Mom claimed that I could carry a tune at 2 or 3 years of age.

Hear now, O lovers of story and memory, the gentle words of Ethel Merman, whose voice once shook the great stages of Broadway and whose laughter filled the world: “Mom claimed that I could carry a tune at 2 or 3 years of age. Maybe she was a little prejudiced.” Within this humble and humorous confession lies more than nostalgia—it is the story of origins, of how talent, love, and family faith intertwine to give birth to greatness. For though she speaks with jest, Merman reveals the eternal truth that every genius begins as a child believed in by someone else.

Her words take us to the early days of her life in Astoria, New York, when music first touched her lips not as ambition but as instinct. Her mother, like many mothers through time, became the first believer, the guardian of possibility who saw in her child what the child could not yet see in herself. In that belief was both bias and prophecy—bias born of love, and prophecy born of intuition. Even as Merman downplays her mother’s faith with humor, she acknowledges that such affection is the soil from which destiny grows.

This truth is echoed across history. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, too, was recognized by his father, Leopold, who trained him from infancy, marveling at the melodies that poured from his tiny hands. Many would call such a father overzealous; yet it was his early faith that nurtured the genius who would one day transform music itself. Likewise, Merman’s mother’s “prejudice” was not blindness but vision—the ability to see in her child the embryo of greatness that others would one day applaud.

There is also humility and humor in Merman’s recollection. She does not boast of early brilliance but gently mocks it, as if to remind us that even the mighty began with uncertainty, laughter, and love. In saying “Maybe she was a little prejudiced,” she bridges the gap between fame and family, reminding us that behind every legend is an ordinary child—and behind every child, an extraordinary heart that believed first. It is the cycle of life’s artistry: love plants, time waters, and destiny blooms.

Yet her words also reveal a deeper wisdom about the nature of encouragement. The belief of a parent, teacher, or mentor, even if clouded by affection, gives courage to the young soul who doubts. Many lives falter not for lack of talent, but for lack of faith—faith that someone else must lend until it can grow within. Merman’s jest is thus a quiet testament to gratitude, for she knew that her mother’s bias was the sacred delusion that lifted her from obscurity to song.

Consider the lesson for our own age: in a world quick to judge, let us not scorn those who love too much, who see beauty where others see nothing. For it is through such “prejudice”—through the eyes of love—that talent is protected in its infancy. To believe in someone early is to cast light upon their path before they can walk it. And to laugh about that faith, as Merman does, is to honor it without arrogance.

Practical wisdom follows: if you are a parent, believe boldly in your children, for even your bias may become their strength. If you are young, cherish those who see your light before the world does. And if you are grown, never forget the gentle prejudices that made you who you are—the teachers, the mothers, the friends who saw the song in you before it was ever sung.

Thus, let the words of Ethel Merman endure as both humor and hymn: that greatness is not self-born, but mother-born; that belief, though “prejudiced,” is the root of all creation. For behind every voice that conquers the world, there was once a mother smiling in the dark, whispering, “I always knew you could sing.”