National Policy, Hometown Problems

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Southshore Story Time

The Circus Town

There are towns in Florida built on citrus. Some on phosphate. Gibsonton was built on sawdust, spotlight, and the quiet footsteps of people who had spent most of their lives being stared at.

In the early days, they came by train. By trailer. By foot, even. Sword swallowers, contortionists, fire-breathers. Men too tall for doorways, women too small for a seatbelt. They came not for fame, but for something much rarer…rest.

Gibsonton, Gibtown, as locals call it, was unlike any other place in America. Here, city zoning codes allowed circus animals in your front yard. You could build a trapeze in your backyard. You could walk down the street in a clown suit and no one would ask a thing.

But beyond the novelty was something quieter. A kind of pact. Those who came here kept each other’s secrets. Performers who had traveled the world found peace in fishing, running bait shops, or fixing engines no one else could. They didn’t retire, they disappeared into the fabric of the town.

And yet… if you ask around, even now, you'll hear whispers.
Of things that weren’t buried with the tents.
Of rules that still get followed, even if no one remembers who made them.

And of the names no one says out loud.

Featured Story

One Family’s Story Behind the Headlines

If you’ve lived in Southshore for a while, you know that places like Wimauma and Ruskin carry a unique legacy—one rooted in agriculture, labor, and a quiet, often unseen part of our region’s identity.

These towns have long been home to migrant workers and their families. Generations have planted, harvested, built, and worshipped here. They are neighbors, classmates, and coworkers. Whether you see immigration as a legal issue, a political one, or a humanitarian concern—there’s no denying it comes with a very real human toll.

This week, we were reminded of that through the story of Ashley Ambrocio, a 19-year-old from Wimauma whose father, a longtime pastor and handyman, was recently detained during his routine ICE check-in.

Maurilio Ambrocio had been attending those appointments without fail for 12 years under a stay of removal. Then, one day, he simply didn’t come home.

Now Ashley is helping lead her father’s church. She’s running his business. She’s holding her family together while checking in with him via video calls from Glades County Detention Center, hoping for good news, and leaning on her faith for strength.

Whatever your position is on immigration, it’s stories like these that remind us policies have ripple effects—not just on those detained, but on the families and communities left behind.

For many in Wimauma and Ruskin, this isn't a news story, it’s everyday life. It's a missed birthday. A business that can't operate. A church with an empty pulpit.

We’re not here to debate policy. But we are here to say this: Southshore is built on stories like Ashley’s. And we believe they deserve to be seen, heard, and treated with dignity.

If you’d like to learn more about local immigration resources or know someone in need of legal support, we’ll include helpful links in this week’s issue.

Because no matter where you fall politically, humanity should always be the common ground.

Things to do

What’s Washing Up on The Shore This Week

AROUND TOWN

Featured Summer Camps & Training

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Until next time,

Keep It Local.