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Q&A: Neil deGrasse Tyson

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Patrick Ecclesine / Fox / Joshua Moore

For the record, we're HUGE fans of Neil deGrasse Tyson. (You don't put someone on the cover of your magazine if you don't love him!) In our excitement, we dreamed up lots of cover executions, but ultimately, we decided the most fitting treatment would be to have him beaming from the center of the solar system. Here's hoping you like the interview as much as we do!

When he was 17, Neil deGrasse Tyson got a letter from Carl Sagan, the Cornell astronomer and popular science luminary. Tyson was a Bronx High School of Science student applying to colleges, and Sagan invited him for a tour of the lab at Cornell. It was “an act of generosity that has affected me my entire life,” Tyson says. A few years later, in 1980, Sagan launched Cosmos: A Personal Journey, a 13-part television series that explored heady subjects like black holes, extraterrestrial life, and the beginning of the universe. Sagan passed away in 1996, but the Cosmos project was intentionally left open-ended. Now Tyson, an astrophysicist who directs the American Museum of Natural History’s Hayden Planetarium, is set to pick up where Sagan left off with a new iteration of the series, Cosmos: A Space-Time Odyssey. Tyson recently spoke with mental_floss about his personal relationship with Sagan, time travel, and the theoretical possibility of an evil, mustache-less twin living in an alternate universe.

Not long ago, you tweeted that if we imagined our planet’s history as a football field, human existence would fit on a blade of grass.
Yes. If the 14-billion-year history of Earth went from end zone to end zone, then the width across one blade of grass is about the time that has elapsed since the paintings of cavemen to this conversation. That’s a cosmic perspective.

How has the cosmic perspective shifted since the original Cosmos aired? What advances in science or new issues have you had to incorporate?
If you go back 40 years, [the thinking about] the environment was “don’t pollute the lake because then you’ll kill the fish, and it will mess up our little water hole.” No one was thinking that what they did locally would affect everybody else globally. The local–global connection has emerged in the last couple of decades.

Some of that came about because of our understanding of how the dinosaurs went extinct. How could an asteroid hit one part of Earth and make something extinct on the opposite side?

The only way that can happen is if you catastrophically affect the climate. So climate change as a local force driving a global phenomenon has become a topic of discussion since the original Cosmos.

[At the time of] the original Cosmos, we knew of no planets beyond our solar system. We could hypothesize they’d be there, but now the list [of planets we know about] is rising. One thousand exoplanets! But Cosmos is not simply about “let’s teach you the latest science discoveries.” Then it would be just any other documentary. Its real contribution is that it shows how and why science matters.

I was reading a collection of Sagan’s Gifford Lectures, The Varieties of Scientific Experience, and he really did have a way with words. He was talking about our sun going supernova, and he said, “Some five or six or seven billion years from now, the sun will become a red giant star and will engulf the orbits of Mercury and Venus and probably Earth. Earth, then, would be inside the sun, and some of the problems that face us on this particular day will appear, by comparison, modest.” He has this implicit humor.
There are plenty of smart people out there who don’t know science, and plenty of socialized people who might not be smart. He had all of that in the same package.

What was your relationship with Sagan like?
We met only four times. So he was never a mentor. People think that, but that was not the case. But those four times were significant, so I think of him often, and they serve as a source of inspiration. The fact that he took the time for me [as a high school student] has shaped how I take time for students who reach out to me.

How did the new Cosmos come about?
After he died, I got a phone call from the board at the Planetary Society, an organization that he cofounded, asking me to join the board. That was a little bittersweet, because clearly the spot was vacated because of Sagan’s death. It was that acceptance that got me closer to his widow, Ann Druyan, who was a cowriter of the original series and is the writer of the current series. This is 1997, I think, and the conversation about doing Cosmos and continuing the Cosmos legacy had always been there. The question was, “How would we do it? Who would write? Who would be in it?” And Ann might have had other people in mind, I don’t know, but I knew it was something I could do, possibly uniquely, given my sentiment for Carl and the impact he had on science literacy in the country. And given the rising impact that I was having at the time, I felt, yeah, I can do this.

So are there going to be shots of you walking by the beach with the breeze blowing through your hair?
Afros don’t respond to breezes. [Like Sagan] I embrace any occasion to address a camera lens to tell people what’s going on. [But] the fact is, we have stunning visuals knitted into stories of how and why science matters. So I’m on camera only if it’s really adding to that delivery.

Somebody has to man the helm of the spaceship of the imagination.
Yes. Those are some of the most fun scenes I filmed. The spaceship looks to the past, the present, and the future through portals in the ship. Of course, it’s all done with a green screen. But because I feel very close to the universe, when I’m describing what you’re seeing, even though I can’t see it, I can see it. In my head, it’s there. As we descend toward the sun’s surface, as we descend into strands of a DNA molecule, as we go to the limits of telescopic regions of the universe, I am there.

Seth MacFarlane, who is one of the producers of Cosmos, recently did an episode of his show Family Guy, where the dog, Brian, died but came back in some kind of time travel twist in space time. Were you consulted on that?
When Brian died, it was tragic, and I thought, “Well it would be sad if he’s not there because he’s a unique voice in the program.” Stewie had the time machine already, right? So the show had already involved time travel, so [I thought] if they bring him back, they would probably just pull something out of the walls like that. There is one episode I was consulted on, unknown to me at the time. [Seth and I] had lunch, and he asked me 20 questions on the space-time continuum and multiverses. Six months later, there’s a show. Stewie takes the time machine, goes back to before the big bang, in fact goes outside of the big bang, where he is neither in a time nor a place, and it’s out of that fluctuation in his time machine that the universe gets started. And at the end, an entire title card says: science consultant, neil degrasse tyson. Anytime I’m with Seth, he’s asking me questions about science and the universe. He’s just a curious guy.

On the issue of parallel universes, do you think there is an evil mustache-less Neil deGrasse Tyson out there?
No. I think you need more than an infinite number of universes in the multiverse to have a universe that has someone who is exactly like me but is evil.

And without a mustache.
Usually, the evil person has a mustache. But my evil twin would have to be mustache-less, I suppose. When everything else is identical except that Neil is evil, I think we need more than an infinite number of universes for that. There are orders of infinity. Most people don’t know this. Some infinities are larger than others, so you can show mathematically that that’s the case. So I just think if you had infinite universes, that order of infinity is not high enough to create an Earth that has everything else exactly like it except that there’s an evil version of me.

So is space a human abstraction or a physical entity in your opinion?
It’s our perception of reality limited to how our senses deliver it to us. It’s only in the era of science that we can decode the operations of nature outside of those five senses. And we’ve come to learn—since the era of quantum physics in the 1920s—that the results of your experiments are to be trusted above whatever your senses are telling you. Your senses are actually quite useless in this regard. They’re not only useless—they are actively misleading. So you design your experiments, and you trust the results of your experiments. I’m still going to operate based on the reality that my senses give me in my day-to-day life.

In 34 more years, if there was another installment of Cosmos, what questions would it address?
Part of the mystery of science is not even knowing yet what question to ask. For example, in the year 1799, the question, “I wonder if an asteroid will ever strike us and render us extinct” could not have existed because we hadn’t discovered asteroids yet. And even after we did discover asteroids, the idea that maybe one would hit us was not a thought for another century and a half, until we figured out that the crater in Arizona, which then was known as Barringer Crater, is now known to be the product of an asteroid impact and quickly renamed it Meteor Crater. The fun part about the future is not even knowing what questions to ask.

Right, because five years from now, some alien empire could invade and change our understanding of everything. There’s no way to predict that.
Exactly. And it will re-shift, and it will readjust how we pose questions. And what we pose questions about.

A few years ago, I sent 10 dollars into something called the Time Travel Fund, with the idea being that the interest accrues, and far into the future, they take that money and come back in time and save you before death. What do you think of that as a retirement plan?
I think it’s great if it only costs you 10 dollars. Think of all the stuff you might spend 10 dollars on that wouldn’t be nearly as fun to think about as that. If anything, you get novelty value from it. Not enough of us embrace the value of novelty.

Cosmos premieres on Fox on March 9 and on The National Geographic Channel on March 10.

This story originally appeared in mental_floss magazine. Subscribe to our print edition here, and our iPad edition here.

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History
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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Hulton Archive/Illustrated London News/Getty Images

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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