It's a Wonderful Life

When I went to my twenty-fifth high school reunion I was accosted by a former classmate who threw her arms around me and hugged and kissed me and said I am so happy you are here! I still think about you all of the time! Do you remember what fun we had working on the literary magazine?

I was mortified. The truthful answer was: Nope.

I do not think that I even had a momentary thought about her in twenty five years—although thankfully I did remember her. But I definitely did not remember any fun we had working on the literary magazine; I totally forgot that I had even worked on the literary magazine.

My grandfather died while my father was unsuccessfully battling brain cancer. The wake was held in Yonkers. And because the obituary was posted in the Herald Statesman, many of my father’s colleagues as well as former students came to pay their respects-- especially knowing my father was ill and this may be their last opportunity to speak with him.

The influx of people was a lovely tribute--people gathered around my father and reminisced about all things back in the day.

But one person stood apart from the crowd. He was a black man in his mid  forties. He greeted my father and spoke with him for a bit, then came over to speak with my brother and me. The man said I understand your father is sick and I am sorry.  I came here today to thank him personally  for all he did for me . Your father saved my life. I was a bad bad kid and headed down an even badder path when your father grabbed me and pushed me into his office. He told me it wasn’t too late to turn myself around--I could be someone other than a punk. No one had ever said that or taken an interest in me before.  And so I started going to class and I graduated. I then went to Westchester Community College and graduated from there too. Eventually I got my BS. I was the only person in my family to ever get a college degree.

And the former classmate whose memories I did not share pulled me over to a table where issues of my high school literary magazine were laid out. I recognized the cover of one in particular—because I had done the artwork—not that I remembered doing so until then. Inside were several poems and short stories I had written for Sister Alice’s class and the magazine.

As I looked through the yellowed copy I felt as though I had become reacquainted with an old friend—except the old friend was myself.

And the woman told me that she always admired the way I was quick to volunteer for things at school. And it made her quick to volunteer for things her whole life. She had in fact been a key player in organizing  the class reunion.

We are all George Baileys starring in our own version of It’s a Wonderful Life. No life is too small. No action is too insignificant. We just do what we do and somehow, incredibly, it affects others in ways we cannot imagine.

And sometimes when I am in an existential mood I wonder why I write my thoughts down every day—I wonder if I am just wasting everyone’s time—I wonder if I stop, will anyone even notice (besides my mother)?

But then I think Ya never know who’s paying attention.

And who wants to deny some poor hardworking angel from getting their wings? 

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