Under the relentless Louisiana sun, a spectacle unfolds – part rodeo, part reckoning.
Beneath a sky heavy with humidity, prisoners grip the reins of wild horses, their bodies jolted and thrown as they face down charging bulls.
Crowds from across the nation are preparing to gather again this month to witness a raw, gladiator-style spectacle – the last prison rodeo in America.
Although outlawed across the country, this event endures in Louisiana, the state with the world’s highest incarceration rate.
Branded as the ‘South’s wildest clash’ and marketed as a rehabilitation gem, it unfolds on the sprawling grounds of Angola, Louisiana’s state penitentiary, a site stitched together from former slave plantations.
Black people, roughly a third of Louisiana’s population, account for 80 percent of Angola’s inmates – a place named for the African nation tied to its enslaved past.
At this maximum-security prison, where most serve life sentences, new laws under Governor Jeff Landry have ended parole and cut early release, trapping them within its 18,000 acres.
The rodeo, that usually runs in April and October, brings in $450,000 each weekend it runs, yet for prisoners, the real draw is simpler: a fleeting connection to the outside world, a sliver of cash, and a rare moment to see their loved ones beyond the bars. The next event is on April 26 and 27.
Crowds from across the nation gather to witness a raw, gladiator-style spectacle – the last prison rodeo in America. The next rodeo action will be on April 26 and 27
Inmates participate in Convict Poker where they attempt to be the last contestant with their hands on the table as a bull charges them during the Angola Prison Rodeo held at the Louisiana State Penitentiary
History of the Angola Prison Rodeo
Founded in 1965, just months after the passage of the Voting Rights Act, the Angola Prison Rodeo has become a deeply rooted tradition in southern Louisiana, obscuring the harsher realities of life behind bars.
Initially conceived as a joint effort between incarcerated individuals, prison staff, and Angola’s civilian residents, the first two rodeos in 1965 and 1966 were closed to the public.
By 1967, limited tickets were made available, with proceeds benefiting the Inmate Welfare Fund, which supports recreational and educational programs for prisoners.
Early spectators watched from pickup trucks or brought their own seating to view the small event.
But as its popularity surged, the penitentiary constructed a 4,500-seat arena in 1969. Today, the rodeo draws such massive crowds that a newer arena now holds more than 10,000 attendees.
The Angola Museum website stresses that ‘inmate participation is entirely voluntary’, and that ‘many offenders see the rodeo as a rare opportunity to feel a part of society outside of the gates and take pride in showcasing their talents’.
Still, several petitions are found across the internet calling for the state to abolish the event, but none have made it to the prison warden or state legislators.
In recent decades, Oklahoma, Texas, and Mississippi have all ended their prison rodeos for profit’s sake – though Oklahoma’s GOP lawmakers recently voted to revive them.
The prison rodeo event endures in Louisiana, the state with the world’s highest incarceration rate, despite being banned across the nation
Black people, roughly a third of Louisiana’s population, account for 80 percent of Angola’s inmates – a place named for the African nation tied to its enslaved past
Pictured: A prisoner whose serving a life sentence for murder, waits for an opening event during the Angola Prison Rodeo held at the Louisiana State Penitentiary in 2023
The prison itself is plagued with a dark past. Once dubbed America’s bloodiest prison, it claimed lives yearly – 100 are reportedly buried in levees they were helping to build along the Mississippi River.
After slavery was abolished, plantations shifted to convict leasing, forcing black people jailed for minor offenses – like straying onto the wrong road – into labor.
By the late 1800s, Louisiana bought the Angola plantation, converting it into a prison.
On a typical day at Angola, a former plantation turned prison behemoth, inmates grind through brutal labor – clearing land, farming crops for global brands – earning next to nothing.
Herman Wallace, one of the Angola 3 – Black Panther Party members who faced over 40 years in solitary – labeled the prison not just a jail, but ‘an institution crafted to crush men’.
Numerous inmates, their identities shielded by Capital B News due to prison rules, described toiling in scorching heat without adequate care or breaks, leading to about 50 early deaths each year.
Today, the prison churns out millions in crops – soy, corn, cotton – found in Frosted Flakes and Coke, powered by forced labor, unique to Louisiana’s laws.
Pictured: The first Angola Prison Rodeo in September 1965
Pictured: Incarcerated men building the levees along the Mississippi River in the early 20th century
The events
The rodeo fuses classic events – bull riding, bronco busting, barrel racing, and steer wrestling – with perilous twists unique to Angola.
For instance, in Convict Poker, four ‘rodeo workers’, the prisoners volunteering in the show, sit at a table as a raging bull storms toward them; the last one seated claims the win.
Prisoner Pinball pits participants inside hula hoops against an erratic bull, the prize awarded to whoever stays rooted in their circle.
The climax, Guts and Glory, sends inmates scrambling to grab a poker chip lashed to a towering longhorn’s head, courting danger for a cash reward.
Angola acknowledges the raw, hazardous nature of these contests but insists they’re overseen by veteran handlers.
Rodeo clowns, skilled at redirecting bulls, leap into action, while inmates don protective gear and medics wait in the wings, per the prison’s website.
Still, the safeguards don’t erase the reality: fractured bones and crushed spines fuel the chaos, sustaining this divisive tradition’s dark allure.
The rodeo brings in $450,000 each weekend in October, yet for prisoners, the real draw is simpler: a fleeting connection to the outside world
Pictured: Inmates attempt to subdue a horse in order to ride it during Wild Horse Racing during the Angola Prison Rodeo
Founded in 1965, just months after the passage of the Voting Rights Act, the Angola Prison Rodeo has become a deeply rooted tradition in southern Louisiana
Angola acknowledges the raw, hazardous nature of these contests but insists they’re overseen by veteran handlers
Rodeo clowns, skilled at redirecting bulls, will leap into action, while inmates don protective gear and medics wait in the wings, per the prison’s website
‘One of the Better Days of the Year’
Though the prison rodeo harks back to a dark American era, inmates call it ‘one of the better days’.
Beyond the arena, dozens sell handmade art, leather, and woodwork – some behind guarded fences, most in the open, sharing hugs and laughs with family.
In those fleeting moments, they shed the labels of ‘convicts’ or mere objects, emerging as creators and contributors, carving out their humanity and identity within a system bent on stripping both away.
Earnings can reach $2,000 yearly for competitors, minus the prison’s 22 percent take.
A word from a former inmate
Troy Grimes, attending the rodeo as a free man nine months after his release, told Capital B he remains torn, returning to see friends still inside.
‘The prison and this prison rodeo is one of the most powerful political tools that is used to stereotype [black people] and normalize our negative environments,’ he said.
He spoke yearly with inmates about the rodeo’s backwardness, but its role as the only event offering free outside connection and extra money kept them in.
The rodeo fuses classic events – bull riding, bronco busting, barrel racing, and steer wrestling – with perilous twists unique to Angola
Pictured: Inmates Derrick Small, Zachary Bench, and James Martin, all serving life sentences for murder, prepare to compete during the Angola Prison Rodeo held at the Louisiana State Penitentiary
‘Here you see how politics and money defines how we’re seen and what we accept,’ Grimes said.
He understands its draw for inmates: cash and contact.
‘I came back to support the guys, kick it with them, and to spend a little money with them, because a lot of these guys, I’m gonna say 90 percent of these guys, don’t have any income coming in, don’t have family supporting them,’ he said.
Still, he marveled, ‘But, I’m like, wow. My people – black people inside here and out – are supporting this?’
He said he doubts the $2million yearly take from the events benefits inmates, despite state claims it supports education, trades, and hospice.
‘When I was in here, it was a different ball game, but now when I look at it, I’m like how are we giving these politicians and the state all this money? Why is anybody outside of these fences supporting this?’
