Unable to adjust, undocumented families hit hard by Tampa Bay housing costs

TAMPA — Even if they see little hope of participating fully in U.S. society, many of the estimated 11 million immigrants living illegally in the United States got what they came for — chiefly, relief from grinding poverty and oppression.

But for those living in the Tampa Bay area, the price of life in the shadows is rising with the explosion in housing costs. It’s a trend that cuts across all segments of the community and is driving local leaders to set aside tens of millions of dollars in rental assistance.

For undocumented immigrants like Freddy and Monica Dulanto of Tampa, prospects appear particularly dim. They cannot hope for better jobs and salaries, they have no credit history to show and they don’t qualify for government-backed loans or the new round of rent-relief efforts.

Before the housing market heated up, the Dulantos held out hope they might be able to afford a bigger place for their family and maybe even a home of their own.

“The dream to be a homeowner was never easy to achieve,” said Dulanto, 53, who came to the United States two decades ago from Lima, Peru, with his wife and their two children. “Now, it’s almost impossible.”

Like everyone struggling to pay the rent, undocumented immigrants face a market that has failed to keep up with the demand for housing since the Great Recession of 2008. People are moving to Florida in record numbers during a period of low interest rates, contributing to the soaring prices, experts say.

The numbers are staggering.

Tampa Bay’s rent increased by a record 24 percent in 2021, highest in the nation, according to CoStar Group, a commercial real estate data firm. In the Tampa/St. Petersburg/Clearwater area, 25 percent of renters pay more than 50 percent of their income toward housing, according to The Harvard Joint Center for Housing Studies. A minimum-wage worker would need the equivalent of nearly three full-time jobs to afford a two-bedroom rental in Hillsborough County, according to the National Low Income Housing Coalition.

To many Americans, undocumented immigrants are lawbreakers deserving punishment not help. For decades, sharp political divisions over how to treat them have stymied efforts in Congress to pass comprehensive immigration reform.

Meantime, their numbers have reached 775,000 in Florida, according to 2016 estimates from the nonprofit Pew Research Center.

Linda Wiggins-Chavis, a community organizer for the nonprofit Faith in Florida, sees their struggles firsthand.

“It’s terribly unfair and painful to see families, women and children living almost on the streets or in one-room motels in deplorable conditions,” said Wiggins-Chavis, who works with low-income and working-class communities in rural Wimauma and other Hillsborough County communities.

Desperate for housing, many fall victim to fraud, she said.

Freddy Dulanto recalled the case of a middle-aged Hispanic woman who, even before the recent explosion in housing costs, saw the rent on her one-bedroom Tampa apartment rise without warning by $500 to $1,400 a month. It took the woman nine months of scrambling for places to stay before she found another place to live, he said.

“People are suffering, and in many cases, they suffer in silence because they don’t know where to go or don’t know their rights,” Wiggins-Chavis said.

Among those squeezed by the rising housing costs are Texas-born Francis Garcia-Cruz, 34, and her husband Manuel, 35, who entered the U.S. illegally from Mexico two decades ago.

Garcia-Cruz works in landscaping 10 hours per day, six days a week, earning $13 per hour, and his wife stays at home to care for the youngest of their five children, a 1-month-old boy. They saved up the $1,000 deposit they needed to rent an old mobile home in Seffner, where they pay $900 a month.

“We didn’t have an air conditioner before, but my husband bought a portable one,” Francis Garcia-Cruz said.

They’ve been unable to overcome the stumbling blocks they face trying to find a bigger home — $75 for each application fee, two months rent in advance, a security deposit of half a month’s rent and the backing of a personal guarantor.

What’s more, Francis Garcia-Cruz has a poor credit record and her husband, as an undocumented immigrant, can’t qualify for a social security card.

“We have only one income in the family and we can’t wait for miracles,” she said. “The situation is tough but what else can we do?”

Connections in Tampa helped land a place to live for a family that fled the social and economic collapse in Venezuela and lived as refugees in Peru before entering the United States.

Danys De Los Angeles, 47, arrived here this month with her husband Fernando, 42, and their two children, 14 and 8. They crossed the Rio Grande illegally from Mexico and surrendered to U.S. officials, hoping to gain asylum.

They’re living with a close friend, his wife, their two children and his mother-in-law — crammed into a two-bedroom apartment.

De Los Angeles thought the $1,500 she had saved would be enough to find a place to live in Tampa. Phone calls and internet searches dashed those hopes. The money wouldn’t even cover a month’s rent, she said. Landlords wanted to charge her more because she’s undocumented and can’t present a credit history.

“In Peru we paid $300 for a family apartment,” De Los Angeles said. “I never thought I would have to pay so much money for something similar.”

Like many undocumented immigrants, Freddy and Monica Dulanto settled in the United States after overstaying their visas. They had often talked through the years about ways to earn more money, buy a four-bedroom home and stop throwing their money down a rental hole.

Together, the Tampa couple make about $2,000 a month cleaning homes and offices. They’re limited to minimum-wage jobs because they don’t have legal status, can’t speak English and lack a formal education.

Their two sons, Diego, 23, and Leonardo, 28, contribute another $700 a month. Brought by their parents to the United States, they have legal status through the federal Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals program and attend the University of South Florida. The couple also have a daughter, Nicole, 17.

The Dulantos work 14 hours a day, Monday through Saturday. During the first 18 months of the pandemic, they saw their hours cut but managed to keep up with bills that included $1,100 rent for their two-bedroom, one-bath apartment in Town ‘n’ Country.

“We tried to save every dollar but sometimes things happen,” Freddy Dulanto said.

Eight months ago, the landlord informed them their rental contract was being terminated.

“We felt devastated because we were good renters,” Freddy Dulanto said.

The Dulantos moved into an older three-bedroom, two-bath single-family home near Linebaugh Avenue and 40th Street.

The rent is steep for them: $2,300 per month. The cost of moving in was difficult to raise: $5,900, counting the deposit, two months’ rent and $300 dollars for four application forms.

“It was a big sacrifice for the whole family,” Freddy Dulanto said. “We had to borrow from some friends to pay off that money.”

Added Monica Dulanto, “This is the worst nightmare we have been through in this country. Twenty years of struggling, this was the worst stage.”

The father sleeps in the living room with his eldest son while Monica and Nicole stay in the master bedroom. Diego sleeps in the third room with Holly, their family’s 5-year-old Shih Tzu.

“At least we’re still together as a family,” Freddy Dulanto said. “That gives us strength to continue.”

Editors note: An earlier version of this story incorrectly attributed a story Freddy Dulanto recounted to the Times to Linda Wiggins-Chavis. This story has been corrected.