Lance Avery Morgan
From Vampire Oil Tycoons to Ghostly Rodeo Queens, How Texans Turn Halloween Into High Drama. Hint: It’s Less About Candy, More About Camp & Costume Drama
There’s something magical about a Texas Halloween. Maybe it’s the way porch lights flicker on across sprawling cul-de-sacs, signaling to eager costumed kids that the night of sugar-fueled glory has finally arrived. Or perhaps it’s the memory of small-town streets lined with pillowcases bulging with candy, jack-o’-lanterns glowing like beacons, and the feeling that, for one night, pretending to be someone else was not just allowed, but celebrated, according to our pop culture arbiter Lance Avery Morgan.
Halloween, Identity, And The Cultural Theater Of Dressing Up, Texas Style
Growing up in Texas, Halloween wasn’t just about costumes and candy; it was about community. Kids piled into the back of pickup trucks to caravan between neighborhoods. Churches hosted “Fall Festivals” with cakewalks and hayrides. Families transformed front yards into haunted house spectacles that rivaled the special effects of a Hollywood B-movie, albeit with more tumbleweeds and fewer fog machines. For one evening, the Lone Star State felt less rugged and more whimsical, as if we were all in on a collective game of make-believe.
Like many traditions, Halloween has evolved. What began as that night for children, armed with flashlights and sugar cravings, has morphed into a full-scale cultural holiday that adults have claimed as their own. Once upon a time, Texas Halloween meant pillowcases full of candy, cheap plastic pumpkin buckets clutched by sweaty little hands, and makeshift costumes crafted from whatever your mama could sew, staple, or pin together. There was the large brown box from the garage that could be made into a monster with the right Marks-a-lot scribbling, old oversized clothes where you could pass as a hobo, and even, if you were of means, you could buy a readymade costume that was decades from being flame-retardant, at the dime store.
Somewhere between the invention of the “sexy witch costume” and the rise of Instagram-worthy group ensembles, Halloween parties became the new trick-or-treating. And Texans, never known for half measures, took it to the next level. Costume contests in Dallas cocktail lounges. Haunted hayrides on Hill Country ranches. Rooftop bashes in Houston, where oil executives moonlight as vampires, and Austin creatives push the boundaries of what qualifies as a “costume.” (Think: live cactus, neon cowboy, or an entire mariachi band of skeletons.)
It turns out Halloween gives us something more than just a sugar rush: it offers permission to explore an alter ego. Want to be a rock star, a movie villain, a 1970s disco queen, or even just a sassier version of yourself? October 31st says yes.
No matter how you slice it, in this case, a pumpkin, Halloween has always been a night of masks. But in Texas, those masks often come with a ten-gallon hat, a pair of Luccheses, or a sequined rodeo sash. Growing up in the Lone Star State, Halloween wasn’t just about candy; it was about embodying a character. Sometimes the ones we idolized, sometimes the ones we wanted to parody.
In 2025, Halloween in Texas isn’t simply a holiday. It’s a stage where the cowboy, the oil baron, the rodeo queen, and even the Friday Night Lights quarterback all come back to life: recast, reimagined, and sometimes hilariously lampooned.
Once upon a time, when Halloween belonged to the kids, there were door-to-door candy runs, plastic masks with barely-there eye slits, and the eternal debate: “Fun-size or full-size?” But as the years passed, adults decided they wanted in on the action. Now, the candy aisle is rivaled only by the costume aisle, where outfits are designed with cocktail parties, not playgrounds, in mind. And this evolution makes sense. Halloween is less about candy than it is about transformation. Costumes give us permission to disrupt the ordinary. For one night, we’re not teachers, accountants, or software engineers; we’re Cleopatra, Dracula, or a giant taco. Halloween is an equalizer: the CEO in a zombie costume stands shoulder to shoulder with the college kid in thrift-store sequins.
There’s a reason even the most buttoned-up Texans lean into Halloween costumes. Psychologists call it “the alter ego effect,” the phenomenon of feeling empowered, braver, or more creative when stepping into another persona. In a state known for its larger-than-life personalities, Halloween provides an opportunity to amplify, exaggerate, and escape the ordinary.
At its core, dressing up is more than play. It’s liberation. The cowboy banker becomes a caped crusader. Sure thing. The PTA mom channels her inner Beyoncé in gold lamé. By all means, go for it. The introvert? Suddenly, a bold pirate, quoting Jack Sparrow with alarming accuracy and twice the eyeliner. Halloween allows us to try on new identities, however temporary, and in doing so, reveals something about who we are, or who we’d like to be.
Archetypes In Costume
Texas culture is rich in archetypes, and Halloween provides the perfect sandbox in which to play with them.
The Cowboy: Eternal symbol of rugged independence. On Halloween, he may become a zombie gunslinger, a disco cowboy in silver fringe, or even Woody from Toy Story, a tongue-in-cheek nod to both heritage and parody.
The Oil Tycoon: Big hat, bigger ego. At a Halloween party, the oil baron often appears with vampire fangs, literally sucking resources from the land, or dripping in fake crude oil for comedic effect.
The Rodeo Queen: Usually poised and perfect, the rodeo queen becomes campy when paired with gothic makeup and rhinestoned skull imagery. Think: Dolly Parton meets Día de los Muertos.
The Friday Night Lights Quarterback: In real life, a hero under stadium lights. At Halloween, the quarterback might be undead, bloodied, or, perhaps more frightening, aged into a washed-up coach clutching a broken whistle and a heavily padded tummy.
The Southern Belle/Debutante: Once symbols of tradition, they appear reimagined as ghostly belles in hoop skirts trailing cobwebs; specters of the Old South, dripping with irony and eyeliner.
Masks, Power, And Performance
Why do Texans love these roles so much? Because Halloween, more than most holidays, is about power. The power to reinvent yourself, to parody authority, to blur the line between reverence and ridicule.
A Houston banker dressed as a rodeo clown can suddenly mock both Wall Street and the rodeo ring. A college student in San Marcos painted as La Catrina embodies both cultural pride and a reclamation of Mexican heritage. The mask gives permission to say things we can’t say in everyday life. This is performative identity in action: the cowboy who is also a tech CEO, the oil baron who is also a vampire, the rodeo queen who is also a punk rocker. Texas Halloween reveals that our cultural symbols are flexible, playful, and deeply revealing.
Halloween As Social Commentary
In a state where politics, tradition, and identity run deep, Halloween is a safe space to play with them all. Costumes become shorthand essays:
- A group of Austin creatives dressed as “The Ghosts of the Alamo” might poke fun at historical mythmaking.
- A San Antonio family dressed as sugar skulls celebrates Día de los Muertos while blurring the border between Halloween and heritage.
- A Lubbock teacher who shows up as a rhinestone-embellished tumbleweed offers both comedy and commentary: what’s more Texan, and more absurd, than that?
Through satire, parody, and exaggeration, Texans use Halloween as a cultural critique. It’s less about scaring others than about unmasking ourselves.
Why Halloween Will Always Deserve Our Love
Yes, it’s commercialized. Yes, costumes seem to grow pricier (and skimpier) by the year. But if you strip away the plastic skeletons at the big-box stores and the endless pumpkin-spice marketing campaigns, Halloween still delivers something rare: communal joy.
It’s one of the last truly intergenerational holidays. Little kids get candy. Teenagers get freedom. Adults get alter egos. Grandparents get nostalgic. And everyone gets the gift of shared fun.
Halloween also reminds us of the power of imagination. In a world where we scroll endlessly through curated versions of each other’s lives, it’s refreshing to see people trade perfection for play. Even the act of carving a pumpkin, messy, imperfect, ephemeral, feels radical in an era of filters and algorithms.
The next time you see a cowboy zombie handing out candy, a vampire oil tycoon holding a martini, or a ghostly rodeo queen two-stepping under a disco ball, know this: Texas Halloween isn’t just about costumes. It’s about storytelling. And sometimes the scariest, or funniest, thing we can do is admit how much those stories still haunt us.
So, this October 31st, whether you’re donning a rhinestone cowboy hat in Dallas, painting your face as a Día de los Muertos calavera in San Antonio, or simply passing out candy from your front porch in Lubbock, remember: Halloween isn’t just child’s play. It’s cultural play. It’s collective theater. And it reminds us that sometimes the truest way to reveal who we are is to first become someone else.
