I’ve read so many books in which
The characters describe with pain
What disappointments they have been to their parents
That I’ve begun to wonder
If it might be that the Jesus myth’s at fault:
That knowing that poor Mary —
Who wasn’t even married —
Could give birth to the savior of the universe,
Each parent, pregnant, then develops expectations
That each child must inevitably not meet.
And then, when they’re born,
And we see those bright eyes,
Taking everything in, and learning so quickly,
We project into the future
and begin to imagine
How much they could accomplish
With all that intelligence,
Taking each new small learning
And extrapolating potential into miracles
That, unhampered by the stuff that held US back,
They might achieve, as we, like sweepers
In the curling rink of life, brush away,
That they might have a clear path to success.
