Its actually a funny story A collection of vignettes by miranda robertson

The ocean is like my second home. It is where I feel safe when I stand on its sandy shores or when I am deep within its center whether I see it through a snorkeling mask, a boat, a pane, or my own two arms guiding me toward a buoy out at sea. However, I also fear the ocean. Its riptides can easily carry you out to sea amid the crashing, swirling, hateful storm of the vicious waves. A tumble could bring you safely to shore or left in the water with no idea which way is up or down. Never really knowing what exactly is above or below you. This excites and terrifies me, I want to know but at the same time I really don’t. I started to love the ocean when I was very little. This was before I could swim well enough to brave the riptides, swim out to the buoys, or even swim past the break. It was a cloudy day and the ocean was in turmoil, its waves were all over the place and not to mention that they were huge! They towered above me like the beautiful, metal, skyscrapers that stood tall, watching over their land of controlled chaos. My father wouldn’t let us play in the waves but that day his reasoning was full of words that my brother and I did not understand. Words like “riptide” and “undertow” words I knew were bad. My father then said that we could hang onto his legs so that we could feel the power behind these words. So we did. The first wave wasn’t too bad washing over us with gentle foaming hands. It was the second one, it arched high over us and crashed down pulling on our bodies looking for any place to grab a hold and pull. That one left me in stunned awe, how could something so beautiful have such cruel intent. I watched in horror and respect as my grandpa walked into those waves and he would go under them so seamlessly he appeared to be a fish. Now that I am older, I realize those waves that once filled me with such fear are no more than stepping stones bringing me closer to the sky. These are waves that fill me with joy as I decide whether to slide underneath them like a seal or fly over like a bird. Standing on the top of the beach I will hurry down to our chairs and rid myself of any cover and run into the strong and soft arms of the swirling sea.

My first name means wonderful. Admirable. Is this my first name for any particular reason? No, not that I can think of. It came from a list of names. Miranda. Wonderful. Admirable. If my name means these things then why can’t I feel them? If I am “wonderful” then why don’t I feel like I “inspire delight” or I am “extremely good.” I feel as if the delight I inspire is hidden within myself. Only those who search for it can find it. And only then those who find delight can use it. I wish just once someone would help me to see my own inner delights. So they can turn and extend a hand out to me like a walkway to a cold and small island in the middle of a black abyss. Not that the island I stand on is cold or small. It’s quite large and very warm and light, my only problem is that I lay down walkways so people can get on but I can never get off. To me, generosity is a one way street.

My last means the son of Robert, Robertson. I am quite literally the son of Robert, well sort of. If you ignore the fact that I am a girl and my dad’s name is not Robert, but if you go farther up my family tree you will find yourself face-to-face with Robert the something. Brave I think or something like that and very Scottish because that’s where my family comes from. I have yet to go to Scotland and see where my ancestors lived. All my life I have been told that the Robertson’s are lovers and not fighters but I have a hard time believing that because if we were lovers and not fighters then why do my dad and I have regular battles throwing barbs at each other clothed in hot air and empty, hateful words. Because if we were lovers and not fighters I would be able to take this lying down. So the rest of my family maybe lovers or fighters, but I am both. I am willing to fight for my beliefs and for the people I love.

It is the first day of 7th grade which meant that today I would be seeing Mr. Burks again! I couldn’t wait to be in his class again. He was really funny and math even seemed interesting. Blech math. As I walked to the plus classroom the smile grew on my face as I wondered what I would learn, who would be in my class, and would Pusillus actually die this time. I walked through the door “BUuurrkssss?” My voice trails off like a balloon that someone was squeezing the air out of slowly very slowly. My eyes were wide as the woman in Mr. Burks’s seat turned around. “Hi I’m Ms.Austin, I’ll be your plus teacher.” “But Mr.Burks...” I trailed off knowing she wouldn’t care what I had to say. I sat in the seat given to me by the Burks imposer. I felt like a deflated bouncy house or a ball that someone had left in the corner of the room and then they had forgotten about it. And all I could think was ‘Where is Burks?’.


Created with images by Christopher Ba - "Clouds" • chris kuga - "crispy curls" • Kathleen Tyler Conklin - "Henry David Thoreau quote - Library Way - NY City" • mercado2 - "japan school classroom"

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