By JoEllen Collins
I’m sure that many of the military men on leave in World War II would have rather met Betty Grable at the USO in San Francisco than the elderly woman who stood on the stage before them. However, shortly after she was introduced, the crowd burst into applause. They were honoring a person who had suffered greatly as she learned new skills, a quality these soldiers and sailors admired as a result of war. It was Helen Keller, both blind and hearing impaired but able to speak clearly.
My father (4F and unable to join any service because he had been crippled since birth with clubfoot) was a radio announcer who headed the city’s USO for the war’s duration. His rich, mellifluous voice became a hallmark of introductions to the many celebrities appearing at USO events. As a bonus, I got to sit with handsome young servicemen invited to our own Sunday dinner every week, something I found exciting, though I was way too young to have inspired any attention from them.
I was fortunate to meet Helen Keller at the USO, and, as a rather sickly child, with severe and debilitating asthma, I had already learned of her survival skills and of the humanity she and her teacher, Annie Sullivan, exhibited. I remember thrilling at shaking her hand, the hand that had opened up her world with Annie’s palmed spelling of “w-a-t-e-r.”
In those days, people with impaired hearing were referred to as “deaf and dumb.” I knew that “dumb” meant “mute,” but I instinctively disliked that term because of its other uses. Later on, when I spent my entire third grade ill in bed, we lived next door to a couple, both deaf-mutes, and their daughter, Ireta, non-impaired. She became an occasional babysitter and taught me the sign-language alphabet. She said she felt lucky to be born, as doctors had warned her parents against passing on their hearing impediments. I remember her as beautiful and kind, and thanked God in my prayers that she HAD been born. That was an early lesson to not disparage others because of different abilities. My parents had adopted a baby with clubfoot, so we understood the challenges of childhood for those not “perfect” (in reality, none of us is perfect).
I thought of Helen Keller’s inviting hand when I told a friend that the thing I miss most during the pandemic is human touch. I feel awkward sometimes by an urge to hug friends, and realize that being with babies has always been a favorite activity, in part because I am allowed to hold their warm little bodies. If I didn’t have my two fluffy dogs to cuddle, I am embarrassed to admit, I would be even more negatively affected by COVID-19.
When I get frustrated with limitations, I can treasure my contact with Helen Keller who, through the touch in her palms, learned how to communicate. I am humbled. Holding hands never meant as much to me as it certainly did for her.
