Texas Tech: The College West Texas Built
- Jody Slaughter
- Oct 6
- 41 min read
Updated: Oct 22
Season: 2 \ Episode: 4
For nearly a decade, the people of West Texas fought for something most of the state took for granted: a college of their own.
They battled through three governors, three legislatures, and one outright scandal.
They were lied to, vetoed, ignored… and they refused to quit.
This is the story of telegrams and barbecue diplomacy, of political brawls and backroom deals, of the long fight that gave birth to Texas Technological College, and with it, a new era for West Texas.
Gov. Pat Neff signs Senate Bill 103, creating Texas Technological College.
With him: Silliman Evans (Ft. Worth Star-Telegram), Homer D. Wade (West Texas Chamber of Commerce), Senator W. H. Bledsoe, Representative R. N. Chitwood
SHOW NOTES
Cold Open — “The Hat and the Aftermath”
Inside the governor’s office in Austin, five men sit around a table — Governor “Pa” Ferguson, Lt. Governor Hobby, Speaker Fuller, Ag Commissioner Fred Davis, and Superintendent W.F. Doughty.A hat sits in the center of the table. One by one, folded ballots drop in.When Ferguson reaches in and reads the results, he announces Abilene as the winner.But when the smoke clears — no one can agree on who actually voted for Abilene.By the next morning, the ballots have mysteriously been “destroyed.”West Texas is furious.
Chapter 1 — The Idea (1915–1916)
Fall 1915: Colonel Hugh Nugent Fitzgerald publishes an editorial in the Fort Worth Record calling for a “great educational institution for West Texas.”
1916: Porter Whaley of Amarillo and Thomas Hodge of Sweetwater rally chambers of commerce and civic groups across the plains.
April 1916: Delegates from 50 towns meet in Sweetwater — forming the West Texas A&M College Campaign Committee.
Newspapers statewide endorse the idea; the Fort Worth Record and Dallas Morning News back it.
West Texans make their push at the state Democratic convention — demanding a plank in the platform for a West Texas college.
Against fierce opposition from A&M interests and East Texas, the plank passes 18–12, thanks in part to Baylor president Samuel Palmer Brooks.
The legislature is instructed to create the college — a major victory, but the fight has only begun.
Chapter 2 — Fighting in Austin (1917)
Thomas Hodge leads the legislative battle in Austin.
Pamphlets and letters flood the Capitol — citing West Texas’ share of the cotton crop, taxes, and students.
The bill passes the Senate easily but faces resistance in the House, led by Rep. Blaylock of Marshall.
Just as victory seems near, Stephenville makes its move — offering the failing John Tarleton College as a ready-made “West Texas campus.”
A&M officials seize the opportunity, throwing their support behind Stephenville.
The legislature approves Tarleton Agricultural College — but West Texans fight on.
Hodge’s original bill passes anyway, creating a new West Texas A&M College with $500,000 in funding.
A five-man locating committee is formed — including the governor, lieutenant governor, speaker, and two commissioners.
Chapter 3 — The Locating Committee (June 1917)
Twenty-three towns compete to host the new college.
On June 29, 1917, the locating committee meets in Austin under a secrecy rule.
Governor Ferguson counts the ballots from a hat and declares Abilene the 3–2 winner.
Lt. Gov. Hobby and Ag Commissioner Davis quickly deny voting for Abilene; Speaker Fuller insists he voted for Haskell and Snyder.
The “third vote” for Abilene cannot be accounted for.
Within days, the ballots are reported “destroyed by a janitor.”
Outrage spreads across West Texas; a mass meeting in Sweetwater demands a re-vote.
Then Ferguson is indicted and impeached — the college effort collapses in the chaos.
Lt. Gov. Hobby becomes governor and repeals the college bill to “wipe the slate clean.”
Chapter 4 — The Coyotes Howling (1918–1920)
The repeal enrages West Texans — and taps into decades of resentment.
From the 1850s onward, West Texans had threatened to form their own state — “The State of Jefferson.”
Complaints include lack of representation, unfair taxation, and state neglect of the frontier.
1918: West Texas communities form the West Texas Chamber of Commerce to coordinate political and economic efforts.
By 1919: headquartered in Stamford, with its own newspaper, West Texas Today.
The Chamber renews the college campaign and prepares to fight again at the 1920 Democratic convention.
Chapter 5 — Another Plank, Another Defeat (1920)
Pat Neff, candidate for governor, refuses to endorse the college plank.
The Committee on Platforms and Resolutions votes 9–13 against the West Texas plank.
On the convention floor, Rep. Satterwhite and others give fiery speeches — but East Texas wins again.
The plank fails 398–422.
The Chamber vows to fight through the legislature instead, even without party backing.
Chapter 6 — Snatched at the Finish Line (1921)
W.M. Woodall of Eastland was chosen to lead the campaign in Austin.
A quiet deal was struck with A&M president W.B. Bizzell — the college would exist, but under A&M control.
The legislature passes a scaled-down $50,000 bill for an A&M branch — and Governor Neff vetoes it.
Chapter 7 — Thunderstorm OVer Sweetwater (1921)
West Texas explodes.
On April 2, 1921, five thousand furious citizens rally in Sweetwater.
Rep. Chitwood drafts resolutions threatening secession if grievances aren’t met.
Neff promises special sessions but fails to deliver; the college is excluded.
Once again, West Texas is left empty-handed.
Chapter 8— A Million Dollars (1922–1923)
The Chamber reorganizes for one final push.
At the 1922 Democratic convention in San Antonio, they accept a compromise plank — the college will be part of A&M, for now.
Two competing bills emerge:
Bledsoe & Chitwood’s $1 million co-ed branch college
Baldwin’s independent $150,000 “true” West Texas college
Rep. Carpenter of Dallas files a separate bill for a College of Technology and Textile Engineering — threatening to split support.
Porter Whaley calls the key players together — literally locking them in a room until they agree.
Out of the smoke comes a deal: an independent, co-educational, one-of-a-kind Texas Technological College.
Chapter 9 — “The Room Where it Happened” (1923)
Porter Whaley calls the key players together — literally locking them in a room until they agree.
Out of the smoke comes a deal: an independent, co-educational, one-of-a-kind Texas Technological College.
At a private banquet in Austin, Gov. Pat Neff jokes to a room of newspapermen:“I was going to tell you why I’m going to veto the bill creating Texas Technological College.”
Homer Wade turns pale — he’s fought for this moment for years.
The next morning, Neff laughs when Wade enters his office. “How much sleep did you lose last night?”
Then, leaning forward: “I’m going to sign the bill.”
At 10:30 a.m. on February 10, 1923, Neff signs Senate Bill 103.
Texas Technological College is born.
Chapter 10 — The Celebration (1923)
West Texas erupts in celebration — finally, after nearly a decade of fighting.
A new, independent, co-educational college with $1 million in funding and no academic limits.
The first Board of Regents includes Amon Carter, Clifford Jones, and two women — Alzina DeGroff and Florence Drane.
37 towns compete to host the school; the locating board tours the plains in Pullman cars and open-top autos.
On August 8, 1923 — after visiting every town from Boerne to Amarillo — they choose Lubbock.
The announcement turns the town upside-down; thousands flood the streets.
The celebration on August 28 draws 30,000 people — one ton of potato salad, a mile-long barbecue pit, and the governor himself.
Neff’s speech: “I am for this institution because I want the red-faced boys of Texas cared for as well as the white-faced cattle.”
The dream of West Texas had finally become reality.
Epilogue — The Legacy of the Plains
From cotton to code, from oilfields to orbit — Texas Tech helped power modern Texas.
Its petroleum engineering programs produced generations of industry leaders and energy billionaires.
Its research has expanded into medicine, aerospace, and national defense.
Today, the National Security Innovation and Research Institute at Reese Center places Tech at the forefront of America’s applied defense research.
The same spirit that built a college on faith and stubbornness now fuels global innovation.
Listen to the Full Episode:
From a fight born in a Sweetwater meeting hall — to one of the nation’s leading research universities. This is the college that West Texas built.
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Further Reading
Establishment of Texas Technological College, 1916-1923. Homer Dale Wade. Texas Tech University Press, 1956.
Evolution of a university: Texas Tech's first fifty years. Jane Gilmore Rushing. Madrona Press, 1975.
Heritage Club Collection, Southwest Collection/Special Collections Library, Texas Tech University
Credits:
Writer: Jody L. Slaughter
Producer: Jody L. Slaughter
Editor: Jody L. Slaughter
Engineer: Jody L. Slaughter
Additional Music: "Texas Blues" by Willie Reed
Contact:
Email: lubbockistATgmail.com
Twitter: @Lubbockist
Listen on:
Thanks for listening, and so long...from West Texas.
FULL TRANSCRIPT
Cold Open: “The Hat and the Aftermath”
Austin, June 29, 1917.
The governor’s office is close and hot, the fan blades doing little more than stir the cigar smoke. Five men gather around a heavy oak table, they’ve come to select the city where the new West Texas college will be placed. Each carries the hopes of half the state on their shoulders. The table is bare except for a battered felt hat in the center, some slips of paper, and a large wall map of West Texas pricked with pins.
Governor James E. “Pa” Ferguson sits at the head. He’s in his late 40s, balding and broad-faced, he wears a rumpled black suit that looks slept in. His style is plain, more courthouse than capitol, and he thrives in the language of deals and favors. He’s no stranger to controversy—farmers and small-town bankers love him, but the universities despise him. He’s already on record leaning toward Abilene, whose boosters have been generous and eager. Ferguson’s tone is gruff, his manner that of a man who expects to be obeyed.
Lt. Governor William P. Hobby, in contrast, is young—just 39—slender, with hair combed down the middle like an open book. His suit is pressed, his shoes shined. Hobby carries himself like the newspaperman he once was, careful with words, deliberate in tone. He has strong ties to Houston and the eastern establishment, but West Texans look to him as a fair arbiter. He favors Snyder, a compromise town, more centrally located.
Speaker F. O. Fuller of Hillsboro is a lawyer’s lawyer - clean shaven, pince-nez glasses, a habit of tugging his vest as he speaks. He comes from timber country. He is cagey, reluctant to declare too much. His ties to East Texas make him suspect in the eyes of the West Texans, but he enjoys playing kingmaker.
Agriculture Commissioner Fred W. Davis is weathered from years of working close with farmers, a big man with a booming voice, fond of plain wool suits. His support has leaned Snyder. Its cotton acreage and location make practical sense. His backers are agricultural interests across the plains, and they expect him to hold the line.
Education Superintendent W. F. Doughty is scholarly, with a high forehead and rimmed glasses, a soft-spoken man who nevertheless has been clear: he believes Abilene, with its civic boosters and rail connections, is best suited for a school.
Ferguson taps the table with a stubby finger
“Gentlemen, we’ve all made our rounds. Twenty towns paraded us through their streets, every one of them promising land, water, money, and God Almighty’s own blessing if we’d pick them. But only one can win the college.”
Hobby straightens his tie:
“Then let’s talk sense. Snyder sits central to the whole territory. Fair to all sides, not just the railroad towns. West Texas needs unity, not another fight.”
Davis nods:
“I’ll second that. The cotton belt is there. Rich land, productive people. You put the school in Snyder, you serve the farmers who’ve been paying in blood and sweat.”
Doughty glances at the other men, measured, hands folded:
“Abilene offers more than cotton. They’ve built a town with culture, with health and climate to suit students. Hell, they already got Simmons and Christian. They have the money and the promise of more. Abilene isn't just ready for a college, it's ready to become a college town.”
Ferguson grins: “Exactly. Abilene is ready today, not ten years from now. Gentlemen, this is about more than dirt and distance. It’s about a school that can open its doors and keep them open.”
Hobby leans forward: “Or it’s about rewarding the loudest boosters, Governor. You put it there, you’ll split West Texas down the middle. Snyder can hold it together.”
Fuller sits calmly, adjusting his glasses: “I hear both sides. Amarillo has its railroads. Snyder has its fields. Abilene has its promise. But someone will go home empty-handed no matter what we say.”
Ferguson pulls a battered felt hat to the center of the table: “Enough talk. We’ll do this clean. Write your choice, fold it, and drop it here. The majority rules.”
The men take their pencils. Paper rustles. One by one, slips are folded and fall into the hat.
Ferguson stirs them with a finger, then nods to his secretary as he begins to read aloud:
“Snyder.”
“Abilene.”
“Snyder.”
“Haskell.”
“Abilene.”
No majority.
A murmur passes around the table. Hobby clears his throat: “Then we vote again. Anybody gonna have a change of heart, or we gonna be here all day?”
Fresh slips, fresh ink. The governor reads again:
“Abilene.”
“Snyder.”
“Amarillo.”
“Abilene.”
A pause. One slip remains. The governor unfolds it slowly, looking nervously around the room as he does.
“Abilene.”
“Three to two. The college goes to Abilene. I'll have my people draw up the official paperwork and you boys can come by tomorrow to certify it. Should we make it unanimous?”
Commissioner Davis rolls his eyes, but nods in agreement.
“All in favor of putting the West Texas College in Abilene, say ay,” Ferguson says.
They all concur. “Well, it's settled then, we'll get something to the papers this afternoon.”
The men rise and start to gather their things.
“Drinks at the Driskell?” Davis says to Hobby as they walk out.
“Gimme an hour,” Hobby says, “and I'll meet ya down there.”
The governor glances up towards them at the remark. His eyes betraying something. “You boys have one for me alright?”
The Secretary shuts the door behind them and picks up the hat. “Shall I send these to the archivist?” She says.
Ferguson snatches it from her, ballots still inside.
“No, I'll take care of it. You have a good evenin.”
She leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. Pa Ferguson sits back in his chair and strikes a match, taking a few big puffs on a fresh cigar. He pulls a metal trash bin over to the window and dumps the ballots inside. He looks out over the city as he exhales a big puff of smoke and drops the lit match into the trash can. The ballot slips curl with blackness and disappear.
That night, Austin hummed with politics. The committee men drifted out of the Capitol and into the places where deals were greased—hotel lobbies, private dining rooms, the Driskill bar.
Lieutenant Governor Hobby, neat as ever in his pressed suit, leaned across a polished mahogany table. “I never voted Abilene,” he muttered. “Snyder, then Amarillo.”
Commissioner Davis shook his head. “Snyder both times. I’ll swear to it.”
Word spread quickly—first in hushed conversations among legislators, then over bourbon and cigars to newspapermen. By morning, the certainty of Abilene’s “three votes” was already unraveling in print.
Speaker F. O. Fuller stayed cagey. In a carefully worded statement to the press, he reminded everyone of the secrecy pledge—but added he was the only member to express a preference for Haskell or Snyder. Which meant, if he was telling the truth, Abilene never had three votes at all.
The committee had declared finality. Abilene was already planning parades and bond elections. But behind the scenes, the wheels were already coming off. Three of five men were now saying the hat never held a majority for Abilene.
And in Sweetwater, the West Texans were sharpening their knives.
INTRO
Hey y’all. I’m Jody Slaughter and welcome to West Texas. Where the sky stretches on forever, and the stories are as vast and rugged as the landscape itself.
On October 1, 1925 - 100 years ago, Texas Tech College opened its doors for the first time. Today, we’ll explore how that college came to be. It’s a story full of political intrigue, backstabbing, controversy, and unending West Texas grit. So sit back, relax, kick off your boots, and settle in. Because this…is West Texas.
Chapter 1: A College for West Texas
West Texas had been paying its dues for decades. Cotton and cattle money flowed east. West Texans got just pennies in return for every tax dollar they sent to Austin. The legislature had drug its feet on redistricting, so growing West Texas towns were underrepresented at the Capitol. And when it came to higher education, the kids out here still had to ride the rails hundreds of miles. Just for an opportunity.
Yes, by then there were a couple of state normal schools out west training teachers. But there was nothing like an A&M-style agricultural and engineering college tuned to West Texas itself. East Texas farms worked different ground under different skies—more rain, different soils, different pests and crops. The lessons that fit piney-woods bottomland didn’t always translate to the Llano Estacado. And even if they did, the distance still made it a rich man’s privilege.
So it was against this backdrop, in the fall of 1915, an editorial appeared in the Fort Worth Record.
It was written by Colonel Hugh Nugent Fitzgerald, a man known as a champion of West Texas causes. Fitzgerald had once been a cowboy himself before turning newspaperman, and he used his column to hammer home the same point over and over: Austin ignored the plains.
In this piece, he called for a “great educational institution to be located somewhere in West Texas.”
He reminded his readers of something the region never forgot: West Texas had given up lands to build the state Capitol in Austin. Yet when it came to higher education, the children of the plains had to travel hundreds of miles to a malaria-infested swamp to get it.
The spark caught.
In 1916, Porter A. Whaley, secretary of the Amarillo Board of City Development, mailed a letter across the region. He sent it to chambers of commerce, development boards, and civic clubs. The question was simple: what do you think of a college for West Texas?
In Sweetwater, the local chamber had already been talking about the same thing. Their secretary, Thomas F. Hodge, wrote back and proposed a convention to put the matter on the table.
On April 7, 1916, delegates from twelve counties and more than fifty West Texas towns gathered in Sweetwater. Even the state agriculture commissioner and the state warehouse and marketing commissioner showed up.
They elected Dr. P. C. Coleman of Colorado City to preside. Coleman was a country doctor, known for his “horse and buggy” practice that took him from Midland to Lubbock. He understood firsthand how far West Texans had to go to find opportunity.
The group organized themselves as the West Texas A.&M. College Campaign Committee. Officers were appointed. Fundraising was authorized. Their mission: educate the state on why a new college was not just wanted, but needed.
The press lined up behind them. West Texas papers were unanimous in their support. Even the editorial boards in Fort Worth and Dallas backed the idea.
By the summer primary in 1916, the campaign had gone political. Every West Texas candidate for the legislature made the new college part of his platform.
When the Democratic Convention opened in Houston, the committee went all-in. They wanted the college written into the party platform itself.
Letters had gone out across the region, urging every county to send delegates. The response was overwhelming. More than 375 pro-college delegates poured into Houston—including some from Dallas and Tarrant counties.
But there was opposition. Delegates from East and Southeast Texas resisted. Texas A.&M., which would be given authority over the new school, wanted no part of it. They feared another campus would dilute their prestige as the agricultural college of Texas. Their delegation worked hard to rally votes against the plank.
The committee looked for help from their party’s new nominee for governor, James “Pa” Ferguson. Ferguson listened politely, but made no promises. He told them he wouldn’t oppose the idea, but he wouldn’t stand up for it either. If they could get it into the platform on their own, he’d go along. Otherwise—they were on their own.
The road to a plank was steep. Proposals had to go through the subcommittee on Platforms and Resolutions. That body would hear arguments, consult with the nominee, and then put forward a draft platform to the full committee.
The West Texas delegation made their pitch. They laid out the numbers, the needs, the geography. They even drew lines on the map—any new college should be located west of the 98th meridian and north of the 30th parallel. That meant true West Texas.
Then they were excused. The subcommittee closed the doors, and when they came out, the draft platform had no mention of a West Texas college.
But the delegates from the plains refused to fold. They asked to make their case to the full committee. Permission was granted.
The speeches were passionate, the votes were cast—and the plank passed, 18 to 12.
One moment stood out. Dr. Samuel Palmer Brooks, the president of Baylor University, rose to speak. He said he knew the spirit of the West, and that it gave him “extreme pleasure” to cast his vote in favor.
When the full platform was presented to the convention, it passed as written. Governor-nominee Ferguson accepted it.
West Texas had won its plank. The legislature was now instructed to create a college for the region. A major hurdle was cleared. But the fight was far from finished.
Chapter 2: Fighting in Austin
When the legislature convened in January 1917, the West Texas delegation came ready for a fight. Sweetwater’s Thomas Hodge was tapped to lead the charge. A letter-writing campaign had primed the ground, with appeals flooding legislators’ mailboxes from every corner of the plains.
Bills were introduced in both chambers. The language was clear: a new college, planted west of the 98th meridian and north of the 30th parallel.
The case was strong. Pamphlets pointed out that one-third of the state’s cotton came from this region, along with two hundred thousand potential students. In the Senate, there was little apparent pushback. The House was another matter.
Representative Blaylock of Marshall led the opposition, rallying East Texans who didn’t see why their tax dollars should go west. But the plainsmen held the line. They traded favors, leaned on alliances, and eventually squeezed the bill through the House. It looked like victory was in sight.
And then came Stephenville.
Stephenville already had a private school—John Tarleton College, founded back in 1899. But its endowment was drying up, and locals were desperate for a lifeline. With a West Texas college looking inevitable, they made their move.
A Stephenville senator introduced a resolution to send a committee—House, Senate, and the governor’s office—to inspect Tarleton. The pitch was irresistible to many: the land and buildings were already there, waiting. And yes, Stephenville lay within the designated zone - barely. Why build from scratch when you could just repurpose?
When the delegation arrived, they were met with a full-on civic spectacle. Music, speeches, food—the whole town turned out. Even the president of Texas A&M delivered a fiery endorsement. The irony wasn’t lost on West Texans: the Aggies had fought them tooth and nail against creating a new college. Now here they were, all in—for Tarleton.
On the way back to Austin, the delegation stopped in Fort Worth. At another banquet, Ben E. Keith, president of the Chamber of Commerce, threw the city’s weight behind Stephenville’s bid. The die was cast.
The legislature returned a glowing report. A new bill was filed, and within weeks, Tarleton Agricultural College was born.
But West Texans didn’t fold. Their original bill had already cleared the House, and they forced it through the Senate. Their argument was simple: the Democratic Party plank had promised a new college, not a rebranding of an old one. Against the odds, they won again—half a million dollars for land, buildings, and operations.
On February 20, 1917, Governor Ferguson signed the bill with a pen purportedly made from West Texas gold and timber. The pen was given to Lubbock’s W. H. Bledsoe, one of the bill’s authors, to keep in the college archives—once it was actually built.
With the bill signed and the money secured, all that remained was the question every West Texas town wanted answered: where would the new college go?
What happened next would set off one of the fiercest controversies in Texas education history.
Chapter 3: The Locating Committee
The law set up a five-man locating committee: Governor James “Pa” Ferguson, Lieutenant Governor William Hobby, Speaker of the House F. O. Fuller, Agriculture Commissioner Fred Davis, and State Superintendent of Public Instruction W. F. Doughty.
At least twenty towns put in their bids. They prepared glossy briefs and printed booklets, each one full of claims about their location, their climate, their water, their rail lines, even the “health” and “character” of their populations - going as far to list the number of churches and racial makeup of their communities. This was Progressive Era boosterism at its peak, and no detail was too small to be sold.
In June of 1917, the committee toured the field in quick succession. Town after town laid out banquets, parades, and speeches. Delegates were met with barbecue, brass bands, and schoolchildren waving flags.
By June 29, the committee was back in Austin. A secrecy resolution was adopted—only the final decision would be announced publicly, no tally of votes, no individual records.
Two ballots were taken that day in the governor’s office. When the counting was done, Ferguson announced the result: Abilene had been awarded the college. He added conditions: the city would have to guarantee water and hold a fifty-thousand-dollar bond election.
Within hours, though, the story began to unravel.
Everyone knew Ferguson favored Abilene. Superintendent Doughty too. But the math didn’t add up.
Hobby later said he had voted Snyder on the first ballot, Amarillo on the second. Commissioner Davis swore he voted Snyder both times. That left Speaker Fuller as the supposed third vote for Abilene.
But that same afternoon, Fuller issued a statement. He scolded his colleagues for breaking the secrecy agreement, but since they had already gone public, he wanted it on the record: he had voted for Haskell first and then Snyder.
Which meant Abilene had never had three votes at all.
When one of the committee members went back to check the ballots, he was told they had been destroyed accidentally by a janitor. The evidence was gone.
Abilene didn’t care. The city threw a parade, its boosters hoisted onto a fire truck and marched through cheering crowds. A bond election was called to proved the $50,000 in water improvements the bill had called for. They were already acting like the deal was done.
But outside of Abilene, it was anything but settled.
Superintendent Doughty called on each member of the committee to sign affidavits of how they had voted and to reconvene if there was no majority. On July 6, the College Committee—minus Abilene’s delegation—met in Sweetwater. They passed resolutions demanding another vote.
No further vote ever came.
Two weeks later, Pa Ferguson was indicted on nine counts of embezzlement and misuse of funds. By September he was impeached, convicted, and removed from office. Hobby became governor, and one of his first actions as governor was to reconvene the legislature for a special session to repeal the West Texas College bill altogether.
The slate was wiped clean.
West Texans would have to start all over again.
Chapter 4: The Coyotes Howling
With the repeal of the hard-won bill, the people of West Texas were incensed. The locating committee might have been corrupted, but in truth, most folks could have lived with Abilene. Sweetwater, for example, had done much of the organizing and fundraising—did it matter to them if the college ended up thirty-five miles in one direction or 40 miles in the other?
Now, after all that, they were told they would get nothing. It felt like a betrayal from Austin. And that wrong only hardened their resolve.
But it’s important to understand—higher education wasn’t West Texas’ only grievance. Not by a long shot.
Since almost as soon as it had been admitted to the Union, there had been serious contingents bent upon separating West Texas into its own separate state.
Proponents argued that the state was too large to effectively administer as one unit. And it was. El Paso was so far removed from the rest of the state that it didn't even have regular mail service, and residents there would often be left out of statewide votes simply because they didn't receive word on the election until after it was already finished.
In 1852, a legislator named James Flanagan proposed carving out a new state of West Texas. His map would have stretched from the Panhandle down past Lubbock and followed the Brazos River clear to the Gulf, taking Austin, San Antonio, and Corpus Christi with it. The proposal failed, but the idea lingered.
After the Civil War, Texas was under US military control until it could draft a new constitution and be readmitted to the union. In 1868, a constitutional convention was seated to create this document. Large parts of the state, centered around the German communities of the Hill Country had opposed slavery and secession, and now sought to separate themselves from the East Texas confederates once and for all. Before drafting a new state constitution, they first sought to break off West Texas into its own state and even drafted a Constitution of the State of West Texas, which would have taken voting rights away from former Confederate sympathizers, and even newspapermen and ministers who had promoted the Confederacy. Another of its provisions, radical for the time but finding its way into later iterations of the ratified state constitution was for the state to provide for a system of free public schools with compulsory attendance.
Another proposal, supported by a large majority of El Paso voters, would have combined El Paso County with Dona Anna County New Mexico into a new US territory called Montezuma.
These proposals all failed, but not until after years of wrangling at the state and federal level.
By the late 1800s, West Texans were increasingly feeling neglected by the rest of the state. Largely inhabited by ranchers at this time, they wanted loosened laws on hunting predators. But none were passed. They wanted grass leasing legislation, it never happened.
In 1878, the Dallas Herald published an editorial calling for the legislature to allow North and West Texas to “depart in peace” citing tremendous population growth, economic development, and the inability of the state government to administer laws and provide a good school system for the frontier reaches of the state.
In 1891, a WTX legislator suggested that we should annex east Texas to the state of Arkansas. This wasn't a joke either. People were fed up.
In 1893, a convention of delegates from across West Texas adopted a resolution, to deafening applause, that northwest Texas should be separated into its own state. They declared that the state Capitol was distantly located, the legislature consistently ignored the affairs of the region, and that West Texas remitted $300,000 more in taxes- a fortune at the time- then was received in return.
Newspapers around the state ran editorials, opposed to division, but recognizing the grievances were valid and calling upon the legislature to correct them.
And in 1915, Senator W. A. Johnson of Memphis pushed a constitutional amendment that would have created a new U.S. state of Jefferson out of 117 West Texas counties. His evidence? The census showed West Texas had half the representation it was entitled to in the legislature, and Austin had simply refused to redistrict for seven sessions running. His resolution made it out of committee but failed on the floor.
None of these movements carried a majority. But they didn’t have to. They showed that the anger was real, and it ran deep.
So, why am I getting into all of this ancillary stuff? I do it because it is critically important to understand that WTX had a list of serious grievances that went beyond just getting their own college.
And when West Texans said they were ready to break away from the state, it wasn’t empty talk. They meant it.
Chapter 5: Another Plank, Another Defeat
Out of this long list of grievances came a new institution: the West Texas Chamber of Commerce.
Formed in 1918, it gave the region a permanent voice. Where the old A.&M. Campaign Committee had a single goal, the Chamber would fight for everything—redistricting, fair laws for ranchers, even revising what they called “slanderous” passages about West Texas in state textbooks. And yes, they would fight again for a state college.
By 1919 the Chamber had officers, a staff, and a permanent office in Stamford. Its newspaper, West Texas Today, reached 50,000 readers.
At the Chamber’s 1920 annual meeting, gubernatorial candidate Pat Neff came to speak. He promised to push for fairer representation, but on the matter of a college, he was cagey. He called it a local issue.
Later that year, the Chamber’s board met in Abilene to chart their next move. The leadership was a who’s who: Clifford B. Jones of Spur, O. L. Slaton of Lubbock, Colonel Louis Wortham of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram, and Porter Whaley, one of the original drivers of the campaign.
They laid out a six-part strategy:
Print pamphlets explaining the need for the college.
Push the story statewide through the press.
Get every West Texas legislative candidate to pledge support.
Seed resolutions into Democratic conventions at every level.
Win endorsements from civic and commercial groups.
And finally, secure a plank in the state Democratic Party platform.
Now, one quick note here. Why didn't they reach out to the Republicans as well? Easy answer - there weren't many. In the 1920s, Texas politics was a one party affair. Much more so than even today. All statewide offices were held by Democrats and you could count the number of Republicans in either the state house or senate on one hand. They just weren't a factor.
The state Democratic convention was set for September in Fort Worth, with Pat Neff emerging as the nominee. The Chamber set up shop in the city and prepared to whip votes.
But the fight looked uphill. The chairman of the Platform and Resolutions Committee, Thomas Henderson of Cameron, was opposed. His district was Aggie territory, and Texas A.&M. still wanted no rivals.
Neff stayed coy in public, but word spread through back channels: he was under heavy pressure from East Texas to kill the plank if it reached the floor.
A central Texas newspaper was distributed throughout the convention with a declaration that West Texas was prepared to secede and form its own state if the plank was rejected. Whether this was actually discussed, or if it was just the fantasy of some Austin editor is anyone's guess. But as we discussed earlier, secession had been an ongoing topic for decades. It had to be taken seriously. Everyone there had to know that the Coyotes were howling in West Texas. Sooner or later they were going to have to be fed.
The first day brought bad news. Representative Lee Satterwhite of Amarillo, who sat on the subcommittee, reported back that the plank was dead on arrival. He had been the lone yes vote.
Undeterred, the Chamber asked for a hearing before the full committee. They brought their facts, their figures, their speeches. They even turned a few votes—but not enough. The tally was 9 in favor, 13 against.
Their last hope was to take it to the floor of the full convention.
Satterwhite spoke first, followed by other West Texas legislators. Their speeches drew cheers. But then came the opposition: Judge Sidney Staples of Smithville, campaign chairman for Neff, stood firm. The governor wanted no new appropriations until the budget was balanced. One A.&M. was enough, he said. Others from Bryan and Johnson County followed with the same line.
The roll call went county by county. West Texas delegates voted unanimously in favor. There was hope Harris County or Bexar might break their way. But both went against them.
When the count was finished, the result was grim: 398 in favor, 422 against.
For the second time, West Texas had gone all-in at the convention. But this time, they went home empty-handed handed.
Their fate would now rest with the legislature, and without a party plank to back them.
Chapter 6: Snatched at the Finish Line
In the wake of their convention defeat, the West Texas Chamber of Commerce sent a new man to Austin to carry the fight: W. M. Woodall of Eastland.
Early in the 1921 session, Woodall sat down with W. B. Bizzell, the president of Texas A&M. For years, Aggie leaders had fought the very idea of another state college. But Bizzell made a deal. He would support a West Texas school—but only as a subsidiary of A&M, governed by its board of regents.
It wasn’t the independence West Texans wanted, but Woodall knew the fight couldn’t be won without A&M’s blessing. The thinking was simple: get the college created first. With time, growth, and political pressure, independence might follow.
Representative Chitwood of Sweetwater filed the House bill in January. It called for a men’s college, west of the 98th meridian and north of the 30th parallel, with $50,000 set aside for the site.
The Education Committee approved it, but not without edits. Their amended version read: “An Agricultural College of the first class, to be known as the West Texas Agricultural College for white students.”
When the bill hit the House floor, Representative E. M. Rosser of Snyder made the case. He told his colleagues that nearly half of Texas counties lay inside the boundaries for the new school: 119,706 square miles. A population of 855,034 people—one-fourth of the entire state. Together, they held nearly a billion dollars in wealth—one-third of the Texas total. And yet, they received only one-fifth of state spending. “One-fourth of the population, one-third of the taxes, but only one-fifth of the benefits,” Rosser thundered.
Representative Cox of Abilene offered a floor amendment to drop the racial language. The name became the West Texas Agricultural & Mechanical College. With that change, the House passed it and sent it to the Senate.
In the upper chamber, Senator W. H. Bledsoe carried the bill. The Senate approved it too, but made their own change: the school would be co-educational, not men-only.
That sent the bill to a conference committee. The House dug in, refusing to budge from its original language. As the session wound down, the whole thing looked ready to collapse.
At the eleventh hour, the House side relented. They would accept the Senate’s co-ed version. But now came the final hurdle: another House vote.
There was just one problem. The session was almost over. Many legislators had already checked out of their hotels and were boarding trains home. There weren’t even enough members on the floor for a quorum.
The sergeant-at-arms was ordered into the streets. He rounded up lawmakers wherever he could find them—out of boarding houses, off the sidewalks, even pulling some from departing trains. At last, enough were gathered for a vote.
It passed, 57 to 33. The West Texas college was alive again. All that was left was the governor’s signature.
But Governor Pat Neff had never been a friend to the cause. Back at the 1920 convention, he had refused to support the plank. Behind the scenes, he had quietly worked against it. Now the bill sat on his desk.
Clifford B. Jones, a Spur rancher and the new president of the West Texas Chamber, called from his ranch house and pleaded with Neff to sign. Thousands of telegrams poured in from across the plains and beyond. West Texas demanded its college.
It wasn’t enough.
On April 1st, 1921—April Fools’ Day—Governor Neff vetoed the bill. His reasoning was blunt: the state was broke, and the Democratic Party had refused to make the college part of its platform.
Years of effort, countless meetings, miles of travel, thousands of dollars raised—snatched away again by a governor from afar.
The question hung heavy over the plains: after yet another defeat, did West Texans have the fight left in them?
Chapter 7: Thunderstorm Over Sweetwater
Pat Neff’s veto was the final straw.
On April 2, 1921—just one day later—an angry mob of five thousand West Texans poured into Sweetwater. They came furious, determined, and ready to make themselves heard.
The speeches were fiery. State Representative Chitwood of Sweetwater drafted resolutions right there on the spot. His words were blunt: unless the governor called an immediate special session, West Texas would begin the work of creating its own state.
The grievances were laid out clearly:
A college for West Texas.
Fair representation after twenty years of population growth ignored by Austin.
An equitable share of the state’s tax money.
And improved schools, especially after Neff’s veto of $400,000 in rural education funds—a slap in the face to the region.
This was no longer political wrangling. It was militancy. West Texas would have its college. That was no longer in question. The only question was whether it would be a university in Texas—or the flagship of a brand-new state of West Texas.
Governor Neff must have been caught off guard by the intensity of it all. He quickly promised to call a special session of the legislature to address the grievances.
A few days later, the West Texas Chamber of Commerce convened in Sweetwater. Years later, their official record of that meeting began with a vivid line: “The veto of Governor Neff struck West Texas like a thunderstorm.”
The chamber’s statements were calmer than the mob’s, but the message was the same. They demanded action on redistricting, tax fairness, schools, and the college. They stopped short of threatening secession, but the implication hung in the air.
Across the state, newspapers took sides.
The Dallas Morning News admitted the grievances were real but advised patience: West Texas was better off inside Texas than out.
The Fort Worth Star-Telegram warned: “A movement for a separate state is more likely to divide West Texas than to have any other result.”
But out on the plains, papers struck a different tone. The Floyd County Hesperian opened an editorial with this jab: “That Governor Neff has just simply not found out yet that West Texas is a part of Texas seems a reasonable deduction from his action in vetoing the West Texas measures.”
The pressure worked—at least in part. Neff called a special session that summer. A modest increase in K–12 funding passed, but redistricting failed. A second special session was called, this time focusing solely on redistricting. That failed too.
The West Texas college? It wasn’t even on the agenda.
West Texans weren’t really going to secede. Not yet. But they had once again been played by politicians in Austin. When the dust settled, they had nothing to show for it.
The fight would have to wait. The next chance wouldn’t come until the regular session of 1923.
Chapter 8: A Million or Nothing
After the fury of 1921, the West Texas Chamber of Commerce kept working, planning, and waiting. They met with Governor Pat Neff, who was blunt: if they wanted his signature on a bill, it had to come as a party plank. Unlike in 1920, he promised not to oppose them, but he wasn’t going to sign anything without the backing of the Democratic convention.
The convention of 1922 met in San Antonio. Once again, the West Texas delegation set up headquarters there and went to work. Once again, their fiercest opponents came from Bryan and College Station. The deal they had struck with A&M’s president the year before was off the table. This time, West Texas wanted an independent college—with its own board of regents—not one run from East Texas.
The two sides squared off before the platform subcommittee. Back and forth, through the night. By three in the morning, the exhausted chair begged for compromise. Everyone in the room knew what that meant. The Bryan delegate offered support for the plank—if the college was written once again as a subsidiary of A&M.
West Texans hated it. But they also knew the truth: without a plank, there would be no college at all. They swallowed their pride and agreed, hoping they could pry loose independence later. With that compromise in place, the plank passed and became official party policy.
This time, the battle in the legislature wasn’t about if there would be a college, but about what kind of college it would be.
Should it be co-ed?
What courses should it teach?
Would it be independent—or a branch of A&M?
And how much money would the state actually spend?
The Chamber of Commerce wanted to swing big: a million dollars. Enough to buy land, build lasting facilities, hire top faculty, and operate for two years. Senator W. H. Bledsoe in the Senate and Representative Chitwood in the House introduced matching bills along those lines: a co-ed branch of A&M, governed by its regents, with full academic freedom. Appropriation: one million, spread across three years.
That could have been the end of it—except another West Texan had his own plan.
Representative Roy Baldwin of Lubbock wasn’t interested in compromise. He fired off an editorial that ran in papers statewide:
> “In area, West Texas comprises most of the state, and it is being settled up more rapidly than any other section of the State. She has paid and is now paying more than her share in taxes and in the matter of State institutions, she has been denied her just dues. West Texas is entitled to a full-fledged, fully equipped A&M college, and she should not accept anything less. And we will get it. If we refuse to compromise and continue to fight for it. It is a matter of principle and common justice. During the last regular session I fought unceasingly for such a college, and thought the bill that was passed a puny compromise and an insult to West Texas.”
Baldwin carried his own bill. It demanded an independent Agricultural and Mechanical College with its own board of regents. Unlike the Bledsoe-Chitwood plan, it tied the school tightly to an A&M model—strictly agriculture and mechanics, no wider academic freedom. And instead of a million-dollar appropriation, Baldwin asked for just $150,000 to purchase land, with the idea that more funds could be added later.
Now there were two competing bills—both for a West Texas college, but divided by vision. Even allies dug in on their preferred version. And as the session dragged on, nervousness spread across the plains. West Texans had seen this before: division in the ranks could sink the whole cause.
Then came a fresh threat from an unexpected quarter.
Representative Lewis Carpenter of Dallas filed a bill to create an entirely new College of Technology and Textile Engineering. His pitch was persuasive: Texas produced cotton, wool, and hides in abundance, but had no industry to turn them into finished goods. His college would train students in textile engineering, chemistry, dyeing, tanning, and manufacturing. Unlike A&M, no such institution existed anywhere in the state.
Carpenter’s bill had immediate support. And the West Texas delegation could see it clearly: if the legislature decided to fund his vision instead, their own long-fought college might once again slip away.
Chapter 9: The Room Where It Happened
By early 1923, the fight had dragged on for nearly a decade. Bills had been filed, vetoed, amended, and killed. But now, with the legislature ready to vote, West Texas was split again — and division was the one thing that could still sink the whole project.
Porter Whaley of the West Texas Chamber picked up the phone and made a desperate call to Senator W. H. Bledsoe of Lubbock. The message was simple: get everybody in the same room and don’t let them out until there’s a deal.
So the morning before the vote, Bledsoe gathered Representative Chitwood, Representative Baldwin, and yes, even Representative Carpenter of Dallas. Homer Wade of the Chamber was there too. He locked the door, pocketed the key, and told them: no one leaves until we’ve got one bill West Texas can unite behind. Cigars were lit. The work began.
First: the name. Baldwin insisted they couldn’t call it “West Texas.” Canyon already had West Texas State Teachers College, and it would be confusing. All agreed.
Carpenter offered up the name he had used in his own bill: Texas Technological College. Unanimous. Done.
Second: the money. Baldwin swore a million dollars would never pass. Bledsoe countered: this is Texas, if we’re going to do it, let’s do it right. They compromised — the bill would call for a million, but fallback amendments would be ready to cut it to half a million if necessary.
Third: governance. Baldwin argued fiercely for independence. Why give the very people who fought us every step of the way the power to run our college? Chitwood and Bledsoe agreed, though they worried the plank’s wording would be a hurdle. Again, they chose the bold path — independence, but with fallback amendments ready if the bill was in danger.
With that, Wade pulled out the key, unlocked the door, and freed the “captives.” The substitute bill was rushed to the printer and filed.
---
On January 29, 1923, Senate Bill 103 — providing for the establishment of Texas Technological College — passed the Senate 24 to 5. No amendments were needed.
In the House, Representative Carpenter took the lead. Some grumbled about the price tag — Representative Westbrook of McLennan County objected loudly. But the tide had turned. On February 6, the House approved it 95 to 26.
Now all eyes turned to Governor Pat Neff.
Two years earlier, he had vetoed a much smaller bill on fiscal grounds. Eastern pressure was still heavy. Colleges elsewhere in the state feared losing their slice of appropriations. Would Neff really sign this one?
West Texans launched their final offensive. Calls, letters, and telegrams poured into Austin. One day alone, Neff received 2,000 telegrams.
From Sweetwater, Judge R. C. Crane and others wrote:
> “We have bought and paid for several colleges of the first class by the development we have brought about for Texas. Every year we are paying more than enough in excess taxes to build and equip and run such a college. Population growing rapidly; location unexpected and needs for a college in this section of the State are generally recognized. We have millions of red-blooded West Texans of America who are looking to you to sign the bill.”
Surely, he couldn’t ignore them again.
---
And yet, at a private banquet of newspapermen in Austin, Governor Neff stunned the room.
Taking the podium, he began:
> “I am regretful that I have been assigned a definite subject, because I really wanted to take your membership into my confidence and tell you of some things I was going to do in the near future, and why. But since you assigned me a subject, I will speak to that subject.”
Then he added, almost casually:
> “I was also going to tell you why I was going to veto the bill creating the Texas Technological College.”
Homer Wade, sitting in the crowd, later wrote that every eye turned toward him. His face flushed, his stomach sank.
The next morning Wade rushed to the governor’s office, only to be told to wait. He paced the halls of the Capitol for an hour that must have felt like a lifetime.
Finally, he was admitted. Neff was chuckling. “How much sleep did you lose last night?” he teased. Wade admitted he hadn’t slept at all.
Then Neff’s tone shifted. He leaned forward and said plainly:
> “I’m going to sign the bill. Take whatever time you need to get a ceremony ready and we’ll get it done.”
Wade didn’t waste a second. He called a photographer, bought three gold pens, and summoned the bill’s authors. Carpenter, the man who had named the college, was out of town. Baldwin couldn’t be located. No matter.
At 10:30 a.m. on February 10, 1923, in the Governor’s office, Pat Neff signed Senate Bill 103.
Texas Technological College was born.
After the signing, Neff declared:
> “Gentlemen, I look upon this act that I have just concluded as one of the greatest accomplishments of my administration as governor of Texas. I sincerely hope that this Technological College will grow and prosper, and not only be an institution that will benefit the boys and girls and the people of West Texas, but one of which the entire state will be proud, and that will reflect proper credit upon the Lone Star State, Texas.”
Chapter 10: The Celebration
When news reached West Texas, words failed. For nearly ten years, they had been jerked around, double-crossed, and strung along. They had poured thousands of dollars into campaigns, delivered hundreds of speeches, and worn out the rails traveling the state. They had battled through three party conventions, three legislatures, and three governors.
But the outcome was worth it.
Instead of $50,000 for a branch of Texas A&M, they had secured $1 million for an independent, co-educational Technological College — the only one of its kind west of the Mississippi. And unlike earlier bills, this one came with no restrictions. The new college could teach agriculture and engineering, yes, but also industry, liberal arts, science, even medicine. It could be whatever West Texas needed it to be.
On March 2, 1923 — Texas Independence Day — a massive celebration was held in Sweetwater, birthplace of the college movement. Governor Neff himself was in attendance, standing before many of the same people who, just two years earlier, had cursed his name and threatened secession.
That same day, the first Board of Regents met. Appointed by the governor, they included: former Governor William Hobby of Houston; John Carpenter of Dallas, president of Texas Power & Light (and brother to Representative Lewis Carpenter, who had introduced the textile college bill); C. W. Meadows, a Waco merchant; Amon Carter, publisher of the Fort Worth Star-Telegram; R. A. Underwood, a banker from Plainview; Alzina DeGroff, a hotelier from El Paso; Clifford Jones, ranch manager from Spur; and Florence Drane, a civic leader from Corsicana. Two women on the very first board of regents — a rarity for the time.
Now the question became: where to put the thing.
---
The Search for a Home
The new locating board had a different makeup than the scandal-ridden committee of 1917. It was chaired by S. B. Cowell of the State Board of Control, joined by the state superintendent of education, and the presidents of the University of Texas, Texas A&M, and the College of Industrial Arts in Denton.
They laid out four priorities: location, climate, water supply, and accessibility.
Thirty-seven towns submitted applications. The board promised to visit them all — a grueling month-long tour by rail and by open-top automobile over dusty, rutted roads.
They began July 14, 1923, in Boerne. Over the next weeks, they zigzagged across the state. Lampasas, Brady, Brownwood, Coleman, Ballinger, San Angelo, Midland. In Stanton and Big Spring, they feasted atop Lookout Mountain.
Colorado City, Sweetwater, Abilene, Buffalo Gap. Clyde, which billed itself “the California of Texas,” showed off apple, peach, and pecan orchards. Cisco, Seymour, Munday, Haskell — where one of the largest crowds of the entire trip turned out. In Stamford, they ate a chuckwagon dinner on the Brazos.
Snyder. Post, with its cotton mills. Wilson and Slaton, slogged to in the mud.
Then they reached Lubbock.
It was like a circus had come to town. Business leaders met the board at the city limits. Bands played, children sang, the Chamber of Commerce promised newspapermen they could take anything they wanted from the city. From Lubbock they went on to Crosbyton, Spur, Floydada, Plainview — where jets of water shot into the sky to prove their immense supply. Tulia, Amarillo, Claude, Memphis, Vernon.
At last, on August 8, they convened in the Texas Hotel in Fort Worth to deliberate.
No minutes survive. No tally of votes. Only that after several hours behind closed doors, the board emerged with a single word: Lubbock.
---
“Turned Upside-Down”
Reporter Hamilton Wright of the Fort Worth Record recalled: “The message to Lubbock turned that city upside-down. Stores closed, whistles blew, citizens gathered in a mob to shout and celebrate, carrying on the festivities for many hours.”
The official celebration came August 28. According to the Dallas Morning News, 30,000 people — seven times the population of Lubbock itself — descended on the dusty plains.
They slaughtered 146 beeves, turning out 35,000 pounds of barbecue, cooked on a mile-long fire pit. A literal ton of potato salad. 7,000 loaves of bread. 3,000 chickens. 10,000 ears of corn. A thousand gallons of coffee. A retired Army colonel was brought in just to coordinate the feast.
Morning speeches came from Chitwood, Carpenter, Bledsoe, and University of Texas president T. U. Taylor.
After lunch, Lieutenant Governor T. W. Davidson, Chairman Cowell of the locating board, Amon Carter of the regents, and Governor Neff himself took the stage.
Neff’s words echoed across the prairie:
> “Colleges have always been and will always be the vanguard of civilization. The builders of colleges have been the builders of empires. Alfred the Great, George Washington and Thomas Jefferson were the builders of colleges… The builders of the Nation and the builders of the civilized world have been the builders of colleges.
I am for this institution because I want the red-faced boys of Texas cared for as well as the white-faced cattle. I am opposed to a people hearing the squeal of a pig above the cry of a child. You cannot build a commonwealth or a government unless the people are entrenched behind institutions of learning.”
The people of West Texas had knocked for years on the doors of Austin. Finally, those doors had opened. And in the dust and sun of Lubbock, they laid the cornerstone for Texas Technological College — what we know today as Texas Tech University.
From that beginning, the school grew faster than anyone could have imagined. Classes opened in 1925 with just over 900 students. Within a decade, enrollment had doubled. By mid-century, Tech was producing engineers, teachers, doctors, and scientists who shaped the growth of the Southwest.
The university became home to the Southwest Collection, one of the state’s premier archives of Texas and regional history. Its agricultural research reshaped dryland farming and helped cotton thrive on the High Plains. During World War II, Tech trained pilots, engineers, and officers who served around the globe.
In 1969, Texas Tech established its School of Medicine, now the Texas Tech University Health Sciences Center, bringing world-class medical education and care to a region that had long lacked it. In the decades since, Tech has added law, architecture, veterinary medicine, and more, building into a full-scale university system.
Tech has also made its mark far beyond the classroom. Researchers at the university have contributed to NASA missions, developing wind tunnels and aerospace expertise that carried into America’s space program. Its scientists pioneered studies in wind energy, water conservation, and agriculture that influence policy worldwide.
And the industries that define West Texas found a permanent home on campus too. Tech’s Petroleum Engineering program not only trained generations of oilfield hands and engineers — it helped create the modern energy industry. Red Raider graduates went on to shape the Permian Basin’s rise, fueling a boom that made billionaires and kept the nation running.
More recently, the university has become a player in national defense. At the old Reese Air Force Base west of Lubbock, Tech launched a National Security Innovation and Research Institute, tying the school directly to cutting-edge defense research. What started as a regional college now has a hand in America’s strategic future.
And on the playing fields, Red Raiders have flown the Double T across the nation: a 1993 NCAA championship in men’s basketball, a 2008 football team that rose to #2 in the nation, and countless conference titles and bowl appearances. From Jones AT&T Stadium to March Madness, Texas Tech became a national name.
Today, Texas Tech is a Tier One research university with more than 40,000 students, a member of the Big 12 Conference, and a symbol of what West Texans demanded all those years ago: recognition, opportunity, and a seat at the table.
The fight had been long. It had been bitter. But the vision of Fitzgerald, Hodge, Chitwood, Bledsoe, Baldwin, and so many others was fulfilled. A college not just for West Texas, but for all of Texas — born out of barbecue pits and parades, political brawls and telegram campaigns.
And it all started with a simple demand —
that the sons and daughters of West Texas shouldn’t have to leave home to find a future.
CLOSING
Thanks for listening to the West Texas Podcast, I’ve been Jody Slaughter. I’ve been blown away by all the emails and messages I’ve received from so many of you who have enjoyed the podcast this season, if you have any questions, comments, or ideas, you can always reach out to me at lubbockist@gmail.com or on twitter @lubbockist. Also, if you wouldn’t mind hitting that follow or subscribe button, and leaving us a review. That would help out a ton, and you’ll always be the first to know about new episodes. If you enjoyed this episode, this would be a really good time to go check out the show notes at wtxpodcast.com where I have a ton of photos, and papers documenting the founding of Texas Tech. Music this episode has been from the Texas Tech Concert Band and Zeta Sigma Glee Club under the direction of Dr. D.O. Wiley, recorded in 1953. Except for the opening number, Texas Blues, by Willie Reid. Gentry Ford was upset that he didn’t have anything to do this episode, so I told him he could do whatever he wanted with the closing number. I haven’t heard it yet, but he said he’s “gonna get weird with it.”
Next episode, we’ll continue the tradition of the WTX Halloween Special with an out of this world story about a close encounter that you won’t want to miss. Thanks as always for listening, but for now…so long, from West Texas.
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