Folks, I've been Fandangled
Big discoveries in Big Country
As far as food is concerned, there was nothing too noteworthy about my jaunt to Albany, Texas back in mid-June. Sure, there were some eye-catching restaurants dotted along Interstate-20,1 a quick brewery detour in Cisco, and (upon arrival) an all-you-can-eat-for-20-buckaroos BBQ picnic buffet,2 but my journey’s motivation was not centered around the culinary. Rather, I had made the two hour trek west in the name of artistic curiosity, paying a visit to view the cultural spectacle known as the Fort Griffin Fandangle.
Like a sprinting adolescent steer, the Fandangle3 is not the easiest thing to loop one’s mental lasso around. It’s a history telling filled with tall tales. It has acts and scenes like a play, but it’s not a play. It’s a...well, it’s a Fandangle–a completely made-up word that totally fits, a performative chili of pageantry, song, dance, theatre, rodeo, animal tricks, laughs, lore and more. Above all, it’s an expression of western style and the region itself, an area the locals call “Big Country.”4
In a rollicking two hours, the Fandangle chronicles the Native Americans, the fabled stories of first settlers like George Thomas Reynolds, the establishment of Fort Griffin, how FG became one of the wildest seediest stops on the frontier,5 concluding with the fort’s shuttering and transformation into the town of Albany. The project began as the play Dr. Shackelford’s Paradise, written for Albany’s 1938 senior class by Robert Nail, a hometown hero who’d returned with a degree from Princeton and served as an English teacher. The play’s success led Nail to adapt it into a production entirely performed and produced by the town’s residents, which over the last 84 years has morphed into the Fandangle of today. There are over a hundred performers in the show of every age group, not to mention a full technical, stage, and animal crew, concessions, grounds maintenance, and pre-show parade organizers. Nearly all of them have full-time jobs and lives, and while the show might only perform four times every year, it was quickly evident the Fandangle was a far more herculean effort than I ever could’ve anticipated.
While the show varies some year-to-year (in personnel and performance), the ebb and flow remains the same. Considering three-quarters of the audience were area locals and/or returnees the night I attended,6 “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” makes sense. The familiarity is what drives people back. Brayden, the 11 year-old from a town close by sitting behind me (his seventh straight year in attendance) cackled and sang as the fan-favorite numbers like “A Tall Tale” (about a balladeer who befriends a whiskey-keen rattlesnake)7 and “Canyon Courtin” (a young man in love with a girl with overprotective, pistol trigger-happy brothers, so he marries his sisters to her brothers and all is well) came along. Whether it was Brayden, the music, or the confluence of the two, I laughed too.
Then somewhere in the second act, as I clapped along with hundreds in the crowd as pairs of kids ages 5-15 performed their intricate square dance routines, I was hit by my outsiderness. The fact that it was one of the few evenings in the last few years I felt completely outnumbered, in a minority. Not on a racial/ethnic/religious level,8 but in the sense that I was the visitor, the one who was behind the curve, needing to catch up. It took me back to those late elementary/early middle school years, venturing into my first sleepovers and play-dates. I didn’t realize everybody ate, slept, brushed their teeth, and internally decorated differently until I stepped into the home worlds of others. Dinner was most illuminating–seeing the plates they used, if they drank milk or alcohol at the table, how the veggies were cooked and served, if grace was said. It felt as fascinating as it felt imposterish.
It was this same sense at the Fandangle. I put all my best efforts into trying to be part of this community for one night, and I couldn’t. No matter how hard I tried to peel off my urban, liberal-leaning layers, I still found my brain lingering on the casual reinforcements of dated gender norms, hints of appropriation and the occasional dash of historical whitewashing. For my east coast private theatre school sensibilities, it was a feast: “What’s the goal? What are they trying to say? Why couldn’t they get better singers and remember every line and hire indigenous actors?”
But looking down, printed in bold type in the center of my program, were Robert Nail’s words:
“We are a people’s theater, a dramatic interpretation of ourselves on our home ground. If we please those who come to see us, we are deeply gratified. Yet we keep remembering that the show grew out of us and is principally for us.”
Nail nailed it for me. Though the content of the Fandangle has plenty of significance, it’s the sheer act of communal growth, action and collaboration that makes it memorable. It’s living proof of what can happen when people come together and work hard to make something from scratch, when we feed our communities with pride, culture, values, heritage, and all that comes with them.
At least in my life, this phenomenon can be rare to find. I”m living in a time where I can be as picky with my worldviews as I can with my food. I stock my mental pantry with exactly what I’d like to consume. There used to be an age where we’d still have to go to the store and at least be exposed to other options, but algorithms (literal and metaphorical) have made it too easy to click and chomp. What need is there to even pretend to eat our spinach if we can choose to swipe it away altogether?
In many ways, crafting one’s own silos can be helpful–even essential–for getting through life’s trials and tribulations. I don’t deny that I enjoy rolling in my own curated slop, nor do I think we should spend our entire lives attempting to perpetually be fish out of water. But sometimes, many times, likely more than we’d like-times, it is worth making the effort to seek experiences beyond the silo. Not simply to briefly cleanse our palates, but enhance our capacity for and desire to taste in hopes of becoming better informed, empathetic beings. Sweet, salty, sour, bitter and umami all satisfy, but nothing satiates more than a flavor-blast of culture.
As I powered on my Toyota hybrid sedan, joining the lineup of (84%) Ford F-150s trundling towards the gravel road exit, I was satiated. Full. Of energy, curiosity, exposure, confusion. I had come a long way to dinner, only to see the meal was not really for me. Yet I was grateful to have a seat at the table. And although I didn’t know the words to grace, I drove back to my bubbles feeling #blessed to have been there.
*The Fort Griffin Fandangle runs two weekends in the latter half of June each year. We’re 10 months away, but I’d keep it marked on your calendar.*
*I couldn’t get any shots of the performance in-progress. It was dark and I didn’t want to watch the entire show through a camera viewfinder, but feel free to take a look at my pics from the pre-show parade and at a few other stops along the way.*
Which you’re a moron to refuse, even if the ice tea sorta rivaled the brisket…
Pronounced FAN-dangle, not fan-DANGLE. What are you, an out of towner??
A completely new term to me, but it makes sense. It’s not west enough to be west texas, not northwest enough to be the panhandle, too far north to be hill country, not far north enough to be texhoma, so you’ve got to call it something! Or perhaps put most simply, as I overheard someone explaining at the BBQ picnic, "we're in god's country."
While the words booze, gamblers, criminals and whores were never explicitly said, they were certainly implied by the high density of fishnet pantyhose and cap gunshots used over the course of the 15 minute sequence.
This was according to the pre-show live survey, conducted by the play's director. The eldest and farthest traveling attendee (92 years old and Germany, respectively) received Fandangle t-shirts.
Brought to life by an impressive combo of puppetry and RC cars. God, I love theatre.
Though if I'm ever asked, I've trained myself to say I'm a Baptist.
More to come?