They fled Cuba in search of the American Dream. Hurricanes upended everything.
Priced out of Miami, scores of Latinos have settled in the Fort Myers area. But back-to-back storms are proving costly.
“I don’t want to see another tear,” Dorita Machin, 72, said. “You came to this country from Cuba with nothing. You have to keep going.”
Gonzalez and her husband built here, in Cape Coral, after getting priced out of Miami — the historical destination for generations of Cuban Americans and other Latin American immigrants scratching out new lives in the United States. The community in the Fort Myers metro area of southwest Florida has drawn thousands of immigrants and Hispanic families over the last two decades.
Now as they settle in a more affordable part of Florida, they are experiencing yet another obstacle: successive, intense storms supercharged by climate change and causing billions of dollars in destruction. Three major hurricanes have pummeled the area in the last two years. The storms have tested residents across the Gulf Coast, but for the newest arrivals, it has also challenged their very conception of America.
“This was my American Dream come true,” said Gonzalez, who crossed the U.S. border with her husband and 5-month-old son in 2015.
Cape Coral was conceived by developers as a “Waterfront Wonderland” during the real estate land boom in Florida after World War II. New residents — including soldiers who had trained in Florida during the war — were drawn to the state’s sunny climate and white-sand beaches. In Cape Coral, developers built more miles of canals than one can find in Venice, and for years, mostly older, White and affluent residents moved in, intent on escaping winter for paradise.
As Florida’s population grew, the demand for housing climbed. Wetlands and coastal marshes were transformed into neighborhoods with two-story homes and pools. At one point, Cape Coral and its neighbors led the nation in new home construction.
The region became particularly attractive for first-time home buyers, and Hispanics led that population growth. Today they comprise nearly a quarter of all residents in the Cape Coral-Fort Myers metro area — double the number from a decade ago. Prices are climbing but overall are still cheaper than bigger cities like Miami.
“We expect that by 2030 the percentage of Hispanics will be in the upper 20s. By 2050, it will be pushing 40 percent,” said Shelton Weeks, a Florida Gulf County University real estate professor. “Over 46 percent of our K-12 enrollment in Lee County is now Hispanic. When I moved here in 1997, it was nowhere near that.”
Dailyn Madrigal, 39, and her Cuban American relatives are among those who were lured by the idea of the Fort Myers dream. They immigrated to the United States about two decades ago, when she was a teenager. The Madrigals first tried their luck in Miami and the Florida Keys. They opened Cuban restaurants but found it difficult to compete against scores of more established businesses. In 2014, they decided to pack up and start fresh in southwest Florida.
Madrigal found success as a real estate agent and began saving her money. Her family still wanted to go back into the restaurant industry. In 2021, the Havana Cuban Restaurant in North Fort Myers went on the market. It checked off all the boxes. It was located in a strip mall with other Latino-owned businesses and the owner of the property offered an affordable 10-year lease.
She bought the business, took over the unit and created jobs for her mother, father and a few cousins. They served up the type of home-cooked meals Cubans far from home still longed for — congri rice, savory roasted pork, boiled yuca.
“We made everything with love, as if your abuela had cooked it for you,” Madrigal said.
It had been a stable source of income until a little over a week ago. Hours before Hurricane Milton was scheduled to make landfall, the sky darkened and a twister ripped off the roof, blowing out the windows. Madrigal waited two days to work up the strength to see the damage.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” she said as her shoes crunched over shards of broken glass.
The tornado ruined the restaurant’s state-of-the-art espresso machine. The family’s commercial freezers were left inoperable. Insulation and ceiling tiles littered the floor. The wind was so powerful it bent the steel of a cell tower across the street.
Madrigal looked at a fallen wall decoration that reads, “The best is yet to come,” caked in powdery drywall. She doubled over and sobbed.
“All that sacrifice,” she asked. “What was it all for?”
Madrigal never doubted that in America, she would be rewarded for her hard work. But that alone feels inadequate in the face of climate change.
“Where do we go to hide,” Madrigal said, “if the weather is doing this everywhere?”
The last thing Madrigal and her family prepared for was a tornado. She doesn’t know if their landlord has the kind of insurance that will cover their specific losses. She is doubtful they can afford to pay the interest on a loan from the U.S. Small Business Administration — the federal agency charged with assisting businesses like hers. Her biggest fear is not having enough money to pay for all the repairs.
Madrigal’s father, Manuel Madrigal, looked down at the waterlogged ceiling tiles on the floor as he inspected what remained. He himself had installed much of what now lay in tatters everywhere.
“This was all done with these hands right here,” he said.
At their charred Cape Coral home, Gonzalez and her husband, Lester Roque, picked through the ash to save anything they could. Roque reached down and recovered two wristwatches, their metal bands now charred. They searched the rubble where their dresser had been, looking for any gold jewelry that survived.
The couple had spent years saving up for all of this. For most of their first decade in the United States, they lived in a cramped apartment in Miami with other family members. But they worked extra hours, never took extravagant vacations and put away every penny they could. Roque became a truck driver and Gonzalez studied for her real estate license. Both are now U.S. citizens.
Cape Coral offered them something they could not obtain in either Cuba or Miami: A home built and designed exactly how they wanted it. They bought the land and constructed a four-bedroom house with a three-car garage, overseeing every step of the construction, starting with the first cinder block.
Two months ago, they added a pool for their two young children. Gonzalez’s mother had her own room and helped with child care. The home was walking distance from their kids’ school and the local library.
“I’m happy to be alive,” said Roque, who was inside the home when the fire began and was saved by neighbors, who are also immigrants.
He blames the blaze on infrastructure failures, and believes the utility poles were buried too shallow to withstand the storm’s wind. Insurers and government agencies have yet to visit the family or provide any guidance as to how quickly they can move forward in obtaining aid or a loan for repairs.
“I feel frustrated, not for the material things, but because I thought this was a country that protected its people. What if my children had been inside?” Roque said. “I risked my life to get here. Why do I pay taxes? It feels like a scam.”
Nearly every utility pole on Chiquita Boulevard toppled amid 40 mph or more gusts. Neighbors contend the poles weren’t buried the standard six feet, leaving all their new homes vulnerable to live wires. Firefighters did not immediately respond to the blaze because the wind speeds were too hazardous for rescue crews.
The Lee County Electric Cooperative, which provides utility service in the area, said they periodically inspect the poles they or their contractors install in compliance with national safety regulations. Through a spokeswoman, the utility said they could not comment on the family’s situation without learning all the facts.
Gonzalez said she can’t help but feel neglected by local authorities. The pain is too fresh to temper her outrage.
For both families, the future feels uncertain, and their losses reverberate beyond them. Madrigal financially supports her 90-year-old grandmother, aunts and uncles in Santa Clara, Cuba, so they can buy food. Gonzalez and Roque also have relatives on the island who will inevitably struggle while they cut back on their usual remittances.
Their largely Hispanic and immigrant neighbors in southwest Florida are rallying to support them. A Venezuelan real estate agent is letting the Gonzalez-Roque family stay in a rental property for a few days. A Facebook post written by one of Gonzalez’s friends has been shared dozens of times on pages for Hispanics in Cape Coral. Spanish-speaking strangers have stopped by to donate mattresses, children’s clothes and money. Others have offered prayer and words of encouragement.
Loyal customers have likewise come through for the Madrigal family, offering to help clean up and bring some order to restaurant’s chaos.
Madrigal is trying to put things in perspective. Her life in America has been work, work and more work. Her own father missed her college graduation to work at their restaurant in Miami. It hurts to remember.
Maybe, she thought, it’s time to reevaluate her life.
“A mal tiempo, buena cara,” said Madrigal’s husband, Ordiel Gonzalez, chuckling as he swept up glass and debris. A tangled but still hanging wind chime with a “mal de ojo” — a protective evil eye charm — hung nearby. “When hard times come, put on a brave face.”
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