Home is a Place We Grow Toward

By: Anonymous submissions

Campaign: The Mind

A short novel intertwined with horror, romance, and mystery exploring raw issues of abusive relationships and mental health.

#literature #memoirs

I didn’t plan to interview the same teacher twice.

I thought I was done the first time. I remember walking into a classroom with T.Daniel in his

blue chair. I pressed down the recording button, opened the document titled “Interview

Transcript” on my laptop, and got my questions in front of me. T. Daniel leaned back in his

chair, smiled courteously, and told a story of Durban, life, and teaching in Taiwan. I nodded

agreeably as he shared his stories, behaving like a journalist, feeling professional yet nervous

at the same time. The place where the interview took place was a quiet room, so quiet that

both of us could hear the drop of a pin on the classroom floor.

After the interview, I checked the audio on my recorder.

Nothing. Not a single word.

My AirPods, something I carry around with me 24/7, were left in the right pocket of my pants

and, without me noticing, were connected to my laptop. I stared at the screen, and my first

thought was, “.......awkward, how do I tell T. Daniel?”

But T. Daniel just laughed. “No problem,” he said. “We can do it again.”

That little incident taught me something: sometimes we go through mistakes and

embarrassment attempting something new, but it does not mean the outcome would be just as

bad. So, thanks to the patience of my interviewee, I was able to arrange a second sit-down the

following week.

He spoke first of Durban, the city he calls home. Technically, that’s where he grew up,

though not exactly in the town itself. He described the suburb of Westpool, “quieter, greener,

full of houses with swimming pools, dogs, and cats trotting around gardens.” I was curious

if T.Daniel grew up seeing animals in his neighborhood and he replied, “no lions or zebras in

the yard, at least not here. But farther away, in other parts of South Africa, nature lingers,

zebras are seen crossing roads, and cows are seen wandering through fields. “

“It’s a really nice place,” he said. “Lots of green, lots of hills. A nice place to grow up.”

I could imagine it: the soft wind over the hills, the smell of fresh grass, the laughter of

children running in open spaces, just like in the movies…until that historic wound unfolded,

uninvited but inescapable: the apartheid.

Growing up in South Africa was pretty confusing, T. Daniel reflected. Energetic and

passionate, yes, but as time passes, the injustice and trauma history brought upon everyone,

shaped almost every person, including T. Daniel himself. In school, kids of different

ethnicities- white, black, Indian, and colored- were put in the same class, and yet, as they

grew older, divisions became more clear. Friendships sorted themselves along invisible lines.

And among all this, a child wonders: Who am I? Where do I belong?

“ It reminded me how complicated growing up can be, when even the playground carries the

weight of history.”

He then left South Africa after university, with a degree in English Literature and philosophy.

He had experimented with teaching during the school year and discovered he loved it more

than he expected. But teaching in South Africa would not provide financial stability, and so

the idea of starting a life overseas seemed like a great alternative.

Taiwan became that call, though not by chance. It was a colleague, Teacher Andrea, who

paved the way. Mingdao wasn’t just another school, it was a job that gave him the chance to

be creative with his classes, a kind of freedom that he had always wanted. He spoke about

teaching creatively, about designing lessons that were actually ALIVE, challenging, and real,

an obvious contrast to the rigid, test-focused structure of his previous teaching gigs.

“I’m able to teach what I love here,” T. Daniel smiled. “What I’m good at. And that makes

the classroom feel alive.”

He shared stories of students discovering themselves, of him guiding them toward the

passions that they didn’t know they had. All this happened in his classroom. A student who

thought he had to become a doctor to make his parents proud, later realized going to film

school was a better fit. This quiet teenager blossomed into someone bold enough to chase his

own path and dream.

Watching that unfold, T. Daniel said, was a privilege. Not just teaching knowledge, but

teaching life, who they truly are, and curiosity.

Taiwan itself became part of that transformation. He talked about community: the small

circles of friends, the sense of care, the importance of building a home wherever you are. And

though he lived far from his family, South Africa, the UK, Denmark, Ireland, scattered like

constellations across the world, he stayed connected, realizing that love doesn’t need to be

loud, but should always be real.

He told me about a call with his mother, the first in two months. She was “super happy,” he

said, her voice was a combination of love and relief. And I learned that connection with

family isn’t just about presence: it’s about attention, about sharing life’s smallest moments,

about listening without any judgments.

That lesson smacked me like some kind of poetry: a simple conversation, holding the

heaviness of belonging and care. It took a moment for me to understand that within three

years, I’ll be studying abroad, crossing oceans, moving through time zones, and learning to

build my own life without everything that’s familiar to me, or my family constantly by my

side. Because when it’s time to leave, even the shortest call, five minutes between classes, a

short message “Hi, I’m doing okay, you?”, will not just be a habit, but a gesture of love. A

way of saying I still belong to you, even from far away. And maybe in that tiny moment, that

brief voice through the call, will be enough to make my parents’ day.

Teaching abroad came with its own challenges. Understanding Taiwanese culture, relating

lessons to students’ experiences, all of this needed patience and observation. And yet, he

thrived. He experimented constantly: new books, new projects, new ways to inspire curiosity.

“Talking to other teachers helps,” he said. ‘You learn what works for them, then try it

yourself.”

He described a classroom alive with trial and error, creativity and mistakes, laughter and

thinking. He doesn’t teach for grades, but for growth. And as he spoke, I understood why he

could actually see himself teaching for decades more, not because it was a job to him, but

because it was more like a calling.

Even outside teaching, his personal life showed these values. He and his life partner built a

home, not grand, not perfect, but theirs. They nurtured a small community of friends, of

shared spaces, of shared lives. He talked about health, yes, but always in tandem with

community. The care we give and receive, he seemed to say, shapes us more than the solitude

of personal discipline.

And then he spoke about books. About storytelling. About Backstroy, and an audiobook of

murder and mystery, of writers and friendships stretching across time. He compared it to

teaching: stories shaping perception, curiosity, empathy.

“It’s the most English teacher kind of story,” he laughed. And in that laughter, I heard joy and

quiet.

By the end of the second interview, the one that was actually recorded, I learned something. I

started with the intention of completing my summative assignment, collecting facts,

anecdotes, and names. But what I ended up collecting was more valuable: a sense of what it

means to belong, to teach, to grow, and to tie up.

He told me that home isn’t a single dot on a big map. It isn’t just a city, a country, nor a

house. Home is where patience, love, curiosity, and care intersect with one another. It’s

where we give attention to others and ourselves. It’s a bridge built with words, laughter,

lessons, and sometimes, very stubborn AirPods….

And maybe that's why I loved the AirPods story: because even a stupid failure became a

doorway to something deeper, something human. A reminder that mistakes don’t erase value.

That connection can survive, even in silence. Life has a special meaning because of the

stories and moments we build, tell, remember, and occasionally re-record.

He has no clue where he will be teaching in ten years. Perhaps closer to family in Europe. For

now, Taiwan is home. However, his message is unmistakable: we develop at home. The work

we do to comprehend ourselves and others is what we call home. Additionally, home can be a

person’s story told across a quiet room to someone who laughs, listens, and gives us another

chance to be heard.

After the interview, I reflected on my personal conceptions of identity, belonging, and home.

And I came to the realization that perhaps it has nothing to do with having a set label.

Perhaps it has to do with those who teach us life lessons, provide us with guidance, and

provide us with windows into worlds we otherwise would never have thought were possible.

According to T. Daniel, the most important lessons aren’t found in textbooks, exams, or

lectures. They’re paying full attention when sharing, in observing, in having the courage to

wait, even after the first attempt failed, in pressing record once more.

Then, I suddenly realized in that moment, perhaps we’re all looking for home in the same

way, through connections, stories, laughter, mistakes, and the bravery to try again.