I wrote this article in 2006 after attending the Angola Prison Rodeo in Louisiana with a buddy, Shane. I had foolishly hoped the southern food at the accompanying festival would be tasty. I was wrong. It is a prison, after all. While the food was lousy, at least it was not seasoned with ground glass. Besides, the rodeo was a lot of fun.
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I never thought I would go to prison, much less for a rodeo. The drive from New Orleans lasted over two hours to the infamous Louisiana State Penitentiary for the Angola Prison Rodeo. The event sells out every time it is held, filling the five thousand seat arena to capacity.
I flashed my ticket to the guard at the gate and she waved me through. A few trees dotted the open landscape of the prison grounds, and police officers on four wheelers herded us to a field for parking. After a long walk to the entrance, I turned around the moment I saw the sign. Cell Phones Prohibited. In an honest mistake, my buddy brought his cell phone from the car. We joked that he was desperate to stay in touch with friends and family while in the belly of the beast.
The atmosphere of a flea market prevailed at the convict crafts fair surrounding the arena. Those looking for sincere gifts and art will be disappointed. Those seeking surreal people watching will never want to leave, as it justifies the ten dollar admission by itself.
“Clocks!” a convict announced from behind a chain link barrier, “We got a deal on clocks today!” His fingers clawed into the chain link. He leaned against it as if he held the bars of his own cell. His young face gestured toward a long table between us on my side of the fence. The simple varnished clocks reminded me of those I made in woodshop as a boy: honest and shiny. Dozens of other convict craftsmen ogled the passersby. “Hey Beyonce!” one called to a young lady from behind the fence in a playful tone. A light rain fell from the gray sky.
Another table contained crude wood miniatures of an electric chair bearing burnt lettering which read “old Sparky.” I briefly entertained the idea of buying one for a friend, a scholar of criminal justice. I decided the joke wouldn’t last as long as the walk back to the car. To be fair, some of the wooden furniture looked handsome, and I saw several pickup trucks stacked with sold pieces.
Walking among the crowded stalls, I brushed up against what appeared to be a craft-laden table. It collapsed slowly and the bad woodwork slid into the mud. Beneath the upset plank of wood were not the legs of a table but a soggy cardboard box that succumbed to the weight of its wares. A few people gasped at the spectacle, and a trustee cried “Oh” as if he caught a roving vandal in the act. Surely there would be swift, brutal retaliation for my carelessness, the tone of his voice implied. I lived to tell the tale.
I heard the Angola Rodeo offered a wide range of junk food, fair food, and Southern food. I sought barbecue brisket and pulled pork, gumbo and gator tail, funnel cakes and greens. My friend made the mistake of asking a vendor where to find good barbecue. Our erstwhile host led us to a bored-looking group of erstwhile sandwich vendors. We waited for at least ten minutes while the supposed pit-masters ignored us. I smelled a rat and pulled on my buddy’s sleeve—time to go. But he’d already given over his money. When confronted, the sandwich slingers apologized and handed over a heavy bundle wrapped in paper. Inside, we found the nasty evil twin of the McRib. The spongy meat tucked into a bun never saw a wood fire in its short life, from food processing factory to prison. I did find a passable gumbo. It would have to do. Those poor prisoners, I thought.
The spectators crowded into the tidy arena and the show commenced. A homespun master of ceremonies presided over the activities, but not from a skybox. He announced from horseback in the arena itself, donning elaborate cowboy regalia. The rodeo band played keenly casual music from a high platform in the shade. They made the most of the shifting events, giving voice to the comedy, potential tragedy, and tentative interludes that afternoon.
The announcer played the straight guy against the rambunctious rodeo clowns. Parts daredevil, drunk idiot, carnie, and clown, they never failed to tease out chuckles from all ages of the audience. The hokey routines abounded with silly Southern drawls, lending the atmospheres and attitudes of Ringling Brothers and Hee Haw. The announcer and clowns traded one liners between the many events. The variety and brevity of each competition unfolded at a brisk pace, which provided constant entertainment.
Teams of three convicts each attempted to subdue and milk wild cows. Most of the time, the irritated cow pushed and dragged the men around. Still, a couple men showed evidence of milk on their gloves, and won.
A surreal sideshow act may have been the most entertaining event of all. A trainer unleashed fours dogs into the arena, but these were no ordinary canines. The trainer saddled them up like horses. Small monkeys dressed like cowboys rode the dogs. Together, they herded a group of sheep. Nothing else in the arena that day proved as well trained as those dogs—certainly not the convicts, most of whom seemed to be complete amateurs at riding.
One event showed just how untrained these convicts were with animals. A single convict rode across the arena on a bareback horse. On the opposite side, another convict stood atop a barrel, waiting for a ride. In an awkward dance, the riding convict maneuvered his horse beside the barrel, while other jumped off onto the horse’s back. Such hijinks may look impressive in Western films, but horses clearly do not like being jumped on by grown men. They threw many a convict in irritation. Two wannabe cowboys suffered a bouncy turn on horseback. They unwisely rode sitting straight up, so they had no leverage. Judging by how slowly they rose after being thrown from the horse, any hopes of fathering children in the future is questionable at best.
Convict poker is perhaps the most famous event at the Angola rodeo. Four convicts sat at a card table going through the motions of gambling. Officials released an angry bull into the arena, and the rodeo clowns teased the bull into charging. They dove out of the bull’s path, and it blindly charges. If a convict stands or is forcibly unseated, he forfeits the prize of five hundred dollars. It sounds terribly dangerous, but bulls—even enraged ones—are easily distracted, and often pranced around the edges of the arena and gazed at the audience.
Far more impressive and dangerous was convict pinball. The same principle applied, but convicts had to stand in fixed circles. A particularly large white bull scared three of the four convicts out of their circles, sometimes with a mere glance. In one violent sequence, a rodeo clown stood in a barrel and taunted the bull. When the beast charged, the hapless clown hunched into the barrel. With one sweep of his horns, the powerful bull threw the barrel through the air. The dazed clown emerged from the upturned barrel after the bull moved on to his next victim.
The final event is also the most desperate for the convicts. A bull with a poker chip tied between his horns entered the arena. About twenty waiting convicts tried to grab the chip and avoid the bull’s horns. This finale event is so interesting because the convicts do not simply try to avoid the bull. If they want the rodeo’s biggest prize, they must seek it out. One convict did just that and held the chip without getting gored. With this climax, the rodeo ended.
On the way to the parking lot, I glanced a simple piece at a crafts stand. A mirror framed in wood and barbed wire. I thought it terribly mundane then, but that mirror is profound now. For a few dollars, anyone could see their living portrait surrounded by tangled, uneven justice.
Aside from the regrettable food, something else aroused my sympathy for the convicts at Angola. Earlier that day, nothing could be as simple as entering the prison and being led to a parking place. Hours later, nothing could be more chaotic and frustrating as getting out of there. The friendly guards on the four wheelers were nowhere to be found on our way out. Automobile anarchy ensued. Thousands of cars lined up to get out on the single two-lane road to freedom. It took a good two hours to bust out of that joint, during which my buddy stringed up my guitar and fretted away. I improvised some lyrics as we idled by a frowning guard. In a joyous, raspy voice I sang, “It’s a good day to break out of prison!” For a moment, the guard smiled as we crept by.
We found our freedom as the sun set and a heavy rain beat down. Famished for lack of edible food in prison, we vainly searched for an open restaurant that Sunday evening in the backwoods of Louisiana. At least we had our freedom and a new song to sing. The further we traveled away from Angola, the more impressive our memories of the rodeo became. I silently hoped the bulls were already out on the pasture again. Of course, the convicts would have to wait a bit longer, with or without a prize from that day’s rodeo.
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Shane and I wrote a couple of songs inspired by the event while staying at a cushy bed and breakfast in the Marigny district of New Orleans (the city was, and is, still raw from Hurricane Katrina). You can listen to the Angola Rodeo Song here. Shane is an excellent musician, and I just write the lyrics and sing along.
In a perfect world, I would take my nephews to see the Angola Prison Rodeo. Let’s set aside any ethical objections to prisons or rodeos for a moment. As a boy, I would have been completely enthralled by the action and very scenario of the rodeo. It would have been like watching the circus. In prison.
