Why ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ makes me lose it…Every. Dang. Time.

I wasn’t always sentimental. In fact, I remember watching “It’s a Wonderful Life” as a kid being relatively unimpressed. That’s because I viewed it the same way I viewed all black-and-white movies at the time: films created by old people, for old people, starring old people.  

It wasn’t until the holiday season of my first semester of college (exactly 20 years ago) that my perspective changed drastically.

That initial semester freshman year was an earth-shattering life adjustment for this homebody—academically, athletically, socially…pretty much every way imaginable. Perhaps the biggest challenge was finding myself accidentally trapped in pre-med biology. How does that happen, you ask? It comes from the rookie mistake of saying, “Hey, I kind of like science; maybe I’ll be a bio major,” without any regard to the fact that you’re saying it at Georgetown University, a place where your typical freshman biology course is comprised of 209 future doctors…and, in 1998, yours truly. 

Once I realized what I had done, I called home on a regular basis, usually crying, to explain to my mother that I was going to fail and my life would soon be over—the plight of a perfectionist coming to grips with being hopelessly terrible at something. Lectures were over my head, tests were entirely essay, and I was drowning. The drama was amplified by the fact that I was also playing Division I lacrosse for a top-ten team, and the gaps in talent and intensity between my high-school and college programs were large enough to span the Grand Canyon. 

Calls to my mom ranged from moderate panic to full-fledged nervous breakdown, and her response was always the same: an elaborate description of worst-case scenarios in which I failed my bio class, took summer courses, failed those, was cut from my team, flunked out of school, moved back home, and enrolled in (and subsequently dropped out of) community college. 

It was an effective method. Thirty minutes in, when my inability to ask “Do you want fries with that?” got me fired from my hypothetical fast-food job, I slowly realized how ridiculous my fears were. Her point, which was well taken, was that even if this class was as horrific as it felt, even if I was as terrible as I perceived, even if my life spiraled out of control because of my performance, in the final result, I’d never be homeless, I’d never be unloved, I’d never lose my family or be without friends. Most likely, none of this stuff would ever happen…except possibly the whole failing-the-class part. 

After the third or fourth of these conversations, I was able to grasp that the most I could do was get a tutor, try my best, work as hard as possible and accept that that was enough, no matter the outcome. It was still the most stressful, difficult and unpleasant part of early college life, but I managed. 

The beginning of college wasn’t all bad. In fact, it was mostly phenomenal. It was like being Dorothy and opening the door to Oz. Everything about my life became more intensely vivid, especially the thrill of new friends, new experiences, and independence. Sure, there were flying monkeys (a lot of them—and they scared the hell out of me), but the good outweighed the terrifying a hundredfold. 

I spent the semester working harder than I ever imagined, but the stress and anxiety were tempered by many wonderful experiences: dorm dance parties with my roommate—randomly paired, yet unquestionably my collegiate soul mate—Wednesday field trips in D.C. with the guys on our floor, a coach who left encouraging messages on my answering machine (yes, you read that correctly; I didn’t own a cell phone) on days when I came close to losing it, and teammates who went from strangers to family in a few weeks’ time. Not to mention, if I wanted to go home any given weekend, my dad was more than willing to brave D.C. traffic to pick me up. 

Despite the thrill of college life, I was beyond ready to go home come exam time. There was just one final obstacle: the bio exam. Every friend I had, every person I knew, literally everyone living on my floor, was finished exams by Saturday, December 19. My bio exam wasn’t until Tuesday, the 23rd. Tuesday. More than 72 solitary-confinement-like hours stood between me and a three-week stint at home for the holidays. 

When I woke up Saturday morning, I began studying immediately. My plan was to spend every waking hour for the next three days with my face in a book. It was a terrible idea, but I hadn’t yet seen “The Shining,” so I didn’t understand the effects of all work and no play. 

Around 10 a.m. my phone rang. My high-school besties Jamie and Mary were together on the other line checking in to see how I was coping. We talked for over a minute before Mary piped in and confessed they were thinking of coming down to surprise me. 

“That sounds amazing,” I said. “But I’m stuck studying for this exam. I can’t go anywhere or do anything until it’s over.” 

“Well, you have to take breaks and eat and stuff,” one of them argued.  

“I know,” I said, “but I’ll just grab a sandwich and keep going.” I was committed to torturing myself for one last long weekend. 

“Well, that kind of sucks,” Jamie said, “because we’re already here.” 

“Wait, what do you mean?” I asked, trying not to get too excited. “Where are you?” (Again, cell phones barely existed, and we certainly didn’t own them.) 

“We’re upstairs at the security desk. You have to come up and sign us in,” she told me. 

I’m not sure if I even hung up the phone before bolting down the hall and up the stairs. It was the most relieved I had ever been to see two humans.  

For the next few hours, they happily distracted me. We walked around campus, had lunch at Booey’s, a Georgetown staple, and laughed hysterically telling stories, reliving glory days and planning adventures to commence in T-minus four days. 

Eventually they left and I went back to studying diligently for several more hours before concluding I needed another sanity check. Not wanting to call home for the 71st time that week, I opted to call my next-door neighbors. I had grown up spending as much time at the Cummings’ house as I did my own, and they had easily become my second family. Brigid answered. A little young to be my mom and a little old to be my sister, she somehow always managed to be the best of both. Although busy baking cookies when I called, she was quick to lend an empathetic ear. Actually, I didn’t have to say much; for a solid hour, she told stories and hypothesized all the fun things we’d do in a few days when I was home. For 60 wonderfully distracting minutes, it felt like I was already there. 

After we hung up, I turned on the TV. “It’s a Wonderful Life” was just beginning. Not my favorite, I thought, but it beat studying. Besides, I still had over 48 hours to do that.  

I was unprepared for the roller coaster of nostalgia, homesickness and gratitude that ensued. Maybe you have to have a base level of life experience under your belt before George Bailey triggers an emotional response. That year, that semester, that weekend, I reached the tipping point—and my perspective of that movie forever changed. I was a bawling hot mess by the end, a mixture of feeling sad I wasn’t home yet, grateful to know it was coming, and hopeful I’d survive the exam looming ahead (and anything else life had to throw at me thereafter).  

Just then, someone knocked on my door, which completely freaked me out since I knew for a fact everyone else had already gone home. It was probably a serial killer, I thought. That was the only logical explanation, but I walked toward the door anyway, because the outside chance it wasn’t a serial killer outweighed the risk of continued solitary confinement. 

It was King-In, one of the guy friends down the other end of the hallway. I pretty much attacked him (a friendly assault) and asked what on earth he was doing there. He was supposed to be home. 

In true King-In fashion, he had gone home earlier but didn’t realize how many out-of-town relatives were staying at his house. He was kicked out of his own bed for the evening and didn’t feel like sleeping on the floor, so he drove a half hour back to the dorm to sleep in peace. I told him I was sorry to hear it, but I wasn’t. Not even a little bit. I was thrilled for his giant extended family.  

We watched “A Time to Kill”—a movie my brain now tries to equate as a holiday film because of the surrounding circumstances—and I sunk a little deeper into gratitude and peace, not only for the merciful sprinkling of friendship throughout a day I thought I’d spend completely alone, but also for the greater understanding that whatever happened in two days, I’d get to go home to the most important things either way. No man is a failure who has friends. (I’d argue family is implied there, too). 

I’ve watched “It’s a Wonderful Life” another twenty times since 1998, and it’s never a question of will I cry but rather when. The experience of that movie is now inextricably tied to my own memories, and I can’t view it without being transported to that semester of my life when it came to matter so much.  

I associate it with my mother gently coaxing me down from the ledge of perfection and my dad assuming the role of eager taxi-cab service at a moment’s notice. I equate it with the gift of friends who somehow manage to give me what I need instead of what I think I want, and King-In randomly showing up on my doorstep. I think of Brigid and the Cummings—the bonus family I chose for myself—and a time when my brother became not just a sibling but a great friend—on purpose. I think of friends, coaches and teammates, all still as important to me now as they were then.

Every time I watch that movie, I remember how lucky I am, that blessings are often disguised as burdens, and that success cannot be measured in grades or dollars. I’m reminded that every heartache, hardship or tough time I’ve ever faced in my life has eventually, inevitably, been followed by the George Bailey proclamation, “I want to live again,” and I have faith it always will.  

“It’s a Wonderful Life” somehow manages to reiterate better than any other movie I can think of that our troubles are momentary, but hope is eternal. Love is, too.  

I’m fairly certain it will be my favorite Christmas movie for the rest of my life, and, cheesy as it may be, I’m pretty sure I’ll always leave the theater feeling like the richest man in town. Or woman. You know what I mean. 

Merry Christmas.