Richard Francis Burton: The Englishman Who Went to Mecca and East Africa

by Jason Kerstein

Richard Francis Burton was a hard-living combination of Thomas Jefferson and Teddy Roosevelt. By 1853, he’d already swashbuckled his way through enough adventures for several lifetimes. The British explorer, writer, ethnologist, polyglot, and spy had spent his youth traveling Europe and drinking in its culture, learning as much about history and poetry as he did about sword fighting and bordellos. He’d worked undercover investigating his fellow English officers’ behavior in Indian brothels. And he’d penned travelogues and anthropological studies detailing his adventures.

But Burton craved more. During an extended leave from the military, he began devising one of the greatest adventures of the Victorian era. Burton wanted to be the first Englishman to walk into the forbidden city of Mecca. Other Englishmen had caught glimpses of Mecca, but only as prisoners. Burton wanted to waltz in on his own. Only then would he be able to see the holy city as Muslims saw it during the hajj, the sacred pilgrimage Islam requires of every adult. The stakes were high. Any infidel caught sneaking in faced immediate execution. “A blunder, a hasty action, a misjudged word, a prayer or bow, not strictly the right shibboleth, and my bones would have whitened the desert sand,” Burton later wrote.

Burton had a few aces up his sleeve. Although his father was Irish, Burton’s dark hair and complexion helped him pass as a Muslim. His linguistic wizardry was unrivaled—he’d mastered at least five languages before turning 18 and added many more throughout his life. His obsessive reading and previous travels had taught him the Islamic customs he would need to avoid critical errors.

Even with these gifts, the Royal Geographical Society was skeptical about funding Burton's expedition. But a glimpse inside the forbidden city was too tantalizing for the geographers to refuse. They agreed to bankroll the journey, with a catch: Burton had to survive the trip before he received the funds.

Provisional cash in hand, Burton began preparing for his hajj. Even if he played his assumed character—an Indian-born Afghan named Abdullah—flawlessly, a glimpse of his uncircumcised penis during a roadside pit stop would have blown his cover. So Burton took method acting to a whole new level; at the age of 32, he was circumcised.

Into the black cube

When Burton joined a Medina-bound caravan leaving the port city of Yanbu, his mission was nearly cut short. Bedouin marauders attacked the group, killing 12 men before the pilgrims could turn them back. When the caravan finally reached Medina, Burton assumed his new identity and headed for Mecca.

Once he donned the ihram (two white, seamless sheets that make up a pilgrim’s traditional garment), Burton blended in beautifully with the throngs of visitors. He fought his way through dense swarms of people to kiss the Black Stone, one of Islam’s most venerated relics, and theorized it was a meteorite. He braved the sweltering heat to make the traditional visit to Mount Arafat, taking copious notes and sketching his observations. Burton’s disguise was so perfect that no one so much as raised an eyebrow.

Burton wasn’t finished, though. He couldn’t leave the holy city without entering the Kaaba, a cubic structure near the center of the Great Mosque. For Muslims, the Kaaba is the most sacred spot in the world. It’s what they face when they say their daily prayers, and each hajj requires the pilgrim to walk seven circuits around it. Burton had survived thus far, but now he wanted to up the ante by sneaking into the inner sanctum. Luckily, he had the help of a local youth.

When Burton’s friend gave word that the coast was clear, the adventurer slipped into the Kaaba. He had just begun poking around when officials accosted him. With nerves of steel, Burton passed the interrogation and was given permission to pray. As he kneeled and feigned the motions, Burton sketched the floor plan of the Kaaba on his ihram.

His task complete, Burton returned home. After collecting his loot from the Royal Geographical Society, he published a travel chronicle, Personal Narrative of a Pilgrimage to Al-Madinah and Meccah. Part adventure story, part meticulous observation of Muslim life, the book made Burton a celebrity.

A river runs somewhere

His newfound fame and handsome face meant Burton could have lived a comfortable life as a fixture at university classes and high-society parties. Instead, he decided to embark on an even more audacious mission—this time in Africa.

For centuries, the Nile River’s origin had puzzled European geographers, and by the mid–19th century, the debate had reached a fever pitch. Finding the river’s source was no simple task, though. Hostile tribes, disease, and geographic obstacles had foiled every previous European expedition into East Africa.

Burton was sure he could unravel the river’s mysteries. He again tapped the Royal Geographical Society for funds and set off for the continent. This time, he had a coexplorer. Burton and Army officer John Hanning Speke made an unlikely team. Speke was almost the anti-Burton—a well-connected, rich colonialist who loved hunting more than learning. But Speke was brave, and that was enough to earn Burton’s respect. The expedition also included a pair of English surveyors and porters to tote the supplies.

The team began its odyssey with an 1855 fact-finding mission through the Horn of Africa. As Speke explored inland valleys, Burton successfully ventured to the fabled city of Harar, in what is now Ethiopia. Legend had it that any white man foolish enough to enter the city would be killed on sight, but Burton found the locals to be hospitable. After spending 10 days in the company of the king and hearing tales of great inland lakes, Burton headed back to the coast to rendezvous with Speke.

The two reconnected, but chaos ensued when several hundred Somalian warriors attacked the camp. Burton grabbed his saber and fought valiantly before a javelin tore through his cheek, knocking out several molars. Still impaled by the spear, Burton staggered for cover as his men fought back the attacking warriors.

When the melee ended, one member of Burton’s team was dead. Speke, too, had suffered wounds. The pair returned to Britain to regroup, but the homecoming was not a happy one. Burton was accused then exonerated of not posting an adequate watch. After recovering from his injury and serving in the Crimean War, Burton rejoined Speke for a second crack at the Nile mystery in 1857. This time the pair would make history.

Flow Problems

Burton and Speke set off from Zanzibar in June 1857, accompanied by a train of porters, including the intrepid guide Sidi Bombay, a former slave with sharpened teeth. As Burton and Speke trekked on, their differences became more pronounced. Burton spent his time learning local dialects, penciling observations, and conducting ethnological studies. Speke repeatedly stopped the procession to shoot big game. Still, the two forged a bond.

East Africa was harder. Within weeks, both Burton and Speke were incapacitated with fever. By February 1858, Burton’s tongue was so ulcerated that he could no longer speak intelligibly. Speke went temporarily blind. Both had to be carried at times. They moved, stopped until they got slightly healthier, and moved again. After months of miserable hiking and ill health, the team finally reached the shores of the longest freshwater lake in the world, Lake Tanganyika.

The lake was certainly an enormous body of water, but was it the source of the Nile? To get conclusive proof, they would need to conduct a thorough survey and find a river that flowed north from it. As their supplies dwindled and Burton’s health worsened, the pair attempted to explore the lake in canoes. But it was no use. Burton had no choice but to order the expedition to turn back.

Speke, who was in better health, had other ideas. Arab traders told stories of a mysterious lake to the north of Tanganyika. Speke convinced Burton to allow him to investigate the rumors. Burton stayed behind to round up more supplies while compiling notes on local dialects.

On August 25, 1858, Speke returned to camp with an extraordinary claim: He had discovered the source of the Nile. Burton pressed Speke for details and was quickly disappointed. Speke had visited only the southern shores of the great lake—which he dubbed Lake Victoria—and had never seen a river flowing north. His main testimony to the lake’s gargantuan size came from a dubious interview with a local sultan and his wife. Without scientific proof to back up Speke’s claims, the mission was a failure by Burton’s standards.

When the caravan finally made it back to Zanzibar, Burton was too ill to sail back to London. Speke promised to keep a lid on their discoveries until they could address the Royal Geographical Society together.

Speke lied. When Burton arrived in London, he learned that Speke had gone ahead and addressed the Society and was being lionized as the discoverer of the Nile’s source.

The two would spend years publicly squabbling over whether Speke had actually verified Lake Victoria as the source of the Nile. Speke even visited again—and again failed to confirm it as the Nile’s source. Burton maintained that Speke could well have been right, but they lacked the scientific evidence to make such an authoritative claim.

Finally, in 1864, the RGS scheduled a debate between the two explorers, who by now had become bitter enemies. Speke never arrived for the debate. All that came was a grave message.

The previous evening, Speke had gone hunting. As he crossed a wall, he shot himself in the chest. While the death was ruled an accident, some speculated he’d taken his life to avoid having Burton expose his “discovery” as a sham. Upon hearing the news, Burton broke down and wept. “The charitable say that he shot himself, the uncharitable that I shot him,” Burton wrote.

The suicide theory is doubly tragic because Speke’s unconfirmed hunch was right—Lake Victoria is one of the sources of the Nile. Henry Morton Stanley famously confirmed the hypothesis in 1875, 11 years after Speke’s death.

Travels of the mind

Burton would never again achieve the same fame he’d won for the Mecca and East Africa penetrations, but his further adventures and accomplishments were extraordinary. He journeyed to the American West, met Brigham Young, and wrote extensively and fairly positively about Mormonism. (Burton took a nuanced view on Mormons’ polygamy: “Servants are rare and costly; it is cheaper and more comfortable to marry them.”) He became consul to the island of Fernando Pó, off West Africa; then the city of Santos, Brazil; then Damascus; and finally Trieste, Italy. In the latter, he equipped his study with 11 tables, each one stacked with books and papers for a different project. He spent his days shuttling between those desks as he cranked out more books.

On one of those desks Burton gave the world a 16-volume translation of the greatest work of classical Arabic literature, A Thousand and One Nights. Critics dismissed it as “an appalling collection of degrading customs and statistics of vice.” On another he helped translate the Kama Sutra, knowing full well that it would be censored. His translation of the latter is still the classic English version of the text. In recognition of his scholarship and adventures, Queen Victoria knighted Burton in 1886.

Burton passed away in 1890 at the age of 69, leaving behind an unbelievable legacy. His literary output included 58 books on everything from travel to falconry. He had mastered 29 languages. But most important, Burton had countless adventures. The undertaker who examined the scholar’s body reported that it was covered with scars, each one a small testament to his tireless curiosity. Burton wouldn’t have had it any other way.

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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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