It’s a Wonderful Life is a holiday tradition in my house. Every December, I settle in to watch George Bailey’s story unfold—the dreams deferred, the quiet sacrifices, the moment when an entire town shows up to save him. There’s something about this film that helps me feel connected to humanity during the holidays. The idea that a life matters even when it feels small, that individual choices ripple outward in ways we can’t see, that community means showing up for each other—it grounds me every year.
And I love it. Deeply. Despite knowing it has genuinely problematic elements.
That tension? That’s actually the whole point pedagogically.
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Why Teaching Classic Literature Matters in 2025
Dictionary.com just named “6-7” their 2025 Word of the Year. Not a word—two numbers from a viral song. They described it as “meaningless, ubiquitous, and nonsensical… it has all the hallmarks of brainrot.” And they’re celebrating it. We’ve made meaninglessness so culturally dominant it deserves recognition.
Meanwhile, we’re having heated debates in education about whether to teach classics at all. Some argue that the traditional canon is gatekeeping—privileging certain voices and cultures while excluding others. Others say we should abandon classics entirely in favor of more “relevant” contemporary texts that students can immediately connect with.
Both arguments have merit. But here’s what I think we’re missing in this debate:
Not teaching classics might be its own form of gatekeeping.
Cultural Literacy as Access: Why Students Need Classic Texts
If students are fluent in viral nonsense but have never encountered the cultural touchstones that show up constantly in academic, professional, and civic spaces, they’re being locked OUT of conversations that determine access to opportunity.
This isn’t about preserving some canonical list of “great books” for tradition’s sake. It’s about giving students the cultural literacy they need to participate fully in the world they’re inheriting.
When everyone at the table is making It’s a Wonderful Life references—or Gatsby references, or Shakespeare references—and your students have never encountered these texts, they’re excluded. They can’t participate in the conversation. They can’t critique these cultural artifacts. They can’t claim that cultural currency for themselves and use it for their own purposes.
Cultural literacy is access. And denying students that literacy—especially students who don’t get it at home—is a form of gatekeeping we don’t talk about enough.
Consider what happens when a college professor references George Bailey’s epiphany about individual impact, or when a political speech alludes to “every time a bell rings,” or when a workplace discussion assumes everyone understands the cultural weight of “you’re worth more alive than dead.” Students who’ve never seen It’s a Wonderful Life aren’t just missing a reference—they’re missing the shared language that educated adults use to communicate complex ideas about meaning, community, and moral responsibility.
They’re on the outside looking in. And we put them there by deciding this text wasn’t “relevant” enough to teach.
How to Teach Problematic Texts: The Critical Affection Framework
But here’s the thing: Teaching classics doesn’t mean teaching them uncritically.
It’s a Wonderful Life IS problematic in places. The women in the film exist primarily to support George’s journey. Mary’s entire character arc is “catch George and sacrifice her dreams for his.” The film presents an exclusively white Bedford Falls with no acknowledgment of who’s been excluded from this vision of American community. The class politics are simplistic—just be grateful for what you have, even when the system is rigged against you.
And that’s exactly what makes it valuable pedagogically.
Because the work isn’t “celebrate this uncritically” OR “tear it apart and reject it.”
The work is: How do we hold complexity? How do we love something while seeing its flaws clearly?
This is what I call critical affection. It’s sophisticated reading. It’s the kind of thinking that’s genuinely AI-resistant because it requires human judgment, values, context, and emotional intelligence that can’t be automated.
AI can give you a plot summary of It’s a Wonderful Life in seconds. AI can even identify the film’s problematic elements—gender politics, racial exclusions, class issues. Any student with ChatGPT can generate that critique.
But AI can’t do this: “I love this film AND I see its problems AND both are true AND here’s why it still matters culturally AND here’s what I take from it AND here’s what I reject.” That requires actual human meaning-making. That requires holding contradictions without resolving them prematurely. That requires the kind of nuanced thinking we’re supposed to be teaching.
When we teach students to engage with It’s a Wonderful Life through critical affection, we’re teaching them a skill they’ll need for everything that matters: How do you love your family members who hold problematic views? How do you participate in cultural traditions that have complicated histories? How do you learn from historical figures who were brilliant and flawed? How do you inherit an imperfect past and build something better?
Students can practice with texts like this one.
Why Emotionally Resonant Texts Belong in English Class
And let’s not lose sight of this: It’s a Wonderful Life is MOSTLY heartwarming. That’s not something to apologize for or dismiss as sentimental. That’s WHY it endures. That’s why it became a cultural touchstone.
Students need to understand why certain texts have staying power. It’s not just “the patriarchy decided this matters” or “white gatekeepers chose this for the canon.” There’s something genuinely moving and human about George Bailey’s story that transcends its historical moment and speaks to fundamental questions about meaning.
What makes a life meaningful when you’re not the hero of some grand narrative? What do we owe our communities? How do individual choices ripple outward in ways we can’t see? What does it mean to show up for each other when everything falls apart?
These aren’t small questions. These aren’t irrelevant questions. And It’s a Wonderful Life explores them in ways that have moved audiences for nearly 80 years.
That’s worth giving students access to.
When we dismiss heartwarming as somehow less intellectually rigorous than cynical, when we treat emotional resonance as pedagogically suspect, we’re cutting students off from one of the most powerful ways humans make meaning. We learn through stories that move us. We remember ideas that touch us emotionally. The fact that It’s a Wonderful Life can make you cry doesn’t make it less valuable—it makes it more effective at teaching you something about what it means to be human.
Teaching Strategies for Classic Films and Literature
So how do we actually DO this? How do we teach classics with critical affection rather than uncritical celebration or wholesale rejection?
We model it ourselves. We show students what it looks like to engage deeply with something while maintaining critical awareness. We create space for them to articulate both appreciation AND critique without forcing them to choose between the two.
We don’t present texts as either “perfect masterpieces” or “irredeemably problematic.” We hold both truths. We ask: What does this text offer? What does it miss? Why does it matter culturally? Where does it fail? What can we learn from it? What should we reject?
And we trust students to navigate that complexity.
Because that’s what educated humans do with culture—we engage, we critique, we claim what serves us, we challenge what doesn’t, we inherit what’s valuable, and we work to do better. But we can’t do any of that if we never encounter the texts in the first place.
In practice, this means:
- Teaching the film’s cultural significance alongside its limitations
- Asking students what moves them about George’s story AND what’s missing
- Exploring why this vision of community resonated so deeply AND who it excluded
- Examining how the film shaped American mythology AND what that mythology obscures
- Giving students the tools to say “this matters to me” AND “here’s what I would change”
This is harder than either uncritical praise or wholesale rejection. It requires holding tension. It requires nuance. It requires the kind of thinking that can’t be reduced to a binary.
That’s exactly why it’s worth doing.
Using Film to Teach Critical Thinking Skills
This is why I’m participating in the Movie Marathon collaboration this December. Because It’s a Wonderful Life is exactly the kind of text that benefits from this approach.
It’s culturally significant—students WILL encounter references to it in college, in professional settings, in civic discourse. It’s genuinely affecting—the story resonates emotionally and raises real questions about meaning and community. It has problematic elements—perfect for practicing critical engagement without descending into either uncritical celebration or cynical dismissal.
Looking for Other Movie Resources to Teach During the Holidays?
I joined a collaboration of author teachers and curriculum writers to share practical activities, standards alignment, designed for teachers who want to give students access to cultural literacy while teaching them to think critically about what they’re inheriting.
My contribution is Tracking Motifs in Film: Bells, Bridges, and Bedford Falls. Grab it here!
Building Student Engagement Through Meaningful Content
Look, we can keep debating which texts “deserve” to be taught. We can keep arguing about whether teaching classics is gatekeeping. But while we’re having that argument, “6-7” just became Word of the Year.
Students are becoming fluent in intentional meaninglessness. Viral content that’s designed to be empty is what’s breaking through every algorithm and creating the only truly shared cultural experience this generation has.
And we’re considering NOT giving them access to texts that create shared meaning, that have shaped cultural conversations for generations, that provide the literacy they need to participate fully in academic and professional spaces?
I’m not interested in preserving some canonical list for its own sake. I’m not interested in teaching texts just because “we’ve always taught them.”
But I AM interested in giving students every possible tool for participating in conversations that matter. And that includes the “flawed classics” that still shape our cultural landscape—the texts that show up in college seminars and job interviews and political speeches and dinner party conversations.
The texts that, if you don’t know them, mark you as outside the educated class.
So yes, I’m teaching It’s a Wonderful Life this year. With love. And with critique. Because both matter.
I’m teaching it because George Bailey’s question—”what makes a life meaningful?”—is worth exploring, even in an imperfect film. I’m teaching it because students deserve access to cultural touchstones, even ones that need critical examination. I’m teaching it because learning to hold complexity—to love something while seeing its flaws clearly—is one of the most important skills we can teach.
And I’m teaching it because in a world where “6-7” is Word of the Year, where meaninglessness is celebrated as content, where viral nonsense has replaced shared cultural literacy—someone needs to give students tools for participating in conversations that actually matter.
That’s not gatekeeping. That’s access.
More Resources for Teaching It’s a Wonderful Life
- Not Just a Holiday Movie: 5 Ways It’s a Wonderful Life Connects with Your Major Texts (Blog Post)
- Systematic Corruption and Resistance: Surprising Parallels Between It’s a Wonderful Life and Bleak House (Blog Post)
- It’s a Wonderful Life Holiday Bundle (Product)
- Teaching Motif in Film: Bells, Bridges, and Bedford Falls (Freebie)
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