Bibitum Donec Delapsus

A Motto of Regret

We were the wild bunch. The rabble-rousers. The risk-takers. The rebels of Regis High School.

We weren’t nerds or geeks or outcasts. We weren’t popular. We were outsiders, and we were proud of that.

While the jocks and popular kids simmered through their nights on the low flame of light beer and pop radio in someone’s basement, we were exploring abandoned sanitariums at the midnight hour on Folsom Street, or taking the First Avenue jump at 86 miles an hour to get airborne in a Ford Fairmont, or breaking into our own high school to cause some innocent mayhem down the aisles of academia.

All this, of course, drew the attention of the popular crowd.

By junior year, between our misadventures and the charisma and comedic antics of our group’s frontman, Steve*, whether intended or not—whether welcomed or not—we were being absorbed into the amorphous mass of popularity.

One of our friends had some hunting land their family owned in Wildcat Park, deep in the woods of Humbird, Wisconsin. It was a five-plus mile drive down an old, almost arrow-straight country highway. Just as it jogged left, you kept straight, off the road and down two tire ruts for about a half-mile until you came upon the clearing that was their site.

In our sophomore year, we camped there a couple times. Seven of us sixteen-year-olds roughing it, mostly innocent, in the Autumnal Northwoods of Wisconsin. No alcohol at that time, just hiking the area, chopping wood for fire, sticking meat on a stick to cook, holding our bowels as long as possible because we didn’t want to shit in the woods, and shivering together in a tent in October 30-degree evenings, snuggling up against the localized warmth of a kerosene heater.

As juniors who were starting to garner more attention from their peers, it was obvious to us what had to happen.

We needed to have a party.

But we didn’t do things small. No. This wouldn’t be a typical party. This would be a celebration. A festival. A…

Humbirdfest.

As we started to concoct our plan, I started dabbling with a logo. (Is it any wonder I ended up in marketing for my career?) I based it on the logo of a company out of Abbotsford, Wisconsin—Abbyland Meats. A round central logo containing our class year—89—with “Humbirdfest” running across it. A scrolling banderole surrounding the lower part of the circle, emblazoned with the Latin phrase, Bibitum Donec Delapsus.

Loosely translated, “Drink Until You Drop.”

We realized we’d need some power there to light up the area. We’d also need money for the alcohol that would make us "drop." So, I connected with a local screen-printing company to make sweatshirts emblazoned with the logo I designed. We ended up selling them for $16 each and sold over forty of them, enough to fully fund our Humbirdfest. Unfortunately, we didn’t catch that they had misspelled the Latin phrase as “Bitium Donec Delapsus.”

Throughout the beginning of school through early October, word spread and people got more and more excited. We were methodical with our planning. We realized the alcohol would need to go up separately to avoid the suspicion of a caravan of teens riding into the wilds of the Wisconsin outback. Recognizing just how much wood would be needed to fire this event, we went up ahead of time and spent an entire blistering day chopping several chords of wood to fuel the festivities.

Meanwhile, the friend whose family owned the land had a bodacious stereo system in his car—two tweeters, 4 speakers and 2 subwoofers, all boosted by amps. He had actually installed multiple RCA jacks in the hatchback so we could hook up speakers, which we hung in the trees around the encampment.

The night would be, quite simply, epic.

Except for one thing. School officials found out.

Someone blabbed about the event, which led to the school calling parents. We were devastated. All that work. All that planning. The promise of it being the night of our lives.

We were cocky teenagers, though, so that wouldn’t stop us. Between parental misdirection and covert operations, we did indeed still have a Humbirdfest, even if the number of participants were less than anticipated. It was a glorious night of debauchery and vice (well, within the context of good, if rebellious, Catholic children).

I do need to rewind the clock a bit, however. Let me take you back to grade school, because one of my best friends then and through junior high was Josh*, this smart, science-focused guy who also happened to be obsessed with physical fitness. He is the reason why I went from a pudgy fifth grader into a relatively fit sixth grader and a lean and mean high schooler.

Back then, I was definitely among the geeks and freaks of school, and thoroughly enjoyed the friendships made within that outsider group. When high school hit, I was in uncharted territory and terrified. I joined football before the start of freshman year not because I had any interest in the sport, but because I was terrified of encountering an entire new batch of judgmental peers. I needed to get a head start on my high school career and mitigate any bullying I might face.

That’s how I met Steve, who would become the leader of the outsiders and the main connection to the popular group. It was also what slowly pulled me away from the geek squad and the good friends I had made in grade school.

So, fast forward back to Humbirdfest days. I was in science lab class, at a big desk with a semi-functioning Bunsen burner (our Catholic school was really struggling for funds and we envied the local public schools with all their amenities) and my partner was my one-time good friend, Josh.

And I had just found out he was the one who ratted out Humbirdfest to the school administrators.

The tension was as tight as the high-E string of a guitar, though poor Josh had no idea why. I was cold. I was cruel. Dead-faced to every silly joke he said. Mute to every comment he made. Icy glare to every look of affirmation he implored.

Finally, I said, “I can’t believe you ratted us out.”

He looked forcibly confused.

“You ruined our Humbirdfest.”

I don’t remember how exactly he reacted, but I remember him not saying much and trying to just get through the rest of the period. I certainly made sure to let everyone know who had ruined our event. It made Josh’s remainder of his high school days a lonely ride.

A Holiday Humbirdfest would follow in December—an event multiple times more elaborate and successful. The finale came in the form of a senior year Humbird graduation event. By that time, because I had become the outcast and loner, I had nothing to do with it. But all that is another another story.

For me, the Humbirdfests I took part in were moments of pride and celebration. I had looked upon them fondly as the best moments of rebellion and independence and a celebration of youth. Most recently, however, I learned how at least some of it was actually hubris, conceit and cruelty.

You see, recently, I reconnected with someone from High School who had maintained a connection with Josh, the so-called betrayer of Humbirdfest. She shared with me the fact that, actually, he had been cornered by administration and told that, if he didn’t divulge information about the Humbirdfest, they would cancel the football season for that year. Poor Josh, a member of the team himself, had the entire season and all his teammates on his shoulders. So, pressured as he was, he decided to save the sporting schedule and divulge what he knew of the event.

He never explained this to me. Or, if he tried, I hadn’t listened. He ended up suffering all the consequences of it silently.

There is certainly a lesson here, and apparently, I am too ineffectual to fully express it. Suffice to say, this was one more opportunity for me to learn to withhold judgement, to not be addicted to my objectives and desires no matter the cost, to be kinder to those who appear to oppose my aspirations or motives. Certainly, I realize that, whereas I thought a friend had betrayed us, I had actually betrayed a friend...all while under the influence of a pathetic motto dressed in the pretense of a dead language.

* Not real name.