I still remember a project from second grade when all the students were assigned to research and dress up as a historical figure. We were given a list of names to choose from, but having lived in the U.S for only a few months, I wasn’t familiar with many of the names. While everyone picked famous names like Benjamin Franklin, Rosa Parks, I chose the one that sounded the most elegant-Hellen Keller.
On the morning of the presentation, my mom did her best to dress me in a way she thought suited the character, based on what we found from online sources. I arrived at school in a vintage Victorian Skater Dress. Since my hair was really short then, my mom added a laced headband and a floral hair clip. I tried to find a picture from that day while I was back home since my dad loved taking pictures before any birthdays, school concerts, projects. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any in photo albums.
As I was drafting this post, I wasn’t sure why that particular memory surfaced. For the project, we had to read a couple of books about our chosen historical figure. I read Beyond the Miracle Worker, which explores the relationship between Hellen Keller and her teacher, Anne Sullivan. Now that I think about it, that was the first book that I truly read on my own and thoroughly enjoyed.
Before that, I needed help from a classmate- a fellow native speaker of my language, Malayalam- who accompanied me everywhere: to ESL classes, regular class period, and even lunch, translating English for me. But our closeness didn’t go unnoticed. Other kids started mocking us, singing the infamous “sitting in a tree” rhyme, turning our friendship into something to be embarrassed about. Over time, he began to distance himself, and I found myself alone in my struggle to navigate a new language.
That moment planted a deep yearning in me- to learn to read English on my own, to comprehend short stories without needing someone to translate. Soon after, I started my own collection of Barbara Jones, Nancy Drew, Magic Tree House, and The Boxcar children. My weekends were spent at the library with my brother, the two of us losing track of time among the shelves.
It makes me incredibly happy to see my niece already engrossed in books at just three years old. Even as an adult, one of my purest joy is getting lost in a good book-whether fiction or nonfiction. Every story, every page shapes the way I see the world, helps me understand people better, and allows me to connect with experiences far beyond my own.
Recently, I watched The Reader, starring Kate Winslet and David Kross, which tells the story of a teenager who embarks on an affair with an older woman. As the narrative unfolds, the young man later, in the aftermath of World War, learns his former lover was involved in Nazi war crimes at the Auchuwitz concentration camps. Years later, as Michael reflects on his past, he confronts the shocking revelations about Hanna’s secret—her complicity in atrocities-forcing him to grapple with the complex interplay of love, guilt, and the burden of historical responsibility. As I won’t go into more detail, there was one particular aspect that spoke to me where Hanna facing her illiteracy as a chance to reclaim her humanity. Despite her dark past, her effort to overcome her inability to read offers a glimpse into her vulnerability and the possibility of redemption.
The stories of Helen Keller and Hanna Schmitz, though vastly different, share a profound connection-the power of literacy to shape a person’s identity and fate. For Keller, learning to read and write was a gateway to advocacy, empowerment, and independence. For Hanna, it was a belated attempt at understanding-a way to confront the consequences of her past. This theme extends beyond fiction and history, resonating deeply with the ongoing literacy struggles in places like India, where education remains a key to breaking cycles of poverty, inequality, and restricted agency-particularly for women. The contrast between Keller’s triumph and Hanna’s tragedy serves as a reminder of the power of knowledge and consequences of its absence, a lesson that holds relevance across time, geography, and society.
With Abba 