The miracle worker

Many, many moons ago I went down to Saint Agnes Academy, in Legaspi, to produce a play. It was “The Miracle Worker” — the story of Helen Keller, who was deaf, dumb, and blind.

I chose the cast, and blocked the play. . . . Later, I came back to polish it.

The Benedictine Sisters, who teach at Saint Agnes, met me before the first rehearsal, on this second trip. They said: “We have put another child into your group of blind girls. You don’t have to give her any lines, but we would be grateful if you could keep her in the cast. . . . She is retarded. She is withdrawing, from everything. She does not want to come to school. She does not want to get up in the morning. She is withdrawing from life! . . . . But she is fascinated by the stage, and her mother thinks that, if she could be in the play, it might draw her out of herself.”

The retarded child was about 11 years old — a very pretty little girl. She was only in one scene. . . . Annie Sullivan, who taught Helen Keller, was almost blind herself. She was an institution child, abandoned by her parents. She spent many years in a home for the blind. When she was leaving this school, to become the teacher of Helen Keller, the blind girls came to her, to say goodbye.

The costume was a gingham dress, with an apron — the uniform of the school — and the retarded child liked that. She had a bow in her hair, and she liked that. She was wearing dark glasses, and she liked that. We let her carry the doll, which the blind girls were giving to Annie Sullivan as a going-away present — and she liked that doll.

In rehearsal, she came out with the other children, holding the doll, and reaching out to feel her way, like a blind girl. She got into the right position, and stood there, properly. She laughed at the right time. When the moment came to give the doll, she gave it with both hands, with all hear heart, with great love. And when it was time to say goodbye she hugged Annie Sullivan hard, and kissed her, and then went off the stage, reaching out with both hands.

After that she sat backstage with the other girls in the group, laughing and talking. They accepted her, completely, and she was content to be with them.

And her mother wept, with joy, because her child could do it.

One scene, in a crowd, with no lines, and her mother was so proud of her! She was acting like a normal child.

This mother had seven children. The other six were medal-getters. They were bright. Achievers. . . . . But her heart went out to this little one, her baby, who was retarded.

Then one night the actress who was playing Mrs. Keller, the mother of Helen, could not come to rehearsal. The set was up, and we were testing lights and sound. We were doing the scene in the bedroom, where Mrs. Keller discovers that her baby is deaf and blind. . . . . I looked over the women in the audience, for a substitute. I chose the mother of the retarded child, because this mother was always there, at every rehearsal. She brought her little girl, personally, and stayed to take her home.

I gave her the script and said: “Could you just go up there and read the lines?”

She went into the bedroom, into the lights. The set was a house. She was on the second floor. The wall was a scrim. We dimmed the lights outside, and brought them up inside. The wall disappears, and you see the mother, bending over the crib.

As soon as this mother started to read the lines, her tears began to fall. . . . It was so close to her own life! . . . . She choked, and stifled a sob, and tried to go on reading.

Everyone in the audience was hushed. . . . It was the most realistic performance we had ever seen.

The little retarded child was sitting beside me. She leaned up to me, put her head against my shoulder, and said: “She is so good!”

The love between this mother and child was beautiful. This little girl might not have finished grade school in six years. . . . She might not have finished high school in fours years. . . . She is not an achiever.

But what difference does that make?

She is a good little girl, who does the very best she can. Her mother appreciates her.

For all eternity they will be together, in heaven. And for all eternity she will not be retarded.

*      *      *

A few weeks ago, Mary Beth Klee and her sister Eileen came to see me at my office. They had come from the States to visit the country where their mother — who was only a teenager at the time — spent a couple of years as an intern at the University of Santo Tomas.

Mary Beth is a historian. She is writing a book for the 400th anniversary of the founding of Santo Tomas. She sent me this poem which was written in 1944 by a non-Catholic internee on “The Padre”.

When you’ve sold your last possessions,

and you find that you are broke

And you’re out of Picadura

and you’re dying for a smoke

. . . . . See the Padre

When you need a cheerful helper

for some task that must be done

A man to ease your burden,

when grubbing in the sun

. . . . . See the Padre

When you’re sick and weak and hungry,

And there seems to be no hope,

And the grapevine has no rumors

And you have to get the dope

. . . . . See the Padre

You will find him

with the push cart

And the stinking garbage cans

Or at the kitchen dish sinks

Scrubbing out the pots and pans

. . . . . He’s the Padre

You will find him stoking fires

With acacia green and wet

Or stirring stew in the “cawas”

In the heat and dripping sweat

. . . . . He’s the Padre

Just a common sort of fellow,

Is the Roman Catholic Priest;

O’er his head there is no halo

But he understands the East

. . . . . He’s the Padre