Jared Ceruce
Jared Ceruce

Inside the World's Only Wildlife Forensics Lab

Jared Ceruce
Jared Ceruce

By Liana Aghajanian

William Kapp didn’t know it, but he was about to get sandbagged. In April 1998, a client asked the part-time Illinois-based taxidermist to find him the hide of a Bengal tiger. Kapp couldn’t resist the opportunity: He knew the sale could fetch upwards of $25,000. He also knew the consequences. He’d been trafficking endangered animal parts for more than a year. And though the Lacey Act and the Endangered Species Act made the business illegal, he’d sniffed out the “little tricks” to get around the law. Now he just had to find a tiger.

It had all started when Kapp heard a rumor that Funky Monkey Exotics, a local pet distributor, was unloading its lions, mountain lions, and leopards. Since Kapp didn’t have a license to purchase the animals, the owner of Funky Monkey suggested a loophole. He would transfer the cats as a “donation” rather than a sale. Money was still exchanged, but the falsified paperwork would keep the feds off Kapp’s back. Once the transfer was made, Kapp or his clients would shoot the animals point-blank in their cages. In some cases, Kapp dragged the limp creatures out to a field for photographs. Mostly, he just mounted the wild animals, selling the exotic meat and hides for profit.

It was a tidy business. Through his connection with Funky Monkey, he could source nearly any exotic animal he wanted, although he worked mainly with large cats. What Kapp didn’t know, however, was that he was being watched. As it turned out, the man who requested the Bengal tiger was an undercover agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

In May 1999, Kapp and 15 others were arrested in three-state antitrafficking sting code-named Operation Snowplow. Undercover agents testified in court, submitting documents and videotaped footage of their interactions as evidence. But the government knew those exhibits wouldn’t be enough to make the charges stick. Wildlife protection cases were notoriously difficult to prosecute. Most police crime labs didn’t have the training or sophisticated equipment to verify wildlife agents’ claims in court. And without that conclusive science, juries were hesitant to convict. This time, however, the government had a secret weapon: an elite wildlife crime lab in rural Oregon.

Located in Ashland, 300 miles south of Portland, the National Fish & Wildlife Service Forensics Laboratory is the world’s only research facility dedicated to animal forensics. Investigators here have pioneered innovative techniques in everything from grizzly bear autopsies to underwater fingerprinting, and today the lab is a linchpin in the fight to protect endangered species. It takes on nearly 750 cases a year, providing scientific support to agents in 169 countries. Its scientists have broken up caviar trafficking rings and helped put elephant poachers behind bars. Now, the facility was about to help nail Kapp and his colleagues in one of the biggest crackdowns on tiger trafficking in United States history. And none of that would have been possible if one Fish and Wildlife agent hadn’t hit his breaking point 35 years ago.

The Origin of an Organization

In 1976, special agent Terry Grosz was living in Washington, D.C., working with the Endangered Species Program. An imposing 6-foot-4 figure with plenty of moxie, Grosz had climbed the ranks working cases in California and the Dakotas. But in the nation’s capital, the cards were stacked against him. Each week, field officers would send him watchbands made of leopard skin and oils pressed from sea turtle. Evidence piled up, but Grosz had no lab to help him build cases. When he did find scientists to work with, they often refused to testify. Then 11,000 pounds of endangered sea turtle meat showed up in a New York port.

“I didn’t have any means to identify the meat that would stand up in court,” he says. Nonendangered turtle meat looks just like endangered turtle meat, so Grosz couldn’t just eyeball the difference. “The officers were struggling. I was struggling,” Grosz says. Seething with frustration, the special agent marched into his boss’s office: He couldn’t do the job without a scientist on his side. To Grosz’s surprise, his boss agreed: “He said, ‘I’ll release $50,000, and you hire a lab director and a secretary, and we’ll put together an [animal] forensics lab.’ ”

Grosz was thrilled at the possibility. But as he started recruiting, he began to worry. This was a dirty business, after all, and he needed a lab director he could trust. So Grosz came up with a trick question: Toward the end of each interview, he told applicants that he might need them to manipulate lab results in order to seal the biggest cases. Then he asked each candidate whether he or she would ever fudge data for the cause. Some hedged. Some said they would. But of the nine people he spoke to, only one got up and walked out in disgust. That’s when Grosz knew he’d found his man.

Like Grosz, Ken Goddard had started out on the West Coast. He’d spent the first half of his career as a Southern California crime scene investigator. But after working on homicide and sexual assault cases for decades, Goddard was ready for a change. Animal forensics was just that. Unlike labs that focus solely on human DNA, Goddard would get to examine crime scene evidence from thousands of species. The duo set up shop in Oregon, as far from D.C. as they could get, in a lab off Ashland’s East Main Street, and Goddard started from scratch. He began by collecting samples and research on major game like deer, elk, and mountain lion. But the work quickly became more exotic. As agents approached Goddard to do elephant autopsies for clues on the ivory trade and analyze grizzly bear carcasses for evidence of foul play, the lab suddenly felt too small. Today, at a staggering $10 billion per year, the illegal wildlife trade is large enough to keep their lab bustling. Tucked away on a nondescript stretch of Interstate 5, the new facility boasts a $4.5 million operating budget, 24 handpicked scientists, and a Plexiglas box full of flesh-eating dermestid beetles (they make autopsies easier). Together, they tackle 500 domestic cases and another 250 from abroad each year. And each case presents a unique challenge.

A Day in the Lab

Every morning, fresh shipments of evidence arrive at the lab. Sometimes it’s an envelope stuffed with a few feathers, ivory particles, or fur. Other times, scientists will crack open a crate to find stacks of leopard hides or thousands of seized crocodile-skin boots that are, if nothing else, of questionable taste. Nearly 5,000 pieces of tagged evidence come through the lab in a given year, and the scientists—among them geneticists, pathologists, and firearms and fingerprint experts—never know what a random Wednesday may bring.

Jared Ceruce

By midday, they will have examined the bits and bodies in any given crate, hunting for the clues and trace evidence the agents need. Dirt, dead bugs, blood, fingerprints—it all helps to paint the picture of the crime. Sometimes the lab is looking for disease: It has a special containment unit on site where scientists examine evidence for anthrax and other potential contaminations. Sometimes an animal is so mangled or unrecognizable that investigators need help. That’s where the dermestid beetles come in, cleaning bird and animal carcasses with precision, allowing scientists to match the stripped skeletons. (That is, unless they’re dealing with an alligator. The beetles prefer not to munch on alligator meat, which has a natural insecticide.)

Bill Clark, a veteran wildlife crime officer with Interpol, calls the lab invaluable. In 2008, he worked with Goddard’s team to identify 78 elephant tusks seized from traffickers and was astounded by what the team discovered. By analyzing the way the ivory had been cut (machetes had likely been used), the discoloration that could have come only from a certain type of gunpowder, the light coloration on the top of the nerve cavities that showed the creatures had been buried, the traces of blood that showed which elephant population the tusks came from, and even the chips of paint that could help identify the poachers’ vehicle make, the team saw things in the seized tusks that Clark never would have spotted. But the biggest coup came from the discovery of a red spider and several flies shipped with the remains. As Goddard excitedly told the Mail Tribune, “We certainly didn’t expect insects. They’re probably the most significant find because they can be region-specific. What we’re seeing is probably all the raw data we need.” And while the analysis wasn’t enough to finger the criminals, it was enough to pinpoint the area in Africa where the trade originated, helping Clark’s team get closer to the source.

For his part, Goddard has no shortage of adventure stories from his more than 20 years with the lab. Unlike his coworkers who mostly spend their days in the lab, he periodically ventures into the field, where he’s turned down bribes from caviar-trafficking Russians, waded in decomposing walrus guts in Alaska, and helicoptered over Africa’s rhino-poaching zones. But Goddard is quick to downplay the exotic nature of his work. “If you want to have the rush, the experience of a rhino horn, just chew on your fingernail,” he jokes.

Lab Rats

What Goddard and Grosz have built is stunning. Today, the lab boasts the most comprehensive animal DNA database in the world, covering more than 1,200 species. They’ve pioneered forensic techniques involving fur and fingerprints and teeth. With the help of a dazzling “morphology room,” packed with reference specimens from old cases—a museum of crocodile skulls, stuffed birds and reptiles, leopard hides, and narwhal tusks—the team has compiled an exhaustive manual for identifying rare species. And the lab has fulfilled Grosz’s vision—it’s made it possible to actually prove an animal’s endangered status in a court of law.

Since Operation Snowplow concluded in 1999, the lab has assisted in the prosecution of thousands of animal crimes, including Kapp’s case. The trafficker ended up in prison and was ordered to pay hundreds of thousands in fines. In 2005, Kapp appealed his conviction, arguing in part that the scientists had failed to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the stuffed cats were actually endangered species—as opposed to hybrids, like ligers (the offspring of a male lion and a female tiger) or ti-ligers (from a female liger and a male tiger). But the National Forensics Lab’s morphology department had sealed the case. Years ago, a judge would have indulged the argument and likely let Kapp off. But the expert testimony, where one of Goddard’s scientists explicitly showed the distinguishing characteristics between tigers and ligers, was more than sufficient to uphold the conviction.

Jared Ceruce

As for Goddard and his team, their jobs seem to shift by the day. When the field itself is the ever-changing landscape of evolution, the future is difficult to predict. Even the types of cases they focus on are different. Caviar, for instance, used to be a much larger concern. Now the lab is being asked to handle rosewood cases and endangered plant exports. Meanwhile, it’s the growing field of genetics that gives Goddard pause. The lab’s director fears a Jurassic Park–like market, where criminals use DNA to resurrect extinct animals or even create new species. By using viruses to induce gene changes, a scientist could theoretically force an elephant embryo to grow up into a woolly mammoth.

“We can deal with a mammoth,” Goddard says. “But what if they come up with something that’s never been on the planet before?”

The unknown is always terrifying. But for a man who shrugs off Russian gangsters, is happy to analyze anthrax, and thinks rhino horn is no more special than a fingernail, when that shipment arrives, it’ll be just another day at the office.

The Golden Lab

How good are Goddard’s scientists? Here’s a glimpse of the wide-ranging discoveries coming out of his lab.

Shell Games: Until recently, it was impossible to grab finger and palm prints from a conch shell immersed in corrosive saltwater. But fingerprint expert Andrew Reinholz figured out different ways to do just that. One trick he uses involves a sensitive vacuum deposition chamber. He “develops” the prints by using metals like zinc to coat the shells, bringing the evidence to light. The impact goes beyond conch shells—ditching a gun in saltwater might not be a favored method for criminals much longer.

Mammoth Concerns: With ivory trafficking a constant issue, the lab’s deputy director, Ed Espinoza, discovered a surprising tool for differentiating between ancient and modern ivory: a protractor! While analyzing the cross-hatchings present in elephant and mammoth ivory, he noted a difference in their angles. Elephant ivory forms angles greater than 115 degrees, while mammoth ivory intersects at less than 90 degrees. The distinction helps enforce importation laws.

Hairy Business: The hair of the endangered Tibetan antelope is used to make an ultrafine fabric for shawls called shahtoosh. But there was no way to identify shahtoosh from legal fabrics like pashmina—that is, until mammologist Bonnie Yates noticed the “guard hairs.” Located on the outer coat, these telltale hairs are ignored for the softer underfur that makes up most of the garment. The discovery earned Yates praise in Thailand, where she assisted the royal police in an important shahtoosh case.

This article originally appeared in mental_floss magazine. You can get a free issue here.

Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
Pop Culture
The Cult of Prince Philip
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images
Ralph Heimans/Buckingham Palace/PA Wire via Getty Images

For seven decades, Prince Philip has been one of the more colorful figures in Britain's Royal Family, prone to jarring remarks and quips about women, the deaf, and overweight children.

"You're too fat to be an astronaut," he once told a boy sharing his dream of space travel.

British media who delighted in quoting him are still lamenting the 96-year-old's recent retirement from public duties. But the people of the Pacific Island nation of Vanuatu are likely to be optimistic he'll now have the time to join them: They worship him as a god and have based a religion on him.

Followers of the Prince Philip Movement, which started in the 1960s, believe that the prince was born to fulfill an ancient prophecy: that the son of an ancient mountain spirit would one day take the form of a pale-skinned man, travel abroad, marry a powerful lady, and eventually return to the island. When villagers saw the prince’s portrait, they felt the spirit in it, and when he visited Vanuatu in 1974, they were convinced.

Chief Jack Naiva, a respected warrior in the culture, greeted the royal yacht and caught sight of Philip on board. "I saw him standing on the deck in his white uniform," Naiva once said. "I knew then that he was the true messiah."

True believers assign large world movements to the machinations of Philip. They once claimed his powers had enabled a black man to become president of the United States and that his "magic" had assisted in helping locate Osama bin Laden. The community has corresponded with Buckingham Palace and even sent Philip a nal-nal, a traditional club for killing pigs, as a token of its appreciation. In return, he sent a portrait in which he’s holding the gift.

Sikor Natuan, the son of the local chief, holds two official portraits of Britain's Prince Philip in front of the chief's hut in the remote village of Yaohnanen on Tanna in Vanuatu.

The picture is now part of a shrine set up in Yaohnanen in Vanuatu that includes other photos and a Union flag. In May 2017, shortly after the Prince announced his retirement, a cyclone threatened the island—and its shrine. But according to Matthew Baylis, an author who has lived with the tribe, the natives didn't see this so much as a cause for concern as they did a harbinger of the prince's arrival so he can bask in their worship.

To date, Prince Philip has not announced any plans to relocate.

A version of this story ran in a 2012 issue of Mental Floss magazine.

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


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.


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.


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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