Chapter 13

It was in the spring of 1890 that I learned to speak. The impulse to utter audible sounds had always been strong within me. I used to make noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other hand felt the movements of my lips. I was pleased with anything that made a noise and liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my hand on a singer's throat, or on a piano when it was being played. Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was fast learning to talk, but after my illness it was found that I had ceased to speak because I could not hear. I used to sit in my mother's lap all day long and keep my hands on her face because it amused me to feel the motions of her lips; and I moved my lips, too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My friends say that I laughed and cried naturally, and for awhile I made many sounds and word-elements, not because they were a means of communication, but because the need of exercising my vocal organs was imperative. There was, however, one word the meaning of which I still remembered, WATER. I pronounced it "wa-wa." Even this became less and less intelligible until the time when Miss Sullivan began to teach me. I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my fingers.

I learned to speak in the spring of 1890. I had always felt a strong urge to make sounds. I used to make noises, keeping one hand on my throat while the other felt my lips move. I enjoyed anything that made noise and liked to feel the cat purr and the dog bark. I also liked to keep my hand on a singer's throat or on a piano while it was being played. Before I lost my sight and hearing, I was quickly learning to talk. But after my illness, people found that I had stopped speaking because I could not hear. I used to sit in my mother's lap all day and keep my hands on her face. I enjoyed feeling her lips move, and I moved mine too, although I had forgotten what talking was. My friends say that I laughed and cried naturally. For a while, I made many sounds and parts of words. I did not make them to communicate, but because I had a strong need to use my vocal organs. There was, however, one word whose meaning I still remembered, WATER. I pronounced it "wa-wa." Even this word became harder and harder to understand until Miss Sullivan began to teach me. I stopped using it only after I had learned to spell the word on my fingers.

I had known for a long time that the people about me used a method of communication different from mine; and even before I knew that a deaf child could be taught to speak, I was conscious of dissatisfaction with the means of communication I already possessed. One who is entirely dependent upon the manual alphabet has always a sense of restraint, of narrowness. This feeling began to agitate me with a vexing, forward-reaching sense of a lack that should be filled. My thoughts would often rise and beat up like birds against the wind, and I persisted in using my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage this tendency, fearing lest it would lead to disappointment. But I persisted, and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of this great barrier—I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.

I had known for a long time that the people around me communicated differently from me. Even before I knew that a deaf child could be taught to speak, I felt dissatisfied with how I communicated. Anyone who depends entirely on the manual alphabet always feels restricted and limited. This feeling began to trouble me, stirring a restless desire to fill a gap in my life. My thoughts often rose and beat like birds against the wind, and I kept trying to use my lips and voice. Friends tried to discourage me because they feared I would be disappointed. But I persisted, and soon something happened by chance that led to the breaking down of this great barrier. I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.

In 1890 Mrs. Lamson, who had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers, and who had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden, came to see me, and told me of Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had scarcely finished telling me about this girl's success before I was on fire with eagerness. I resolved that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not rest satisfied until my teacher took me, for advice and assistance, to Miss Sarah Fuller, principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, sweet-natured lady offered to teach me herself, and we began the twenty-sixth of March, 1890.

In 1890, Mrs. Lamson came to see me. She had been one of Laura Bridgman's teachers and had just returned from a visit to Norway and Sweden. She told me about Ragnhild Kaata, a deaf and blind girl in Norway who had actually been taught to speak. Mrs. Lamson had hardly finished telling me about Ragnhild's success before I was burning with eagerness. I decided that I, too, would learn to speak. I would not be satisfied until my teacher took me to Miss Sarah Fuller for advice and help. Miss Fuller was the principal of the Horace Mann School. This lovely, kind woman offered to teach me herself, and we began on March 26, 1890.

Miss Fuller's method was this: she passed my hand lightly over her face, and let me feel the position of her tongue and lips when she made a sound. I was eager to imitate every motion and in an hour had learned six elements of speech: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I shall never forget the surprise and delight I felt when I uttered my first connected sentence, "It is warm." True, they were broken and stammering syllables; but they were human speech. My soul, conscious of new strength, came out of bondage, and was reaching through those broken symbols of speech to all knowledge and all faith.

Miss Fuller taught me by moving my hand lightly over her face. She let me feel the position of her tongue and lips as she made a sound. I was eager to copy every movement. In one hour, I learned six speech sounds: M, P, A, S, T, I. Miss Fuller gave me eleven lessons in all. I will never forget my surprise and delight when I spoke my first complete sentence: "It is warm." The syllables were broken and halting, but they were human speech. My soul, aware of its new strength, came out of captivity. Through those broken symbols of speech, it was reaching toward all knowledge and all faith.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak the words which he has never heard—to come out of the prison of silence, where no tone of love, no song of bird, no strain of music ever pierces the stillness—can forget the thrill of surprise, the joy of discovery which came over him when he uttered his first word. Only such a one can appreciate the eagerness with which I talked to my toys, to stones, trees, birds and dumb animals, or the delight I felt when at my call Mildred ran to me or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an unspeakable boon to me to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I talked, happy thoughts fluttered up out of my words that might perhaps have struggled in vain to escape my fingers.

No deaf child who has earnestly tried to speak words they have never heard can forget their first word. They cannot forget the thrill of surprise and the joy of discovery. They have tried to escape the prison of silence, where no loving voice, birdsong, or music ever breaks the stillness. Only such a child can understand how eagerly I talked to my toys, stones, trees, birds, and animals. Only such a child can understand my delight when Mildred came running at my call or my dogs obeyed my commands. It is an indescribable gift to be able to speak in winged words that need no interpretation. As I spoke, happy thoughts fluttered out in my words. Perhaps those thoughts would have struggled in vain to escape through my fingers.

But it must not be supposed that I could really talk in this short time. I had learned only the elements of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor is it true that, after I had learned these elements, I did the rest of the work myself. But for Miss Sullivan's genius, untiring perseverance and devotion, I could not have progressed as far as I have toward natural speech. In the first place, I laboured night and day before I could be understood even by my most intimate friends; in the second place, I needed Miss Sullivan's assistance constantly in my efforts to articulate each sound clearly and to combine all sounds in a thousand ways. Even now she calls my attention every day to mispronounced words.

But no one should think I could really talk after such a short time. I had learned only the basics of speech. Miss Fuller and Miss Sullivan could understand me, but most people would not have understood one word in a hundred. Nor did I do the rest of the work myself after learning the basics. Without Miss Sullivan’s genius, tireless perseverance, and devotion, I could not have made as much progress toward natural speech as I have. First, I worked night and day before even my closest friends could understand me. Second, I constantly needed Miss Sullivan’s help as I tried to pronounce each sound clearly and combine all the sounds in a thousand ways. Even now, she points out words I mispronounce every day.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means, and only they can at all appreciate the peculiar difficulties with which I had to contend. In reading my teacher's lips I was wholly dependent on my fingers: I had to use the sense of touch in catching the vibrations of the throat, the movements of the mouth and the expression of the face; and often this sense was at fault. In such cases I was forced to repeat the words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until I felt the proper ring in my own voice. My work was practice, practice, practice. Discouragement and weariness cast me down frequently; but the next moment the thought that I should soon be at home and show my loved ones what I had accomplished, spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.

All teachers of the deaf know what this means. Only they can truly appreciate the particular difficulties I faced. To read my teacher's lips, I depended entirely on my fingers. I had to use touch to sense the vibrations in her throat, the movements of her mouth, and her facial expressions. Often, my sense of touch failed me. When that happened, I had to repeat words or sentences, sometimes for hours, until my own voice sounded right to me. My work was practice, practice, practice. I often felt discouraged and exhausted. But then I would think about going home soon and showing my loved ones what I had accomplished. That thought spurred me on, and I eagerly looked forward to their pleasure in my achievement.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat ecstatically, "I am not dumb now." I could not be despondent while I anticipated the delight of talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. It astonished me to find how much easier it is to talk than to spell with the fingers, and I discarded the manual alphabet as a medium of communication on my part; but Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it in speaking to me, for it is more convenient and more rapid than lip-reading.

"My little sister will understand me now," was a thought stronger than all obstacles. I used to repeat joyfully, "I can speak now." I could not feel discouraged as I looked forward to talking to my mother and reading her responses from her lips. I was amazed to find how much easier it was to talk than to spell with my fingers. So I stopped using the manual alphabet to communicate. But Miss Sullivan and a few friends still use it to speak to me. For them, it is more convenient and faster than having me read their lips.

Just here, perhaps, I had better explain our use of the manual alphabet, which seems to puzzle people who do not know us. One who reads or talks to me spells with his hand, using the single-hand manual alphabet generally employed by the deaf. I place my hand on the hand of the speaker so lightly as not to impede its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter any more than you see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible, and some of my friends spell rapidly—about as fast as an expert writes on a typewriter. The mere spelling is, of course, no more a conscious act than it is in writing.

Perhaps I should explain here how we use the manual alphabet, since it seems to puzzle people who do not know us. Someone reading or talking to me spells with one hand, using the manual alphabet commonly used by deaf people. I rest my hand lightly on the speaker’s hand so that I do not hinder its movements. The position of the hand is as easy to feel as it is to see. I do not feel each letter separately, just as you do not see each letter separately when you read. Constant practice makes the fingers very flexible. Some of my friends spell rapidly, about as fast as an expert types. Of course, spelling itself is no more a conscious act than it is when writing.

When I had made speech my own, I could not wait to go home. At last the happiest of happy moments arrived. I had made my homeward journey, talking constantly to Miss Sullivan, not for the sake of talking, but determined to improve to the last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at the Tuscumbia station, and there on the platform stood the whole family. My eyes fill with tears now as I think how my mother pressed me close to her, speechless and trembling with delight, taking in every syllable that I spoke, while little Mildred seized my free hand and kissed it and danced, and my father expressed his pride and affection in a big silence. It was as if Isaiah's prophecy had been fulfilled in me, "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"

Once I had learned to speak, I could not wait to go home. At last, the happiest of happy moments arrived. On the journey home, I talked constantly to Miss Sullivan. I was not talking just for the sake of talking. I was determined to improve until the very last minute. Almost before I knew it, the train stopped at Tuscumbia station. My whole family stood on the platform. My eyes fill with tears now as I remember how my mother held me close. She was speechless and trembling with delight as she took in every syllable I spoke. Little Mildred seized my free hand, kissed it, and danced. My father expressed his pride and affection in a great silence. It was as if Isaiah's prophecy had come true in me: "The mountains and the hills shall break forth before you into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands!"