The Nanny and The Unbearable Weight of Generational Trauma

By Dante Kunc

I am 6 and sat in front of the TV with my mum. We are watching my favourite show, The Nanny, and Fran Fine says something to the effect of “Oh, that’s because I’m Jewish.” My mum turns to me and says “Oh, so are we, by the way.” And that was that. Most Jewish people grow up within the religion, or at least the culture, but I did not have that privilege. Even after World War 2 ended, being publicly Jewish was just about short of a death sentence, and besides, my family simply did not have enough resources to worry about trying to defy the Communist regime. I did not know any of this when my mum told me about our heritage, so I just said “cool” and that was that.

Fast forward, I was 14, and the boys at my school were pretending to be a weird amalgamation of Hitler and Stalin. The boy I had “dated” at 11 was there, playing along with the rest of them. This was the first time I truly understood that people did not take the past all that seriously. I do not think they actually meant anything by their strange play-pretend, maybe other than attempting to outdo each other with their edginess. And yet, I did not find their jokes and imitations of Nazis very funny. At that point, I was what people called a “social justice warrior,” so dark humour was very much lost on me at the best of times, but this one felt personal. My mum owned a large collection of books about the Holocaust, and though we rarely talked about our family’s past, it loomed over me with every breath I took.

At 19, I moved to Ireland, just as I finally started feeling connected to my Jewish identity. Ireland does not have a large Jewish population, so finding other Jews felt like the biggest blessing I could wish for. When I told people I was Jewish, most would just reply “oh, I have never met a Jew before.” Suddenly, in the eyes of the people I spoke to, I became the spokesperson for all Jews. I could once again feel the weight of millennia of history on my shoulders.

Most Jewish holidays exist to commemorate the past, and most of that past is not particularly joyful. We have gone through a lot as a people – slavery, genocide, diaspora, to name a few – and so it makes sense that we want to honour those who came before us and fought for us to be able to live our lives in relative peace. And yet, it is hard to visit a single historical Jewish site and not see at least one part of the exhibit dedicated to the Holocaust. And again, it makes sense. We rarely focus on the good parts of history, on times of peace and plenty. Besides, most people know about Jews from the Holocaust and conspiracy theories. But, and I ask this carefully, with respect – is it too much to ask for one space that celebrates our lives, rather than commercialising our deaths? When will we be able to talk about the beauty of community, of the happiness that comes with getting together for Shabbat, without having to talk about the Nazis? We are here, now, alive, and we deserve to live on. The past is important, yes, but sometimes I fear that, in remembering, we forget to look forward. 

When I was 6, I knew very little of our history and tradition. But I knew the joy of watching The Nanny and relating to the main character’s relationship with her mum, I knew the joy of latkes and challah, I knew the joy of being alive. And I think that that’s the most important part of heritage – making sure that we do not let it stop us from building our own communities and making up our own traditions, whilst still honouring and remembering the past.