For decades, American families have gathered to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" on Christmas Eve.

The 1946 Frank Capra movie, about a man who on one of the worst days of his life discovers how he has positively impacted his hometown of Bedford Falls, is beloved for extolling selflessness, community and the little guy taking on rapacious capitalists. Take those values, add in powerful acting and the promise of light in the darkest of hours, and it's the only movie that makes me cry.

No less a figure of goodwill than Pope Leo XIV revealed last month that it's one of his favorite movies. But as with anything holy in this nation, President Donald Trump and his followers are trying to hijack the holiday classic.

Last weekend, the Department of Homeland Security posted two videos celebrating its mass deportation campaign. One, titled "It's a Wonderful Flight," re-creates the scene where George Bailey (Jimmy Stewart in one of his best performances) contemplates taking his own life by jumping off a snowy bridge. But the protagonist is a Latino man crying over the film's despairing score that he'll "do anything" to return to his wife and kids and "live again."

Cut to the same man now mugging for the camera on a plane ride out of the United States. The scene ends with a plug for an app that allows undocumented immigrants to take up Homeland Security's offer of a free self-deportation flight and a $1,000 bonus — $3,000 if they take the one-way trip during the holidays.

The other DHS clip is a montage of Yuletide cheer — Santa, elves, stockings, dancing — over a sped-up electro-trash remake of Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You." In one split-second image, Bedford Falls residents sing "Auld Lang Syne," just after they've saved George Bailey from financial ruin and an arrest warrant.

"This Christmas," the caption reads, "our hearts grow as our illegal population shrinks."

"It's a Wonderful Life" has long served as a political Rorschach test. Conservatives once thought Capra's masterpiece was so anti-American for its vilification of big-time bankers that they accused him of sneaking in pro-Communist propaganda. In fact, the director was a Republican who paused his career during World War II to make short documentaries for the Department of War. Progressives tend to loathe the film's patriotism, its sappiness, its relegation of Black people to the background and its depiction of urban life as downright demonic.

Then came Trump's rise to power. His similarity to the film's villain, Mr. Potter — a wealthy, nasty slumlord who names everything he takes control of after himself — was easier to point out than spots on a cheetah. Left-leaning essayists quickly made the facile comparison, and a 2018 "Saturday Night Live" parody imagining a country without Trump as president so infuriated him that he threatened to sue.

But in recent years, Trumpworld has claimed that the film is actually a parable about their dear leader.

Trump is a modern day George Bailey, the argument goes, a secular saint walking away from sure riches to try to save the "rabble" that Mr. Potter — who in their minds somehow represents the liberal elite — sneers at. A speaker at the 2020 Republican National Convention explicitly made the comparison, and the recent Homeland Security videos warping "It's a Wonderful Life" imply it too — except now, it's unchecked immigration that threatens Bedford Falls.

The Trump administration's take on "It's a Wonderful Life" is that it reflects a simpler, better, whiter time. But that's a conscious misinterpretation of this most American of movies, whose foundation is strengthened by immigrant dreams.

In his 1971 autobiography "The Name Above the Title," Capra revealed that his "dirty, hollowed-out immigrant family" left Sicily for Los Angeles in the 1900s to reunite with an older brother who "jumped the ship" to enter the U.S. years before. Young Frank grew up in the "sleazy Sicilian ghetto" of Lincoln Heights, finding kinship at Manual Arts High with the "riff-raff" of immigrant and working-class white kids "other schools discarded" and earning U.S. citizenship only after serving in the first World War. Hard times wouldn't stop Capra and his peers from achieving success.

The director captured that sentiment in "It's a Wonderful Life" through the character of Giuseppe Martini, an Italian immigrant who runs a bar. His heavily accented English is heard early in the film as one of many Bedford Falls residents praying for Bailey. In a flashback, Martini is seen leaving his shabby Potter-owned apartment with a goat and a troop of kids for a suburban tract home that Bailey developed and sold to him.

Today, Trumpworld would cast the Martinis as swarthy invaders destroying the American way of life. In "It's a Wonderful Life," they're America itself.

When an angry husband punches Bailey at Martini's bar for insulting his wife, the immigrant kicks out the man for assaulting his "best friend." And when Bedford Falls gathers at the end of the film to raise funds and save Bailey, it's Martini who arrives with the night's profits from his business, as well as wine for everyone to celebrate.

Immigrants are so key to the good life in this country, the film argues, that in the alternate reality if George Bailey had never lived, Martini is nowhere to be heard.

Capra long stated that "It's a Wonderful Life" was his favorite of his own movies, adding in his memoir that it was a love letter "for the Magdalenes stoned by hypocrites and the afflicted Lazaruses with only dogs to lick their sores."

I've tried to catch at least the ending every Christmas Eve to warm my spirits, no matter how bad things may be. But after Homeland Security's hijacking of Capra's message, I made time to watch the entire film, which I've seen at least 10 times, before its customary airing on NBC.

I shook my head, feeling the deja vu, as Bailey's father sighed, "In this town, there's no place for any man unless they crawl to Potter."

I cheered as Bailey told Potter years later, "You think the whole world revolves around you and your money. Well, it doesn't." I wondered why more people haven't said that to Trump.

When Potter ridiculed Bailey as someone "trapped into frittering his life away playing nursemaid to a lot of garlic eaters," I was reminded of the right-wingers who portray those of us who stand up to Trump's cruelty as stupid and even treasonous.

And as the famous conclusion came, all I thought about was immigrants.

People giving Bailey whatever money they could spare reminded me of how regular folks have done a far better job standing up to Trump's deportation Leviathan than the rich and mighty have.

As the film ends, with Bailey and his family looking on in awe at how many people came to help out, I remembered my own immigrant elders, who also forsook dreams and careers so their children could achieve their own — the only reward to a lifetime of silent sacrifice.

The tears flowed as always, this time prompted by a new takeaway that was always there — "Solo el pueblo salva el pueblo," or "Only we can save ourselves," a phrase adopted by pro-immigrant activists in Southern California this year as a mantra of comfort and resistance.

It's the heart of "It's a Wonderful Life" and the opposite of Trump's push to make us all dependent on his mercy. He and his fellow Potters can't do anything to change that truth.

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