Fourteen-year-old Helen Keller bustled through Grand Central Station. Although she could not hear or see, she sensed her surroundings. Everything felt new—rough edges, rushing air, and the sharp bite of big-city fumes.
Her trusted teacher, Annie Sullivan, guided her carefully through the crowd. Years earlier, Annie had taught Helen to communicate through sign language, spelling words into her hand with fierce determination. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel in the Bible, Annie had struggled with Helen for days, refusing to give up until Helen received the blessing of language.
Helen remembered the first word she learned—W-A-T-E-R—spelled into her palm at the pump in her Alabama yard. After mastering the manual alphabet and Braille, she longed to speak aloud. When her speaking voice finally emerged, it sounded harsh and strained, as though her mouth resisted her will. Still, Helen wanted more. She wanted her voice to move freely. That desire brought her to the Wright-Humason School in New York City.
Of all her classes, singing lessons seemed the most frightening. At church, Helen knew that people sang psalms and hymns together, lifting their voices without fear. She, however, dreaded making a sound. Even a joyful noise felt dangerous. What if others laughed? Singing lessons would be the most intimidating of all her studies—but also, she hoped, the most rewarding.
At the start of each lesson, Helen sat beside the piano and pressed her cheek against its wooden body. She felt the vibrations ripple through her skin as she touched the pedals and keys. The piano became her companion. She embraced it, sensing its rhythm and beauty, hoping one day her own voice might share its music.
Her teacher, Dr. Thomas Humason, guided her breathing with patience. Helen placed her hands on his throat or rested them on the piano as he played. She tried with all her strength, yet progress came slowly. Often, she confused one note for another. The sounds tangled inside her, refusing to form clearly. Frustration tightened her chest.
Helen struggled to breathe deeply, drawing air from her stomach instead of her chest. She had heard people describe opera singers as bluebirds, their voices light and soaring. She wondered what an eagle’s cry felt like and tried to summon it herself. No matter how much she practiced, embarrassment followed her efforts, and doubt crept in. Some days, she wanted to quit.
While Helen labored through her lessons, Annie studied new techniques, determined to help her student succeed. She encouraged Helen to place her hands on Dr. Humason’s lips as he spoke. Though Helen’s understanding improved, rapid speech still escaped her. She longed to talk and sing as others did. At times, she felt trapped within her own body, confined by the limits of her hard-won language.
Between lessons, Helen’s teachers took her on outings meant to inspire her. At the symphony, she felt the music rise through her feet and swell inside her chest, lifting her spirit until she felt almost weightless. On Washington’s birthday, her class visited a dog show at Madison Square Garden. The barking vibrated through the floor, not unlike the orchestra, though rougher and more playful. Helen found the bulldogs most fascinating, their barks deep and unmistakable.
After the show, Dr. Humason brought Helen to the Metropolitan Club. Among the wealthy guests, she felt out of place and withdrawn. Conversation passed beyond her reach, so she returned to what she understood best—the piano. Sitting beside it, she felt its steady pulse and familiar rhythm. On the walk back to school, Helen asked if she might also learn to play. Perhaps piano lessons, she thought, would help her singing.
Before each lesson, Helen practiced at the school piano, humming softly as she touched the keys. She tried to draw the tone up through her body and into her voice. When frustration overwhelmed her, she struck the keys harder, imagining herself someday composing beautiful songs.
One Saturday, the teachers planned a special outing: a visit to Bedloe’s Island to see the Statue of Liberty. Though Helen could not see the great figure, its meaning stirred her deeply. Liberty—a woman standing tall, torch raised high—felt real to her in ways sight could not explain.
Helen climbed the narrow staircase step by step, determination building with each turn. By the time she reached the top, she felt stronger than ever. She wanted to sing clearly—not for approval, but for herself. When she emerged into the open air, the sun warmed her face and the wind rushed through her hair. In that moment, she felt free.
Helen understood then that her voice did not need to sound like anyone else’s. It was enough that it was hers. From that day on, she imagined her singing as beautiful, unburdened by judgment. Like Lady Liberty, she claimed her freedom—not in silence, but in song.
Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters
Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:
Fourteen-year-old Helen Keller bustled through Grand Central Station. Although she could not hear or see, she could sense her surroundings. All the feelings and smells were new–rough edges and big city fumes.
Her trusted teacher, Annie Sullivan, helped her stumble through the crowd. Only a few years ago, Annie taught Helen to speak through sign language. Instead of spoken words, she used hand signals to communicate. Like Jacob wrestled with the angel in the Bible, Annie fought with Helen for days. Annie would not give up until Helen received the blessing of communication.
Helen spelled her first word, W-A-T-E-R, to Annie at the pump in her Alabama yard. After learning the alphabet for sign language and Braille, Helen wanted to learn to talk. Although her speaking voice appeared miraculously, it sounded harsh and forced. So, Helen decided to study at The Wright-Humason School in New York.
More than any class at the school, singing lessons would help Helen learn to talk better. Everyone at church sings Psalms and hymns. Helen was always nervous to make a noise. Even with a joyful noise, she was too afraid that the congregation would make fun of her. Singing lessons would be the most intimidating of all Helen’s subjects at school, but they would also be the most rewarding if she could master the subject.
At the beginning of each singing lesson, Helen sat at the piano and felt its vibrations. She put her cheek on the soundboard to sense its rhythm and pressed the pedals. She embraced the piano as a friend and sensed its music, hoping to share in its beauty. At every lesson, her teacher, Dr. Thomas Humason, directed Helen’s breathing. Although she gave her best effort, she made very little progress. She was so disappointed. She kept her hands on Dr. Humason’s throat or on the piano as he played. Helen became confused easily, mistaking one note for another. She needed to learn better control of vowel and consonant sounds.
The young student struggled to breathe from deep in her stomach, and not her chest. She longed to sing and had heard about opera singers who sounded like bluebirds. Helen wondered what the call of an eagle sounded like and tried to mimic it. Despite much practice, she was embarrassed and unsure she wanted to continue.
As Helen struggled with her singing lessons, Annie became friends with other professors. She studied new techniques to help Helen learn more clever ways of speaking. Instead of just placing her hands on Dr. Humason’s throat, Helen placed them on his lips. Although her lip-reading improved, she still could not understand rapid speech. Helen wanted so much to be able to talk and sing like other people. Some days, she felt trapped in her own body, limited by her simple sign language.
In between her singing lessons, Helen’s teachers took her on fields trips for inspiration. Helen visited the symphony, where she could feel the music through her feet. The orchestra welled up in her soul, and she felt lighter than air. On Washington’s birthday, Helen’s class went to a dog show at Madison Square Garden. The barking sounds of the dogs felt almost the same as the orchestra to Helen. She found the bulldogs the most fascinating with their unique bark.
After the dog show, Dr. Humason took Helen to the Metropolitan Club. Helen felt as though she did not fit in with the wealthy New York crowd. She found it hard to communicate with them, so she sat next to her friend: the piano. Instead of talking to the crowd, she enjoyed the piano’s pulse and rhythm. On the way back to the school, Helen asked Dr. Humason if she could take piano lessons. Helen thought that the piano lessons would help her progress in singing. Before each singing lesson, Helen sat at the school’s piano and hummed notes. She tried to feel the tone from the piano so that it would come through her voice. As she pounded on the piano in frustration, she imagined writing wonderful songs.
One Saturday, her teachers planned a special trip for the entire class: A visit to Bedloe’s Island to see Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty–a free woman. Liberty was a gigantic figure in Greek draperies that held a torch in her right hand. Although Helen could not see Liberty, just the idea of her gave Helen motivation. She put one foot after the other up the staircase of Lady Liberty. As she walked straight to the top, Helen was more determined than ever to sing clearly. Even though Helen wanted other people to approve of her voice, as long as Helen liked her own singing, it did not matter what anyone else thought. When she reached the top of the stairs, Helen felt the sun on her face. As the wind blew through her hair, she embraced the freedom to sing.
Even though Helen could not speak the same way everyone else did, it was all right, and she was good enough. She was free, just like Lady Liberty. At every singing lesson from then on, Helen imagined that she had a beautiful voice. No one would judge her anymore; the freedom of singing was enough.
Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters
https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/singing-lessons-the-life-of-helen-keller-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters
Inspired by my fifth grade English teacher Miss Miller, where I studied about Helen Keller and learned the sign language alphabet.
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