I don’t know my ancestors, so what?

Pride in your last name, pride in your ancestors — it’s a strange idea, don’t you think? People say to you: “You come from great roots, your great-grandfather saved a village, killed a dragon, and you should be proud of that.” And what do I care? Maybe my great-grandfather wasn’t a hero at all, maybe he was friends with the dragon. Maybe that same dragon saved him, pulled him out of some pit or saved him from starving to death. And my great-grandfather, seeing he could make a little money and fame out of it, stabbed the dragon in the back while it slept. Killed a friend for a bag of gold, and now he hangs in heroic portraits, smiling as if it was all fine.

And what now? Am I supposed to be proud of that story? The very thought of being forced to take pride in something I had nothing to do with makes me uneasy. What difference does it make whether my ancestor was a dragon-slayer or a murderer? I’m here, now, and all their old glory or sins have nothing to do with me.

Pride itself is a strange feeling. People hold their heads high because of what someone before them did. It’s like they’re trying to look better based on someone else’s achievements. But so what? Give me at least a piece of the pain or happiness my ancestors felt, so I can say: yes, this is my story, it’s part of me. But, alas, the past is hidden behind a curtain of lies and exaggerations. How can I know what really happened?

Maybe they ate children for breakfast. Maybe they saved villages. Maybe the same person killed in the morning and saved in the evening. Stories are easily distorted, and we’ll never know the whole truth.

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