I am a melanin-rich lady, and the other day my (very) young friend turned to me and went: “I cut myself, I need some cotton. Could you go pick some for me?” I thought: Did a Norwegian child just call me a field slave? I just stared at him. At that age all they want is a reaction, any reaction, rage, sadness, whatever. My poker-face, therefore, made him nervous, and he began defending himself. It was an argument I have heard many times before: “That’s what black rappers and comedians call each other and stuff! Like, ‘cotton-picking ass n*gga’. it’s just for fun! We’ve got to be able to joke about everything. You can’t get mad, I’m brown too!”