The date wasn’t a success in the traditional sense of leading us into a contract based on exclusivity, an accumulating cache of resentments and a mortgage, but it had put me back in the game (an appropriate metaphor – people speak regularly of “playing” with the app).

According to Sean Rad, the co-founder who launched Tinder in late 2012, the service was invented for people like me. “It was really a way to overcome my own problems,” he told the editor of Cosmopolitan at an event in London last month. “It was weird to me, to start a conversation [with a stranger]. Once I had an introduction I was fine, but it’s that first step. It’s difficult for a lot of people.” After just one outing, I’d learned two fundamental lessons about the world of online dating: pretty much everyone has at least one decent picture of themselves, and meeting women using a so-called hook-up app is seldom straightforwardly about sex.

Although sometimes it is. My second Tinder date took place in Vienna. I met Louisa (ditto, name) outside some notable church or other one evening while visiting on holiday (Tinder tourism being, in my view, a far more compelling way to get to know a place than a cumbersome Lonely Planet guide). We drank cocktails by the Danube and rambled across the city before making the romantic decision to stay awake all night, as she had to leave early the next day to go hiking with friends. It was just like the Richard Linklater movie Before Sunrise – something I said out loud more than a few times as the Aperol Spritzes took their toll.

When we met up in London a few months later, Louisa and I decided to skip the second part of Linklater’s beautiful triptych and fast-track our relationship straight to the third, Before Midnight, which takes place 18 years after the protagonists’ first meet in Vienna, and have begun to discover that they hate each others’ guts.

Which is one of the many hazards of the swiping life: unlike with older, web-based platforms such as Match.com or OkCupid, which require a substantial written profile, Tinder users know relatively little about their prospective mates. All that’s necessary is a Facebook account and a single photograph. University, occupation, a short bio and mutual Facebook “likes” are optional (my bio is made up entirely of emojis: the pizza slice, the dancing lady, the stack of books).

Worse still, you will see people you know on Tinder – that includes colleagues, neighbours and exes – and they will see you. Far more people swipe out of boredom or curiosity than are ever likely to want to meet up, in part because swiping is so brain-corrosively addictive.

While the company is cagey about its user data, we know that Tinder has been downloaded over 100 million times and has produced upwards of 11 billion matches – though the number of people who have made contact will be far lower. It may sound like a lot but the Tinder user-base remains stuck at around the 50 million mark: a self-selecting coterie of mainly urban, reasonably affluent, generally white men and women, mostly aged between 18 and 34.

A new generation of apps – such as Hey! Vina and Skout – is seeking to capitalise on Tinder’s reputation as a portal for sleaze, a charge Sean Rad was keen to deny at the London event. Tinder is working on a new iteration, Tinder Social, for groups of friends who want to hang out with other groups on a night out, rather than dating. This makes sense for a relatively fresh business determined to keep on growing: more people are in relationships than out of them, after all.

After two years of using Tinder, off and on, last weekend I deleted the app. I had been visiting a friend in Sweden, and took it pretty badly when a Tinder date invited me to a terrible nightclub, only to take a few looks at me and bolt without even bothering to fabricate an excuse. But on the plane back to London the next day, a strange thing happened. Before takeoff, the woman sitting beside me started crying. I assumed something bad had happened but she explained that she was terrified of flying. Almost as terrified, it turned out, as I am. We wound up holding hands through a horrific patch of mid-air turbulence, exchanged anecdotes to distract ourselves and even, when we were safely in sight of the ground, a kiss.

She’s in my phone, but as a contact on Facebook rather than an avatar on a dating app. I’ll probably never see her again but who knows. People connect in strange new ways all the time. The lines between sex, love and friendship are blurrier than ever, but you can be sure that if you look closely at the lines, you’ll almost certainly notice the pixels.

Philip Maughan is Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad