Anne Sullivan Macey, "The Miracle Worker"

When I was a child The Scholastic Book Club was offered to elementary school students, and through that program I ordered the book that told the story of Helen Keller and her teacher, Anne Sullivan. As most Americans know, Helen Keller was a little girl who had lost her sight and hearing as a baby, and remained isolated from the world Anne Sullivan found a way to reach her. From an out-of-control and isolated little girl who had seemed impossible to "civilize", Helen grew into an educated woman, author, and speaker.

Anne Sullivan, herself, had plenty of obstacles to overcome in her life; and it was her skill and persistence at finding a way to teach Helen to use and understand words (as well as to behave in a civilized manner) that earned her the reputation of "Miracle Worker".

As a child, I read that book over and over, studying the Braille alphabet and signs. I suppose I was particularly impacted at the thought of a little girl who could not remember ever seeing or hearing. I tried to imagine how a little girl with such disabilities could ever learn; and the story, of course, told of how hard Anne worked to get through to Helen. I imagined how strong and intelligent she must have been, and I admired that even when Helen's parents had not known what to do, Anne seemed to know just how to help this little girl, who had otherwise seemed impossible to help.

I imagined how wonderful it must have been for Anne to know that she had found a way to help Helen be in touch with her world, and the larger world as well; and to know her student eventually graduated Radcliffe College. It wasn't that I thought her accomplishment and professional reputation earned her fame. As a child, I didn't think much about professional accomplishment or fame. It was the idea that she could "turn the light on" for one little girl, who lived in such utter darkness, that made me see that there can seem to be magic in even the darkest of situations.

The book emphasized Anne's perserverence and refusal to accept that Helen could not be helped. I found that kind of belief in a child, and that kind of faith in her potential, not just a gift to Helen, but a gift to Anne, herself.

That refusal to accept hopelessness and that refusal to assume that Helen could not be helped were what I found most admirable. The willingness and strength to keep trying to find a way to do what others thought could not be done made me think that was the only way a person should be.

A few years after I spent all those afternoons, reading the book by open bedroom windows and stretched out on my "Barbie" bedspread, my family moved miles away from my childhood home. It happened that Anne Sullivan had played a role in the history of the town to which we moved, so her name was once again a name that came up in day-to-day life.

I grew up, and when my children were babies I did a little newspaper writing. It happened that an artist connected with the town had sculpted a statue of Helen Keller and Anne Sullivan, with two at the water pump where Anne taught Helen to associate the feel of the water with the word, "water". My assignment was to write about the unveiling of the statue, which was placed prominently in front of the town hall. It wasn't a big assignment, by any means, but somehow I just kind of felt as if Anne Sullivan's story had been a thread that had run through my life in some way that I couldn't quite figure out.

In the century that came before the one in which I had been born, a young woman found a way to help a little girl, who lived in darkness, silence, and isolation, feel light and words. Over a hundred years later, in my hometown, her likeness stands along with that of her young student and companion. All those years later, Anne and Helen were not only remembered, but in the news.

Why, when I happen to be walking by the "Helen and Annie" statue, I feel as if I'm walking by a friend, I just don't know. I suppose it's because it was Anne Sullivan, through the words of that book, who first introduced me to the concept of refusing to accept hopelessness, particularly in a world where vision is so desperately needed.