Staging Latinidad: Gigi Guizado on Theater, Translation, & Community in Las Vegas

Gigi Guizado

While Latinx visual artists initially inspired me to stay in Las Vegas, I’ve since found that Latinx creatives are thriving in many other artistic arenas as well. In the wake of the Los Bukis Las Vegas residency and after attending Ana Gabriel’s October 2024 concert, I sat down with Vegas-based actor, translator, and producer Gigi Guizado to talk about the recent surge in readings and performances of Latin American and Latinx plays across the Vegas Valley. Nearly a decade into my time teaching in Southern Nevada—where Latines make up approximately 32% of the population—the growing range and richness of these productions deserve sustained attention.

Part I

Erika Abad: Since meeting you, this is the first time I’ve seen such a strong concentration of Latinx-centered plays and readings taking place over a single academic year. Given how long you’ve lived in Las Vegas, why do you think it took so long for this to happen? And why is bringing Latino plays to the Vegas Valley important to you?

Gigi Guizado: First, I want to give a shoutout to Vogue Robinson for introducing us.

Part of why it's taken so long is because we don’t have enough Latinx folks in decision-making roles—not just in Las Vegas, but across the theater world. If there aren’t Latinos on boards of directors, as artistic directors, or directing productions, then who’s going to advocate for these plays? Too often, there’s no one even suggesting them.

Another reason is a very limited awareness of Latinx theater. And then I’ve heard this third reason over and over locally: “We’d love to produce that play, but we don’t think we have the talent to cast it.” When I push back on that, I run into a bigger issue—many people outside the Latinx community have a narrow, stereotypical idea of what a “Latino” looks like. Unless someone has a traditionally Hispanic name, darker skin, dark hair, and eyes, they’re not always recognized as Latinx. So those are some of the structural barriers.

Erika: That resonates. While my skin tone codes me as “other,” my last name leads people to misidentify me constantly. I’m thinking about the August play reading we were both part of—during the Q&A, we touched on how our stories have been systematically erased from education and the arts. Then I saw The Bruja and the Skeptic at a local university, and I was struck again by the range of skin tones among the cast. It’s a reminder that we contain multitudes—so many stories.

Gigi: Absolutely. I find myself explaining this all the time. We’ve been telling the same trauma narrative—especially around immigration—over and over again. And while those stories matter, they’re not the only ones. Can we please tell something else for once?

Erika: That makes me think about a stat I saw after the election. According to the National Association of Hispanic Real Estate Professionals, in 2023, 49.5% of Latinos were homeowners. That really flies in the face of a lot of assumptions. In light of these overlooked narratives, can you talk about how you connected with the UK’s Out of the Wings Collective to bring Antígona to Vegas last summer?

Gigi: That was a breakthrough moment. When I first started translating plays, I struggled to get traction locally. People thought it was interesting, but not enough to actually produce them.

So it was incredible to discover a group of folks in the UK doing exactly what I’d been doing alone here—translating and sharing Latin American plays. I joined their meetings however I could, even if it meant Skyping in from an iPhone on a table. Eventually, we read one of my translations. Then I submitted it to their staged reading festival, and it was selected! I wasn’t about to miss seeing one of my translations on stage, so I made the trip. That opportunity opened so many doors. Since then, I’ve participated for several years, and now there’s growing local interest too.

Asylum Theatre has since produced several of my translations.

Erika: I know Asylum did a reading of one of your grandfather’s plays—A Time to Love, right? What was that experience like?

Gigi: It was beautiful. We performed it as part of an international solo play festival organized by World of English Speaking Theatres (W.E.S.T.) and ProEnglish Theatre of Ukraine. My grandfather, Rafael Guizado, wrote many solo plays—monodramas—which I’ve since learned are a longstanding tradition in Latin American theater. Every country has its own monologue canon, and people actually go to the theater to see them!

My grandfather was one of Colombia’s most prominent writers of monodramas. When colleagues in Ukraine and the UK invited us to participate, I proposed translating and directing one of his works. That’s how Veteran’s Day Against Music came to be part of the festival.

Erika: Your performance reminded me so much of the playwright. And it got me thinking about our earlier conversation—about internalized misogyny and the way the character navigated both patriarchal expectations and her own agency.

Gigi: That play was Antígona by Peruvian poet José Watanabe, translated by Cristina Pérez Díaz, who’s Puerto Rican. I discovered it through a reading hosted by Out of the Wings. I was struck by its lyricism—it was written by a poet and translated by a poet—and the way it reimagined Antigone through a feminist lens.

I pitched it to Asylum Theatre, and Artistic Director Sarah O’Connell immediately connected with it. We produced it here in Las Vegas and eventually took it to London.

Erika: That’s what made it so powerful. A Peruvian play, translated by a Puerto Rican, performed by a Colombian-American in Las Vegas—it’s such a powerful journey. How did you find the solidarity to begin translating your grandfather’s work?

Gigi: I was born in Texas, raised in the Bay Area. For part of my childhood, my Colombian heritage was hidden from me. After my mom remarried, I think she wanted to protect me from feeling like an outsider in our blended family, so that part of my identity was just... quieted.

I spent a lot of time in Latino households—friends, neighbors, babysitters—and always felt welcome. So later, when I encountered prejudice within the Latinx community, it shocked me. I’d befriend students from other Latin American countries, and then find out they didn’t get along because of national rivalries. I was stunned. I thought we were all one big family.

Later, I reconnected with my father and moved to Miami. That’s when I first heard derogatory terms for other Latin American groups—more shock. But I also grew up in a country where all Latinos are lumped together. Even white Latinos aren’t always seen as white. I often say I grew up on the fence between whiteness and Latinidad, with a view of both sides. But whenever I step down on either side, I don’t quite fit in.

That perspective makes me deeply committed to inclusivity.

Part II

Erika: Just hearing about these performances makes me think of the pride I felt seeing Ana Gabriel and Los Bukis fill arenas on the Strip. We can buy homes; we can fill stadiums. So why do you think it's vital to bring Latinx theater into this space?

Gigi: It comes down to erasure. I’ve loved performing arts my whole life. I studied theater seriously—but I was never taught anything about Latin American theater. And I went to college in the Bay Area, one of the most diverse places in the country. We covered Greek drama, of course, and even touched on Asian forms like Noh and Kabuki. But I kept waiting for Latin American theater to come up... and it never did. But I knew it existed. I had my grandfather’s published plays from Colombia.

When we had to choose a contemporary play to write about, I proposed Complemento by Rafael Guizado—my grandfather. I offered to translate it so my professor could follow along. He shut it down immediately, saying, “We’re here to focus on the masters of modern drama.” He assumed my grandfather’s work wasn’t “masterful.”

Erika: That’s wild—especially when you think about Gabriel García Márquez gaining global recognition around that same time. And I’ve seen similar things in my own work. In a teacher workshop I ran, one student wrote about something their dad had taught them. I told them: bring that into the classroom. Celebrate it. Have your students do the same with their families. That’s how we honor our histories and brilliance—even if it’s not what academia traditionally deems “valid.”

Gigi: Exactly. I think the professor assumed my grandfather’s play was just some family heirloom. He didn’t know his place in Colombian theater—or care to look it up.

Since then, I’ve spent much of my career trying to recover the knowledge my formal education didn’t provide. I translate these plays not just to honor my heritage but to share them with others.

And it’s not just about translation. I also direct plays by US-based Latine playwrights. Both are essential. If you’re a Latinx actor with real talent, you need roles that challenge and elevate you. Too often, the roles we’re offered are one-note: the busboy, the janitor, the drug dealer, the prostitute. These roles are limited, stereotypical, and don’t allow us to grow as artists—or maintain our dignity.

I always think of the late Lupe Ontiveros. She played domestic workers countless times, including in Selena as Yolanda Saldívar. She was a brilliant actor, and if you listen to her interviews, she speaks so eloquently about these limitations.

That’s why I do what I do—find the plays, translate them if needed, advocate for them, direct them. Without that work, it’s so much harder for our actors to rise.

Erika: What you’re describing is exactly what inspires me to write about local artists in the Vegas Valley. Despite the dominance of the tourist economy, artists like you, Justin Favela, and others are creating pathways and opening doors. Whether I’m talking informally with emerging or younger artists, they all know how to identify and credit local inspiration.

What’s happening here—in a valley that reflects what the rest of the U.S. might look like in 25 years—is that we’re taking up space in all areas. We’re maids, domestic workers, business owners, construction workers, educators—across the board, despite the pressures of a global tourist economy.

And then I see your work. Over the years, you’ve brought to the stage the ways so many of us imagine ourselves beyond stereotypes—especially here, where that kind of representation isn’t always expected. It feels not just meaningful, but absolutely necessary.

Gigi: Yeah, absolutely. These are stories that deserve to be on stage—not as background or nameless characters, but as fully formed people.

I’ve had the pleasure of presenting some of these plays. For example, at A Public Fit Theatre Company, we did a staged reading of Lydia by Octavio Solis. The lead character has a powerful, complex immigration story—but that’s just one narrative among many.

It’s been my lifelong, self-motivated mission to explore the full spectrum of Latine experiences through theater. I love casting these plays, creating those opportunities for my fellow actors, and giving audiences from all backgrounds the chance to either see themselves reflected or encounter new representations.

Because if your only exposure to us is through stereotypes, then—guess what?—here’s a play about love, about faith, about a joyful family. When’s the last time you saw that? Have you ever seen that?

Poster for References to Salvador Dalí Make Me Hot

Erika: The way you talk about producing plays reminds me of how I’ve written about Queer Latino representation on television. There’s so much overlap—it would make for a great conversation sometime. But let’s switch gears: What was the play you just read at the end of September?

Gigi: That was Double Panic by Cuban playwright Virgilio Piñera, translated by Kate Eaton. It was produced by The Asylum Theatre and staged at the Marjorie Barrick Museum.

Coming up in April, A Public Fit is producing References to Salvador Dalí Make Me Hot by José Rivera at the Charleston Heights Arts Center. And on April 12th, the second installment of Latino Poetry: Places We Call Home is happening at the Winchester Cultural Center—it’ll feature music woven with poetry readings.

Erika: I remember when you told me about Salvador Dalí Makes Me Hot. You mentioned it would be the first fully staged production of a Latino play in Las Vegas—at least to your knowledge.

Gigi: Yes, this is a mainstage production. It’s not a second-stage or fringe show. This is part of the official season, with full budget and support—all the artistic and financial resources the company has to offer are going into this one. That’s significant.

Erika: Yeah, ohh—I’m trying to think of a concluding question. I can’t land on just one, but here’s something I’ve been thinking about. One thing I love about seeing these plays continue to get produced is how they push us to think critically: how do we make sure our communities actually have access to them? Like, Ada Limón is here, but not all of us were in the room. So, based on your experience, what are some recommendations you have for ensuring more of us are in these spaces—engaging with art made for us, by us?

Gigi: That’s a great—and tricky—question. Honestly, I’ve put more energy into that this season than ever before. I tend to focus on the creation of the art, less on the marketing. But to be a successful professional, you have to understand the full picture.

That said, I’ve really tried to do my part—and so have companies like The Asylum Theater and A Public Fit Theatre Company. We’ve made a real effort to make most of these offerings free to the public.

At the start of the season, I did the math. Tickets for Antígona were $10, and References to Salvador Dalí Make Me Hot: $45. That’s $55 total. But if you look at the full season—all the plays, readings, and events we’ve put on and are planning to stage—most are free. If someone attended every event, the average ticket price would come out to around $7 per show. That’s less than a movie ticket.

So, my hope is that by reaching out in all the ways I can and building community around these events, we grow an audience. Folks who come to the first show come to the second, tell a friend, show up to the third—and by the end, maybe they feel inspired enough to invest in that $35 or $45 ticket. Not because they’re forced to, but because they’ve been part of something all along.

Erika: Yeah, no—absolutely. I’ve had students ask, “Wait, there are people producing Latino plays here?” And I’m like, “Yes! Lots of them!” And then the next step is: how do we get you in the room?

That’s the work ahead of us—not just producing these stories, but normalizing access. Making sure people feel like they belong there. Because depending on who you are, or where you’re coming from, it’s easy to think it won’t last—or that it’ll always be there.

And the truth is, especially in this political climate… it might not always be there.

So here’s to showing up. I think this is a great place to end our conversation: passion, purpose, and showing up.