Friends: Several days ago, Reverend Greg from UUSMC asked if I would be interested in participating in today's service.  He explained that last year, to celebrate the life and work of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr, he wrote him a letter of several things he wanted to say to him, if he could.  His ask: did I want to write to him too, and share it with the congregation?

Yes, I did want to participate, and answered him promptly.  "I do but don't have the faintest idea what I will say."  As quickly as I hit send, I started thinking about my upcoming adoption; interestingly, only a few minutes later, I received a response from Reverend Greg suggesting perhaps I could write about my new daughter.  My response to him, again immediately and off the cuff, became the basis of what I shared today.

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Reverend King,

I write to you with tremendous joy in my heart, but also relentless fear. This cacophony of feelings is related to the news that I have been chosen to adopt an infant.  The quarter sheet of paper provided held only basic information; included information, however, was that my impending child is an African American baby girl.

I wasn’t surprised to be matched with someone who is African American.  You see, Reverend King, upon announcing my pending adoption, I have been asked, with annoying regularity, “what sort of child” I wanted to mother.  I quickly learned that’s code for “what color will they be?”

The agency forms had neatly laid out boxes.  Race, it asked, with random bubbles carefully crafted next to my choices.  I didn’t much care for the question, so I snuffed out the answers and simply wrote - Race: Human.

The state of Pennsylvania asked questions too, though more thoughtfully crafted, about transracial adoptions. I interpreted these sets of questions as checkpoints to ensure I wasn’t planning to “white wash” my child.  I wondered: could I truly provide the environment a child of another race truly deserved, one of openness, real diversity, and love?  I could, I thought, and soon an official letter approved me to adopt “a child of any gender or race.” It felt like victory!

Why then, do I mention this? Because despite my propensity to dismiss such trivial questions during the approval process, I was wholly unprepared for this new surge of fear about raising: 1. A child who is black 2. A confident, strong daughter, and 3. A black daughter --- all three things separate but interrelated.  I’m reminded time and again that world has moved forward in many ways since your life was taken, but not nearly forward enough. I wonder now: 

• How do I help my daughter trust police without ignoring Tamir Rice?   Tatyana Hargrove? Sandra Bland?
• How do I teach her to be safe when young girls are harassed because they simply have female bodies, without requiring her to take ownership of someone else's actions?    
• How will I be sensitive to what lies ahead of her, on account of her body, female and brown, without teaching her to fear or feel ashamed of who she is?  
• How on earth could the magnitude of that responsibility be something I haven't thought about every second of every day that I have known my daughter will be born brown-skinned, in Trump's America?

These are big questions with unclear answers.  I could sit in fear (and I have), but I have  also chosen to remember your legacy, Reverend King; I am committed to studying with fervor and respect.  I will read your letters, sermons, and speeches.  I will follow your guidance, and match your passion, to fight injustice, because as you said “injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  If I am to mother a child of color, it becomes my responsibility to remember your life and your work.    It is only through action like yours that we will transform our country.

Thank you for being an example of who I want, no, who I need to be.

With love and peace,

Manisha