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Summary
Summary
Annie Sullivan was little more than a half-blind orphan with a fiery tongue when she arrived at Ivy Green in 1887. Desperate for work, she'd taken on a seemingly impossible job -- teaching a child who was deaf, blind, and as ferocious as any wild animal. But Helen Keller needed more than a teacher. She needed someone daring enough to work a miracle. And if anyone was a match for Helen, it was the girl they used to call Miss Spitfire.
For Annie, reaching Helen's mind meant losing teeth as raging fists flew. It meant standing up when everyone else had given up. It meant shedding tears at the frustrations and at the triumphs. By telling this inspiring story from Annie Sullivan's point of view, Sarah Miller's debut novel brings an amazing figure to sharp new life. Annie's past, her brazen determination, and her connection to the girl who would call her Teacher have never been clearer.
Author Notes
Sarah Miller writes historical fiction novels for children. Her novels include Miss Spitfire: Reaching Helen Keller, The Lost Crown, and The Borden Murders: Lizzie Borden and the Trial of the Century.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Booklist Review
*Starred Review* Miller's accomplished debut imagines Annie Sullivan's first experiences with her famous pupil, Helen Keller, from the young teacher's train ride to Alabama, during which she anticipated teaching a charge who had no words, only sensations, to the breakthrough at the water pump, where she taught Helen to use language. Miller based her story on Sullivan's letters, excerpts of which begin each chapter, and in Sullivan's voice, Miller muses about the monumental questions and challenges that she faced: It's up to me to show Helen that communication between people exists at all. Many lengthy passages detailing the wild, messy intimacy and the violent physical altercations between Sullivan and young Helen may tire some readers, but they amplify the visceral sense of Sullivan's exhausting struggle. In language that often reads like poetry, Miller creates a strong portrait of Sullivan's accomplishments, as well as her character volatile, ferociously intelligent, and yearning for love and belonging, just like Helen. Words bridge the gaps between two minds. Words are a miracle, Sullivan says. Miller's words reach beyond the historical facts here, encouraging readers to think about the small miracles of connection they can accomplish with words every day. Photos, a chronology, and an extensive bibliography conclude this stirring, fictionalized account.--Engberg, Gillian Copyright 2007 Booklist
School Library Journal Review
Gr 5-9-In the spring of 1887, Anne Sullivan, a half-blind orphan, traveled to Alabama to teach Helen Keller, a deaf, blind, and mute six-year-old. Sarah Miller's debut novel (Atheneum, 2007) brings history to life by focusing on the first few weeks of Helen and Anne's relationship. She takes the familiar Miracle Worker story and sets her telling apart by weaving in flashbacks of the little known background of Anne Sullivan. In Alabama, Anne must battle a spoiled, willful Helen and her overindulgent parents. The teacher quickly recognizes that Helen is very bright, and eventually succeeds in teaching her pupil to communicate. Narrator Terry Donnelly uses a slight Irish brogue and clear, slow enunciation to good effect. Great characterization and poetic language make this a marvelous historical fiction offering.-Tricia Melgaard, Centennial Middle School, Broken Arrow, OK (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Kirkus Review
Why is the story of Helen Keller and Annie Sullivan so enthralling? Is it that they found success in the seemingly impossible struggle shared at some level by all young people: to articulate one's true thoughts and feelings? If so, then debut author Miller nails her audience with this fictionalized account of the first few weeks of Helen and Annie's acquaintance, leading up to the breakthrough scene at the water pump. Details drawn from Annie's letters and Helen's autobiography are fleshed out engagingly in the first-person voice of Miller's imagined Annie, the young "spitfire" who overcomes obstacles no matter the power of the adults in her life. Acknowledging the presumption of writing someone else's story, Miller provides resources to allow the reader to seek out more. Should young readers bother with fiction in this case, when so much biographical material is available? It's hard to argue with Miller, as she sticks so close to the documented story while giving readers a good dose of the melodrama that makes it so appealing, a craving for more and the direction to find it. (author's note, photographs, chronology, bibliography) (Fiction. 9-14) Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Chapter One The man who sold us that ticket ought to be hanged, and I'd be willing to act as hangman. -- ANNE SULLIVAN TO SOPHIA HOPKINS, MARCH 1887 "Ticket, please." I wipe at my eyes and thrust the wretched thing at him. I've already had to change trains six times since Boston. On top of that, I have to take this train north to Knoxville to catch yet another train south to Alabama. The conductor examines the ticket and punches it. Instead of returning it, he lingers over my shoulder. With a sniff I try to smother my tears before my handkerchief soaks up all my dignity. "You all right, miss?" he asks. I glance up at him and nod. He doesn't budge. He only stares. I can see him thinking it. Everyone who meets me thinks it, whether they say it or not. She'd be pretty if it weren't for those eyes. Sometimes I wonder if it was worth all those operations. What good is being able to see if everyone who looks at me has to force the disgust from their lips at the sight of my poor eyes? And what a sorry sight they are -- red and swollen, as if I were a demon straight from the underworld. There wasn't much good in being half blind and cross-eyed, either; but at least I couldn't see people staring at me. "Is something wrong?" I snap at him. I can't help myself -- my eyes smart with coal dust, I'm sweating in my woolen dress, and my patience is worn raw as my feet after tramping through Washington, DC, in too-tight new shoes. He blinks in surprise. "No, ma'am. It's just you've been crying since we pulled outta Chattanooga. I thought maybe one of your folks was dead." I don't know how to answer him. Most all of them are dead, and the living ones might as well be, for all they care about me. Even the dead ones aren't worth a tear. Except for Jimmie. "No, I'm going to Alabama. To teach." He brightens. "Well, isn't that nice! I've got a cousin lives down that way. You'll like it there." He reaches into his pocket. "Peppermint?" "I've never been outside of Massachusetts," I whimper, cringing all the while at the attention I've drawn. "Oh, I shouldn't worry about that. Southerners are good people, real kind. Famous for our hospitality." He winks and holds the handful of candy still and steady, like I'm a sparrow he's trying to tame. I pick a small one and drop it into my pocket. "Thank you." "Go on, have another." His voice makes the words soft and lazy -- I like the way he says "anutha." Against my better judgment I concede a smile and take a larger piece. "There, now. That wasn't so bad, was it?" I shake my head. "I see plenty of people come down here from up north. Stiff and prim as whitewashed fence pickets, every one of 'em. We smooth 'em out, though. Sunshine and country cooking turns 'em all bright and rosy in no time. Why, my mother used to put brown sugar in near about everything she made." He pats his sides. The cloth round his waistcoat buttons puckers. "Didn't do me any good around the middle, but we all grew up sweet and gentle as milch cows." As he speaks, I mop my sooty eyes, only half listening. He takes it for more tears, I suppose. "You'll make a fine teacher," he insists in that frantic way men get when a woman cries. "I don't want to teach," I hiccup. That stops him cold for a second, then he's off again, prattling on about his sister-in-law who's a teacher, how it'll grow on me, and how I should give it a chance. Then he winks and says the most ridiculous thing of all: "Some of the boys might be sweet on you." I have half a mind to tell him I have no training and I'd rather be selling books door-to-door, or even washing dishes at Mrs. D's Kitchen in Boston, thank you very much. I won't have a classroom, either, only one pupil -- a six-year-old girl both deaf and blind. What would he say to that, I wonder? But he's trying to be kind to me, and I know that's no easy task. I swallow my temper and unwrap one of the peppermints. Its cool sting helps ease the thickness in my throat. "Thank you," I tell him. What I mean is Go away. "That's better, isn't it?" he says, as if he's talking to a child. "Would you like a sandwich?" I look him square in the eye, making the words firm and distinct: "No. Thank you." He hovers a moment longer, then finally seems to sense I'd like it very much if he left me alone. "All right, then. You enjoy the ride, now." Enjoy the ride. I wish he hadn't said that. So far I've managed not to remember the last time I rode a train. Suddenly I'm nine years old again. My mother is dead and my drunken lout of a father is too busy giving the Irish a bad name to be bothered with his own children. Aunt Ellen snatches up cuddly, healthy baby Mary, but my brother and I are a problem. Jimmie's sickly and crippled; I'm mostly blind and surly as a wildcat. Finally we're dropped into the reluctant hands of Uncle John and his wife, Anastasia. After a few months of my rages and Jimmie's frailty, their Christian charity runs out. One day a carriage appears in the yard. Uncle John lifts Jimmie onto the seat, his voice dripping with false cheer. He tells us we're going to have a ride on a train, and won't that be grand? He doesn't tell us where the train is going. Or why no one else is coming. I turn suspicious when Aunt Stasia tries to kiss me. She's never shown us any affection before, and I won't have it now. I twist my head away, and she dries her tears on her apron as if I've finally given her reason to hate me. "You might at least be a good girl on the last day," she sniffs as Uncle John hoists me into the seat next to Jimmie. My skin prickles for an instant at that, "the last day," but Uncle John makes such a fuss about shining locomotives and soft velvet seats that I forget to be afraid. As the carriage rattles away down the road, one of the cousins calls out, "Enjoy the ride!" Copyright (c) 2007 by Sarah Miller Excerpted from Miss Spitfire: Reaching Helen Keller by Sarah Miller All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.