I recently read an article titled “Just Sew Stories.” Innocent enough headline, right?
Then, almost without warning, it introduces two events called “Convict Poker” and “Guts & Glory.” {I’d actually read about the Angola Prison Rodeo many years ago, but forgotten it until I was reminded with this more recent article, I am referencing in this post.}
“Convict Poker” shocking? It should be.
But in the inhuman, violent reality most of us are trying to navigate, shock has become harder to feel, whether it is the deliberate maltreatment of people in our own country or outside of it.
With the horrors coming out of Gaza, and the suffering we’ve grown used to seeing here in the U.S., many Americans have become desensitized to human pain.
So yes, by comparison, we can say that a prison rodeo is more like PG entertainment.
The Angola Prison Rodeo takes place at Louisiana State Penitentiary—better known as Angola—a prison built on the site of a former slave plantation. The prison itself takes its name from the African homeland of many of the enslaved people who were forced to work that land. There is something deeply unsettling about watching predominantly incarcerated people, many of them Black, risk their bodies for public entertainment on the same ground where enslaved people were once treated as property. History doesn’t always disappear. Sometimes it just changes costumes.
The rodeo has been drawing spectators for decades. Journalists, filmmakers, and thousands of visitors have watched inmates get thrown, trampled, gored, and knocked unconscious by bulls. Across countless reports, the same injuries surface again and again: broken ribs, broken collarbones, broken arms and legs, concussions, dislocated shoulders, torn ligaments, facial injuries, neck injuries, deep lacerations, and trampling. Reporters have described ambulances waiting outside the arena because injuries are expected. Former contestants have spoken openly about accumulating broken bones and head injuries over the years.
Yet despite the rodeo operating publicly since the 1960s, Louisiana has never released comprehensive statistics showing how many participants have been injured, how severe those injuries were, how many required hospitalization, how many suffered permanent disabilities, or whether any later died from those injuries. I couldn’t find a public database. I couldn’t find annual reports. I couldn’t find meaningful transparency.
Instead, we’re left with fragments: eyewitness accounts, interviews with former contestants, investigative reporting, and official assurances that participation is voluntary and safety measures are in place. But without actual records, the public is left guessing about the true human cost.
That should concern everyone, regardless of how they feel about prisoners. Transparency is how the public holds institutions accountable. When the data are hidden, accountability becomes almost impossible. It’s hard to measure abuse when the institution controlling the information refuses to document it—or refuses to release what it has documented.
History shows this pattern extends far beyond one prison rodeo. Wherever governments restrict independent observation, suppress records, or limit access for journalists and human rights investigators, abuses become much easier to deny. If injuries, deaths, or violations can’t be independently documented, officials can dismiss criticism while those seeking accountability struggle to establish the full picture. Lack of documentation becomes a shield.
That’s why debates over press access and independent monitoring matter. Critics of Israel’s military campaign in Gaza have argued that restrictions on journalists and investigators have made it much harder to establish a complete, independent record of civilian harm, while Israeli officials dispute many of those criticisms. Whatever your politics, independent documentation matters because it allows evidence—not governments alone—to shape the historical record.
In a nutshell
The image above is a classic example of what my country has come to represent—the reality behind the bespoke suits and designer stilettos of those in power. At the same time, many female influencers, particularly entertainers and celebrities whose fame is built more on image than substance, capitalize on the same culture. They package and sell an aesthetic that rewards wealth, status, and proximity to power, encouraging young girls to brand themselves accordingly.
Institutional and Government control over information makes accountability nearly impossible. We see it when records are withheld, investigations are limited, or disclosures are delayed—including the ongoing controversies surrounding congressional oversight and the Epstein files. The full names of the Epstein Class, including members of Congress, will never be publicly disclosed in the U.S.
Those in power shape not only the narrative and reality, but the legal and institutional framework through which evidence and truth is evaluated.
The decline in investigative journalism in America, is the direct result of media ownership concentrated in the hands of a few billionaires. Before Trump’s second go-around, access to public records could be costly (FOIA attorneys for example) and time consuming, in many instances taking decades before the requested information was released. In 2026, investigative journalism is under direct threat by those who control my country.
With the consolidation of wealth and power, investigative journalism is becoming increasingly difficult and may one day become extinct.
As for creating legal mechanisms that could effectively criminalize investigative journalism—that’s my concern, not my conclusion. Today, some would dismiss it as a conspiracy theory. History has a way of deciding whether such warnings were paranoia or foresight.
In my country, accountability is, for all intents and purposes, a collective illusion.
