What Interviews Feature Jennifer Teege Discussing Identity?

I was flipping through a stack of books late one rainy evening when I first read about Jennifer Teege’s story, and it hit me like a plot twist from a novel. She discovered that she is the granddaughter of Amon Göth, the Nazi commandant who ran the Kraków-Płaszów camp — the same figure portrayed in 'Schindler's List'. That revelation is the headline, but the fuller truth is more layered: Teege is of mixed heritage, born to a German mother and a Nigerian father, and she only learned about that family connection later in life. The collision of being Black and discovering such a brutal piece of family history is what her memoir grapples with in sharp, personal detail. Reading about her felt intensely human. In 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' she lays out the shock, the shame, the bewilderment, and the slow work of understanding what that legacy means for her identity. It’s not just a historical fact; it’s a lived experience that forced her to confront generational trauma, questions about responsibility, and how memory is passed down. She doesn’t pretend to resolve everything neatly — instead she invites readers into the messy process of reconciling pride in one’s self with the horror of an ancestor’s actions. I found her honesty refreshing. She turns biography into therapy in public, and by doing so she helps open conversations about how family secrets shape us. If you’re into those intimate, unsettling memoirs that make you think about history through a personal lens, her story is a powerful one to sit with.

I've been fascinated by Jennifer Teege ever since I picked up her memoir 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' on a rainy afternoon, so I dug into her background a bit. From what she shares in interviews and in the book, she grew up in Germany after being raised by an adoptive family — her childhood and formative years were spent in a German environment rather than where her biological roots trace back. The shock of discovering her biological grandfather’s identity came later in life and is a central piece of the story she tells. When it comes to study, she pursued education in Germany as well; her memoir and public bios indicate that her adult life and learning were grounded there. She later trained and worked in fields tied to cultural work and writing, which helped her process and shape her experience into the book that made international waves. If you want the nitty-gritty — exact towns or specific university names — I’d check her publisher’s author bio or her interview archives because she describes the emotional journey more than a CV in most places, and those primary sources give the clearest facts and dates. Reading her story felt like watching someone slowly open a locked trunk — she stitches personal memory with research, and the places she grew up and studied are woven through that patchwork rather than listed in a neat line on a resume.

I still get chills thinking about the moment Jennifer Teege’s family history cracked open — and I’ve reread her story enough times to feel like I can retell it with a strange mix of awe and sadness. In her late thirties she was living an ordinary life when she stumbled on information quite by accident: while browsing in a library she opened a book and saw the name and photograph of Amon Göth, the Nazi commandant dramatized in 'Schindler's List'. That encounter didn’t instantly explain everything, but it was the trigger that sent her digging. From there, she started to piece the puzzle together. She checked archives, read trial transcripts and newspaper reports, and confronted family documents and stories that until then had been murky or incomplete. When she questioned relatives, long-hidden facts about adoptions and wartime relationships came to light. The more she researched, the clearer it became that her maternal lineage linked back to Göth, which is the wrenching revelation she explores in her memoir 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me'. The emotional fallout is part of the discovery story too: it wasn’t just a historical fact, it forced her to reconcile being a Black woman with the knowledge that someone in her bloodline had been a perpetrator of atrocities. It’s a reminder of how historical trauma can surface in the most ordinary moments — like flipping through a book — and how research, family conversations, and archival documents can transform a sudden confusion into a painful, undeniable truth.

I’m the kind of book nerd who flips to the acknowledgements and the back cover before I even start, so when I picked up 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' I noticed the “award-winning” blurbs right away. To be honest, I don’t have a neat trophy list memorized — what I do remember is that Jennifer Teege’s memoir got wide critical recognition in Germany and abroad: it was shortlisted or nominated for several non-fiction and biography prizes there, picked up translation honors in a few countries, and regularly turned up on prize longlists and year-end best-of lists. It’s the kind of book that finds its way onto cultural prize radar because of its emotional punch and the unusual family history at its center. If you want the exact awards, the quickest route is checking a few spots I always use: the author’s official site (she usually lists honors), the publisher’s media page for the English or German editions, and the book’s Wikipedia entry for citation-backed awards. Library catalogs and major booksellers also include prize badges; sometimes the translated editions carry regional prizes that don’t show up on the original German page. I found one of my copies with a little sticker saying “Prize-winning” on the train once — it’s that kind of quietly lauded memoir that keeps popping up in conversations and reading groups.

On a rainy Sunday I tore through 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' with my mug cold beside me and a stack of overdue library books in the other room. Jennifer Teege taught me that forgiveness isn’t the tidy, cinematic reunion people sometimes expect. She showed that forgiveness can be a private, stubborn decision to stop letting the past dictate your daily mood, even if you never meet the person who hurt you or the system that enabled the harm. For her, and for me reading her book on a cramped train, forgiveness was about reclaiming life from the weight of inherited shame. She also made it clear that forgiving is not the same as forgetting or excusing. I found her insistence on holding both history and humanity simultaneously really freeing: you can acknowledge monstrous acts, learn the facts, and still choose not to be consumed by rage. That felt important when I later talked with my grandmother about family secrets over an awkward holiday meal—I took the calm path she modeled, not because histories disappeared, but because my own future felt too precious to waste. Finally, Teege’s journey taught me to forgive myself. She didn’t let the revelations erase her identity; she rewrote it into something active, curious, and compassionate. For anyone wrestling with inherited guilt or difficult family truths, her work is a reminder that forgiveness can be a boundary as much as a bridge — a way to separate who you are from what your ancestors did, and to choose how you want to live going forward.

The thing that pushed me to pick up a pen was the exact kind of shock that feels like your life has been mismatched at the seams. I was 38 when I stumbled across a book about Amon Göth in a public library and there, in a photograph, was a face that looked strangely like mine. That discovery cracked everything open — not just the factual shock that my maternal grandfather was a notorious Nazi commander, but the emotional jolt of realizing a secret had been living inside my family for decades. Writing 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' became a way of following that crack into light. At first I wrote to make sense of identity: how do you reconcile being the granddaughter of a man who orchestrated terror and being the daughter of a Black immigrant who fled to Germany? But the project grew. It turned into an exploration of silence and shame, of how families keep monstrous truths hidden and how those silences shape the next generations. I wanted to honor the victims and also show the messy reality of being born into complicated histories. There was also a public motive: sharing the story sparked conversations about responsibility, memory, and race in modern Germany. I wanted to carve space for grandchildren of perpetrators to speak without being dismissed, to challenge easy labels, and to encourage others to confront uncomfortable pasts. Writing the book felt like both a personal therapy and a civic act — a mixture of grief, curiosity, and a stubborn need to understand where I came from.

I was leafing through a stack of memoirs on a drizzly afternoon when I picked up 'My Grandfather Would Have Shot Me' and found myself pulled into Jennifer Teege’s way of surviving a discovery that would crush most people. In her book she lays out, with brutal honesty, how she coped: she turned inward, crashed into a deep depression, and only slowly learned to put words around the horror. Writing the memoir itself became a lifeline — a way to name things, order fragments, and stop the shame from eating her whole identity. She also did the painstaking work of research and confrontation. That meant digging into archives, asking difficult questions of family members, and refusing to let silence be the family’s protector. At the same time she set boundaries with relatives and sought professional help to untangle personal pain from collective guilt. What struck me reading it was how mixed the tactics were: practical fact-finding, emotional therapy, public testimony, and the private work of forgiving herself for things she never did. It’s messy, non-linear, and human — exactly the sort of honest reckoning that makes history tangible. If you read it, bring a notebook; you’ll want to underline lines that feel like a map out of a very dark place.

In 'Jennifer Murdley's Toad', Jennifer learns the hard way that beauty isn't just about appearances. She starts off desperate to fit in, buying a toad because she thinks it'll make her seem cooler. But Bufo, the toad, turns out to be this sassy, wise creature who shows her how shallow her thinking was. Through their wild adventures, Jennifer realizes true worth comes from inside—Bufo's loyalty and courage prove way more valuable than any pretty face. By the end, she stops caring so much about what others think and starts valuing real connections and self-acceptance.