Helen Keller
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Helen Keller may be the worlds most famous supercrip. Very few people can claim to have “overcome” disability so thoroughly and spectacularly. A blind and deaf wild child at the age of 7, she became, by the time she published The Story of My Life at 22, one of Radcliffes most successful and polished students, fluent in Latin, Greek, German, French and (not least) English–not to mention three versions of Braille (English, American, New York Point) and the manual alphabet in which her renowned teacher Anne Sullivan first communicated with her. But let me dispense with the scare quotes for a moment. Helen Keller is famous–and justly so–precisely because she did, in many respects, overcome the physical impairments of deafness and blindness, as well as the formidable social obstacles facing people with disabilities at the end of the nineteenth century. Her story retains its power to startle and inspire even now, just as Anne Sullivans story remains among the most startling and inspiring tales in the history of pedagogy.
Kellers story is also a member of the genre of disability autobiographies in which the writing of ones life story takes on the characteristics of what the philosopher J.L. Austin called “performative” utterances: The primary function of The Story of My Life, in this sense, is to let readers know that its author is capable of telling the story of her life. The point is hardly a trivial one. Helen Keller was dogged nearly all her life by the charge that she was little more than a ventriloquists dummy–a mouthpiece for Anne Sullivan, or, later, for the original editor of The Story of My Life, the socialist literary critic John Macy, who married Sullivan in 1905. And even for those who know better than to see Helen Keller as disabilitys Charlie McCarthy, her education and her astonishing facility with languages nevertheless raise troubling and fascinating questions about subjectivity, individuality and language. Roger Shattuck and Dorothy Herrmanns new edition of The Story of My Life–supplemented as it is with Anne Sullivans narrative, John Macys accounts of the book and of Kellers life, Kellers letters and Shattucks afterword–not only restores Kellers original text but highlights questions about originality and texts–questions that defined Kellers relation to language from the age of 12, when she published a story titled “The Frost King.”
The episode is largely forgotten now, but in 1892 it was a national scandal of Jayson Blair proportions; and just as Blairs detractors opportunistically parlayed his story into an indictment of affirmative action, so too did Kellers critics take the “Frost King” incident as proof of the fraudulence of claims that deaf and blind children could be taught just like anyone else. Keller and Sullivan had become famous within a year of Sullivans arrival at Kellers house in Tuscumbia, Alabama, in 1887, and Kellers remarkable achievements had already been blown out of all proportion, as if she had spontaneously learned to speak and write fluently the moment Sullivan spelled “w-a-t-e-r” into little Helens hand at the Kellers water pump. When, therefore, the miracle girl published a darling little story about King Jack Frost, the fairies and the precious stones that created the colors of autumn, it was something of a sensation–and a still greater sensation when the nation learned that the story included extended passages from a story written years earlier by Margaret Canby.
Fully half of John Macys sixty-page account of Keller is devoted to the “Frost King” scandal; his discussion includes not only Kellers story, printed side by side with Canbys, but also passages from Kellers letters, in which the then-9-year-old girl unwittingly yet accurately cribs from yet another Canby story and a poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes. I dont have the space to convey an adequate idea of what Keller did with the minute details of Canbys stories, so youll have to take my word for it: Kellers achievement–and it was an achievement–is nothing short of eerie. Apparently she memorized, by way of the manual alphabet, the precise language of short stories read to her by a friend in the summer of 1888; she then forgot that she had ever heard of the stories, and quite sincerely believed “The Frost King” to be her own when she published it four years later.
Now, my 11-year-old son, Jamie, despite his developmental disability, can recite whole stretches of Shrek, Galaxy Quest and both Harry Potter movies, complete with appropriate gestures and sound effects. So Im not easily impressed by this kind of thing. But Helen Kellers powers of recall were almost beyond belief. Margaret