A/N: Recently read a biography on Annie Sullivan and never realized how much I
like her. Her life was really rough with a really painful, awful
childhood.
I sometimes imagine what it's like to be another person and
this week I imagine what it is like to be Annie Sullivan, brown eyes, dark
hair, blind, daughter of poor Irish immigrants, and to have taught Helen
Keller.
Soo, I guess I'll add this to the historical section since Annie's
part of history.
However, just a disclaimer that this is a fictionalized
piece, totally MY version of what may have gone on in Annie's mind as she
and Helen found a place to live in together once Helen graduated from
college...
About Annie...
Helen is asleep and my water has cooled in the tub, so slowly I climb out, groping for the edge. This house is going to take a while to get used to, I think, drying off.
Rubbing the towel through my dark, matted tangle of hair, I gaze at the small mirror, the blurred image in it.
Pausing, I try not to squint or frown. It's strange seeing myself, my odd face. It's strange, but good being able to see anything at all.
I lean over the sink and try to get a better view of what my own face looked like. I think it is the best view I've ever gotten, since I was almost blind for many years.
Is my face normal? I wonder. I run a hand over my mouth, cheek, and hair, looking. My hand shakes a little and I fight to steady it. I almost never look in mirrors.
My eyes stare back, dark...I guess this is what brown is, I think, remembering that I'd been told that I had nice brown eyes. A dark color.
My eyes stare back, dull and rather expressionless, redness edging around my pupils...scars from childhood trachoma.
Blind eyes, I think wryly. Well, half-blind. Half-blind weak eyes over a wide rather pudgy nose and peering closer and running my hand over rather bushy brows as dark and thick as my hair.
My mouth hangs slightly open and I catch a sight of the brightness in my lips. Red, I realize. That's red. It's the few colors I can see distinctly. So this and other colors are what the seeing view all the time.
I wonder what it's like to see those bright colors all the time, but figure it's a moot point, since I never will see many colors. Even ordinary white light hurts my eyes so much I have to wear dark glasses when I go out.
I get the feeling that there is something strange about my face. I feel my brows draw into a frown and lean back.
Picking up a comb, I comb out the tangle bit by bit, wincing a little as the teeth tug at the thick, fine stands. I let the water out of the tub, listen to it drain, put on my nightdress and slowly grope down the hall to bed.
Before going to sleep, I sit and write to the Bells, informing them that Helen and I have unpacked and settled in. I still have to lean close to the sheet to see my own writing, but it helps.
Glancing over as I get into bed, I see the dark blur by my desk. The Braille typewriter.
I hope I will never need it, but I have a feeling that someday I will, I think as I blow out the lamp and the slight blur of light vanishes.
A/N: Just some interesting thoughts I had on Annie Sullivan; I always thought she was very cute and an interesting person.