The Texas State Fair’s Hidden History

Shalena
Oct 14
3 min read

Updated: Oct 17

Every fall, millions of Texans line up under the Ferris wheel lights at Fair Park for funnel cakes, Big Tex selfies, and that greasy-good fried-everything culture. But beneath the laughter, turkey legs, and marching bands lies a story that Dallas doesn’t talk about loud enough—the Texas State Fairgrounds were once a Ku Klux Klan recruitment site.

Yep, the same grounds that now host the State Fair Classic, where Grambling State and Prairie View A&M’s drumlines shake the stadium with Black pride, were once a stage for white supremacy.

Dallas Was Once a Klan Stronghold

In the early 1920s, Dallas was one of the most powerful Klan cities in America. Local historians estimate that by 1924, one in every three eligible white men in Dallas County wore a hood or supported someone who did. The Dallas chapter—Klavern No. 66—wasn’t some back-road secret society. It was organized, wealthy, and influential.

Judges, police chiefs, pastors, and business owners were members. They held parades downtown, published their own newspaper (The Texas 100% American), and hosted “family-friendly” rallies designed to disguise racial terrorism as moral crusades.

And yes, Fair Park—the same land where the Texas State Fair still unfolds each year—was a key site for those gatherings. The Klan would use the fairgrounds for ceremonies, picnics, and mass initiations. Newspaper clippings from the Dallas Morning News in the 1920s document parades of hundreds of robed members marching through city streets, ending near Fair Park’s open fields to hold recruitment events.

The Dallas Klan Auditorium: Hate in Brick and Mortar

In 1923, the Klan took things even further and built the Dallas Klan Auditorium, a massive structure at South Ervay and Cadiz Streets. Locals called it Klan Hall. It could seat over 2,000 people, with balconies, a stage, and meeting rooms for planning “community projects”—code for maintaining segregation and intimidating Black residents, immigrants, Catholics, and Jews.

Ironically, they held charity drives for poor white families and civic causes to make their public image seem “Christian.” But behind closed doors, the Klan carried out brutal attacks on Black citizens and anyone who opposed their rule.

By the late 1920s, investigative journalists began exposing corruption inside the Dallas Police Department, linking officers and judges to Klan violence. Public backlash and internal scandals finally drove membership underground.

The Fair’s Complicated Legacy

Fair Park was built in the 1880s, long before the Klan boom, but its story mirrors the segregated South’s contradictions. For decades, Black Texans could only attend on one day of the fair’s run—“Negro Achievement Day”—established in 1936.

That day was both a reminder of exclusion and a symbol of resilience. It became a celebration of Black culture, business, and beauty during an era when Jim Crow laws ruled every corner of Dallas. Black-owned companies showcased products, HBCU bands performed, and community leaders gave speeches on progress and pride.

It was our people turning the crumbs of access into a feast of representation.

From Klan Rallies to HBCU Royalty

Fast-forward to today. The same fairgrounds where robed men once stood as symbols of hate now echo with the sounds of HBCU halftime shows, Divine 9 step routines, and Black vendors feeding the culture.

The State Fair Classic—Grambling State vs. Prairie View A&M—draws tens of thousands of fans every year. It’s more than a game; it’s a homecoming for the culture. Between the brass bands, the majorettes, and the tailgates, the spirit of resistance lives on in rhythm and joy.

That’s redemption in motion.

Why This History Matters

When we walk Fair Park today, we’re not just walking through carnival rides—we’re walking on sacred ground layered with both trauma and triumph. Ignoring the ugly parts erases how far we’ve come and how much further we need to go.

Dallas is finally beginning to confront that legacy. Historical markers, academic projects from SMU and UNT, and community tours now document how deeply the Klan’s presence shaped the city.

And for every racist rally that once took place there, there’s now a Black business expo, a gospel concert, or a cultural celebration reclaiming that space. That’s the story we tell at Shalena Speaks: the truth with context, the pain with the progress.

History doesn’t disappear—it evolves. The Texas State Fairgrounds remind us that places of oppression can become platforms for pride. Our ancestors weren’t just victims of history; they were authors of survival.

So next time you’re at Fair Park, sipping sweet tea and catching the Grambling drumline tear the field up, remember: this is what reclamation looks like. The hooded ghosts are gone, and the culture is loud enough to drown them out.

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