A fraternity dance imbued with alcohol. A Christmas party where alcohol was given as gifts, and whose recipients were required to chug it on site. A “beer bust” involving seventeen sorority members at a formal dinner dance. An 18-year-old boy found passed out in the rain at the door of the post office.
Sound familiar? No, they’re not headlines or case notes from last weekend’s police blotter. They’re incidents brought to the Social Committee of the University of Wyoming. From the 1950s.
Although not from the 1950s, students were partying way before then. Here are UW students at a ’49er dance during the 1925-1926 school year. Image ah301073, Ludwig & Svenson Studio Photographs, Coll. No. 167, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.Unfortunately for interested students, the Social Committee abolished the ’49er dance the next year in 1927. This is an excerpt from Social Committee meeting minutes, March 8, 1927. Box 2, University of Wyoming. Division of Student Affairs records, Coll. No. 541000, American Heritage Center.
As a graduate student in a qualitative research methods class, I went to the American Heritage Center (AHC) to gain experience conducting archival research. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for or what I might find, but having worked for seventeen years at UW in the Division of Student Affairs, I decided to see what archival records might exist about student life.
The archivist in the AHC’s fourth floor reading room directed me to several boxes on a cart they had retrieved for me in reference to “student affairs.” I opened up a small blue box—labeled Box #2—and was excited to find it full of manilla file folders. They were labeled in pencil with dates ranging from 1925 to 1958. The folders held meeting minutes, notes, and notebooks from “Associated Women Students,” “Mortar Board,” “Panhellenic Council,” “Record of Events/Developments During Dean E. Luella Galliver’s Tenure,” and “Social Committee.”
Curious about the “Social Committee,” I removed the folder and peeked inside. There were probably 100 or so papers, mostly typed, but some handwritten in flowery cursive. The paper was thin, nearly translucent, and I was almost afraid to touch it. I imagined the clicking sound of an old typewriter as I scanned the meeting notes, looking for anything interesting. It didn’t take me long to realize that this folder was what I had been looking for – reading through the Social Committee file was going to be fun.
Diving into the UW Social Committee
The early papers from the 1920s were minutes from what was then called the Social Committee. At some point, the name was changed to “Faculty Social Committee.” From what I could gather, the Social Committee or Faculty Social Committee wasn’t necessarily about planning for or engaging in social events. Instead, it was more about regulating activities and events, and reviewing student conduct concerns. Meeting minutes listed the members present and members absent. Several members appeared to be deans – Dean Galliver, who was the Dean of Women, and whose photo was also in the box; Dean Bishop; Dean Hill; and Dean Soulo, to name a few. Other members included Miss Hussey, Mrs. McKitterick, Mrs. DeKay, and Miss Weed.
E. Luella Galliver was the Dean of Women at the University of Wyoming from 1933-1964. Many of her files can be found in the American Heritage Center archives. Box 2, University of Wyoming. Division of Student Affairs records, Coll. No. 541000, American Heritage Center.
In December 1925, the committee discussed dances hosted by the Associated Students of the University of Wyoming (ASUW). A guest at the meeting, Mr. Corbett, requested that two janitors be hired for cleaning up after a dance. The committee agreed that $2.50 per janitor would be a fair price. They also discussed the question of wax on the gymnasium floor. “This is a vexatious question with the whole Physical Education department, as a slippery floor is very dangerous for all types of physical education activity.” A discussion ensued about a need for a “floor committee” for ASUW dances.
The committee heard a request that “university girls be permitted to attend a DeMolay dance” in November 1933. Social Committee members approved the request, with the condition that they follow university rules about “chaperonage.” In the same meeting, significant discussion occurred about a request from the Interfraternity Council (IFC) to abolish the requirement of having a doorman at fraternity functions. Students argued that the “presence of doormen at fraternity parties conveys a humiliating sense of surveillance and excites the ridicule of guests from other colleges.” Committee members discussed the request and ultimately voted to make the hiring of a doorman optional.
Alcohol-Fueled Student Behavior
During the 1950s, the committee saw more alcohol-related conduct issues. On December 15 (year unclear), the committee discussed a student who went into the dorms on a Thursday night. He was “drunk, wanting to fight everyone, [and] using abusive language.” After threatening another student with a straight edge razor, he was taken to the county jail to “sleep it off.” The committee discussed the circumstances of how the student had become so intoxicated and found that he had been at a fraternity party where he received alcohol as part of a gift exchange. The committee discussed the role and responsibility of the fraternity in the incident and ultimately voted to place the fraternity on social probation for the rest of the year. “We are attempting to make it a warning to other groups on campus” said one of the Social Committee members.
Faculty Social Committee members discuss illegal alcohol consumption at a fraternity dance and vote to suspend future social privileges. Excerpt from Faculty Social Committee meeting minutes, December 9, 1952. Box 2, University of Wyoming. Division of Student Affairs records, Coll. No. 541000, American Heritage Center.
In another Social Committee meeting, an 18-year old fraternity pledge and his parents were guests. They were there to discuss an incident that occurred on November 13, 1954. The young pledge had “imbibed excessively at a cocktail party” and was later “found unconscious by the police and was put in jail.” It was unclear how he ended up on the rear ramp of the US Post Office. The cocktail party was an unofficial function but had been organized and attended by about 30 fraternity members and their dates.
Social committee members brought up that other organized groups had been “doing a lot of drinking at their dances” and that perhaps UW should try to regulate them. A motion to suspend all social privileges from the fraternity in question for the winter quarter 1955 was unanimously passed.
Social Committee members hear testimony from guests about a cocktail party with underage fraternity members. Excerpt from Faculty Social Committee meeting minutes, November 13, 1954. Box 2, University of Wyoming. Division of Student Affairs records, Coll. No. 541000, American Heritage Center.
Reading through old UW Social Committee meeting minutes in the AHC was a treat. I enjoyed learning about the escapades and concerns of students from the 1920s through the 1950s. It was also interesting to learn that the escapades and concerns didn’t seem all that different from the escapades and concerns of students and university administrators today.
I encourage anyone interested in a historical perspective of UW student life to visit the AHC and spend some time going through the Student Affairs Social Committee archive.
Post contributed by Lena Newlin, a PhD student in the University of Wyoming’s Public Humanities program.
Explore More UW History
Interested in learning more about the University of Wyoming’s past? Check out these American Heritage Center exhibits: University of Wyoming: A Brief History of Campus explores how UW’s campus developed over the decades, while Keeping History Alive: 136 Years of Progress compares historical campus photographs with images taken in 2023, showing how the buildings where these Social Committee meetings and student incidents occurred have changed and endured over time.
Welcome back to our ongoing series “Designing the University of Wyoming,” which explores the stories behind the campus’s architecture, landmarks, and artistic features that have shaped the university’s identity over the decades.
If you’ve ever wondered why one of UW’s most distinctive buildings looks like a concrete spaceship that landed on the west side of campus, you’re looking at the Classroom Building—affectionately dubbed the “standing rib roast”1 by students who clearly had dining hall food on their minds. But this architectural curiosity has a story worth telling, involving ambitious planning, a community uprising, and 1960s optimism about the power of modern design to transform education. Oh, and not to forget—more than a million tiny ceramic tiles.
The Great Prexy’s Pasture Panic of 1965
The Classroom Building’s journey began in 1962 as part of an ambitious Science Center project. The multi-building complex was designed to include biological and physical science buildings, a science library, computer center, and planetarium—all connected by underground facilities in what would become the most significant building project in the university’s history.2
There was just one problem: the trustees initially sought to build it right on Prexy’s Pasture. Concerned, UW President Duke Humphrey carefully leaked the decision to the Laramie Boomerang’s editor. The subsequent reveal of that choice accounts for the survival intact of the central campus square. Storms of protest battered the trustees from around the state—from alumni, students, legislators, and others.3 The outcry was loud enough that the trustees wisely decided to find a new location between 9th Street and the Arts and Sciences Building. Campus lost the Graduate School Building and the Post Office-Art building but gained a modern science complex—and democracy in campus planning proved it could work.4
View of campus looking east, 1982. The trustees’ original plan was to build the new science complex on the west end of Prexy’s Pasture, immediately east of the Arts & Sciences building. Wiser minds prevailed and the location of the round Classroom Building can be seen in the foreground. Aerial views photo file, American Heritage Center collections. Image ah002532.
Building the “Circle on a Square”
Construction of the complex began in late summer 1966, with the Classroom Building taking the lead. Designed by local firm Hitchcock and Hitchcock, the building was intended to accommodate 2,700 students at once in rooms ranging from 21-seat seminar spaces to 240-seat lecture halls.5 For context, that’s about the size of a decent concert venue.
Architect’s model of the classroom building. Photo from The Branding Iron, July 8, 1966.
The architects created what they called a “circle on a square” design, which solved a very practical problem: The circular interior layout helped prevent students from getting lost in what could have been a maze-like building. The building came equipped with all the latest 1960s educational technology: air conditioning, dimming lights, closed-circuit television,6 and deliberately few windows in many areas.7 The theory was that windows were distracting—whether this actually helped students learn or just made them feel like they were in a bunker is open to debate.
Construction of the Classroom Building. The Laramie Daily Boomerang, November 15, 1967.
The Million-Tile Marvel
The building’s most impressive feature isn’t its concrete bulk—it’s the spectacular murals adorning the open staircase entrances. Created by four UW Art Department faculty members (James Boyle, Richard Evans, Joseph Deaderick, and Victor Flach), these murals use more than one million one-inch ceramic tiles.8 That’s a staggering number of tiny squares, and someone definitely earned their paycheck installing them all.
Each mural represents one of Wyoming’s four quadrants, though the artists took creative liberties with their interpretations. Professor Deaderick described his northeast mural as an “optical illusion” depicting “the environment of the northeast part of Wyoming—the history, the wildlife and the landscape.” According to Deaderick, while “the drawing of the design was not too difficult,” enlarging and proportioning the design proved challenging.9 Professor Flach, who designed the Yellowstone section, explained his approach: “Given limits in theme, how is it possible to achieve universality?” His solution was to create spiral designs that worked on multiple levels, from realistic to symbolic.10
The murals extend two and a half stories and can be viewed from multiple floors. They’re among the more ambitious ceramic installations of their era.
This mural, designed by UW Professor Richard Evans, is, like the other three, designed to illustrate part of Wyoming’s past, present and future. In addition to the fish, seen in the lower right of this picture, the mosaic also pictures a hawk, a bear and large horse’s skull. Photo by Greg Ray, Branding Iron, March 14, 1969.
Modern Marvels and Missing Windows
When the Classroom Building opened on September 6, 1968, just in time for fall classes, the architectural world took notice: McGraw-Hill’s College and University Business magazine named it “College Building of the Month” in 1967, recognizing the university and architects for functional design excellence.11
The Classroom Building’s automatic doors were both a marvel and a hazard when the building opened. As student Monica Miller noted in her tongue-in-cheek piece for The Branding Iron, entering the building meant “trying to outsmart the electric eye doors” where “you risk your life each time you enter.” From The Branding Iron, October 11, 1968.
Students, however, had their own ways of honoring the building. The “standing rib roast” nickname stuck, reflecting both the building’s distinctive silhouette and the eternal student preoccupation with food. The trustees, meanwhile, went with the straightforward “Classroom Building” when they officially named it on April 25, 1968.12 After all that architectural innovation and artistic effort, they chose maximum clarity over poetry.
Not everyone embraced the bold design, though. In 1975, a heated debate erupted in the campus newspaper between critics who found the building uncomfortable and poorly engineered, and defenders who argued it was one of the few buildings on campus with genuine “artistic and architectural value.”13 The exchange captured the broader tensions about modern architecture’s place on campus—was it a functional marvel or a concrete eyesore?
A Concrete Legacy
The building became part of the George Duke Humphrey Science Center, honoring the former president who had championed the science initiative. The formal dedication didn’t happen until February 6, 1971, with President Humphrey himself present to see his vision finally realized.14
(From left to right) Clinton A. Hitchcock, architect; Bob Arnold, Director of UW Physical Plant; Glenn Mullens, structural consultant; and W. Eliot Hitchcock, architect, stand outside the Classroom Building circa 1971. Box 114, Hitchcock & Hitchcock records, Coll. No. 9921, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming. Image ah003194.
The building’s story didn’t end with its dedication, however. Like many aging buildings, it faced both literal and figurative storms. In 1996, a broken water main flooded the lower level, causing significant damage to the planetarium and requiring extensive cleanup.15 As enrollment declined in the 1990s, the university found creative uses for classroom space—by 1997, former classroom CR 301 had been converted into a Grab-N-Go convenience store, leading one student columnist to quip about the building becoming “Laramie’s new mall.”16
The building received a major technological upgrade through a renovation completed in 2007, bringing it into the digital age with Internet access, smart boards, and modern projection equipment while carefully preserving its distinctive murals and architectural character.17
Architect Keith Seebart gives the UW Board of Trustees a tour a tour of the stadium-style rooms in the renovated Classroom Building. The wires were for Internet access. Photo by Aaron LeClair, Laramie Boomerang, May 9, 2007.
More than fifty years later, the Classroom Building continues to serve thousands of students annually. The circular corridors still help with navigation (mostly), the murals still catch the eye, and the building still looks like it could launch into space if someone found the right controls. It stands as a monument to 1960s confidence in modern design and a reminder that sometimes listening to public opinion—like saving Prexy’s Pasture—leads to better outcomes for everyone.
Whether you call it the Classroom Building, the standing rib roast, or just “that round building with all the tiles,” it remains one of UW’s most recognizable landmarks. And unlike some architectural experiments of the era, it has aged reasonably well, proving that bold design choices can actually work out in the long run.
Explore More Campus History
Want to see how the Classroom Building fits into the broader story of UW’s transformation? The American Heritage Center offers two online exhibits that bring this architectural evolution to life. “University of Wyoming: A Brief History of Campus” chronicles the development of the campus landscape, while “Keeping History Alive: 136 Years of Progress” presents a striking then-and-now photographic comparison, featuring 2023 images of campus buildings alongside historical photos to show how dramatically the university has changed over the decades.
Sources
“Classroom—western, psychedelic…” The Branding Iron, University of Wyoming, October 11, 1968, 11. ↩︎
“Dr. Humphrey Outlines UW Future,” Laramie Daily Boomerang, January 26, 1962; Vern Shelton, “Dr. Fey Outlines His Program,” Laramie Daily Boomerang, December 12, 1964. ↩︎
Deborah Hardy, Wyoming University: The First 100 Years, 1886-1986 (Laramie: University of Wyoming, 1986), 175. ↩︎
Harold Sohn. “Progress is education.” The Summer Roundup, published by The Branding Iron, University of Wyoming, July 8, 1966, 1. ↩︎
“Partially completed buildings to see activity this semester,” Branding Iron, September 13, 1968, 4; “University Building Featured in Magazine, Boomerang, August 16, 1957, 3. ↩︎
“’Form follows function,’” Branding Iron, October 4, 1968, 12. ↩︎
“Center Construction to Start This Spring,” Branding Iron, October 29, 1965, 10. ↩︎
Steve Singleton. “’Art is the communication with the exterior,’” Branding Iron, May 17, 1968, 9; Greg Ray, Branding Iron, March 14, 1969, 1. ↩︎
“Classroom mosaic mural called an optical illusion,” Branding Iron, October 29, 9. ↩︎
Singleton, “’Art if the communication with the exterior,’” 9. ↩︎
For decades, the conventional wisdom has portrayed Western ranchers as caught in a paradox—an industry built on independence that criticized federal regulation while relying on government programs. It’s become the accepted narrative—and according to Dr. Tim Gresham, it misses the real story.
Dr. Tim Gresham, Professor of History at St. Mary’s College.
The St. Mary’s College history professor spent ten days at the American Heritage Center examining extensive meeting minutes and correspondence, funded by the Alan K. Simpson Fellowship. What he discovered helps to reshape our understanding of how the meat industry really worked with government from the 1930s through the 1950s.
His findings join scholarship by Karen Merrill, Leisl Carr Childers, and Michelle Berry in painting a more nuanced picture of the American West—one where ranchers weren’t simply for or against government, but engaged in constant negotiation about what their relationship should look like.
Dr. Gresham challenges what he calls the “hypocritical rancher” perspective that dates back to Jimmy Skaggs’ 2000 book Prime Cut: Livestock Raising and Meatpacking in the United States. This long-standing interpretation portrays ranchers as simultaneously resisting federal presence while accepting government subsidies. But his examination of the actual records reveals something far more interesting—a sophisticated partnership between the meat industry and government that operated largely out of public view.
Mining the Archives for Answers
Dr. Gresham’s research arsenal at the AHC was impressive. He pored over National Live Stock & Meat Board minutes—some biannual meetings generated hundreds of pages of detailed conversations between industry titans and government scientists that had previously gone unexplored. The National Cattlemen’s Association records revealed heated internal debates about the industry’s future. Papers from Wyoming politicians Joseph C. O’Mahoney and Lester C. Hunt showed how elected officials navigated between their ranching constituents and federal agencies.
A 1941 Meat Board poster contest encouraged high school students to promote “Meat and the Nation.” Such campaigns demonstrated the Board’s sophisticated public outreach efforts. Box 289, National Live Stock and Meat Board Records, Coll. No. 11744, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
But perhaps his most surprising discovery came from the Wyoming Hereford Ranch (WHR) records—a collection he hadn’t initially planned to examine. He came across references to dwarfism in other collections and knew that “the WHR was ground zero for the outbreak.” In the early 1950s, this devastating crisis threatened the entire Hereford breed. Government scientists discovered the method of transmission and “possibly saved the Hereford breed from ruin.”
A comparison chart showing the difference between standard cattle and those affected by dwarfism. The 1950s dwarfism crisis at Wyoming Hereford Ranch demonstrated the high stakes of industry-government cooperation when public scientists helped identify the genetic cause and saved the Hereford breed. Source: Bucking V Outfit, Donna Vickery, “Dwarfism ~ Chondrodysplasia in miniature cattle.”
“The Meat Board leaders used public sector scientists essentially as a research arm that would appear to the public as an impartial third party,” Dr. Gresham explains. Rather than conducting their own research, “its leaders chose to provide grants to top scientists throughout the country, and pressured universities to create meat departments, thus creating more centers for research.”
When Beef Became a Belief System
The archives revealed an unexpected ideological split within the meat industry itself. While the Meat Board embraced what sociologist Gyorgy Scrinis calls “the ideology of nutritionism”—essentially holding “that only the nutrients mattered, not the type of meat”—the National Cattlemen’s Association developed something Dr. Gresham terms “beef fundamentalism.” As he puts it, “they viewed beef as a unique food that is valuable for qualities beyond its nutritional composition.”
Winners of the Meat Board’s Third National Meat Story Contest in 1929. The Board offered university scholarships to shape the next generation’s understanding of meat’s nutritional value. Box 289, National Live Stock and Meat Board Records, Coll. No. 11744, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
This philosophical divide had real consequences. The groups clashed over funding priorities after World War II, with the NCA demanding separate beef promotions. Even as NCA leaders proclaimed that “free markets make free men” in a 1953 executive meeting, they simultaneously called for increased USDA beef purchases for school lunch programs.
Rather than simple hypocrisy, Dr. Gresham sees something more complex: industry leaders believed they were fixing problems created by earlier government interventions like wartime price controls. They weren’t abandoning free-market principles so much as trying to work within a system already shaped by decades of federal involvement.
During World War II, the Meat Board’s 1943 essay contest framed meat as a “Weapon of War,” offering war bonds as prizes. The contest reveals how the industry leveraged patriotic sentiment to promote consumption. Box 289, National Live Stock and Meat Board Records, Coll. No. 11744, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
Beyond the Archives
Over the next two years, Dr. Gresham will present his findings at major history conferences and submit articles to leading journals. His ultimate goal is a book that reveals the hidden architecture of cooperation between industry and government that shaped not just the meat on American tables, but the political identity of the West itself.
The Alan K. Simpson Fellowship made this research possible by covering Dr. Gresham’s travel, lodging, and meals during his archival work. “Because the records at the AHC are central to my project,” he explained, “the Simpson fellowship is easily the most important grant I will receive.”
The Alan K. Simpson Fellowship in Western Political History is one of several research opportunities offered by the American Heritage Center. For more information about grants and fellowships, visit the AHC Grants and Fellowships page.
The fellowship honors retired U.S. Senator Alan K. Simpson of Wyoming, who passed away in March 2025. The AHC’s Alan K. Simpson Institute for Western Politics and Leadership continues his legacy of fostering understanding of Western political history and civic engagement.
Aviation in the 1920s was unpredictable. Pilots flew routes that few had successfully flown before, with untested technologies and in all weather conditions. These risks went hand in hand with being a pilot for the airmail service.
None embody this better than James H. Knight, who went by the name of Jack and whose exploits frequently graced newspapers across the West. The newspaper record remembers Knight as a pioneer, pushing the boundaries of aviation. Despite the dangers of flying Western airmail routes during the 1920s, Knight’s advancements to the service are a testament to his courage, skill, and, to some extent, luck.
Jack Knight kept a log book that detailed all of his flights for much of his airmail career service, and it relates the dangers of this pioneering profession. Housed at the American Heritage Center, the log book reveals at the beginning that Knight recorded three entries under the title “Record of Forced Landings, Smashes, Crashes, ETC,” all within the span of two years. Entries of “forced landing,” “motor trouble,” and even “crash” are repeated frequently throughout the book alongside remarks about the weather. There is a surprising number of these notes. Despite the many malfunctions and accidents faced, he continued to fly, advancing airmail and aviation to new heights. He was seemingly undeterred even after so many forced landings and outright crashes.
Breaking Speed Records
Airmail pilots flew for relatively long hours considering the limited distances they covered on each leg of the transcontinental air route. On December 13, 1920, Knight is reported to have gone about 385 and 8/10 miles an hour, traveling forty-five miles in seven minutes due to a gust of wind.1 This would be relatively slow for a modern airplane, but at the time it was considered a possible record-breaking speed. TheLaramie Boomerang stated that Knight “probably traveled faster than ever a human being moved before.”2 Spectators and news reporters found Knight’s speed flight to be an exciting moment to witness. Airplanes were on the forefront of technological developments.
The Night Flight That Made History
One of Knight’s most well-known achievements occurred during a test of a 24-hour transcontinental airmail flight with different pilots flying small routes in 1921. Jack flew at night from North Platte, Nebraska, to Chicago, Illinois. Originally scheduled to fly only to Omaha, he decided to continue on to the next leg when the pilot assigned to the Chicago route refused to fly during a storm.3
Despite having never flown the Omaha-Chicago segment and having already completed his assigned portion with a broken nose, he still successfully navigated two sections of the route in poor weather. TheOmaha Bee reported that Jack Knight was “the man who flew with the mails from Cheyenne to Chicago in a single night.”4 His successful completion of this challenging night flight, especially when another pilot had deemed it too dangerous, proved that airmail could be delivered safely after dark—a crucial advancement for the service.
When Knight returned to Cheyenne in a new plane, his down-to-earth personality was evident. Despite accomplishing one of aviation’s most heroic feats, his immediate concern was simple: “I’m famished,” he told the welcoming crowd. “Nothing since breakfast, and that a darned early one.”5
Jack Knight after completing his record-breaking transcontinental air mail flight on February 26, 1921, with a broken nose. Cheyenne State Leader, February 27, 1921.
Behind Every Great Pilot
A 1921 newspaper article about Jack’s wife Lois portrays her as being confident in her husband’s skill and supportive of his work in the U.S. Airmail Service. She is depicted in the newspaper article as being calm despite the risks that were inseparable from her husband’s career.6 Regardless of her likely concerns about those risks, her interview does not focus greatly on her worry. The only times she stated that she frequently worried was when Jack flew in poor weather or when he flew over the mountains.7 The article’s author is more focused on Jack, even while interviewing his wife for her opinions, reflecting Jack Knight’s status as a celebrity of sorts.
Jack Knight with his wife at their Cheyenne home, 1921. Wyoming State Tribune and Cheyenne State Leader, May 15, 1921
Innovations in Communication
Knight tested a “Hush-A-Phone,” which was designed to limit outside noise so that pilots could hear radio transmissions. Knight’s radio was equipped with “a hushaphone [sic] to shut out the sound of his motor.”8 In an open-air cockpit, the Hush-A-Phone allowed clear two-way communication despite the constant roar of both engine and wind. Despite the historic significance of this test, Jack only wrote the words “radio,” “radio test,” and “night radio” in his log book on the days of the test. No further information is provided to suggest his experiences or opinions. Perhaps it was truly a routine test for him, unlike the article which raised public anticipation for the coming test.
Knight testing early air-to-ground radio. Photo from San Diego Air and Space Museum Archive.
Flying Into History
Knight’s importance to the advancement of airmail and aviation was so significant that when he retired in 1937, the Wyoming State Tribune featured an article about his work. The newspaper claimed that “veteran” had become synonymous with Jack’s name, describing him as one of seven volunteers who flew mail through the night to prove it was possible, and who “could and had flown everything from a crate to a luxury liner.”9 Though clearly exaggerated, the fact that Knight’s retirement warranted news coverage more than a decade after his most prominent achievement reveals his lasting recognition in aviation history and his importance to the development of airmail service.
Jack Knight’s work in the airmail service, despite its dangers, allowed for advancements in the aviation industry. He was involved in many of the advancements of the 1920s which made airmail, and aviation as a whole, safer and less uncertain. In his own log book, however, his accomplishments are noted alongside all other flights without more than a few words of commentary. Jack was only one of many airmail pilots who pushed the limits of aviation, becoming a true pioneer in the process.
We share his story to commemorate the beginnings of this vital service, which saw its first official experiment under the US Post Office Department on September 23, 1911.
Post contributed by Lilly Graham, student in the Spring 2025 course “20th Century American West” (HIST 4540) taught by Toppan Rare Book Curator Dr. Mary Beth Brown.
“Pilot Flies Plane at Rate of 385 Miles an Hour, is Claim,” TheLaramie Boomerang, December 13, 1920, 7. ↩︎
Welcome back to our ongoing series “Designing the University of Wyoming,” which explores the stories behind the campus’s architecture, landmarks, and artistic features that have shaped the university’s identity over the decades.
Standing proudly on the lawn south of the Arts and Sciences Building, the bronze figure of Benjamin Franklin has been watching over UW students for more than six decades. But this isn’t just any campus statue—it’s a piece of Wyoming history with an intriguing backstory, complete with artistic vision, generous benefactors, and even a bit of journalistic satire.
A Revolutionary Idea Takes Shape
The story begins in 1955, when the approaching 250th anniversary of Franklin’s birth sparked an ambitious idea. UW professor and sculptor Robert Russin (1914-2007) joined forces with Wyoming rancher and oilman Warren Richardson to create something special for the university. Richardson, along with his siblings Clarence and Valeria, saw the University as the perfect home for a commemorative statue of one of America’s most versatile founding fathers.
In a letter to UW President George Duke Humphrey on February 18, 1956, Richardson described their vision:
It is therefore particularly appropriate that a commemorative statue of this foremost American be placed on the grounds of our great state university as a guiding inspiration to the youth of Wyoming.
From The Branding Iron, March 23, 1956.
The trustees were convinced. At their March 9 meeting, they approved the proposal and accepted a check from the Richardson family for $17,500—equivalent to over $200,000 in today’s dollars—a substantial sum that would bring Russin’s artistic vision to life.1
From Clay to Bronze
Russin had already created a model, and the process of completing the seven-foot statue began in earnest. The bronze figure would rest on a large, polished granite base, positioned prominently where students, faculty, and visitors could encounter Franklin’s presence daily.
After considering several locations around campus, the trustees settled on the lawn south of the Arts and Sciences Building—a fitting spot for a polymath who embodied the spirit of learning and discovery. Long-time campus visitors might remember this area as the site of the beloved Peanut Pond, where students once gathered for fly-casting contests and tug-of-wars before the small cement-lined pond was filled in during 1962.
Dedication Day and Words of Wisdom
The statue was installed on April 1, 1957, and formally dedicated on May 24. At the dedication ceremony, sculptor Russin delivered remarks that captured both his artistic philosophy and Franklin’s enduring relevance to university life:
My remarks will be brief, and since the statue must speak for itself, in effect, I have already said my say. It is especially appropriate that a monument to Franklin be placed on a campus of learning…He was a student, in the truest sense, for all of his life. In his own words, ‘The doors of wisdom are never shut,’ and this applies truly to this campus.2
From The Branding Iron, April 5, 1957.
A Western First
What makes UW’s Franklin statue particularly special is its distinction as the first statue of Benjamin Franklin erected west of the Mississippi River. For the Richardson family and the university, this represented an opportunity to bring a piece of foundational American history to the frontier state.3
A Journalistic Jab with a Point
Not long after the statue’s installation, the campus newspaper The Branding Iron published a satirical piece that would become part of the statue’s lore. In a clever article titled “Inscription on Franklin Statue Hacks Stranger,” student journalists created a fictional encounter between a student and a mysterious figure named “Silence Dogood”—a reference to one of Franklin’s own pseudonyms.
The fictional Dogood character complained that the statue’s inscription listed Franklin as “scientist, man of letters, economist, politician” but failed to mention what he considered Franklin’s most important identity: “Printer and journalist!” The character argued passionately that Franklin’s career in printing and journalism was the foundation for all his other achievements.4
This playful critique highlighted an important aspect of Franklin’s legacy while demonstrating the kind of critical thinking and spirited debate that Franklin himself would have appreciated.
Franklin contemplates his key in this 1968 photo—perhaps deciding whether to unlock scientific secrets or just tell someone to go fly a kite. Photo from The Branding Iron, July 26, 1968.
Weathering Modern Controversies
The statue’s peaceful existence was briefly disrupted in September 2017, when a student group staged a mock protest to make a point about the national conversation surrounding historical monuments. The group organized a fake petition drive asking students to sign a petition to remove the Franklin statue. Students who signed were then given a flyer explaining that the group wasn’t actually trying to remove the statue, but rather protesting what they saw as the troubling trend of tearing down historical monuments across the country.5
The incident sparked conversations about historical memory, the role of monuments on campus, and how universities should navigate politically charged discussions about public art and commemoration.
Franklin has not only weathered controversy, he’s weathered… well, weather. Here he is in a University of Wyoming Foundation Facebook post from January 2025.
A Continuing Presence
More than sixty years after its installation, Franklin’s bronze form continues to occupy its prominent spot on campus. The statue has become part of the daily rhythm of university life, a familiar landmark that has appeared in countless graduation photos and served as an informal meeting spot for generations of students. Whether viewed as an inspiration, a conversation starter, or simply as a piece of campus history, Franklin remains a constant presence in the ever-changing landscape of the University of Wyoming.
Explore More UW History
Want to see how dramatically the University of Wyoming has transformed over time? The American Heritage Center offers two online exhibits that bring campus history to life. “University of Wyoming: A Brief History of Campus” takes you on a visual journey through the university’s evolution, while “Keeping History Alive: 136 Years of Progress” offers a then-and-now comparison, pairing 2023 photographs of campus buildings and features with historical images to reveal how much the landscape has changed. These exhibits provide a great backdrop for understanding how landmarks like the Franklin statue fit into the university’s ongoing story of growth and transformation.
This is Part 2 of our series on Bertha Klausner, Missed Part 1? Read it here to learn how she built her literary agency from the ground up.
Building a Literary Empire
After closing her Hollywood office in 1960 and returning to work full-time from New York, Klausner entered the most prolific phase of her career. Through it all, she thrived, building lasting relationships and forging new paths for her clients in both literature and entertainment. Her work with literary giants like Upton Sinclair, whose books she sold for nearly two decades, and Marcel Marceau, whom she helped introduce to American audiences, solidified her position as a key figure in the literary world.1
Klausner working in her Park Avenue office. Image courtesy of Rebecca Spence.
Her Hollywood connections were also sound and enduring. In a February 2025 interview, Klausner’s nephew, Dennis Torres, talked about a meeting he had with Stanley Kramer that was initiated by his aunt. Hoping to pitch his then recent novel to the producer/director as a film idea, Torres instead sat for an hour listening to Kramer extoll his aunt’s virtues.2 She was well-liked and respected in all circles. Her commitment to her clients was single-minded as she wove together an international network of publishers, and radio, film, television, and stage directors and producers.
Mime Marcel Marceau performing with a giant hoop in his one-man show. “Marcel Marceau On Broadway,” Billy Rose Theatre Division, The New York Public Library. New York Public Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 7, 2025.
For decades she would entertain and conduct business out of her home. A great-granddaughter, Rebecca Spence, recalls that her earliest memory when visiting her Nana at her Park Avenue apartment in New York was meeting Marcel Marceau:
When I was little Marcel Marceau would be in her apartment and he would do… private mime performances for me and my brother… we were little children, very young—three or four. That is my earliest memory—Marcel Marceau being in my Nana’s apartment and doing mime for me. Pretty amazing.3
She would oftentimes prepare meals for her clients and prospective business partners. Upton Sinclair mentioned one such event in his 1962 autobiography wherein he stated, “One of the most unusual occasions was a luncheon given by my faithful agent, Bertha Klausner, who invited only those people who are working, in one way or another, with my various books—publishing or reissuing or dramatizing them for stage or screen. And, there was a roomful of them!”4
Klausner’s family members would frequently be at the luncheons she hosted. Nephew Dennis Torres recounts having met notables such as Adam Clayton Powell and Claire Booth Luce at these events, both of whom were her clients. He also remembers his aunt sending him on errands. During these trips, he once met Ralph Bellamy, a renowned stage, film, and television star, and Tony Award-winning producer David Merrick.5 Torres remembers that Merrick “would always get great seats for her [Klausner] whenever she wanted to go to any play. In my mind she was like Gertrude Stein was to the ex-pats in Paris—I considered Bertha the Gertrude Stein of New York.”6
Great-granddaughter Rebecca Spence also recounts “going to her house and there is action, there are people there, important people, and artists and culture makers and we’re getting free tickets from Tommy Tune to go see…The Phantom of the Opera in the VIP section in the first row…I remember as a child, that [when] we visited…my Nana in New York she would give us free VIP tickets to…major plays and…Broadway shows.”7
Her New York apartment became the center of both her personal and professional worlds, where there seemed to be no boundaries between her personal and professional life. Jean Cappel (who worked from Klausner’s home), sent her a postcard in 1959 (special delivery, no less) addressing an inquiry that Klausner had made of her stating, “Dear Bertha, Bottom door—a box second from windows in your bedroom are bundles of scripts from article file. Ralph ______ should have a bundle & Cocos [sic] outline should be there (otherwise in book files under “H” or “W”).”8 Klausner’s granddaughter Maya worked for the agency for ten years while in high school and while attending college at Vassar. She related working from her grandmother’s apartment on Lexington Avenue from 1967 to 1975:
The one on Lexington Avenue was hilarious because it was probably at some point a residential hotel. There was no kitchen. It was a two-bedroom and one bath. She turned a closet into a kitchen. She used a hot plate and had a little refrigerator like a kid would use in a dorm room and produced amazing meals out of this closet. And, she entertained writers and editors and people in the business there. Usually lunch. And, the same when she moved to the big apartment [on Park Avenue].9
Those luncheons oftentimes bore fruit for Klausner. In 1972 she received correspondence from Lilly Poritz Miller, a senior trade editor with publishers McClelland & Stewart Ltd in Toronto. Miller had referred Canadian author and screenwriter, Seymour Blicker, to Klausner whose book, Schmucks, she represented in the United States and Israel. In Miller’s letters to Klausner dated June 27, 1972, she wrote, “Many times I have thought of those warm and festive luncheons with you and I miss seeing you.”10 Klausner continued to work and entertain from her home into her eighties.
International Expansion
Klausner cast a wide net across borders and oceans. Her letterhead in 1954 indicated that her agency reached clients across the globe including Australia, India, Indonesia, Philippines, and South Africa.11 Her influence also extended into the Middle East, notably to Israel, where she established important connections with literary and film agencies.
In the early 1970s, Klausner reached out to Israeli businesses and explored opportunities for collaboration in film production. Her correspondence with Israeli agencies highlighted her interest in expanding the reach of American literature and film into international markets, particularly in Israel, where she sought to negotiate film rights and represent Israeli filmmakers in the U.S. and Canada.12
She began by sending a barrage of letters (over two dozen) to organizations such as Israfilm Ltd.13 And the bait worked! In a 1973 mailing, she secured a meeting with Israfilm and pitched several of her authors to them. In February 1974, Klausner traveled to Israel to meet with representatives from Israfilm and other agencies to discuss potential co-productions and the possibility of bringing Israeli literature and stories to a broader audience. Her efforts not only expanded her agency’s influence but also contributed to fostering cultural exchanges between the U.S. and Israel, making her a key figure in promoting Israeli content in the American market.14
She negotiated film and television rights for her clients, including Seymour Blicker and American author and longtime client Robert Payne. She carefully strategized and once she had established initial contact with an interested party, she would advocate on behalf of her clients with other reputable firms.
This letter from Klauser to Israfilm dated July 14, 1973, was one of dozens of form letters she sent to potential clients/business associates in Israel. Box 50, Folder 11, Bertha Klausner papers, Coll. No. 9462, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
An example of this can be found in her cordial but assertive correspondence with a representative from an Israeli publisher. While she had not secure a definitive agreement with Israfilm to produce Robert Payne’s unpublished manuscript, Love Stories from the Bible, as a television series, she leveraged this initial contact to attract interest from the Bar David Literary Agency.15
The letter to Varda Mor of Bar David contains both a personal note and an admonishment that exemplifies Klausner’s direct literary style: “I feel that your interest in Robert Payne should be stronger than it is.”16
Letter from Klausner to Varda Mor, 1979. Note the personal and cordial tone of the letter. This is commonly found in Klausner’s correspondence. She was a master at making people feel comfortable and heard while she concurrently conducted shrewd business deals. Box 50, Folder 11, Klausner papers.
Writing letters was an art for Klausner. Most often, they were the first introduction of herself, her agency, and clients to a potential publisher or producer. She often established a personal connection with prospective colleagues while maintaining a professional manner and strongly advocating on behalf of her clients. Screen writer and author, Pete Chaney, referred to his relationship with Klausner as one wherein he “could never refuse Bertha anything. My feelings for her range from admiration to deep affection, everything you can feel about a person you’ve known for 20 years but never met except by phone and letter.”17 In a 1980 article, Dick Boswell referred to her as a “motherly dynamo.”18
A Legacy of Relationships
The hallmark of Klausner’s career was her unwavering commitment to her clients and her ability to inspire and support them beyond mere business transactions. Her Park Avenue apartment became a hub for literary creativity, where writers, editors, and producers regularly gathered for lunches that often led to significant publishing and commercial successes. Klausner’s reputation for integrity, warmth, and her relentless drive earned her Upton Sinclair’s nickname “The Big Bertha of Literary Agents” a testament to her formidable presence in the industry.19 As Klausner continued to expand her influence, she remained dedicated to nurturing the next generation of writers and expanding the reach of her agency. Even in her later years, she showed no signs of slowing down, constantly seeking new opportunities and challenges, including those that took her abroad.
A Lasting Impact
According to journalist Morna Murphy, Klausner’s philosophy was “Never give up!”20 The more than 700 boxes in her papers housed at the American Heritage Center are a testament to this principle. Klausner’s work ethic and devotion to her clients is demonstrated time and again throughout. Her style was relentless and, as Murphy wrote about Klausner, at the age of 80 she remained “independent and unsinkable, working seven days a week extending encouragement (and often home cooking) to a host of writers.”21 Her legacy is one of innovation, resilience, and a profound impact on the literary and entertainment industries, making her a central figure in the history of American publishing and a pioneer in fostering international cultural exchanges.22
Post contributed by AHC Archives Aide Patty Kessler.
Howell Hurst to Bertha Klausner, May 7, 1987 (biography):4-6, Box 1, Folder 1, Bertha Klausner papers, Coll. No. 9462, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming. ↩︎
Dennis Torres, interview by Patty Kessler, February 13, 2025, interview transcript, American Heritage Center. ↩︎
Rebecca Spence, interview by Patty Kessler, February 26, 2025, interview transcript, American Heritage Center. ↩︎
Upton Sinclair, The Autobiography of Upton Sinclair,1878-1968 (New York, Harcourt, Brace & World, 1962): 325. ↩︎
This is Part 1 of a two-part series exploring the remarkable life of Bertha Klausner, one of America’s most influential literary agents. Read Part 2 here.
Bertha Klausner was among one of the most influential literary agents in the United States and internationally throughout the twentieth century.
Born in Brooklyn in 1901 to Austro-Hungarian immigrant parents, she was known for her tireless work ethic, innovative strategies, and deep commitment to her clients during the course of a career that spanned over six decades. Klausner played a pivotal role in the literary, art, and entertainment markets and solidified her role as a trailblazer for women nationally and internationally.1
Bertha Klausner, n.d. Biography File, Bertha Klausner Papers, Coll. No. 9562, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming
Early Years and Family Influence
As a child, and throughout most of her adult life, her father Jacob Adler—a prominent writer who was often referred to as the “Mark Twain of Jewish writers”—introduced Klausner into the world of literature and politics.”2 Her rich educational upbringing was set against a background of economic hardship; consequently she was no stranger to adversity.3
This fact, and the tenacity of her own father to realize his dream of being an influential author, served to shape her leadership and entrepreneurial spirit. These qualities led her to weave together an intricate sphere of influence. These inclinations would serve her well over the course of a career that was marked by resilience and an unyielding dedication to literature, the arts, and above all else her family and clients.
Innovation through the Women’s Exchange
After the 1929 Wall Street crash cost her structural engineer husband his financial backing, Klausner took the family’s last $2,000 and, with two young children in tow, invested it in researching and establishing a Woman’s Exchange in Asbury, New Jersey.4 At the turn of the century Woman’s Exchanges boasted approximately one hundred organizations and, while their numbers have diminished significantly, they continue to be one of the oldest operating charitable organizations in the United States.5 The Federation of Woman’s Exchanges’ website states that while women “received valuable training in retail organization and management, something they could not hope to attain in the male-dominated retail market in the late 1800s and early 1900s . . . its numbers began to die out shortly after women received the right to vote [in 1920] and began to join the work force.”6
Klausner patterned the Asbury Park Exchange after the historic agencies that were first established in the 1830s. They existed in part to address the lack of legal and economic protections for widows in accordance with the doctrine of coverture—the status of married women during the time that placed them lawfully under the control of their husbands, and erased any legal rights they may have had to own their own property, children, or to advocate on their own behalf.
This document predates Klausner’s exchange but shows how carefully exchanges were organized and managed throughout the 19th and 20th centuries. The Federation of Woman’s Exchanges still provides guidance for contemporary exchanges across the United States. “Rules of the Richmond Woman’s Work Exchange [broadside],” Social Welfare History Image Portal, https://images.socialwelfare.library.vcu.edu/items/show/545. Accessed April 15, 2025.
While the doctrine of coverture was gradually mitigated at the end of the 19th century and early in the 20th, the need for women to earn an income to support themselves and their families was not. These exchanges were run by women and provided an opportunity for women to submit handiwork which, in turn, would be sold at the exchange. It provided needed income for women and their families as well as charitable organizations.7 In light of this, her efforts did not go unrewarded. Klausner’s biographer, Howell Hurst, noted in his unpublished manuscript that, “[The Exchange] was an instant success. With over 300 carefully-selected women’s handcrafts for sale, Bertha garnered offers from the local mayor and the major department store for financial assistance.”8
Klausner’s initiative proved crucial after bank failures resulted in the loss of her husband’s engineering work, at which time she assumed the role as the primary provider for their family. She engineered an intricate network of housing for her family, rent free, in agreement with banks to take care of mansions left empty after the stock market crash, and afforded a place to live, not just for herself, her husband, and their children, but for a diversity of individuals. These members of her “extended” family provided child care, helped to maintain the household, and prepared meals for them. One of the chefs who resided with the family also cooked at a tea room located at Klausner’s Women’s Exchange.9
Community Leadership
Klausner was also involved in her faith and local communities. In November 1930, she attended a joint session of the Young Men’s and Young Women’s Hebrew Associations (Y.M.H.A. and Y.W.H.A., respectively). In an article published in The Long Branch Daily Record on November 14, 1930, it was noted that “Mrs. Edward S. Klausner, president of the Y.W.H.A. of Asbury Park” was on the itinerary and presented at the same program alongside her father.10
The first Y.W.H.A. was founded in New York in 1902 and provided “social recreational activities for Jewish working girls and, in some instances, temporary housing, all of which [afforded] ‘hundreds of hard-working girls with a chance of bettering their condition and of helping them, in many cases, from a condition of want and necessity to a place in the world where they can become independent and self-supporting.’”11 Both Klausner and her husband, Edward, were advocates of the communities they lived in and provided leadership and assistance wherever they were needed.
Klausner 1935. From the Ruth Adler Torres family album. Image courtesy of Dennis Torres.
Breaking into Publishing
As though this was “not enough” (which in the storied career of Bertha Klausner is really a phrase that held little or no meaning to her), Klausner was also instrumental in establishing a newspaper, The Monmouth Independent, which played a pivotal role in exposing and dismantling a corrupt local government in Monmouth County, New Jersey, through its investigative journalism and detailed reporting on bribery, embezzlement, and other illegal activities by local officials. Her activities in the publishing world included developing the Independent Publishers Syndicate, which served over 500 papers and became a model for current features such as Parade and This Week.12 These early ventures established her as a formidable businesswoman and paved the way for her later success as a literary agent.
Launching a Literary Career
In 1945, after a career of representing artists and illustrators, the mother of now two adolescents established the Bertha Klausner Literary Agency (which later became the Bertha Klausner International Literary Agency).13 This led to the beginning of a vast and lauded career.
Prior to launching her literary agency, Klausner represented artists (and later authors) including those who were influenced by the Harlem Renaissance (1918-1937).14 This is a facsimile of her business card, pre-1945. Box 13, folder 6, Klausner papers
Building on her success, “in 1945, Klausner transitioned to representing primarily writers, quickly gaining a reputation for her ability to sell diverse literary works, from radio scripts to full-length dramas, to major networks and publishers.”15 Through it all, Klausner challenged the status quo in the marketplace. She undertook this career within the framework of a male-dominated industry. In the early part of the twentieth century only 5% of “most [married] women in the United States [worked] outside of the home, and only 20% of all women were gainfully employed.”16
When Klausner began to focus her attention on the literary side of her agency, women had made some gains. Beginning in the 1940s “approximately 12% of married women were in the labor force and the overall total of women working had risen to 50%.”17 Klausner was well-positioned to capitalize on this growing trend.
The challenges for women in the workplace were further aggravated following World War II when the large number of women who had entered the workforce during the war faced pressure to leave and make room for returning servicemen. “Seventy-five percent of women who were employed during the conflict in the 1940s indicated that they wanted to stay in the workforce; however, despite this, there were mass layoffs of women at the end of the war.”18 Even so, 35% of women worked outside of the home and, by the end of the decade, approximately one-half of those were married. “This was a decrease in the number of women who were in the workforce prior to World War II, nevertheless, an increase in the number of married women participating.”19 Klausner maintained her employment status throughout this fluctuation of women’s participation in the job market. What’s more, she opened an office in Hollywood working on both American coasts until 1960.
Hollywood
Ten years after the establishment of her first agency in 1938, Klausner turned her sights to Hollywood and began maintaining an office and regular presence on the West Coast. From the late 1940s until 1960, Klausner fostered valuable relationships in Hollywood. In 1955, she wrote to her secretary, Jean Cappel, “I am convinced that I should be here every other month. I can sell fast—as I make friends & they are anxious to cooperate.”20
Klausner would often host parties to showcase her clientele. This image depicts author, inventor, and patron of the arts Caresse Crosby (shown left) with renowned archeologist Sam Lothrop with wife Eleanor at a Klausner cocktail party in 1953. Klausner took the photo. Caresse Crosby Photograph Collection, Special Collections Research Center, Morris Library, Southern Illinois University Carbondale
She entertained personalities from her Hollywood base. One such event in 1957 was reported on in the Los Angeles Citizen News: “Authors Robert Payne and Caresse Crosby were feted at a dinner party recently at the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel. Bertha Klausner was hostess to guests, who includes Messrs. and Mmes. David O. Woodbury, Joseph Lederman, Jack Guss, . . . Art Cohn, . . . Vernon Duke, Ivy Crane Wilson, Whitney Stine, Leona Taub . . . [and] Lili Valenty.21 She also worked with top names in the film industry, which included individuals such as Stanley Kramer, who directed and produced such films as Inherit the Wind, Judgment at Nuremberg, Ship of Fools and Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.
She likewise represented film notables such as Basil Rathbone, who was known for his Shakespearean roles, Sherlock Holmes films (1939-1946), and the film The Mark of Zorro. Among her many others clients were actors who worked across film, radio, and the stage. Klausner was Rathbone’s agent from the 1950s until his death in 1967; during that time, she encouraged him as he wrote his memoir which was published in 1962.22
Handwritten letters to Klausner from Rathbone chronicled the famed actor’s writing process and underscored the intimate relationship that she enjoyed with her clients. In one letter to Klausner, Rathbone wrote, “I may be going mad I don’t know! But I can’t stop writing way into every night.”23 In a later letter he pondered, “I am not a writer & this book cannot be treated as a literary project. Nor can anyone else assume to understand anyone else’s thoughts & feelings in this matter. Anxious as I am to go on with this book it must be a complete expression of myself or it will be no good.”24
Not all of her relationships with her Hollywood clients were as cordial, however. Klausner represented Joseph “Joe” E. Brown. A versatile entertainer, Brown performed in vaudeville, on the stage, and in film, starring in dozens of plays and movies. Two of his best known pictures were Show Boat, based on Edna Ferber’s 1926 novel by the same name, and Some Like It Hot, which starred Marilyn Monroe along with Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon. Klausner had solicited Brown to write his memoirs, which he agreed to.
She represented him through the publication of his autobiography, Laughter is a Wonderful Thing (1956), as told to Ralph Hancock. Temperaments certainly flared in her relationship with Brown. While Klausner had intimate and amiable relationships with most of her clients, her relationship with Brown was rocky at times. Hancock, who worked directly with Brown, had written to Klausner on January 20, 1955, concerning Brown’s dissatisfaction with her. In his letter, he reported that Brown was “fuming” because he believed that Klausner was “peddling” his idea for the autobiography. Hancock wrote, “He said he didn’t want you to peddle the idea [memoir] door to door and cheapen it that way. He was also peeved that you called him collect last week. And on top of all that he has a general dislike for agents as a whole.” Hancock also suggested that “he [Brown] is going to be very difficult to handle.” He went on to write, “I do not want you to promise him or me anything you can’t deliver, nor make any more statements about what you have lined up until you have it in writing. Neither he nor I can be fooled by such kidding. We’ve both been in business too long for that. And I think it hurts your own reputation too.”25
Klausner replied on January 24, 1955: “Your letter of January 20th certainly threw me for a loop. I thought that you knew me well enough to believe that anything I told you was on the level. I have built my reputation as an agent on my honesty and the complete sincerity I feel is due my clients… I seldom have any friction with anyone, as I have conducted my business on a very friendly basis and have made associations with my clients which have become lifelong friendships. Most people who work with me recognize that I have qualities which are not the usual in a relationship between agent and author. I like to keep my arrangements with clients a close and warm family tie. I thought you knew this, and that was why I am at a loss to understand how you could write a letter to me as you did.”26
Klausner was occasionally brought to task by clients, publishers, and others; however, she did not back down. She advocated for herself with the same vigor she brought to representing her clients. She went on to see Brown’s project through to completion.
The expense of maintaining an office on both coasts began to take its toll on the Bertha Klaunser International Literary Agency. A 1956 letter from Cappel, her secretary, underscored the inadequate financial condition of the agency: “I am sorry if I disturbed you with my plea for checks—I know the situation but didn’t quite know what to do with all the calls & letters I got from the clients asking for their monies. Hope things will go more smoothly next month.”27 By October, Jean was beseeching Klausner to send money to manage the day-to-day operations of the agency; she was paying for postage and office supplies out of her own pocket.28 In November, in reference to a debt owed by the agency, the beleaguered secretary mentioned that it was “a bit embarrassing for me to go in the story [sic] as he has asked for it now several times.”29
In the midst of this, always the optimist, Klausner later replied, “Today a miracle happened to me. Something so rare I still can’t believe it—but it will change my course for at least the coming year and during this year. I will have an opportunity to carry out plans which were always dreams. We have an angel. I’ll tell you more later… I have acquired quite a bit of new property & clients… I must sell all I can in New York on my return & collect payments to straighten out accounts.”30 There is nothing more to indicate what the “miracle” may have been; regardless, Klausner maintained her office in Hollywood until 1960 at which time she closed it down and returned to working full time from New York.
Coming up in Part 2: How Klausner built an international literary empire and became known as “The Big Bertha of Literary Agents.”
Post contributed AHC Archives Aide Patty Kessler.
Howell Hurst to Bertha Klausner, May 7, 1987 (outline of edited material and biography attached, 13), box 1, folder 1, Bertha Klausner papers, Coll. No. 9562, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming. ↩︎
Hurst to Klausner, May 7, 1987, notes from recorded interviews, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Klausner to Jean Cappel, Tuesday, 5 P.M., 1955, box 65, folder 11, Coll. 9562, Klausner papers. This is the first written suggestion that she was considering the establishment of her agency internationally. ↩︎
Rebecca Spence, interview by Patty Kessler, February 26, 2025, interview transcript, American Heritage Center. Later in the century, Klausner represented authors who were influential in the Black Arts Movement including Dorothy West. Dorothy West was an author during the Harlem Renaissance and a friend and one-time roommate of Zora Neil Hurston. ↩︎
Hurst to Klausner, May 7, 1987, 2-4, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Klausner to Jean Cappel, Friday, 8 P.M., October or November 1955, box 65, folder 11, Klausner papers. ↩︎
“March Party Whirl Roars In With Weekend Fetes,” Los Angeles Citizen News 52, no. 287 (1957): 10. The Jack Guss papers (Coll. No. 10899) are held at the American Heritage Center. ↩︎
After Rathbone’s death she continued to field questions and work on behalf of The Actors’ Fund (now known as The Entertainment Community Fund) to which he had bequeathed his papers and memoirs. She also continued to represent his wife, Ouida (Bergére), who was an actress, screenwriter, and playwright. ↩︎
Basil Rathbone to Klausner, April 30, 1961, box 99, folder 2, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Rathbone to Klausner, January 30, 1961, box 99, folder 2, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Ralph Hancock to Klausner, January 20, 1955, box 14, folder 16, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Klausner to Hancock, January 24, 1955, box 14, folder 16, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Cappel to Klausner, July 30, 1955, box 13, folder 5, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Cappel to Klausner, October 26, 1955, box 65, folder 11, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Cappel to Klausner, November 1, 1955, box 65, folder 11, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Klausner to Cappel, November 15, 1955, box 65, folder 11, Klausner papers. ↩︎
Imagine hearing the actual voice of someone who watched Civil War soldiers march past her childhood home, then lived to see the atomic age. That’s exactly what you can experience with Mary Godat Bellamy’s 1947 recordings—a remarkable audio document from Wyoming’s frontier era.
Bellamy witnessed and helped shape an extraordinary chapter in American political history. Wyoming entered the Union as something genuinely unprecedented: the first state where women could vote, hold office, and serve on juries. It was a bold move that raised more than a few eyebrows back east. There was a tradition here of creating firsts for women that was rare anywhere in the United States at that time. Bellamy was part of that tradition, and her voice tells us what that looked like from the inside.
A Voice from Two Eras
In 1947, at age 85, Bellamy began a set of interview with University of Wyoming archivist Lola Homsher to record her memories using a cutting-edge tool for that time – a SoundScriber dictation machine. Homsher, who would later become the first Wyoming State Archivist in 1951, was conducting these interviews as part of a larger collection documenting early Wyoming residents, conducted between 1947 and 1956 by employees of what would evolve into the American Heritage Center.
Bellamy’s interviews produced an extraordinary set of recordings—among the few where we can actually hear someone who lived through Wyoming’s transformation from raw frontier territory to established state. The original discs had deteriorated by the time they were digitized in 2010, creating scratchy audio with frequent skips. For this article, I asked AHC colleague Tana Libolt to enhance the audio so you can better hear Bellamy’s distinctive voice and personality that shine through with remarkable clarity.
Portrait of Mary Bellamy, photographed around 1910 by W.G. “Billy” Walker, one of Cheyenne’s leading photographers. Photo file: Bellamy, Mary Godat, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
A Civil War Memory
Bellamy’s matter-of-fact recounting of her earliest memories reveals the casual way extraordinary history unfolded in ordinary lives. Her child’s-eye view captures the kind of authentic details—the everyday reality of living through momentous events—that make oral history so valuable.
In these two interview excerpts, Bellamy recalls her earliest childhood memories, including from the Civil War years.
In these two interview excerpts, Bellamy recalls her earliest childhood memories, including from the Civil War years.
Journey to Wyoming
What began as a journey to help with family tragedy became the foundation of a remarkable Wyoming life. Arriving in Laramie at age 12, she would become one of the town’s first high school students and eventually one of its most distinguished citizens.
Bellamy explains how the death of her sister Alice brought her and her mother from Illinois to Laramie in 1873 to care for Alice’s young son.
“We Had Dances Every Friday Night”
Some of Bellamy’s warmest memories are of growing up in the brand-new town of Laramie, which had been founded just five years before her arrival in 1873. The young Laramie she describes was a place where social life thrived despite—or perhaps because of—the frontier challenges.
Hear Bellamy’s recollections of Laramie’s lively dance culture—square dances, lancers, waltzes, polkas, the Schottische, and the Varsouvienne, evidence of Laramie’s refined cultural life despite its frontier setting.This 1875 sketch of Fort Sanders shows the military post that still operated when Mary Godat arrived in Laramie in 1873. The fort, established in 1866 to guard the railroad and frontier settlement, would close in 1882. Photo file: Fort Sanders, Wyoming, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
Musical Laramie and the “Scotland’s Burning” Incident
One of the most charming stories Bellamy tells reveals early Laramie’s surprisingly rich cultural life and her own infectious sense of humor about the musical activities of her youth.
Here she tells the delightful story of musical Laramie and a singing school incident that accidentally summoned the fire department.
From Joke to History
What started as deflection became history. Despite being on the Democratic ticket in a strongly Republican county, she won—proving that Wyoming voters were ready for capable leadership regardless of gender.
With characteristic humor, Bellamy recounts how her offhand comment about running for the legislature—meant as a joke to deflect pressure to run for school superintendent—immediately resulted in her nomination and eventual election as Wyoming’s first woman state legislator.
Recognition and Respect, and a Confession
Despite the era’s gender barriers, Bellamy earned genuine respect from her legislative colleagues. But that didn’t mean it was always a comfortable atmosphere. This endearing recollection reveals the delicate balance she had to strike as the sole woman in a male-dominated institution, managing both practical challenges and social expectations with grace and humor.
Bellamy fondly recalls a gift from the House and Senate, but also confesses some “unladylike” behavior.
Political Horse-Trading and Strategic Thinking
Her strategic thinking and political acumen shine through as she recalls this legislative victory, demonstrating that being the only woman in the room made her observant, not invisible.
With evident pride, Bellamy describes a time when she outmaneuvered her male colleagues in the legislature.Mary Bellamy at work in the Wyoming House of Representatives in 1911, where she served as Wyoming’s first woman state legislator. Photo file: Bellamy, Mary Godat, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
A Pioneering Spirit with Humility
Her approach to being a pioneer shows both strategic thinking and genuine humility, understanding that her success would pave the way for other women in Wyoming politics.
Bellamy reveals her strategic approach as the first woman legislator—and shares a compliment she received from future Wyoming governor Frank L. Houx.
A Life that Shaped a State
Bellamy’s interviews remind us that our state’s story is fundamentally about people who seized opportunities, built communities from scratch, and refused to be limited by conventional expectations.
Born in Richwoods, Missouri, on December 13, 1861—Friday the 13th, as she laughingly noted—Mary Godat Bellamy lived through nearly a century of American history, from the Civil War to the atomic age, before her death in Laramie on January 28, 1955, at age 93. Her earliest memory was of Confederate soldiers passing through her family’s Missouri farm; her final years saw the dawn of the nuclear era. Few people bridge such momentous historical periods, and even fewer left us their actual voice telling the story. She rests in Laramie’s Greenhill Cemetery beside her husband Charles Bellamy, who died in 1934. The couple raised three children together, though one died in infancy—a common tragedy of that era.
Bellamy’s voice connects us directly to Wyoming’s frontier past in ways that written records simply cannot. Her laughter as she recalls accidentally summoning the fire department with enthusiastic singing, her pride in outmaneuvering other legislators, her lingering embarrassment about chewing gum—these moments reveal the personality behind the historical achievements. Through these recordings, we meet both the spirited teenager who helped build a community and the experienced politician who helped shape a state.
The Mary Godat Bellamy oral history interviews are held in the Wyoming Pioneers Oral History project, and are available for research. Much of the project can be accessed digitally. The AHC also houses the Mary Godat Bellamy papers, which include artifacts from around the world, manuscript materials on Albany County and Wyoming, scrapbooks, and photographs of Laramie people and events. For more information about Bellamy, visit her profile on WyoHistory.org.
Discover More Pioneering Women in Wyoming History
Mary Godat Bellamy wasn’t the only woman making history in Wyoming politics. Her groundbreaking service as the first woman elected to the state legislature was part of a remarkable tradition that started when Wyoming became the first territory in the United States to grant women’s suffrage in 1869.
Want to learn about other trailblazing women who followed in her footsteps? Check out our online exhibit “In Pursuit of Equality,” which features three women who through their actions as elected officeholders, challenged and changed the conventional understanding of equality in Wyoming. Like Bellamy, these women used courage, wit, and political savvy to break barriers and expand what it meant to be the Equality State.
Post contributed by AHC Archivist Leslie Waggener and Archives Aide Tana Libolt.
I’ve been an archivist at the American Heritage Center for almost 25 years, and I thought I knew our collections pretty well. But as I was searching for the perfect topic for this year’s Independence Day blog post, I found myself drawn to a collection I’d never fully explored: the John H. Hull family papers. What I discovered there has deepened how I think about what we celebrate on July 4th.
Who Was John Hull?
The John H. Hull family papers contain a remarkable collection of Civil War correspondence—letters written by an Indiana farmer to his wife Agnes and their eight children during his service from January 8, 1864, to July 10, 1865, with the 120th Indiana Infantry Regiment, Company D. John Henry Hull was born on May 3, 1818, settled near Folsomville, Indiana, in 1836, and married Mary Agnes Phillips in 1840. At age 45, with a large family depending on him, he made the difficult decision to enlist as the Civil War entered its bloodiest phase.
The collection preserves Hull’s letters home during his service in some of the war’s most significant campaigns: the Atlanta Campaign, operations against Confederate General Hood in Alabama and Tennessee, the Battle of Nashville, and finally the Carolina Campaign that ended with Confederate surrender in April 1865. He served during what many historians consider the war’s turning point—the period when Union forces finally gained decisive momentum that would end the conflict within a year. His are not the polished memoirs of generals or the official reports of commanding officers—they’re the immediate, unfiltered thoughts of an ordinary American caught up in extraordinary circumstances.
June letter written by Hull.
An Unexpected Journey
I’ll admit, I was initially looking for something from the Revolutionary War era—something that would tie directly to 1776. But as I pulled up the digitized Hull letters on my computer and began reading his careful handwriting, I realized I’d stumbled onto something just as powerful: the story of how ordinary Americans in every generation have had to fight to preserve what the Founders started.
As I worked through Hull’s letters chronologically, I was struck by how much they revealed about the personal cost of preserving American independence. Hull wasn’t writing for posterity or public consumption—these were private communications with his family filled with mundane concerns about sick children, farm business, and the simple desire to stay connected across impossible distances.
One of his earliest letters in the collection, dated April 1, 1864, immediately establishes the tone: “Dear wife and children I take this opportunity to let you know that I am well and hearty hoping that these few lines may find you all enjoying the same good blessing.” Here was a man hundreds of miles from home, trying to maintain connection with his family while serving in the army that would determine his nation’s survival.
Although the Hull family papers do not contain an image of John H. Hull or his wife Agnes, there is a photo of their son Thomas Jefferson Hull (1853-1916) later in life with his wife Adline Cox Hull. Thomas would have been a young boy of 10 when his father joined the Union army in January 1864.
The Reality of War
But Hull’s careful reassurances to his family would soon give way to the stark realities of warfare. Writing from an unknown location on May 21, 1864, with characteristic understatement he described one of his early combat experiences: “i was in a fight whear the big gun howl and the bullets whisled but we went right on and they ran like dogs. i think if they dont run me to death I dont think they will kill any other way for the bullets whisle les.”
He continues in the same letter: “we are in hear ing now of the Canon and I dont know how quck I will have to start. This is the days rest sense we left Charleston. We left thear the 5 of may… Thear was non of our Company killed. Thear was some killed in the riegment. The rebs and us was fiting 8 days. Thear was a good many killed on both sides but we keep them a running all the time so no more.”
This was likely during the grueling advance toward Atlanta, where General Sherman’s forces faced constant skirmishing and entrenchment battles that wore down both armies. Reading these words, I found myself thinking about the gap between how we remember the Civil War—with its grand strategies and famous battles—and how it was actually experienced by men like Hull. Eight days of continuous fighting. Bullets whistling overhead. The constant uncertainty about survival.
The physical toll of the campaign became increasingly evident as summer wore on. By June, writing from near Allatoona, Georgia, during the Atlanta Campaign, Hull’s exhaustion seeps through his careful script: “[W]e have a hard march sense this other letter and stood a Heap of heavy rains. We was hurried out and I did not git to mail this other letter. We are being in a lin of battle now and expecting a fight all the time but I think the rebs will skedadle and run us to death.”
His next lines reveal the true cost of Sherman’s relentless pursuit: “we have run them about 50 or 60 miles and have fit all the way. They are running more of us to death than they are killing. We have not had many man killed in our riegment but a heap sick and gave out on the march.”
Gaining control of the railroads leading into and out of Atlanta was key to Union victory during the Civil War. On June 3, 1864, Union general William T. Sherman overcame the Confederates at Allatoona Pass—near where John Hull would soon write to his family about the grueling march and constant fighting. The Allatoona train depot appears in the center of this 1864 photograph by George N. Barnard. Photo from National Archives and Records Administration.
Even in the midst of describing military operations, Hull’s thoughts turn to home and his oldest son: “Jim I want you to bee a good boy to your mother and the children til I get home again.” The juxtaposition is striking—tactical assessments mixed with fatherly advice, battlefield reports interwoven with domestic concerns.
Holding It Together
What emerges from these letters is a portrait of someone trying to hold multiple roles together under impossible circumstances. In August 1864, Hull writes to Agnes: “Dear Companion I dont feel Capable of in structing you much about any thing. I wat you to manage as you think best. If you want my advice about any thing write to mee and I will send it. I want you to give my respects to all inquiring friends and pray for me that when i dy i may be prepared for a better world. i am in a hard place but i think the same one made me will prserve mee til I get back with you.”
The weight of command responsibility added to his burden. A week later, his responsibilities as a non-commissioned officer become clear: “We had a pretty hard days march but thank god I am able to stand it yet and i am the only Corporel left in the Company that was first apointed.” By late August 1864, Hull was one of the few original corporals still standing in his company—a sobering reminder of the attrition that characterized Civil War service.
Despite everything, Hull maintained remarkable resilience. Writing from camp near Pulaski, Tennessee, on September 18, 1864: “Dear wife and children i once more take the opertunity to write you a few lines to let you know that i am well and heart hoping these few lines may find you all enjoying the same good blessing. i am whear in camp in a very pretty place. the boys is in good spirits. they think we are a going to get to come hear to the Election.”
Testing Hull’s Resolve
But this period of relative calm wouldn’t last long. Hull’s regiment faced Confederate General Hood’s forces at the Battle of Franklin on November 30, 1864, where they suffered significant casualties. Later, Hull would write about the fierce fighting: “we had a hot time at franklin. our mager was killed. we had one man killed in our Co. It was S [B]owers.1 tha was 5 kil and 15 wounded and missen out of the riegment but the Johneys died by the hundreds.”
Even after the losses at Franklin, Hull’s confidence in his fellow soldiers remained unshaken. By December 1864, as his regiment prepared for the Battle of Nashville, Hull remained optimistic: “we are whear at Nashville expecting a big fight. We are whear some said [H]ood is and some he is going to fight. whear and dont know what he will do if he forfites. We can whip him. We run after him and whipped him and i know we can whip him whear well.” The Battle of Nashville would prove Hull’s confidence well-founded—it became one of the most decisive Union victories of the war, effectively destroying Hood’s Confederate army as a fighting force.
Writing home after the campaign concluded, Hull’s December 26th letter reported on the pursuit of Hood’s retreating forces: “we are following them back south and taking prisoners.”
Union defenses at Nashville, December 1864, photographed from Fort Negley. John Hull’s 120th Indiana Infantry was among the Union forces at Nashville. Photo from Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, Civil War Photographs, LC-DIG-cwpb-02089.
The Cost of Service
Throughout his letters, Hull’s concern for his family’s welfare never disappears. Writing from Raleigh, North Carolina, in February 1865, as the war was finally winding down: “Well old woman this leaves me well and hearty and i hope it will find you [and] the children the same… i will send you ten dollars in this letter. i am sorry i hant money to send you all i wanted but if i hant got any more let i come home and i wll tend to it my self.”
These weren’t wealthy people. Hull was sending what little he could from his soldier’s pay, promising to “tend to it” when he got home. The sacrifice wasn’t just his time or his safety—it was his family’s financial security, their farm’s productivity, everything they’d built together over two decades.
This patriotic song sheet celebrates the victories of the 23rd Army Corps—Hull’s corps—at Franklin, Murfreesboro, and Nashville. He sent it home to his family, telling his son Jim: “well Jim i will send you a song for you to read for your mother.”
A Different Kind of Independence Day Story
The more I read, the more I realized that Hull’s story illuminates something important about what we celebrate on July 4th. The Declaration of Independence wasn’t just signed once in 1776 and then safely preserved forever. Each generation has faced the choice of whether those principles were worth defending, often at enormous personal cost.
Hull left his Indiana farm, endured months of combat and hardship, sent his meager soldier’s pay home to Agnes and the children, and somehow maintained enough hope and determination to see the war through to its conclusion. His letters reveal no grand rhetoric about saving the Union or preserving democracy—just a steady commitment to duty and family that somehow sustained him through his years of service.
What I Take Away
I’ve been working with historical documents for many ears, but Hull’s letters affected me in ways I hadn’t expected. Maybe it’s because they’re so immediate and unguarded. Maybe it’s because I can picture him trying to write by candlelight in a tent, or imagine what it meant for Agnes to wait weeks between letters.
Whatever the reason, these letters have given me a different appreciation for what we commemorate on Independence Day. It’s not just the Declaration of Independence itself, but the ongoing commitment of ordinary Americans to defend those principles across generations. Hull and hundreds of thousands like him made that choice in 1864, just as others have made it in every era since.
Post contributed by AHC Simpson Archivist Leslie Waggener.
The John H. Hull family papers are available for research at the AHC. The collection includes biographical information, Hull’s Civil War correspondence, family letters, and photographs spanning from 1841 to 1976. Researchers can access digitized portions of the collection online or visit our reading room to explore the complete materials.
Did you know the University of Wyoming College of Engineering and Applied Science has a Hall of Fame? Among its distinguished members is Wayman Chung Wing (1923-2020), whose journey from facing discrimination to international acclaim exemplifies resilience, innovation, and barrier-breaking achievement.
Growing up in Evanston as a first-generation Chinese American, Wing enrolled at the University of Wyoming in 1941 to pursue engineering. But his academic journey soon revealed the barriers of his era. In 1942, despite his academic excellence, Wing was denied entry into an honorary engineering fraternity because of a “Caucasians Only” clause in their constitution.
This setback coincided with global turmoil. After news of Pearl Harbor reached the U.S., Wing’s education took a detour when he joined the Army Air Corps. “I joined the Army Air Corps and waited to be called up,” he recounted in his 2006 memoir housed at the American Heritage Center.
Excerpt from Wing’s memoir that details his feelings and reasoning for joining the Army Air Corps during WWII. Box 1, Wayman C. Wing Papers, Coll. No. 11463, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
Finding Cultural Connection Through Military Service
By 1943, Wing’s aptitude for science earned him selection for specialized training. “I was an engineering student with a background in science courses. I was one of a group of 175 sent by the Army Air Corp to an accelerated meteorology course at New York University,” Wing wrote.
This deployment proved unexpectedly meaningful in ways beyond military service. Growing up in Wyoming, Wing had limited exposure to Chinese American communities. In New York, this changed dramatically: “I enjoyed the nine months in New York because I met more Chinese friends and experienced Chinese culture more than ever before in Wyoming.”
With characteristic humor, Wing noted he passed the demanding meteorology program despite “the large amount of beer [he] consumed.” After training, he served at a British base on Terceira Island in the Azores during WWII, where his weather forecasting supported critical Allied operations.
Lagens Field in the Azores in December 1944 as Wayman Wing would have known it. Photo from Warfare History Network.
Breaking Through Barriers
Following the war, Wing returned to Wyoming, completing his Civil Engineering degree in 1947. The sting of the “Caucasians Only” clause remained, but Wing wasn’t alone in recognizing this injustice. Several faculty members joined his fight against the discriminatory policy. Their combined efforts paid off—in 1949, seven years after his initial rejection, Wing was finally inducted into the Omega Chapter of Sigma Tau (now known as Tau Beta Pi).
Wing’s academic excellence earned him acceptance to Stanford University for his master’s degree. There, he found “the engineering studies much easier than at UW”—a testament to the solid foundation provided by his Wyoming education. At Stanford, Wing deliberately expanded his knowledge, taking additional courses in law and business alongside his engineering curriculum.
From Student to Revolutionary Engineer
After earning his master’s in 1948, Wing worked in the industry for about a decade before making a bold decision that would define his career: founding Wayman C. Wing Consulting Engineers in 1960.
His timing intersected perfectly with growing international demand for safer building designs. Wing pioneered revolutionary approaches to earthquake-resistant structures at a time when conventional wisdom often fell short. His innovations earned the trust of prestigious clients like the Hilton and Sheraton hotel chains.
Wing’s earthquake-absorbent designs shaped skylines worldwide. The Meridien Hotel in Egypt, the Great Wall Hotel in China (particularly meaningful given his heritage), the Hartford National Bank, the Indonesian Pavilion at the New York World’s Fair, and the Washington Hilton Hotel all incorporated his innovative approaches to structural safety.
Recognition and Hall of Fame Induction
The University of Wyoming recognized Wing’s achievements through the H.T. Person Endowment Committee and named a Civil Engineering classroom in his honor. His military service received recognition with a nomination for a Congressional Medal of Honor.
In 1999, nearly four decades after launching his firm and over half a century after facing discrimination as a student, Wing was inducted into the University of Wyoming College of Engineering and Applied Science Hall of Fame. The institution that had once been the site of exclusion now celebrated him as one of its most distinguished graduates.
Wing’s invitation to the honor society in 1949. Box 3, Wayman C. Wing Papers, Coll. No. 11463, American Heritage Center, University of Wyoming.
A Legacy of Opening Doors
Wing understood how education had transformed his own possibilities. His commitment to helping future generations was expressed in his characteristic humility: “If I can contribute in some small way to enhance the College’s reputation and possibly motivate subsequent generations of student engineers, I certainly am deeply honored to give it a good old ‘Rag Time Cowboy Try.’”
Wing and his five siblings all graduated from college as first-generation Chinese Americans—a remarkable achievement for that era. His success opened doors for others, creating opportunities far beyond what he could have imagined when facing that “Caucasians Only” clause as a young student.
For those interested in exploring this Hall of Fame engineer’s remarkable journey in greater depth, the Wayman C. Wing papers at the American Heritage Center provides insights into a life defined by breaking barriers and building bridges—both literally and figuratively.
Information for this post provided by University of Wyoming English Department graduate students Katelyn Hayward, Cheyenne Hume, and Makayla Kocher for Dr. Nancy Small’s Spring 2025 course “Qualitative Analysis: Inquiry for Public Humanities Engagement.”
