At some point in the 1980s, a naming frenzy began at my alma mater, the University of Texas. After the state legislature started cutting back on funding higher education, UT and other schools had little choice but to hit up the alumni even more vigorously than before. And to sweeten the pot, they might just name something after you. Streets, buildings, auditoriums, classrooms, archways—it seemed that a name was suddenly appended to everything on campus. The whole process was shameless and brazen.
A friend (a Longhorn as well) and I once mocked the university by suggesting we have a drink at the “Margie Smith Water Fountain" or adjourn to the "James W. 'Tommy' Thomas Men's Restroom." Hand over enough tax-deductible green and you could buy a bit of immortality. Whatever happened to the quaint idea of making anonymous donations? I am, to a certain extent, exaggerating since some of the naming derived from long and meritorious service.
In 1990, I was working on my second book, “For Texas, I Will”: The History of Memorial Stadium. I spent a lot of time in and around that venerable athletic facility; in fact, I gave tours of the place back before the gates were essentially closed to all but the UT football team. At any rate, I was wandering around the (re-named in 1997) stadium and came to the weight-training facility in a building—named, of course—in the south end zone. I was not surprised to see that it, too, had been named. A plaque out front indicated who the donor was. Most of the time, I studiously ignore such markers but on this occasion I looked. To my surprise, it had an Arabic name: Dr. Nasser al-Rashid. In that pre-Internet era, I had to do a bit of inquiring to learn who he was. I ascertained an address in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia and wrote him a letter. A couple of months later, I heard from his Austin attorney, Anthony “Curly” Ferris. He revealed the good news that the philanthropy-minded Dr. Rashid was willing to help me get the book done. As written elsewhere on this web site, he also bankrolled my next book—about international students at UT.
Rashid had spent five years in Austin and earned a pair of degrees in civil engineering. He went home and formed a company, Rashid Engineering, that quickly proved itself to the royal family. When a palace, a school, a government complex or a hotel needed to be built, he and his guys could do it. Big contracts came his way, and Rashid (who had driven a used Volkswagen during his time at the university) became quite rich. Perhaps it is uncouth to put a dollar figure on his worth, but others have done so and I will too. He is estimated to have $8 billion. While some Saudi princes may scoff at that—a piddling eight B’s!—most of us would say he has done rather well. The web site businessinsider.com put him at No. 5 on its list of “The World’s Insanely Rich Arab Businessmen.” Although Rashid tends to keep a low profile, he made an exception in 1990 by purchasing a 344-foot yacht costing upwards of $200 million. It is among the biggest and most lavish in the world.
Rashid has been married thrice and has numerous children. I knew a couple of them, and both lived very easy lives. Their father made numerous attempts to help them succeed in one venture or another, but they simply lacked direction or motivation to get up and work. I do not say this in a critical manner because I knew what it felt like being even loosely affiliated with Rashid. Who is not affected by big money? This man was an industry unto himself, and whatever he wanted was done expeditiously. Many people were at his beck and call, and the merest nod of his head could set in motion numerous employees who only wanted to please “Doctor.” At one point during my interview with him at the swanky Four Seasons Hotel in Austin, he needed to write something down and asked for a pen. The sight of Curly and Rashid's bodyguard Geno practically jumping over couches and chairs to see who could produce a pen fastest was downright comical.
When my book came out in 1994, Curly indicated that Rashid was happy. (Why should he not be? The chapter about him was factual and yet flattering.) Curly said that a place would be found for me in the big fella’s network. I am not proud to admit it, but I wanted just that although not exactly a sinecure because I had never been averse to work. The recent publication of Coming to Texas was sufficient proof thereof. Still, if a niche were found I would be sure to make some contributions, humble though they may have been, to the Rashid empire. Alas, it never happened. I was once again on my own. Still, it was interesting to have been even peripherally involved with a man of such staggering wealth.
A final point deserves to be made. In a conversation at Curly’s house one summer day, I stated that Rashid was lucky to have been born in Saudi Arabia with its fabulous petroleum riches below ground. Given the same intelligence and drive but originating in Bangladesh, the Philippines or Romania, for example, he would probably have been a poor and struggling civil engineer. Curly and Geno reacted as if I had blasphemed. Both insisted that Rashid, to whom they owed so much of their livelihood and personal security, was destined to reach the heights no matter where he came from. This I found rather dubious.
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