Miss Spitfire (2007)
“—ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887 The afternoon turns into little more than a game of follow the leader. No amount of coaxing will convince Helen to return to our room. We’ve been up one side of Ivy Green and down the other, but nothing—not cake, dolls, nor sewing cards—attracts her interest. Instead she sits on the porch, stripping the leaves from the honeysuckle vine with cold precision.
This child is maddening. One word a day won’t accomplish anything, and I can’t keep her attention for more than a few minutes. Hauling her bodily up the stairs won’t get me anywhere—we’ll only end up having a wrestling match instead of a lesson. But I can’t let her take charge. I’m the teacher, after all.
“And why should the learning stop because the lesson has ended?” I ask myself.
Yesterday I likened Helen to an infant. Perhaps I should treat her as a baby instead of a student. I wouldn’t force an infant to sit still until she learned to say “mama” would I?
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