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9 Modern-Day Independence Movements

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by Jeff Fleischer

You've heard all about Palestine and Tibet, Quebec and Chechnya. But those aren't the only places that want to be sovereign. Here are 9 more would-be countries looking forward to paying U.N. dues.

1. Saving up for Independence: Greenland

Like a recent college graduate, Greenland wants to be on its own but just can't afford it yet. Denmark took control of the ice-capped landmass in 1721 and has been gently nudging it out the door for decades. In 1953, the Danes upgraded Greenland from a colony to an overseas county and gave it representation in parliament. And in 1979, they backed off even further, handling little more than Greenland's foreign policy and defense. Yet, Denmark still pays about half of Greenland's domestic budget, at a cost of about $650 million annually. Polls in Denmark show that the majority of the population supports the idea of letting Greenland's 57,000 inhabitants vote for independence. In other words, Greenland can be free if it wants.

Strangely, global warming may give Greenland the financial boost it needs to leave Denmark. As Arctic ice melts, the island's natural resources will become more accessible. The U.S. Geological Survey estimates that Greenland's northeast coast alone could produce more than 30 billion barrels of oil, and a few major oil companies have already bought permits to explore the land. The mining of gold, zinc, and other minerals is on the rise, too. Last year, aluminum giant Alcoa announced its intention to build the world's second-biggest smelter there. Plus, Greenland is investigating how to use the melting ice to expand its hydroelectric power industry. If it all adds up, Greenland may be moving away from the motherland sooner than it thought.

2. Cold Feet: Alaska

For decades, a well-organized separatist movement has campaigned to turn America's largest state into its own nation. The bitterness dates back to 1958, when Alaska's citizens were given a simple yes-or-no vote on statehood. Many Alaskans felt they were denied more options on the issue, prompting a land developer named Joe Vogler to organize a re-vote that would offer Alaskans four possibilities—remain a territory, become a state, take commonwealth status, or become a separate nation.

AIP.jpgUsing the vote as his platform, Vogler ran for governor in 1974—and soon made a habit of it. With colorful slogans such as, "I'm an Alaskan, not an American. I've got no use for America or her damned institutions," Vogler spearheaded the Alaskan Independence Party (AIP), and his campaign has twice topped 5 percent of the vote. More surprisingly, former U.S. interior secretary Wally Hickel got elected governor on the AIP ticket in 1990. Unfortunately for the party, Hickel only ran on the ticket because he lost the Republican primary. Never a supporter of the plebiscite idea, Hickel left the AIP and rejoined the Republicans in 1994.


Today, the AIP continues to draw about 4 percent of voters statewide. And in 2006, Alaska took part in the first-ever North American Secessionist Convention, joining other groups from Vermont, Hawaii, and the South. As for Vogler, he was murdered in 1993—reportedly the result of an argument over a business deal. On a brighter note, honoring his wish to never be buried in U.S. soil, Vogler was laid to rest in Canada's Yukon Territory.

3. One Man is an Island: Sealand

If the existence of Sealand proves anything, it's that one country's trash can be another man's treasure. After World War II, Great Britain abandoned a series of military bases off its eastern coast. Seeing potential in one of the empty forts, former Major Roy Bates decided to claim it for his family. Then in 1966, he dubbed the island Sealand and declared independence. The following year, he fired warning shots at British naval vessels that dared to breach his waters.

When the British government brought Bates to court following the incident, they found they couldn't arrest him. Sealand was in international waters, just far enough off the coast to fall outside of British jurisdiction, so the island effectively got its sovereignty. But that was hardly the last time Bates had to fight for Sealand. In 1978, while Bates was abroad in Britain, a group of Dutch businessmen came to the island to supposedly discuss a deal. Instead, they kidnapped Bates' son and captured the fort. Naturally, Bates returned with a small army, fought the invaders, imprisoned them, and negotiated their release with their home country.

4. Wheat Power: Australia's Hutt River Province

For an island-continent, Australia has had a hard time keeping its people unified. The Northern Territory never opted for official statehood, and the state of Western Australia tried to secede in the 1930s. In fact, a slice of Western Australia is still trying to go it alone.

Royal-Hutt.gifThe area belongs to a wheat farmer named Leonard Casley, who claims his farm is its own nation. In the 1960s, Casley disagreed with Australia's policy on wheat-production quotas, and his legitimate complaint soon devolved into madness. On April 21, 1970, Casley declared his 29-square-mile wheat farm an "independent sovereign state" and named it the Hutt River Province.


Since declaring independence, Casley has dubbed himself Prince Leonard of Hutt and his wife Princess Shirley. Stranger still, he prints his own stamps and periodically publishes a newspaper online, called The Hutt River Independence, filled with "national" news. He even gives out visas and stamps passports.

Unfortunately for Casley, the Australian government hasn't taken his secession seriously. In 1997, he became so offended by Australia's dismissive position that he declared war on the motherland. To date, Casley has successfully defended his territory—mainly because the enemy has never bothered to invade.

5. Buyer's Remorse: Somaliland

Depending on whom you ask, Somaliland has been independent since 1991. The United Nations and African Union, however, have refused to recognize the largely stable and self-governing region because they still consider it part of chaotic Somalia. So, why the confusion?

The situation dates back to 1960, when the colonies of British Somaliland and Italian Somaliland became independent and then joined forces to form the Republic of Somalia. But buyer's remorse set in rather quickly for the British region, as the Italian portion assumed most of the power. In a few short years, Somalia saw a presidential assassination, a military coup, and a civil war. By 1991, the situation had become so desperate that Somalia's central Mogadishu government finally collapsed. In the ensuing chaos, a group of human rights activists called the Somali National Movement took control of the formerly British portion and declared independence as Somaliland. Since then, the region has governed itself through a series of democratic elections, while the rest of Somalia has been in constant upheaval.

After 17 years of pseudo-independence, there is hope for recognition. Organizations such as the International Crisis Group have urged the African Union to give Somaliland sovereignty, and in 2007, one Rwandan official even seemed open to the idea. Perhaps the fact that Somaliland doesn't need to worry about disturbances from the rest of Somalia bolsters its case. The current president of Somalia, Abdullahi Yusuf, says that he won't bother Somaliland until he "successfully restores peace and security to Somalia." Unfortunately, that could take a while.

6. Between a Rock and Hard Place: Gibraltar

Great Britain officially acquired Gibraltar from Spain in the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713, and Spain has been trying to get it back ever since.

The truth is, Britain would love to grant independence to the 2.5-square-mile island, but there's a catch. According to the treaty, Spain gets the territory should Britain ever relinquish it. And the people of Gibraltar don't want that. In 1967, Gibraltar's citizens voted on which country they'd rather belong to. With a 96 percent voter turn-out, they favored Britain over Spain 12,138 to 44. Of course, Spain didn't take kindly to the decision and closed its border with Gibraltar, cutting it off from Europe by land for 16 years.

More recently, talks between Spain, Britain, and Gibraltar produced a 2006 agreement in which Spain agreed to ease its customs process and restrictions on air traffic. And in 2007, a new constitution gave Gibraltar greater autonomy under the crown, setting aside the Utrecht fight for another day.

7. Not-So Syrupy Sweet: Vermont

free-vermont.jpgAlaska isn't the only state that yearns to break away. In Vermont, a group called The Second Vermont Republic wants the state to return to independence. After all, Vermont was a republic from 1777 to 1791, when it became the 14th state in the nation.


The guiding principles of the Second Vermont Republic are generally progressive, with a focus on equality, green energy, sustainable agriculture, and strong local government. While most people in Vermont endorse these values, secession has been a tough sell. Still, the state independence movement is gaining ground, and one poll estimates that 13 percent of the populace supports the idea. Of course, the state's disenchantment with current American politics may have something to do with those high numbers. In March 2008, two Vermont towns voted to arrest President Bush and Vice President Cheney should they ever show their faces there. [Image courtesy of VermontRepublic.org.]

8. Chile Conditions: Easter Island

Positioned about halfway between Tahiti and Chile, Easter Island is the most geographically isolated spot on Earth. Yet, its motherland of Chile has still managed to erode the island's native Polynesian culture from 2,300 miles away.

In 1888, Chile annexed the island that Polynesians call Rapa Nui. Before long, the Chilean government had turned most of the land over to sheep herders and relocated many of the Rapanui people to the western edge of the island. Then, under the rule of Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet, the native Polynesian language was banned until 1987. The results were effective. Today, more than one-third of the island's people are transplants from Chile, and most schools and media outlets use Spanish.

Fed up with the bullying, native Alfonso Rapu led an armed rebellion in 1965 to force Chile to return some of the land to the Rapanui. Fearing international attention, Chile relented, and Easter Island was allowed its own democratic elections. Rapu's brother Sergio became the first indigenous governor in 1984 and helped restore native culture, including the moai (the giant stone statues the island is famous for). Today, a Rapa Nui Parliament on the island pushes for decolonization and bilingual education. But with Chile still ruling supreme from two time zones away, that independence may take a while.

9. The Slow Stroll Toward Independence: Aruba

Considering Aruba's laid-back image, it's fitting that the island's march toward independence has been more of a stroll.

Aruba is in the Lesser Antilles island group off the northern coast of Venezuela. The Netherlands control other nearby islands, but the Dutch largely leave them alone. While Aruba hasn't had problems with the Netherlands, it's had embittered relations with many of the other islands—particularly with Curaçao, one of the more populous and more powerful islands in the chain. In the 1940s, Aruba began to distinguish itself from the rest of the Netherlands Antilles. By 1976, it had a new flag and a new national anthem. The following year, more than 80 percent of Arubans voted in favor of independence, which the Netherlands granted to them in 1986. The catch? Aruba would be cut off from Dutch funding within 10 years.

As planned, the Aruba Island Council passed laws allowing for secession, with full independence to follow a decade later. But as the deadline approached, the island's economic reality and lack of natural resources quickly dawned on Aruban leadership. Sheepishly, Aruba asked the Netherlands to postpone independence. For now, the island continues to hold the same complicated status it adopted in 1986.

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How a Single Mom Created a Plastic Food-Storage Empire
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John Ueland

On an unseasonably warm day in April 1954, hundreds of women in cowboy hats gathered outside Tupperware’s Florida headquarters to dig for buried treasure. There, in a nearby swampy area dubbed the “Forest of Spades,” 600 shovels stood at the ready. The excitement was palpable. At the appointed signal, the women raced for the roped-off soil, grabbed shovels, and began to hunt frantically for loot.

It was the pinnacle of the inaugural Tupperware Jubilee, a five-day, gold-rush-themed affair celebrating all things Tupperware. No expense was spared: To give the event a Western feel, frontier-style buildings with false fronts had been erected and bulls and horses were trucked in. The women, and a smattering of men, had traveled from all across the country to participate. A collection of Tupperware dealers, distributors, and sales managers, they made the pilgrimage for the motivational speeches, sales instruction, and especially for the bizarre bonding rituals.

For five hours that day, they prospected for mink stoles and freezer units, gold watches and diamond rings. One of them, Fay Maccalupo of Buffalo, New York, dug up a toy car. When she saw the real Ford it represented, she planted her face against the hood and began to weep, repeating, “I love everybody.” Four women fainted and had to be revived with smelling salts. It was understandable, considering that the total cash value of all the prizes buried in the Florida dirt was $75,000.

Presiding over the treasure hunt was the general sales manager of the Tupperware Home Parties division, a 40-year-old woman named Brownie Wise. For hours, she cheered on the ladies from a loudspeaker with an air of royalty. As she watched them hop on shovels and unearth the rewards of their labors, she couldn’t help but feel proud. Wise took satisfaction in seeing her hard work pay off—once again. The jubilee, which she had organized, had all the pizzazz and spirit expected of an official Tupperware event. The media agreed: Network news was there to cover it, and Life magazine ran a photo essay highlighting the excitement and glamour.

Clearly, there’s more to Tupperware than leftovers. The story of the ubiquitous plastic container is a story of innovation and reinvention: how a new kind of plastic, made from an industrial waste material, ended up a symbol of female empowerment. The product ushered women into the workforce, encouraging them to make their own money, better their families, and win accolades and prizes without fear of being branded that 1950s anathema, “the career woman.”

Digging in the dirt for a gold watch may not mesh with today’s concept of a successful working woman, but at the time, the near-religious fervor seen at the jubilees and other Tupperware gatherings demonstrated just how ground-breaking the company’s sales plan was—the product became a multimillion dollar success not by exploiting women, but by embracing and boosting them. All of this was because of Brownie Wise. The story of Tupperware is her story.

Brownie Wise, named for her big, brown eyes, was born in rural Georgia. Her parents divorced when she was young, and as a teen she traveled with her mother, who organized union rallies. While touring the Deep South, Brownie started giving speeches at her mother’s rallies and soon proved to be a gifted and motivating orator. She “awed people,” writes Bob Kealing in his biography Tupperware Unsealed. “[They] were surprised that someone so young could deliver a speech like a pastor.”

Wise was married briefly, but by 27, she was a divorced single mom in suburban Detroit. During World War II, she worked as a secretary at Bendix Aviation, a company that made parts for navy torpedo planes. It was a decent but unfulfilling job. On the side, Wise penned an advice column for the Detroit News, writing under the alter ego “Hibiscus.” A housewife who led an idyllic life with her child and husband in a home called “Lovehaven,” Hibiscus had everything Wise did not. But what Wise did possess was an endless fountain of determination. As she wrote in a journal at that time, “I wanted to be a successful human being.”

It all started with a bad door-to-door salesman. When a Stanley Home Products salesman knocked on her door and proceeded to deliver a terrible sales pitch for cleaning supplies, Wise scoffed that she could do better. At the time, Stanley was experimenting with a peculiar sales model: home parties. A New Hampshire mop salesman had watched his numbers fly through the roof after he invited a bunch of women over for a party that included a mop demonstration. The company encouraged other salesmen to try the strategy, but many of them delegated the party-hosting to their wives. Thinking it’d be a fun job on the side, Wise started selling Stanley products at parties too. Before long, she was making enough money to quit her job at Bendix.

Wise was blessed with the gift of gab, and her special blend of folksy real talk and motherly encouragement helped her rise through Stanley’s ranks. Soon she was in management and hoping to ascend even higher. But those illusions were quashed at a meeting with Stanley head Frank Beveridge, who told Wise she’d never become an executive. Its halls were “no place for a woman,” he said. Wise returned home furious. The rejection lit a fire in her—she vowed that someday, somehow, she would prove Beveridge wrong.

She didn’t know that the key to fulfilling this dream would be in plastic food-storage containers. Wise first glimpsed Tupperware at a sales meeting. One of her coworkers had seen the products gathering dust in a department store and decided to bring them in. At first, Wise didn’t think they were anything special. But when she accidentally knocked a Tupperware bowl off the table, she realized its full potential: Instead of breaking, it bounced.

It seemed like magic. Tupperware was unlike any home product she’d seen before. It was attractive, coming in pastel colors and flexible shapes, almost like art. More importantly, it was functional—no other competing product even came close. Convinced of its potential, Wise traded in her Stanley brooms in 1949 and started throwing parties to sell Tupperware. What she didn’t intend, exactly, was to kindle a revolution.

AP

The most amazing thing about Tupperware wasn’t that it extended the life of leftovers and a family’s budget, although it did both remarkably well. It was, above all, a career maker. When women came to one of Wise’s parties, they were more than just convinced to buy the product— Wise was such a charming host that she persuaded many buyers to also become Tupperware salespeople. The more parties Wise hosted, the more tricks she learned to convert women into Tupperware faithful. Putting people on waiting lists, for instance, made them more eager to buy, so she signed them up regardless of whether the product was available. She also discovered that throwing containers full of liquid across the room made customers reach straight for their checkbooks. Amassing more and more saleswomen, Wise encouraged her followers to do the same. By October 1949, she had 19 recruits, enough to move her supplies out of her house and into a larger warehouse. Driven by the idea of making money simply by throwing parties for friends and neighbors, the women in Wise’s workforce ballooned in number. Soon, other Tupperware parties were taking place across the country. Wise’s team in Detroit was selling more Tupperware than most department stores. This soon attracted the attention of the no-nonsense founder of the Tupperware Corporation, Earl Silas Tupper.

Tupperware, true to its name, was Tupper’s masterpiece, and he was counting on it to make his dreams come true. Having grown up in a poor Massachusetts farm family, he had vowed to make a million dollars by the time he was 30. He hadn’t. He did have a host of esoteric inventions—among them, a fish-powered boat and no-drip ice cream cone—under his belt. But with a wife and family to support, he’d concentrated on a practical career in plastics, first at DuPont and then at a company of his own, which made parts for Jeeps and gas masks during World War II. When the war ended, Tupper decided to buy cheap surpluses left over from wartime manufacturing. He figured he’d be able to do something with them.

That’s how he ended up with a glob of greasy black polyethylene, a smelly waste product left behind when metal is created from ore. Tupper took it and, after months of trial and error, wrangled the slag into submission, creating a light-weight plastic that refused to break. Tupper dubbed it “Poly-T,” and, taking inspiration from the way paint cans sealed, created a flexible container with a noiseless lid that snapped on. He called the box Tupperware. He patented the seal in 1949 and rolled out 14 products he called the “Millionaire Line.” The only problem? He couldn’t get anyone to buy it.

At least not until Wise came along. Her sales record was remarkable—in 1949, she’d rung up $150,000 in orders and was offered a promotion: distribution rights to the entire state of Florida. In the spring of 1950, she moved south with her son, Jerry, and her mother. She found a store space, and by May she’d opened her business and was scouting for new salespeople.

Still, not everything was going smoothly. Along with disputes over turf with other distributors, she was constantly contending with botched orders, shipping delays, and product shortages. In March of 1951, Wise had had enough. She called Tupper in a fury. It was the first time they’d spoken, but she was too livid for niceties; she ripped into him immediately. This was hurting not just her bottom line, but also his. Did he not understand how crucial it was that the problems be fixed immediately? Tupper assured her that he’d fix any issues and then asked a favor: He wanted to hear her sales secrets.

The next month, the two met at a conference on Long Island and Wise explained her selling technique. It was pointless, she explained, to think that people would see Tupperware on store shelves or in catalogs and want to buy it. Instead, people had to touch it, squeeze it, drop it, seal it. They had to experience Tupperware from a trusted friend or neighbor. She gave a bold prescription for saving Tupper’s business: Ditch department stores altogether and focus entirely on throwing home parties.

Tupper took the advice to heart. So much, in fact, that the day after their meeting, he created a new division just for home parties and asked Wise to be the general manager. Wise had reached her goal: She had become an executive. It was a perfect fit, too. She had a stellar track record—she was selling more Tupperware than anyone anywhere—and Tupper was bowled over by her charm. “You talk a lot and everybody listens,” he said.

“She was the yin to Tupper’s yang,” Kealing writes. “Where he was fussy and reclusive, Wise lived to mingle with and inspire the dealer workforce.” They were a match made in sales heaven. Or so it seemed.

AP

In 1952, the first full year of Wise’s watch, Tupperware sales rocketed. Wholesale orders exceeded $2 million. During the last half of the year, sales tripled. Tupperware parties did exactly what Wise promised they would, and she became the company’s shining star. That year, Tupper gave her a salary of $20,933.33, more than she had ever made. For her birthday in 1953, he presented her with a gold-dyed palomino horse. Even more remarkably, he gave her the freedom to do practically whatever she wanted. So Wise traveled the country recruiting, presiding over sales conferences, and announcing contests and doling out prizes for incentive—including, sometimes, her own clothes.

By the looks of it, most of Wise’s Tupperware recruits fit neatly into the stereotypical role of a proper housewife. But, in reality, they surreptitiously represented a new kind of female empowerment. During World War II, many women had no choice but to enter the workforce. At its end, many of them had no choice but to leave it. Suddenly, selling Tupperware at parties allowed women to straddle both worlds. They were employed, yet they didn’t appear to challenge their husbands' authority or the status quo. This pioneering entrepreneurial model allowed them to inhabit a workforce outside of the one the hustling salesman inhabited, and, in many cases, to do even better than he did. And that power relied specifically on a network of female friends and neighbors.

The parties weren’t just a way for women to keep occupied—it was a way they could contribute to their family’s bottom line. Most women who worked outside the home had low-paying jobs in fields like light manufacturing, retail, clerical work, and health and education. The money—committed dealers could bring in $100 or more per week—was a revelation. The opportunity for success was so great that the husbands of some Tupperware ladies left their own jobs to work with their wives.

Wise was something of an early Oprah, giving away fantastic prizes, operating in a grass-roots, word-of-mouth fashion and showing rather than telling other women how to succeed in the comfort of their own homes. The fact that she made many women understand the benefits of becoming salespeople, building the brand further, simply made her a fantastic executive.

Wise embraced the spirit of female entrepreneurship wholeheartedly. In her prime, she wrote a morale-boosting newsletter called Tupperware Sparks, published a primer called Tupperware Know-How, and had a 52-minute film, A Tupperware Home Party, made as a training tool. She even convinced Tupper to move the company headquarters to Florida. When Tupper bought property in Kissimmee, Wise turned it into a Mecca-like pilgrimage site for Tupperware devotees.

Part of the power of Wise’s sales technique, which at times seemed more faith than business, was that it gave the impression that the sky was the limit, and it relied on collective power. This wasn’t just the traditional salesperson’s dog-eat-dog world: Instead, the group was a “family” that helped one another climb to the top. Women who had previously only had their names in print upon birth or marriage were being recognized for their success, with their names, photographs, and accomplishments appearing in Wise’s newsletters. Along with making their own money, they received rewards—top distributors got cars—and the chance to collaborate with other women in a friendly but competitive environment. Wise increased the fervor with her annual jubilees, which had their own rituals, like candlelit graduation ceremonies and group sing-alongs featuring choruses of “I’ve got that Tupper feeling deep in my heart.”

“No woman got praised for scrubbing floors,” Elsie Mortland, who became Tupperware’s Home Kitchen Demonstrator, told Kealing in an interview in 2005. “But when they got praised for selling Tupperware, they had something to be proud of.”

Wise was the head of the household, and the Tupperware ladies all wanted to be a part of her extended family. Success was limited only by how hard a person was willing to work, a belief that Wise preached passionately. Unfortunately, she had been duped into thinking her boss shared that opinion.

Alamy

As Wise became the face of Tupperware, sales and press continued to skyrocket. In 1954, she was the first woman to appear on the cover of Business Week. But as glowing as the magazine’s profile was, it contained warning signs about the future of her partnership with Tupper. The piece credited Wise and her sales technique with Tupperware’s estimated $25 million in retail sales and seemed to downplay Tupper’s role as president of the company he had created.

Tupper had never craved the spotlight; in fact, he was known to use the back door of his office to avoid attracting attention. But he was keen to ensure that his product, not an employee, received the lion’s share of any attention. And somewhere along the way, Wise had started to upstage the plastic containers she helped make famous. After the Business Week article, Tupper wrote a note to Wise that contained a glimmer of the storm that was to come: “However, good executive as you are, I still like best the pictures ... with TUPPERWARE!”

The good press continued but, in 1955, after several powerful distributors left the company, sales began to lag. Hard times strained Wise and Tupper’s relationship. By 1956, angry letters were flying back and forth between them, and at one point, Tupper stopped taking Wise’s calls. Her complaints and frank criticisms, previously helpful, had become jabs he couldn’t endure. He also started to believe that she was costing him money, irked that she had her own side business selling self-help books at company events. More to the point, he started to suspect that if he tried selling the company—which he was planning to do—having a female executive would get in the way.

Finally, in 1958, Tupper flew to Florida and fired Wise. After a heated legal battle, she received only $30,000 as a settlement. She didn’t own her house and was ordered to vacate. She had no stocks in the company; she didn’t even own many of the clothes she wore. The man she’d helped make a millionaire didn’t seem to care: Tupper ordered her name expunged from the company history and buried the 600 remaining copies of her book in an unmarked pit behind Tupperware’s Florida headquarters. Later that year, he sold the company to Rexall Drug for $16 million, divorced his wife, and bought an island in Central America. He died in Costa Rica in 1983. Wise, on the other hand, tried starting new companies but never achieved the same success she had with Tupperware. She led a quiet life with her horses, pottery, and her son until she died at her home in Kissimmee in 1992.

Her influence, however, has not waned. Today, according to the PBS American Experience documentary Tupperware!, the product is sold in about 100 countries, while “every 2.5 seconds, a Tupperware party is held somewhere in the world.” In this respect, the Golden Age of Tupperware hasn’t ended so much as it has solidified. When was the last time you stored food in a plastic container with a sealing mechanism? Tupperware is so much a part of our food culture that we don’t even think about its continuing influence, and yet we still rely on it daily.

This story is one of reinvention too: a useless plastic reimagined into something needed, of food being stored in wholly new ways, of women emerging from their kitchens to showcase their worth and proclaim their identities, of sales techniques evolving to embrace the customer, and of the singular character of Brownie Wise, who changed what it meant to be a woman in the workforce. Because of that, as Houston Post writer Napoleon Hill wrote in 1956, “It has been estimated that Brownie Wise has helped more women to financial success than any other single living person.”

Early in Wise’s tenure at the company, Tupper presented her with a piece of the raw polyethylene he’d used to make Tupperware. She saw it as poetic proof of his vision: He had created something beautiful from this unappealing glob of plastic, using nothing but imagination and persistence. It was “the best sales story I have ever heard in all my life,” she wrote. She considered “Poly,” as Tupper called it, a prized possession and would have her women touch it for good luck, telling them, “Just get your fingers on it, wish for what you want. Know it’s going to come true, and then get out and work like everything ... and it will!”

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The Confederacy's Plan to Conquer Latin America
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In the years leading up to the Civil War, many Northerners and Southerners alike wanted the federal government to take a more aggressive approach toward acquiring new territory. In fact, some private citizens, known as filibusters, took matters into their own hands. They raised small armies illegally; ventured into Mexico, Cuba, and South America; and attempted to seize control of the lands. One particularly successful filibuster, William Walker, actually made himself president of Nicaragua and ruled from 1856 to 1857.

For the most part, these filibusters were just men in search of adventure. Others, however, were Southern imperialists who wanted to conquer new territories in the tropics. Abolitionist factions in the North greatly opposed their efforts, and the debate over Southern expansion only increased tensions in a divided nation. As the country drifted into war, U.S. Vice President John Breckinridge of Kentucky warned that "the Southern states cannot afford to be shut off from all possibility of expansion towards the tropics by the hostile action of the federal government."

But Abraham Lincoln's election in November 1860 put an end to the argument. The anti-slavery president refused to compromise on the issue, and war broke out in April 1861.

CONFEDERATE COLONIES, SOUTH OF THE BORDER

Winning the war was clearly a higher priority for the Confederacy than conquering Latin America, but growth was certainly on the post-war agenda. The Confederate constitution included the right to expand, and Confederacy president Jefferson Davis filled his cabinet with men who thought similarly. He even hinted that the slave trade could be revived in "new acquisitions to be made south of the Rio Grande."

During the Civil War, Confederate agents attempted to destabilize Mexico so that its territories would be easy to snatch up after the war. One rebel emissary to Mexico City, John T. Pickett, secretly fomented rebellion in several Mexican provinces with an eye to "the permanent possession of that beautiful country." Pickett's mission ended in failure in 1861, but fate dealt the South a better hand in 1863. French Emperor Napoleon III seized Mexico, and the move provided the South with a perfect excuse to "liberate" the country after the Civil War.

Of course, Mexico was just part of the pie that the South hoped to inherit. Confederate leaders also had their eyes squarely on Brazil—a country of 3 million square miles and more than 8 million people. Prior to the outbreak of the war, Matthew Maury, one of the forces behind the U.S. Naval Academy, dispatched two Navy officers to the Amazon basin, ostensibly to map the river for shipping. Instead, they were secretly plotting domination and collecting data about separatist movements in the region. When the South lost the war, Maury refused to abandon his plans. He helped up to 20,000 ex-rebels flee to Brazil, where they established the Confederate colonies of New Texas and Americana. To this day, hundreds of descendants of the Confederados still gather outside Americana to celebrate their shared heritage of rocking chairs and sweet potato pie. In a strange way, a part of the Old South still survives—thousands of miles below the U.S. border.

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