At just 29 years old, Marcello Hernández has cultivated a professional resume that typically takes a lifetime to assemble. Since joining Saturday Night Live in 2022 as its historic first Gen Z cast member, the Miami-born, Cuban-Dominican comedian has rapidly evolved into one of the sketch show’s definitive breakout stars. His momentum has spilled over into a flurry of high-profile projects, including the release of his debut Netflix special, Marcello Hernández: American Boy, and expanding into film roles in productions like Happy Gilmore 2 and 72 Hours.
His voice acting credits now include Shrek 5, and his presence has commanded major stages through high-profile award-show hosting gigs. Among these milestones, he made history by headlining the first-ever all-Spanish comedy show at the Hollywood Bowl. His cultural footprint has not gone unnoticed by major publications either, earning him a spot among TIME’s 2025 Latino Leaders and a place on The Hollywood Reporter’s Latin Power List. While this meteoric rise might look like an overnight success to casual observers, Hernández views his trajectory as the deliberate result of playing a much longer, calculated game.
That very philosophy of patience and long-term vision heavily shapes how he thinks about personal finance and career sustainability. Hernández recently partnered with Wells Fargo on a digital social campaign coinciding with Hispanic Heritage Month. The campaign’s creative spot highlights ExpressSend Mobile, a financial service enabling customers to seamlessly send money to family and friends abroad through the Wells Fargo Mobile app. For Hernández, whose fundamental understanding of money management was instilled by his Cuban mother, the campaign’s emphasis on cross-border support carries deeply personal significance.
"My mom is always on my ass about money. So I think it’s very important to be financially literate, and I’m happy that I can maybe try to make it a little fun to talk about money," Hernández says. "The stuff about sending money abroad is obviously something that hits home. A lot of Cuban people and Dominican people send money home to their families. So yeah, I think it’s a combination of my mom always being on top of her money, and her spending and sending money home, which is something that any child of immigrants or family of immigrants knows about."
Raised by a single mother, Hernández learned early on that earning an income was only a fraction of financial health. He watched her work tirelessly, save diligently even when funds were severely limited, and consistently find resourceful ways to stretch what little they had.
"I’d be up to go to school at 7:30 a.m., and my mom had already been up for three hours because she worked for an international company, so she was working on their hours," he recalls. "And so I think that level of work ethic is something that definitely inspired my level of work ethic. My mom is a smart woman. She made me understand the value of a dollar at a young age."
One vivid memory in particular distills her lessons on resourcefulness and waste prevention. "You know how when you buy Cuban bread it can sometimes get a bit of mold on it if you don’t eat it? So one time I tried to throw it away, and she said, ‘Don’t do that,’" he says. "Then she cut off some of the mold and told me, ‘Put it in a toaster and then you can eat it.’ I think for her it was about teaching me not to be wasteful. So now if I’m ever wasteful, I’ll definitely feel guilty about it. She definitely instilled that in me."
That uncompromising work ethic naturally followed him into his earliest professional endeavors before comedy paid the bills. "I worked at the front desk at a gym. I worked as a delivery boy for food. In college, I interned at a comedy club. I used to run food. I used to clean the floors if somebody threw up or something," he shares. "When you do jobs like that, you just become grateful."
This humble background directly informs the distinct comedic voice that ultimately launched him to national prominence. Hernández refuses to treat his Cuban and Dominican identity as a manufactured assignment or a superficial role to play; instead, he draws authentically from his lived experiences.
"I think I just talk about what I know, and I know what it’s like to grow up in a Cuban and Dominican household—I’m proud of it," he says. "I grew up in Miami. A lot of Cuban people influenced me. I look up to a lot of Cuban people. I remember, as a kid, Celia Cruz was a larger-than-life figure, and Gloria Estefan was, too. Even when we went to school, we used to read José Martí poems, and then, obviously, all the Cuban baseball players I’ve been able to meet and see play, and then in my industry, Andy Garcia and Emilio Estefan, who have been kind enough to speak to me. It means a lot to me to connect with the people that come from where my family comes from."
While his specific inspirations range from Celia Cruz, Gloria Estefan, and José Martí to historic athletes and legendary artists, the more granular Hernández gets about his upbringing, the more universally resonant his comedy ultimately feels to diverse audiences.
"The more I have hung out with other types of people, the more I’m just observant in general," he shares. "I think that just because Cubans speak Spanish or Dominicans speak Spanish doesn’t mean we’re different. I think we’re very similar to a lot of people in the U.S., and we have a lot in common. Because of that, my comedy can make anybody laugh sometimes because what I went through, they went through it too. They’re just not from where I’m from. I think that gives me a little bit of hope that everybody is going through similar things at home regardless of what language you speak."
This cultural balance serves as the foundational core of his Netflix special, American Boy. Rooted firmly in his formative Miami years, the hour-long special explores the nuances of being raised by a Cuban single mother, navigating immigrant family dynamics, participating in specific cultural rituals, and confronting the culture shock of leaving South Florida for college in Ohio. Beneath the quick-witted punchlines lies a poignant coming-of-age story about carrying your heritage and family history with you while figuring out your own identity.
Furthermore, the hour-long format granted audiences something Saturday Night Live‘s rapid-fire television sketches inherently could not provide: adequate time to truly get to know the human being behind the characters.
"You got to spend an hour with me, and I think the beauty of SNL too is that these things are so quick. The sketches are so quick that you can’t really get bored—it’s fast," he says. "लेकिन when you’re doing something for an hour, it was important for the audience to get to know me. On SNL, you play a lot of different characters, and sometimes you play yourself on a Weekend Update piece or something. But it was important to me for people to know where I came from, my relationship with my family, and just the way I think."
Hernández had been workshopping and refining that specific material since he was 18 years old. When he initially shared it with loved ones—including non-Latino friends—he quickly realized how broadly the underlying themes resonated across demographics. "I didn’t want it to feel like it’s a Latino guy talking to American people," he notes. "It’s like we’re all American. We’re all here. We all sometimes live through the same stuff."
As Hernández has cemented his status as one of the most recognizable Latino comedians in the country, his professional and personal orbit has naturally expanded to intersect with other monumental figures in global culture, including Puerto Rican superstar Bad Bunny. What began as a collaborative creative meeting on the set of Saturday Night Live has since blossomed into a genuine friendship and mutual mentorship. Hernández affectionately describes the global music icon as an older sibling figure away at college.
"He’s like my big brother that’s [away] at college. I don’t see him very often. We don’t talk very often. He’s like in college—he’s doing his thing. But when I see him, it’s all love, and I look up to him. I’m learning from him all the time," Hernández says. "I think from him, the biggest thing I learned is number one: that any moment is a moment for inspiration. It can come to you at any time, which I’ve already experienced. But hanging out with him and seeing how he treats his craft is so cool."
Beyond their creative chemistry, Hernández deeply admires how Benito has managed astronomical global fame while maintaining his core foundation and keeping lifelong friends close. "He’s the type of guy to keep his day ones around him, and I respect that very much," he says. "I’ve also tried to make sure that I can identify those day ones that are really important to me and that bring value to my life and that ground me. I think that’s something he’s been able to do really well."
The extensive years of preparation leading up to American Boy mirror the grueling journey behind Hernández’s seemingly overnight breakthrough. He began performing stand-up at 18, cutting his teeth in gritty dive bars and cramped New York comedy clubs while juggling a patchwork of survival jobs. He sold comedy tickets on the street, worked a headset sales job from his mother’s apartment during the pandemic, and cleaned up after patrons as a service worker at a comedy club, all while refusing to abandon his craft.
That stubborn persistence ultimately placed him in the right room at the right time. After performing a set at prominent comedy venue The Stand, Hernández was selected for a prestigious Just for Laughs showcase, where network scouts for Saturday Night Live first spotted him. Additionally, a comedy club manager who had closely observed his tireless hustle recommended him directly to executive producers, paving the way for the fateful audition that secured his spot on the cast in 2022.
"The biggest advice I’d give to anyone is you have to go after your passion," he reflects. "It doesn’t matter how it works out; do what you love and give yourself a long runway. You have to give yourself a long runway. If it happens before, you could be excited. But if you want it to happen now and it takes longer, you’re going to be disappointed."
Early in his stand-up career, Hernández mentally gave himself a 15-year window to achieve his goals. He reached the grand stage of Saturday Night Live in just seven years—yet even that timeline can sound daunting to aspiring artists. "Seven years feels like a lot. I think if you tell an 18-year-old right now that things are going to change in seven years, they’re going to be like, ‘What? Seven years? That’s forever,’" he says. "लेकिन I think that delayed gratification is a really big thing that I am grateful that I got, and I got it from listening to people that were big and learning about how many years it took them to get to where they got."
This mindset highlights the exact intersection where his professional approach to comedy and his perspective on personal finance fully converge. Both disciplines demand immense patience, calculated sacrifice, and a steadfast faith in incremental progress that may not yield immediate visibility.
"Financial literacy is also about making sacrifices in the short term to be able to enjoy your long-term life," Hernández explains. "And so I think it all goes hand-in-hand. I think anytime you look at something like, ‘I don’t care how long it takes, I’m just going to do it because I know it’s best for me,’ that’s a mentality that I subscribe to. It doesn’t need to happen right now. I need to get 1% better as often as possible."
The unglamorous jobs and prolonged years of uncertainty ultimately achieved far more than merely steering Hernández toward eventual success. They proved to him that he possessed the resilience to endure fear, professional insecurity, and acute disappointment—providing him with an authentic, grounded message for anyone currently weathering that exact same struggle.
"I did things that weren’t pretty, and at the time it wasn’t glamorous, and I didn’t feel super proud of myself sometimes because I wasn’t doing stuff that was cool or traditionally an attractive job," he says. "But now the fact that I did those jobs is what gives me the confidence to push through it. I went through every emotion for this. I’ve been through sadness and happiness, and fear, and insecurity, and every emotion pursuing this thing. So nobody can really take that away from me. You can’t say I didn’t work my ass off."
"Some people maybe just need to hear, like, yo, I know this sucks right now, but those experiences that you’re having now are what you’ll talk about when you are comfortable and successful," he adds. "You’re going to talk about these moments, the stuff that you did that was hard and was tough."
For fellow comedians and creatives currently waiting in the wings for their own major breakthrough, Hernández frequently leans back on advice from a peer that transforms patience from a passive waiting period into an active daily practice.
"There’s this comedian, his name is Comedian CP, and he said something the other day that really hit me hard, and I think more people should hear it, and that is that every comedian is one joke away," Hernández concludes. "I think once you know that, every day is an opportunity to find that joke. If you know you’re just one joke away, how can you not spend every day looking for it?"
