Born in north-west London in 1966, Tracy-Ann Oberman is an actor and writer. Her early career was spent with the Royal Shakespeare Company before starring in comedy and drama series such as Big Train, Doctor Who, EastEnders, Toast of London, Friday Night Dinner and It’s a Sin. Oberman, a vocal campaigner against antisemitism, performs as Shylock in The Merchant of Venice (1936) from 27 February until 25 March in Watford and Manchester, a role inspired by the life of her great-grandmother, a Jewish woman who stood on the frontline against the fascists at the Battle of Cable Street. Oberman lives with her husband and daughter in London.
This is me aged two and a half, on our annual summer holiday in Bournemouth. We’d go with a whole load of families from our local area in Kenton, and there was a fancy-dress party in the hotel that day. My mum had forgotten to pack me anything to wear, so I had to put on my friend Antony’s cowboy outfit. I’m doing a polite smile but I was really pissed off and thinking: “What the hell is this? I just wanted to be a princess!” Now I love the costume, because it’s unusual to see a little girl as a cowboy; it looks like an emblem of my early doors feminism. I also see total innocence – even if I was disappointed about those clothes, I hadn’t yet experienced how mercurial life could be.
There were two parts to my childhood. I started out as this precious, gregarious girl, so confident at school and beloved by all. After that, I became a sad child: when I was four, I lost my grandparents – my dad’s parents – both of whom I was very close to, as well as my great-aunt. It all happened within a year. I remember feeling this feeling, this hole. When my dad told me my grandma had died, I experienced a whoosh like a wind tunnel. I couldn’t quite compute it. My brain changed. I lost myself in books. I found social interaction overwhelming. It made me feel very alone.
In the 1970s, there was no such thing as child therapy. As a result, I became very insular and untrusting of the world, and I acted out a lot at school. In my family I was the questioner; I was always watching and thinking. I never took anything at face value and I was rebellious but in a sad way. I was always getting disciplined as I couldn’t see the point in following the rules. When you’ve experienced something as deeply meaningful as a loss, being told off for wearing your jumper round your waist seems utterly petty. Regardless of how isolated I often felt, I couldn’t bear to see other people being picked on at school and would always stand up for the underdog. I was shy but not when it came to injustice. It made my blood boil, and it still does – it’s why I am outspoken on social media, and in my profession, too.
I worked with a bully of a director for one of my first jobs, and he picked on this young boy who was plucked straight from drama school and made into a whipping boy. I was openly horrified, but also incredibly shocked that the older actors were happy to sit back and watch it happen. No job is worth selling your soul for.
I always wanted to be an actor when I was young, but when I told my parents their reaction was: “Don’t be a wanker. That is ridiculous! No, no, no.” Like all immigrant families [Oberman’s great-grandmother was a Belarusian refugee], they wanted their child to get an education and move up in the world. Their hope was that I might do law, or go into advertising. They didn’t know anyone in showbiz – Claudia Winkleman is my cousin, but her side of the family were the arty ones and we were the suburban ones. To my parents, wanting to be an actress was like wanting to be an astronaut. My dad said: “Trace – if you choose to follow this career then you’ve got to accept that for the rest of your life you’re going to live in a bedsit with only a cat for company.” He was an incredibly intelligent man, but he was frightened.
Thankfully I already had the acting bug. I was doing classics at university in Leeds but life changed when I performed in a production of The Merchant at Edinburgh fringe [an Arnold Wesker reworking of The Merchant of Venice]. Arnold took me aside and said: “You’re really good; you should do this professionally.” I said: “My parents are going to kill me if I leave university.” Because of him I auditioned for drama school. When I eventually told my dad, he sat me down and said: “If you don’t get an acting job within the first six months, you’ve got to get a real job.” At the end of the six months, I had landed a place at the Royal Shakespeare Company.
In spite of all the childhood grief, literature, creativity and performing were the things that got me out of the dark place. Comedy has always been so important to me, too. I come from a family surrounded by Holocaust survivors. They told jokes in Auschwitz. Jews have got funny bones. We see the humour in the tragedy and the tragedy in the humour.
At the same time I can come across as formidable, hard and strong. I grew up around tough matriarchs – my mum, my grandmas and my great-aunt and great-grandma. They were my icons and role models. Through them, I learned to champion myself – to create opportunities. As a result, I was never out of work. I was always doing something – -running a radio play alongside a TV comedy alongside voiceover work.
In a short space of time, I went from being a jobbing actor to being watched by 17 million viewers in EastEnders as Chrissie Watts. Soaps were real tabloid fodder at that time [the early 00s]. The experience of being public property, being on people’s TV screens most nights a week, was crazy. The intrusion into my personal life and the paparazzi’s omnipresence was overwhelming; a large part of me couldn’t believe anyone was interested.
I remember walking in Primrose Hill with a friend and photographers were following us. I said: “Why are you taking these pictures? They are going to be so boring.” Then we walked past a coffee shop and I said: “Look there’s Neve Campbell and Jonny Lee Miller! They’re much more A-list than me!” But they still carried on following us.
My dad loved EastEnders, but he never got to see me in it. He dropped dead suddenly in my arms at home when I was 20. He would have been amazed that I managed to have this career. That I managed to keep a child alive, that I have kept my relationship alive, that I have a dog and a cat. He would have been proud. Especially as the little girl in the photo would never have dreamed she could have achieved all of that.
When I look at this photo, I want to put my arms around her and tell her that it is going to be all right. I want to tell her that if you live your life like the universe is out to get you, then it will get you. Life is good, people are good, and you won’t end up in a bedsit with only cats for company. Plus you will happily put on a cowboy costume in 50 years’ time.
