A Hotep’s MidSummer Night’s Dream

I am convinced that there is a small population of grown Black men out there who sleep in oversized cribs every night, passed out after guzzling a sippy cup of warm milk, and then snore loudly with visions of humiliated Black women dancing in their heads. Why else would a grown man spend time at his computer to contrive this depraved view of interracial romance? (And it’s a shoddy image, I might add. Those poses are physically impossible. )


A butter Hotep with too much time on his hands.

A bitter Hotep with way too much time on his hands.

A young cousin of mine texted this photo to me, as an FYI on the types of people who should stay away from the Internet. It looks like a desperate attempt, by some cuckoo out there, to portray modern interracial romances as fundamentally depraved and unnatural. I probably won’t ever find out who created this crazy image, but I’m pretty sure it was a Hotep.

Hoteps are supposedly pseudo Black intellects, stuck reliving the glory days when the Moors occupied Spain and Old Mali dominated West Africa, and Black Africans were basically the shit. Any graduate of a liberal arts college that drew a significant representation of African-American students, particularly a state college or university, knows this Hotep type. When I was in college, a lot of these guys went around addressing every eligible Black woman as a “Nubian queen,” and when they did manage to wrangle a girlfriend, marry and have kids, they gave their children these cloying, pretentious, regal sounding names. Often it seems like the children’s naming practices were less an expression of authentic nod to one’s cultural heritage, and more likely a display of symptoms of any number of disorder resembling Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. It’s like they were on the auctioning block just the other day and named their children “Your Majesty” or “Royal” in a desperate attempt to cling to a life where they held their rightful station in their rightful ancestral home, in Africa.  No ruler is complete without his or her intriguers at court, and so let’s not forget the Hotep’s henchmen, the silly women, sometimes called handmaidens, or — more disagreeable to me — Mammies, who encourage their foolishness by supporting their misogynistic campaigns!

I’m used to seeing nasty comments about Black women who marry out, and how quickly the language can take an abusive turn. People who hate marriages like mine say we are nothing but bed wenches, white men’s whores, concubines to, get ready, recessive-gene maggots. And I kid you not on the last one; I’ve read this in the comment section of an article. I couldn’t take this photo seriously for any reason at all, including the fact that the graphic design work is second rate, and it isn’t possible for any individual to hold another that way. But I will say this: This graphic is less an indictment on Black women’s supposedly ignorant and foolhardy decisions to marry white men than it is an expression of the Hotep’s need to thrive off of the idea that Black women are miserable without them, regardless of how much solid evidence says otherwise.  Dream on, Hoteps. Black women who marry out certainly aren’t in the grip of a white supremacist terrorist. No matter how much you wish we are headed for disaster, all evidence says we and the kids are doing quite well, thank you. Take the steps to speak to a psychologist about these misogynistic tendencies of yours, and address whatever disorder it is that makes your short circuit and descend into irrational thinking.