It was more of a concrete line than a warning.
On a breezy Wednesday, John Leguizamo looked right into his phone and informed his followers that if they backed ICE, they shouldn’t support him. “Avoid attending my performances. Don’t view my films. Unfollow me. Perhaps because it didn’t waver between politics and performance, the message was very apparent. It was performance—stripped down and live—and it was politics, at full intensity.
Over the past four decades, Leguizamo has regularly switched shape: a streetwise hustler, a flashy drag queen, a talking sloth. But his latest roles—in life and on screen—have grown sharper, inspired by a purpose startlingly akin to that of a protestor carrying a handwritten sign: to be heard while others are hushed.
His recent outburst was inspired by the shooting murders of Alex Pretti and Renee Good, both civilians slain in an ICE-led operation that provoked indignation across the United States. Leguizamo’s family came from Colombia, so the tragedy wasn’t just another story in the headlines. It hit something older. It has been boiling in his work since Spic-O-Rama and Mambo Mouth—shows that exposed the everyday cruelty and absurdities that Latinos in America must endure.
| Full Name | John Alberto Leguizamo Peláez |
|---|---|
| Born | July 22, 1960 — Bogotá, Colombia |
| Profession | Actor, Comedian, Playwright, Producer |
| Known For | To Wong Foo, Romeo + Juliet, Ice Age, Encanto, John Wick |
| Recent Activity | Anti-ICE activism, Bob Trevino Likes It (2024), PBS’s American Historia |
| Spouse | Justine Maurer (m. 2003) |
| Link | Wikipedia: John Leguizamo |
His Instagram page has become a rallying cry in recent days. But this isn’t new. During Trump’s first campaign, Leguizamo termed the discourse around immigrants “cultural erasure in plain sight.” He is actively changing the way we view America, especially its contradictions, rather than merely responding to political events.
When former Superman actor Dean Cain blogged about his voluntary work with ICE, Leguizamo didn’t hold back. “Dean Cain, your pronouns are has/been,” he said dryly, adding, “What kind of loser volunteers to be an ICE officer?” Even while his delivery is sharp, it has the same dark, astute, and intensely personal rhythm that has always carried his humor. It’s comedy wielded like a scalpel.
Part autobiographical, part monologue, and all Leguizamo, I recall viewing Freak in college. Seeing someone delve into identity as if it were a treasured artifact was more than just amusement.
Today, he’s still excavating. His PBS series, American Historia, corrects a long-erased or flattened narrative by reintroducing Latino characters into the historical record. And with his forthcoming performance alongside Lin-Manuel Miranda and Constance Wu, he aims to read classic American texts—this time, through voices that weren’t invited to the drafting table.
By situating himself at the confluence of performance and protest, Leguizamo has made it exceedingly apparent that neutrality is not an option. His stance on ICE, and the terrible policies related to it, isn’t just an actor’s opinion—it’s an extension of a career founded on voicing facts too painful for prime time.
He’s not slowing down at sixty-three. His activism has grown considerably, if anything. He has transformed from a lone voice into something more akin to a megaphone by working with grassroots movements and dedicating his platform to causes like immigrant rights. Notably improved is the cultural knowledge of Latino experiences, in no small part thanks of his efforts both onstage and off.
He isn’t beyond using the camera on himself, though. He freely discusses his own blind spots in interviews, including colorism in casting, the constraints of his previous roles, and the conflict of being “in” and “out” of Hollywood. This type of openness is rare, and extremely successful in shattering the illusion of the faultless activist-artist.
For younger artists, particularly Latino creators, Leguizamo’s trajectory presents a particularly new model: one that doesn’t separate the art from the activism but mixes them so thoroughly that the audience has to connect with both.
His enemies think he’s too loud, too political, too aggressive. Leguizamo, however, would probably describe such qualities as essential. His voice has withstood political criticism, societal changes, and the entertainment industry’s propensity to categorize or forget.
As Bob Trevino Likes It garners quiet appreciation, and his theater work attracts new audiences, Leguizamo remains, above all, consistent. Not in tone—he can move from laughter to wrath in a single line—but in conviction. He is redefining what it means to be a Latino public person in America through strategic alliances, meticulous narrative, and sheer bravery.
He’s not requesting your consent. He is requesting that you either listen or go. And that could just be the most honest invitation Hollywood has heard in years.
