In an entertainment industry where authentic representation is frequently overlooked, Melissa DuPrey emerges as a commanding presence. A dynamic creative navigating the intersections of culture, comedy, and identity, DuPrey has forged her path, undeterred by an industry that has not always acknowledged her worth. Born and raised in Chicago’s Humboldt Park, a thriving Puerto Rican community that has proudly claimed the neighborhood since the 1970s, she embodies the spirit of resilience and self-determination.
Returning to her hometown after earning double Bachelor’s degrees from the University of Houston, DuPrey soon joined Teatro Luna, Chicago’s first all-Latina theater company. It was there, amidst a world that often overlooked women like her, that she began crafting her voice—quite literally.
Creating Space When None Exists
When DuPrey couldn’t find roles that reflected her identity as an Afro-Boricua woman, she didn’t wait for the industry to catch up—she wrote her own stories. SEXomedy, a one-woman show developed during Teatro Luna's series for women of color, became her breakthrough. Blending humor with hard truths, SEXomedy was a bold, autobiographical exploration of identity, culture, and gender that received critical acclaim and debuted Off-Broadway. “I refused to wait for someone else to give me an opportunity,” DuPrey recalls. “I had stories to tell, and I owed it to myself to create my work.”
Her follow-up solo work, SUSHI-frito, was similarly praised, and critically acclaimed as part of MPAACT’s Signature Series for solo artists. Both shows cemented DuPrey as an artist unafraid to challenge cultural norms and claim her space in the theater world. Her work is not only entertaining but also ethnographic, deeply rooted in the Afro-Latina experience.
But DuPrey’s journey as a writer was not always clear to her. “I never considered myself a writer until I wrote my first full-length play. This was after four solo shows. I wrote those shows for myself because I couldn’t get cast as my own identity,” DuPrey explains. “I refused to wait for someone to deem me worthy—I was worthy, and I had stories to tell.” It wasn’t until she began to craft narratives from her experiences, blending humor with autobiographical and ethnographic insights, that she realized her role as a writer. “Now, I claim that!”
Comedy as a Cultural Bridge
Beyond theater, DuPrey’s love for comedy has taken her to stages across the country, including New York’s comedy circuit and Chicago’s famous Zanies Comedy Club. Comedy, for DuPrey, has become yet another way to navigate her dual identity, using humor to shed light on the complexities of being an Afro-Latina in America. “I bring my bomba drum wherever I go,” she says with a smile, referring to the Puerto Rican folkloric music that grounds her in her heritage. This connection to bomba y plena reflects her broader commitment to preserving and sharing Puerto Rican culture, particularly through her work with Africaribe and Las BomPleneras.
Her regular appearances on WGN's late-night radio have made her a beloved figure in Chicago’s comedy scene. By blending stand-up comedy with cultural storytelling, DuPrey continues to break new ground, building a bridge between laughter and cultural awareness.
A New Kind of Role in Hollywood
As DuPrey’s career expanded, so did her presence on screen. She has appeared in TV series like Chicago PD, The Chi, and the Emmy-nominated web series Brown Girls, as well as films like Two in the Bush and Bromance. But for DuPrey, the road to Hollywood success has been about more than just booking roles—it has been about creating space for Afro-Latina representation in an industry that too often relegates such identities to the margins.
In Hulu’s new comedy series How To Die Alone, DuPrey plays Tamika, a role that authentically captures her Afro-Boricua identity. “It was the first role where I didn’t have to influence the character to reflect me—it was written on the page as my voice,” DuPrey shares. Working with Natasha Rothwell, she was given the freedom to improvise lines, including a moment where her character quotes Assata Shakur. “We rarely hear a Latina quoting these revolutionaries, and that’s what I brought to Tamika.”
This sense of authenticity extended to her physical presence on screen. “Not only did I sound like myself, I looked like myself, and that felt empowering.” In a space where Afro-Latinas are often asked to conform to narrow portrayals, DuPrey’s role in How To Die Alone was an affirmation of her identity.
Early Auditions and Self-Discovery
Like many actors, DuPrey’s path wasn’t without its early challenges. When asked about her first professional theater audition, she recalls, “I had experienced a violent trauma in Houston and moved back home to heal in my community. I auditioned for Teatro Luna with a bomba song because that’s what I used to find myself again.” Although she didn’t land the role immediately, her sincerity and authenticity left an impression. “The director remembered me, and I eventually created work in that theater company for five years.”
From that moment on, DuPrey knew that her Afro-Boricua identity would always be central to her art. Whether through comedy, theater, or television, she has used her cultural background as both a shield and a guidepost, allowing her to navigate an industry that has often overlooked her.
In 2024, representation has become a rallying cry in the entertainment world, but for DuPrey, it’s not just about being seen—it’s about being understood. As an Afro-Latina, she constantly navigates the intersection of race and ethnicity. “Anti-Blackness is still so prevalent in our diaspora,” she says. “We must center those who are marginalized by colorism and lack of representation in all spaces, not just in the media.”
Her work embodies this mission. DuPrey’s writing and performances are unapologetically autobiographical, deeply rooted in her Afro-Boricua identity. Her recent solo show GOOD GRIEF, a non-linear exploration of generational trauma, mental health, and self-parenting, was born out of a desire to challenge mainstream narratives around grief and healing. "It was the most challenging piece I’ve written," DuPrey admits. During the COVID-19 pandemic, when she couldn’t tour the show, she launched “Thursday Therapy,” a digital platform to connect people with wellness practitioners of color.
Exploring Spirituality Through Theater
Spirituality plays a central role in DuPrey’s life and art. Her first full-length play, Brujaja, delves into the Afro-Latina spiritual practices of Lucumi (Santeria), a religion often stigmatized within Latino communities. After the death of her mother, DuPrey sought solace in this spiritual practice, and it became a lifeline during her grieving process. “Santeria was meant to erase and destabilize us under colonization, but I wanted to highlight the compassion of the Orishas,” she explains, referring to the deities central to Lucumi's belief. In Brujaja, DuPrey chose to bring humor and relatability to a subject that is often viewed as taboo, offering a counter-narrative that sheds light on the love and community within these spiritual traditions.
DuPrey continues developing new works, such as SEXomedy 2.0 and GOOD GRIEF, and she remains rooted in her Chicago community. However, as the city's film and television industry grows, DuPrey hopes it will invest more in local talent. “We need to invest in our homegrown talent,” she says, urging for more opportunities to be created in her backyard. “We’re often forced to go to New York or L.A. to continue our careers because there’s a clear ceiling here.”
For aspiring Afro-Latina writers, actors, and comedians, DuPrey offers this advice: “Be dedicated to your craft and yourself! You are the master of your own experience, so stay true to that. Your artistry will keep you aligned, regardless of whether the industry sees you.”
Melissa DuPrey’s career, built on determination, talent, and an unshakable sense of identity, is a testament to self-determination's power. She is an artist who has rewritten the script for herself and an entire generation of Afro-Latina creatives, proving that their stories are not just worthy—they are essential.