Edward Smith* is one of those men whose smile makes the corners of his brown eyes crinkle in such a mischievous, elfin way that no matter how old he gets (currently, thirty-five) he will always invoke the specter of his boyhood. He is smiling at me because I am going to give him five dollars to take my picture in a free-standing jail cell while I model a dusty replica of an old prisoner’s uniform, complete with the black-and-white stripes that used to mark convicts at Louisiana State Prison back in the days of Jim Crow. Edward is serving natural life for second degree murder. I am his guest in a faux prison cell at the 46th Annual Angola Prison Rodeo.
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Louisiana State Penitentiary is more commonly known as Angola, which was the property’s official name in its former life as a plantation, likely as a nod to the African birthplace of many of its slaves. The prison’s grounds span 18,000 acres in rural West Feliciana Parish, Louisiana. In a state that incarcerates the largest percentage of its population of any state in the country, in a country that incarcerates the largest percentage of its population of any country in the world, it houses more than 5,000 inmates, many of whom are serving life sentences. And every year, every Sunday in October, Angola hosts a rodeo.
I wasn’t sure I actually wanted to attend the main event, though conceivably that’s why I’d come this far, two hours driving and another forty-five minutes in line to park. Angola sits at the end of a two-lane highway that has been under construction for at least three years, and apart from October sees little in the way of traffic. (Most prisoners’ families can’t afford to make the trek very often, even if they’re willing.) But the traffic in October! Attendees travel from all over the South to watch Angola’s prisoners compete, untrained, for small cash prizes and cowboy belt buckle trophies. The event is touted as both a family friendly event and a way for prisoners to give something back to the community, to work toward a goal and to interact in some capacity with the public. While the participants have little to no training in the rodeo events, they work all year on their woodworks to sell at an adjoining craft fair and toil for months to ready the stadium.
In an arena with a capacity of 10,000, built entirely by the inmate population, prisoners compete in events such as “Guts and Glory,” in which the winner successfully snatches a poker chip off the head of an ornery bull, let loose in the ring with the contestants. While the participants vie fiercely for first prize in every event, the poker chip is worth both the most money and the most prestige. It’s also the most dangerous event, requiring the participants to seek out the bull’s attentions instead of avoiding it. Broken bones are not uncommon, and although serious injury, paralysis, and death happen infrequently, that they happen at all (and they do) gave me great pause before deciding to bear witness to the spectacle.
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Edward Smith’s photo booth greets every visitor at the main entrance to the rodeo grounds, which is how I found him. The attendees pay for their souvenir photos at an adjacent booth where they can also purchase a fresh steak sandwich; both photo and food are sold by the Sober Group of AA, one of the prison’s many affinity groups. A long row of food stands stretches out on either side: Hot wings and shrimp etoufee cooked and served up by the Full Gospel Fellowship, popsicles and ice cream from the CPR team, Chicken Dinners plated by the Methodist Men’s fellowship – almost forty inmate groups in all. At one booth, the editors of The Angolite sell subscriptions to their nationally recognized, award winning magazine, which is written, edited and produced exclusively by prisoners at Angola. (When I inquired about the price, they were quick to assure me that no state funds were used in the process, though I hadn’t asked.) The prisoners who have earned the privilege of working the rodeo wander the grounds just short of free, differentiated from the guests only by their uniform white t-shirts. I asked Edward how it felt, just short of free and snapping my portrait with his digital camera while I played convict. The last time he’d known freedom, Polaroid photos were state of the art.
“Well, that’s like asking an alligator how he feels to see a bunch of people rolling around in his swamp,” he grinned. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s like…a living satire.” As he spoke, the woman in line behind me demanded that her young son enter the fake cell. “And that’s where you’ll get if you don’t behave. So get in there so I can get a picture.” The child began to cry. He didn’t want a souvenir photo. His mother took on an authoritative tone. “Get. In. The. Jail. Cell.” With a flash and a click, Edward captured his suffering. He asked me to come back to talk later, after the rodeo, when he’d be free from distraction.
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The rodeo arena holds 10,000 audience members. The stands were largely packed when my wife and I rushed to our ticket seats, several minutes before the Angola Rough Riders trotted into the ring for the opening ceremonies. After a prisoner sang, a capella, the most lovely, in key version of the national anthem I have ever heard in a sporting event setting (or possibly anywhere), ten prisoners rode in on their mounts, waving various flags: United States, Louisiana, Confederate. All of the inmate participants wear, as costume, the same ancient black-and-white striped convict shirts that I modeled at Edward’s photo booth. As if to make some kind of obscene point, both of the Riders who carried Confederate flags were black.
Almost immediately, one of the Rough Riders fell off his horse. A rodeo clown helped to catch the escaping animal as the inmate limped out of the ring. I held my breath for the rest of the Riders, whose riding styles ranged from shaky to hanging-on-for-dear-life. Likely, many had been city dwellers in their lives as free men and mounted a horse for the first time as adults, behind bars. The opening ceremony progressed without another fall, though there were more than a few close calls. The audience cheered throughout, whether a rider fell or was trampled or avoided the hooves or clung desperately to the saddle, leaning almost perfectly perpendicular to the flank, while his horse trotted in pretty much whichever direction it pleased, seemingly free of constraint.
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As the heat of the day eased in, I had a hard time keeping track of which event I was watching. Convict Poker looked pretty much the same as Bust Out, which to my eye was identical to Pinball. Four to ten men sat in chairs in the middle of the ring, and some bulls were let loose. Chairs and bodies flew in all directions while the crowd cheered and the announcer traded jokes with the rodeo clown like a vaudeville double act. Occasionally the back-and-forth went on a little too long while the waiting ambulances were filled with bleeding or broken participants, of whose fates we were never reassured or updated. If someone died that day, we’d never know about it. The violence of the bulls was evenly matched by the passivity of the convicts. Event after event unfolded in identical controlled chaos.
The crowd cheered as loudly for the winner as for the man flat on his back, trampled and struggling to stand. They cheered for the rodeo clown who revealed himself to be a professional daredevil during an intermission; he jumped an entire RV on his motorcycle, using only a small ramp in the middle of the sanded ring. They cheered for the men whose impossible task it was to hold an untrained steed still long enough for a third man in stripes to hop onto its back and ride for a few seconds of glory before tumbling off to cower in a fetal position and hope to avoid the hooves as they crashed down, kicking mightily.
It’s possible that they cheered louder for the little capuchin monkeys who, about halfway through the show, rode into the ring on border collies and herded five recalcitrant goats into a truck. They wore full cowboy attire, spurs and vests and hats. Their pinched faces were somehow blank and determined all at once. They rode the collies with straight backs and held their fur with sure, steady hands, well programmed to their task. The goats were in the truck within minutes. When their task was done, the trainer kissed each of the monkeys on the head.
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Edward Smith seemed surprised, and quite pleased, that I returned to find him when the rodeo was over. I asked him what he thought of the event, and he told me what he thought I wanted to hear: No one ever got seriously hurt, all inmate participation was voluntary, everyone was treated well by the audience and the staff, and that nobody feels exploited. To him, the photo booth was just a job, boring at worst and amusing at best, “Like a living satire.” He bragged about his relative authority at the jail, his past rodeo wins and his current position as a clerk, in charge of assigning various rodeo jobs to all the other inmates. “Only three, four people had this job before me.” He lit a cigarette. Another inmate, standing a few feet away, smirked and winked before politely turning his back.
Edward attributed his success to his education – unlike many of his fellow prisoners, he’d attended college for a time and come from a fairly wealthy family. His education was cut short when he’d been convicted of second degree murder. I asked him whether he’d been able to complete his degree at the prison; Warden Burl Cain’s educational program is oft-mentioned and highly respected in criminal justice circles. Edward shifted his eyes back and forth and looked behind him before speaking. “Listen. They sent me to this college algebra class and the teacher, he gave us this book. I took one look at the book and I knew it was eighth grade math. I asked him about it later, and he shrugged and said, ‘This is what we were told to teach you.’ I didn’t go back after that.” He looked backward again, over his shoulder. “Who are you writing this for, again? Could you not use my real name?” He sounded apologetic. “They don’t like us to talk bad about anything.”
Despite his nervousness, Edward invited me back to the rodeo for another Saturday. “Just come find me, and I tell you what. I’ll talk to some people I know and maybe I can even get you into the VIP seats.” The corners of his eyes crinkled and the young boy he’d been once grinned at me, eager and hopeful. He’d been a college boy, once, or at the very least that’s what he told himself. He was an artist and a philosopher, before he was a murderer. He’d been to Italy, twice. His mother was a professional painter. His grandfather ran a successful business. He’d now risen to the top of his contained universe, destined for greatness even in a place devoid of any notion of upward mobility. He very much wanted me to see that.
From the subject of college, he moved on to his unfair trial and from there, to the unfairness of the criminal courts and the other convicts to whom he felt superior, who had sex with one another and who’d never learned to read and were most definitely guilty of their crimes, whereas he’d been convicted of a murder when he’d only been along for the robbery. The narrative of college got away from him, and the extended conversation took him to a place deep within where his unfocused anger touched on the court system, Jews, homosexuals and black inmates. I tried not to flinch.
The careful attention I paid to him, my copious notes and serious nods, was the roar of the crowd as the convict’s head collided with the bull’s red-tipped horn. It was the five hundred dollar top prize for a poker chip and some blood. But Edward couldn’t control his own thoughts anymore than his fellow inmates could hold down a bucking stallion. The force of his desire to be recognized overpowered what little filter he had left for polite conversation. The mischievous crinkles hardened into angry crevices. I watched him degenerate as he spoke, from a child sly with secret to a convict, just a convict, and a lifer at that.
I promised him I’d be back. He shook my hand. I smiled and told him I looked forward to returning, certain I’d never see him again.
Leslie Fenton | Contributor
Leslie M. Fenton is an attorney in New Orleans, Louisiana. Since graduating from NYU Law five years ago, she has successfully survived two different bar exams, one hurricane, four jobs and three cross-country moves. While she previously enjoyed brief professional flings with capital appeals and disability rights, she usually represents victims of domestic violence in family law proceedings. She and her wife are expecting their first gayby in February.
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