As a teacher, I occasionally told the pupils the story of the remarkable Helen Keller.
Born in 1888, in Alabama in the USA, she went blind and deaf at 18 months, because of a virus, probably meningitis.
Fortunately her parents were wealthy enough to afford a teacher for their 7 year old daughter.  Annie Sullivan was employed to care for and teach Helen.  It didn't take long before Annie realised that this child was highly intelligent, and fiercely wilful.
Because of her condition, Helen's parents let her roam freely, take food from plates, and more or less let her do as she wished.  Annie also realised that unless Helen could communicate with the world, she would never escape the darkness and silence she lived in.


Annie and Helen fought many battles, some quite violent, but the day came when Helen suddenly understood that the water she could feel from the tap was what Annie had been trying to spell on her hand.  From the early recesses of Helen's memory, when she could see and hear, the word 'water' came to mind.  From then on, Annie taught her to spell, to write, to read and even make speeches.  Helen earned a university degree, wrote 12 books, and befriended such people as Mark Twain and Alexander Graham Bell.  She learned to read Latin, Greek, German and French in braille.


Of course I told this story to emphasise the moral of the tale - if Helen Keller, blind and deaf, could achieve so much, then we, with all our senses, can achieve anything.
I even got the pupils to close their eyes in a very quiet room for 5 minutes, but most couldn't bear more than a minute, to which I'd say:
 "Imagine 86 years like that".


However, there is a deeper dimension to the Helen Keller story.  In her superb autobiography of her first 22 years, she says:
"Don't feel sorry for me.  If anything, I feel sorry for you.  Everything I touch, or smell, or taste is an adventure, whereas those who have all their senses tend to take everything for granted".


When I told this story, I would add that when Annie Sullivan died, having been with Helen for almost 50 years, Helen Keller was at her bedside, holding her hand.  On one occasion, in mock self-pity, I asked the class:
"How many of you will be at my bedside when I'm dying, holding my hand?"
The boys sneered, but one girl looked at me and said, sincerely:
"I will".
To contain my emotions, I assured her that it would probably be the number 38 bus that flattened my future.