Sifuentes was born and raised in Dallas to a father from Durango, Mexico, and a mother from Chihuahua, with an older brother and two younger sisters. As a teenager at Duncanville High School, Sifuentes was an outcast who took up skating. His memories of his aunt and uncle's house are fortified by the huddles he and his friends would form to watch the comedians who spoke to their kind of humor, like George Lopez and the Jackass crew, while his older cousin worked the night shift at McDonald’s.
He first tried stand-up at 18. It was an open mic, where he says he was by far the youngest in the room. His material drew from all-too-real material, like a story about getting into an altercation with a classmate.
“I printed out a map on MapQuest, and I drove my bike to his house,” he recalls. “We pretended to be friends when his dad answered the door, so he hopped on my pegs, and I took him to the park. Then we got in a fight, and then after we got done fighting, he hopped on my pegs and I took him home.”
Sifuentes, who hosts the monthly Spirited Foo comedy show in Oak Cliff, can laugh about it now, through the filter of nearly 10 years of stand-up comedy experience.
“People like that story because it's so dumb, but it's a real story,” Sifuentes says. “Sometimes true stories are just the funniest thing.”
The morning after we caught up with Sifuentes, he excitedly texted to let us know the show at Ani’s had sold out. It ended up being packed with a crowd of Spanish speakers ready to hear comedy for them and by them.
Lately, the true story of Dallas comedy doesn’t have as happy an ending.
Latino comics across the city find themselves at the center of two converging trends. First, there’s a palpable enthusiasm and demand for Spanish-only comedy events. But conversely, the institutional comedy clubs in Dallas just won’t book them.
The solution? Latino comics in Dallas are going full punk rock, throwing parties in the city’s most unexpected fringes, like record stores, backyards, basements and side rooms at restaurants. Sifuentes feels a parallel to his outcast upbringing.
“Growing up, I’ve noticed that the people who frequent comedy clubs are just older people,” Sifuentes says. “They might not even know who’s performing, but they’re just there to enjoy a comedy show. Nothing too crazy, nothing too political or too dirty. I don’t blame the clubs, because that’s how they survive… they don’t want to hear our shit.”
It was most curious how Sifuentes put it so matter-of-factly. Was the sentiment that clubs didn’t want to give Latino comedians a chance shared across the board?
It appears so, at least to Luis Juarez, a 12-year stand-up veteran in the Dallas comedy scene.
“There was a time when getting work at the clubs was a little tough,” Juarez says. “I feel like it's just like any other industry; if you don't have some sort of representation fighting for you to get on stage, it does force you into doing your own thing.”
But where is the true necessity found? Is it in sustaining yourself financially and forging a career in stand-up comedy? Or is it in honing your craft in the best possible way, no matter the audience?
“Comedy and capitalism is tough,” Juarez says. “There are so many factors that go into whether you're getting booked or not. We talk about pop-up shows or just alternative shows, because they keep it more about just straight comedy, not necessarily always trying to make a profit. Making money is important to pay bills, but you know it's tough when the whole system is set up just to make money.”
It’s a quandary that Juarez won’t face at his next show. On Sept. 19, he’s headlining a benefit event at the Latino Cultural Center, where all proceeds will be donated to foreign Dallas College students who lost financial support as part of Trump’s new "Big Beautiful Bill."
After that, he’s taking some time away from the stand-up world to work on a feature script with the intention of “seeing more Latinos on-screen,” as well as more Latino writers in the film industry.
“Ten years ago, there was almost no representation,” says Dante Martinez. “Like, La Bamba was the only thing we had to point to, and that was a Filipino who starred in it. [Lou Diamond Phillips]. You know, John Leguizamo was, like, the guy.”
Martinez is another familiar face in the Dallas comedy scene. Last month, he hosted the High Waters, Lone Stars music benefit event for the Kerr County Relief Fund, and made an appearance on Juarez’s podcast, The Reckless Wiz.
“When Ralph popped off, everybody was ready for it,” Martinez says.
He’s referring to Ralph Barbosa, the 28-year-old Oak Cliff comedian whose career has skyrocketed in the post-COVID comedy scene, complete with his own Netflix special (which was filmed at the Kessler), a role as a host on an HBO comedy special and a guest spot on The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon.
“He was the perfect dude at the perfect time,” Martinez says. “It was the first time that Latinos of that generation could look on the stage and point and be like, ‘that's us right there.’”
Barbosa is in the midst of a nationwide tour, with upcoming dates in Chicago, San Antonio and a two-night stand in New York City. He’s bringing along fellow Dallas local Jesus Castillo as his opener, who primarily performs in English.
“I started because I felt like I wasn’t good at anything,” Castillo says. “I finally found something I was good at, and that I could be great at. It’s like you get obsessed over it. You want to keep on trying it and trying it, even if you fail. If you fail at your job, you’re going to get fired. With this, you can’t get fired because you’re on your own. If you really want to do that, you’ll do it. I think that was my fire.”
Castillo’s fire has never burned higher than it has right now. Thanks to his dates with Barbosa, he’s just transitioned to become a full-time comedian, something that most comedians will never get to do. Though popular for his stand-up in English, Castillo does have some experience with Spanish comedy, including an opening spot for Mexican comedian Carlos Ballarta.
“I just did open mics and random shows,” Castillo says of his Spanish comedy. “Especially with this guy. His name is Roberto Silva. He goes by 'Monky.'”
Roberto “Monky” Silva is sitting inside his Frisco podcast studio when he’s forced to recall the origin of his nickname for the umpteenth time. He says that it was a nickname given to him by a friend in high school after drawing him as a cartoon that looked like a monkey. He hated it at first, especially when it stuck, but eventually it became undeniable.
By college, Silva was introducing himself to people with the moniker, which he now appreciates for being easy to remember. He's particularly grown into being introduced as Roberto "Monky" Silva at comedy clubs because, as he quips, “Roberto Silva” sounds like a baseball player.
Comedian Roberto “Monky” Silva created the comedy act, “Monky and Panda Zoo Comedy Show,” which is performed upstairs from Mariscos La Reyna, a seafood restaurant in Grand Prairie.
Kathy Tran
He’s one of the biggest advocates for Spanish-speaking comedy and has fashioned himself into a leader in the underground scene in Dallas, organizing barnstorming comedy events that truly champion Latin comics. For his part, Silva looks to Bad Bunny's infectious Latin pride for inspiration for his mission with his own craft.
“He’s doing his thing in Spanish, and he doesn’t care,” Silva says. “Don’t understand? You need to find a way. People started singing his songs in Japan.”
Over a nearly hour-long conversation, Silva never gets more animated than when talking about the Puerto Rican musician. His tight pro wrestling shirt strains at his chest as he stirs a black coffee noticeably faster — the Japan line caused him to pound on his podcast desk with glee.
It makes sense. One of the biggest artists in the entire world is a Latino, Spanish-speaking artist who refuses to compromise or dilute his culture for success, and it’s paying off. For somebody like Silva, it’s the ultimate dream.
Silva first started chasing it during the pandemic, when the shutdown of comedy clubs forced comedians to try to connect with audiences online. Silva organized a virtual stand-up variety show, where a rotating lineup of Spanish-speaking comedians would join his livestream (first on Instagram, then on Facebook) to perform a short set.
Of course, the virtual disconnect made for a much different comedy experience, but the optics weren’t a total curveball to Silva, who was still operating from a revelation he made years prior.
“When I started, I always thought a comedy show needs to be in a comedy club,” Silva says. “Big. Everyone’s silent. All the seats. All the lights. But I performed in New York in a basement, there were four people going to the show, and 11 comedians. No stage, no nothing. Just a couple of seats, more comedians than crowd. I performed there and I said, ‘Wow, comedy is so simple.’”
These days, he’s pushing simplicity to the limit. He operates a makeshift comedy club out of the unused upstairs of Mariscos La Reyna, a seafood restaurant in Grand Prairie. The DIY show is in collaboration with fellow comedian and animal-nickname-haver, Fernando "Panda" Chacon. The events are called the "Monky and Panda Zoo Comedy Show," and cast a wide net when booking. A Puerto Rican himself, Silva's regulars include Castillo, who is originally from Mexico, and Venezuelan comic Jepherson Guevera.
For Sifuentes, laughing offers a universal tongue to honor this Latino diaspora.
“You go to New York or you go to California, people talk different,” Sifuentes explains. “Imagine that, but with countries. Mexicans speak a completely different Spanish than Puerto Ricans or even Venezuelans. So imagine making people who speak different ways laugh. When you do, you know, it's funny.”
Latino comic CAIN Patrick says that Dallas is “top five in the country” for joke-writing amongst its comedians.
“I think people in Dallas actually care about writing,” Patrick says. “If you go down to Austin, a lot of people, their writing is all based on shock value. Who can say the most offensive thing? Who can say the most shocking thing? It's not even really about telling jokes.”
Austin comes up a lot in our conversations with the local Latino comedians. Over the last five years, especially, our fellow Texans in the state's capital have found themselves at the epicenter of a massive influx of contemporary comedians, podcasters and influencers. It's a massive migration, spurred, in large part, by Joe Rogan’s relocation to the city and subsequent opening of his own club, Comedy Mothership.
“I like where Dallas is,” Patrick says. “Not getting the same amount of attention, because you don't want it to become oversaturated. I feel like that's the problem that happened with Austin. It had so many eyes on it, everyone felt they had to move there to make something happen. And that's when you get a scene that has over 1,000 people and has no spots for those people.”
On Monday nights at the Comedy Mothership, comedian Tony Hinchcliffe hosts a weekly stand-up variety show called Kill Tony. The show allows local comics to place their name into a bucket for the chance to be pulled onstage and perform a minute-long stand-up set before a panel of judges, a small audience and millions of viewers on YouTube each week. Hinchcliffe remains a controversial figure, specifically when it comes to comments about the Latino community, such as at a rally for President Donald Trump, where he called Puerto Rico a “floating island of garbage.” Regardless, his namesake show has swelled into one of the most popular programs in the country and a launching pad for young stand-up comedians.
On episode 686 of Kill Tony, Sifuentes heard his name called and was led on stage. Ironically, his minute-long set began with a joke about being bilingual.
“It was all right,” Sifuentes says of his appearance. “It wasn't good for my standard, for what I'm used to doing. I messed up the joke. I was nervous.”
As for Hinchcliffe's comments, Sifuentes isn't forgiving, but seems to see the bigger picture in what the show can do for comedians, regardless of Hinchcliffe.
"Here we have 'son of a bitch,' in Puerto Rico it's 'mamabicho,'" Sifuentes says. "It wasn't a nice thing to say, but at the end of the day I would be a hypocrite if I were to shame someone for something they said on stage. I've said some dumb shit before and I've grown from it. The people he's given opportunities to, especially black and Latino comedians, it's changed their whole life. It does more good for the comedian than it does bad."
Today, the episode has amassed 3.1 million views. Sifuentes says he didn’t expect to be pulled, obviously, but also sat through four other full nights of the show without ever hearing his name called.
Cold feet at open mics are more normal than you’d expect, especially when Martinez first tried his hand at stand-up.
“I would go to Backdoor Comedy Club, and I would sign up and leave,” Martinez says. “I still didn't know how to write a joke or anything, and I didn't really have any friends in the scene. So I would sign up, get real drunk, and then, ‘I'm out of here.’ I would just get drunk and scared, and then I would bail.”
At 29, Martinez finally made it onstage.
“I actually got a couple of laughs that first time,” Martinez recalls. “And then I didn't get a laugh again for a year.”
The jokes at that first open mic were filled with what Martinez now describes as “bluey, dark material,” which he’s since grown out of. Now a seasoned performer for 14 years, Martinez doesn’t perform in Spanish, saying he has “enough trouble being funny in English,” and calls English his predominant language, even though it was his second.
“It was like two lives,” Martinez says. “Your English life at school and your Spanish life at home.”
Martinez describes himself as “white passing,” based on his complexion, and says that he doesn’t feel he’s been at any disadvantage in clubs because of his ethnicity.
“Before you hear me talk, you'd be like, ‘Oh this white motherfucker,’” Martinez says. “But I’m a child of immigrants.”
Regardless, the ethnic divide at comedy clubs was always clear to Martinez, even when he was just signing up to run off before his name was called.
“When I first started, it was just black rooms or white rooms or a club room,” Martinez says. “Now it’s like there is a space where Latinos can get together, laugh together and have community together in a comedy space, which was not something I saw 14 years ago at all.”
The culture shift has been overwhelming enough to no longer go unnoticed. Lilli Lopez has experience as an improv, sketch and theater actor, all of which she says were a means to an end toward ultimately becoming a stand-up comedian.
“The lineups I’m usually part of are predominantly black and brown, or just a diverse lineup,” Lopez says. “That just rings true across my 10 years of doing comedy.”
Working from the intersectional challenge of being both a Latina comedian and a woman, Lopez says she’s used to creating her own avenues of success, and that the paths she’s carved out might be taken by younger generations.
“In the last several months,” she says. “I’ve seen a lot more women doing stand-up.”
But as more Latin comedy counterculture shows are held — and the audience for each increases — what happens if the clubs that rejected them begin to call back and try to host them now? Some comedians are split.
“As Spanish speakers, we have to create the scene first,” Castillo says. “If there's a demand for that, then they'll catch wind of it real quick. We're working towards more diversity, right? So why wouldn't we want to have that space and open it up for even more talent?”
Silva wouldn’t be as forgiving to the clubs that his shows are rebelling against.
“It’s not really an opportunity,” Silva says. "It’s an opportunity for the club. On top of that, the deals in the comedy clubs are bad. They’re charging for the place, they keep the whole bar and food, and some of them split the sales.”
Silva broke down an example pretty simply.
“You bring 100 people,” he says. “These 100 people, they need to consume at least two items minimum, plus you need to pay a down [payment] for the club. And then you need to pay a split at the end. You win nothing. You win nickels.”
In his own way, Silva balances being the ultimate pessimist and optimist at the same time. You get the feeling, hearing him talk, that following the traditional comedian’s route of slowly working through the club circuit is out of the question for him. For now, and for the foreseeable future, he’s both a comic and a punk rock catalyst for change. He’d rather buck against the system than earn a few bucks at an institutional club, and so be it.
He has a kindred spirit in Sifuentes, albeit one much younger and less jaded. Their shared commitment to the resistance is palpable, though. Their respective monthly comedy shows, while beating from different pockets of North Texas — Silva at Mariscos La Reyna and Sifuentes at Top Ten Records — are steeled bases in the fight to make space for the city's Latino comedians.
“I'm not invisible to my community in Dallas, but you could be invisible to people that have power,” Sifuentes says. “That’s what’s so cool about Top Ten Records, it’s us creating our own door, our own opportunity. I want to build it from the ground up, and no one can take it away from me.”
