I Used 'The Bodyguard' To Stage A Coup In My Church Youth Group

Never mess with a gay kid who’s dramatic, lonely, and loves Whitney Houston.

I wanted a best friend so bad.

Actually, any friend would have been fine.

I was twelve when my dad decided we needed to get away from the government.

We left my school, my friends, and moved north of New Orleans to a literal village where I saw overalls for the first time.

I tried 4-H. Absolutely not. I was a boy scout only long enough to snag the outfit. Then, I found this thing called youth group.

The town’s only Catholic church was billed as The Little Cathedral in the Woods. The “woods” part was accurate. The “cathedral” part was rebranding. It had been a barn.

The youth group was all misfits. One kid was bald by twelve. One girl needed a bra she couldn’t afford. There was an orphan. And me: effeminate and insecure.

I didn’t have to be alone anymore.

I took to it. Our priest named me Altar Boy of the Year. Twice. I walked old people to their cars. Mothers wanted their daughters to date me.

All I really wanted was for the other kids to like me. It wasn’t happening.

I had to try harder.

I shook hands like a politician. I spoke like a local anchorman. I wore a T-shirt that read Top Ten Reasons to Stay Roman Catholic. And it listed all ten. On the front of the shirt.

I insisted on leading a prayer at every youth group event, softball games and movie nights and one time at a livestock auction to watch this kid named Andy show a goat.

I made everyone hold hands. I waited for silence. When all you could hear was the breeze and Andy’s goat, I delivered a prayer so grand it sounded as if directly from Jesus.

It was directly from The Bodyguard.

At the end of the movie, Kevin Costner is protecting a politician at a meeting when the chaplain says, “Heavenly Father, please be with us today as we meet in friendship and duty…”

At the end of the prayer, the music BOOMS and Whitney Houston nails her iconic: “And IIIIIIII… will always… love youuuu.” I memorized it.

To my mind, every time I recited it, everyone was in fucking awe. I was emboldened.

If those kids wouldn’t call me their friend, I’d make them call me their president.

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I conspired with the Sunday school director, Miss Ethyl, to draft The Constitution of the Youth Group of St. John the Baptist Catholic Church. “Make me in charge,” I asked. She loved me because I occasionally helped her pick up sticks and pinecones littering her yard.

I planned trips. I chaired meetings. Before a concrete ramp was poured outside the mobile home we called our Community Hall, we buried a time capsule which was an old Coke bottle filled with photos of us, handwritten hopes most of us would never realize, and newspaper clippings about Pope John Paul II from my personal collection.

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I threw myself a party on my final night as president. Term limits. Kneecapped by the very constitution I wrote. I still smiled.

I decorated the mobile home with American flags. I hired a DJ to play I Will Always Love You during my closing speech. Very moving except for a few seconds when he accidentally played a snippet of some song called Gangsta’s Paradise.

When I visit my dad now—don’t tell the government—I sometimes stop by that little cathedral in the woods.

I don’t recognize anyone. No one asks to shake my hand anymore. Miss Ethyl died. Even Whitney Houston is gone.

I still have that prayer memorized. For emergencies. And on occasions when I think of my old youth group. We were there for each other, helped each other grow, and they mattered to me. Maybe it wasn’t friendship, but something deeper.

The concrete ramp is still there. I’m probably the only one who remembers the time capsule under it.

I wonder who will find it, long after I’m dead like the rest of them.

I hope it’s an effeminate, insecure, lonely kid. I’m certain part of my spirit will be in that village, in those woods, outside that little cathedral, watching. I’ll stand on that ramp. I’ll hold my chin up. I’ll whisper to him, Hey, friend.

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Let me say this aloud

Here’s a little more about my years as a youth group tyrant, details I couldn’t fit in the post, direct from me to you.

And I still have that damn prayer memorized!

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Hit me up

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Before we go…

The Truly Hilarious Thing About Testicular Cancer

And it’s not mortality, chemo, or when my doctor told me a silicone ball implant would be great because if I'm ever murdered they can use it to identify my body.

That’s next week’s Byrontology.

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