Earlier this week, writer Carey Purcell wrote an op-ed for The Washington Post, which I assume has amended its slogan to “Democracy Dies in Darkness, But Hey, Let’s Hear From Some of That Darkness.” Her piece, titled “I am tired of being a Jewish man’s rebellion,” describes her experiences dating two Jewish men. Both relationships failed, which led her to the rational conclusion: no more Jews for me!

The essay is peppered with innovative and thoughtful tropes like the “extremely overbearing” Jewish mother and gives exactly zero examples of how she served as a “rebellion.” The essay concludes by saying that while neither of her relationships “officially” ended because of the difference in faith, the fact that her exes went on to date Jewish women must mean it has something to do with it, and also she will never date Jews again because that’s the problem. (Update: The writer has written an apology on her blog. The editor, Lisa Bonos, still stands by the piece.)

Despite criticism that Purcell’s piece is a misguided contribution to a current swelling of renewed anti-Semitism, and despite a well-documented tradition of blaming Jews for stuff that’s not their fault, I would like to publicly side with Purcell. I believe that the reason why her relationships ended were because she wasn’t Jewish, not because she sounds truly awful to date.

I can relate! I, too, am perfect. Here is my story.

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At my very first job in New York, a colleague informed me, “We get the full week of Christmas off, and typically our holiday party is the Friday before.” She was referring to the Christian holiday that most of my colleagues celebrate: Christmas. I grew up in a Jewish family, and though I’ve found it tolerable, even fun, to work with Christians, I’ve found that dating white Christian men is a whole other kringle! After a few bad experiences, I’ve deemed Christians an absolute no-no. I won’t ever date one again, no matter what, because all Christian men are trouble.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Christianity. I have all the holidays memorized and know the name of the Bible. I think it’s cute when Catholics eat that little cracker at Mass, and it was adorable when my Christian boyfriends would buy chocolate before Easter. Have you had those little eggs? Turns out an animal doesn’t make them—they’re from a candy factory, little Christian miracles each and every one. Even though my exes aren’t overtly religious and don’t even attend church with their families, I’ve found myself observing Christian holidays and even watching Love Actually. Of course, even though Christianity and Judaism have a lot of ideological overlap, I can’t help but notice a lot of differences, namely that every single one of my Christian boyfriends ultimately broke up with me. Therefore, all Christian men are bad news.

I was surprised the first time I found myself dating a white Christian guy, not because they’re everywhere, but because growing up, I had learned that white Christians have a history of building oppressive systems that rely on white supremacy to maintain sociopolitical power. Oops. But I wasn’t going to judge right away. In fact, I’ve met some really nice Christian men. The first one I seriously dated invited me to his family’s Christmas celebration and even let me put a tinsel on the tree. Every time our relationship got more serious, I’d think to myself, “Could this really work out with a Christian?”

As I became more involved in fun Christian traditions, I would ask him, “Do you think I am going to hell because I’m a Jew? Just wondering,” and he would go quiet, mutter something under his breath, and then go clean up a vase I had thrown against the wall. Our relationship eventually ended on poor terms. He said I was “obsessed” with our religious differences and was “condescending” and “emotionally manipulative,” which I’ve come to learn is a typical Christian-guy complaint.

While all my relationships with Christian men have not officially failed because I’m not Christian, I can’t help but feel that’s a really easy thing to blame it on. One drunken night I cheated on a Christian boyfriend, and he was very hurt. I was like, “Oh, is this because of your Christian values? Stop trying to change me!” He said his faith had nothing to do with it and that I was just a bad person, but I know he was just saying that because he didn’t want to admit that his faith was the most important thing to him. I guess that should have been a warning sign to stop dating Christians right away, but I couldn’t stop—I guess I just love me a tall glass of mayonnaise. Yum-yum. I don’t even care that all Christian men wear polo shirts and khakis and boat shoes and attend Dartmouth or University of Alabama; in some ways, that’s what I’m attracted to!

Another relationship with a Christian man failed after he wouldn’t just tell me that I was a “dirty little Jew.” I know that’s what he thought, but he wouldn’t just say it! Viewing your partner accusatorily based on their faith isn’t wrong if it’s based on a prejudiced feeling way deep down. I’ll never forget one time he looked me dead in the eyes and said, “I think you need to change your shirt.” He said it was because I had a massive marinara sauce stain down the front, but I know the truth: all he really wanted was to see me in a pastel-colored church dress. Based on those two dating experiences I knew the truth: Christian men don’t respect me, and I will not date them!

This isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me, either. I’ve realized that other categories of men might dump me, and so I’ve cut them out of my dating diet as well. I started to recognize certain trends. I know, based on one man I slept with when I was in a bad mood, that all short guys have small dicks and are bad in bed. The sex was bad because of his height, not because I wasn’t attracted to him and kept saying, “You’re so small, you’re so small.” Anyway, now I don’t date anyone shorter than 5’10”.

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So what if I have a heavily curated dating pool? It just means I learn from my mistakes! A brown-haired man ghosted me, so I won’t be making that mistake again. A neurosurgeon once wore some really foul cargo shorts, so I don’t date medical professionals. I don’t care how many tumors you’ve removed from children: your style is going to embarrass me in public, so I won’t date you. Another guy I dated dumped me after he told me he felt like I don’t listen. He was always talking about how proud he was of his nieces and nephews, so now as soon as I find out a guy I’m into is an uncle, I walk the hell out of there.

I don’t see any of these decisions as problematic, even if they’re rooted in deep biases, because that would require an ounce of self-awareness, which I refuse to have. It’s weird how the only person without fault is me—and Carey Purcell!

If you disagree with me or with Carey Purcell, that’s totally your right. But you’re also totally wrong. Please don’t judge us based on these single articles, because drawing conclusions on the whole of someone’s character just from a small sample is very rude.

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