The Neighborhood That Outgrew Me

March 29, 2025

Once upon a time, when I ordered a cup of coffee, I was handed a Styrofoam cup with a swirl of creamer and a pink straw. No frills. No foam. No latte art. No eight-dollar price tag. I used to browse the candy aisles at the 99 Cents Only store, clutching quarters and indecision. That was Highland Park two decades ago—before $60 vintage tees and minimalist succulents colonized the block.

Today, the streets are caffeinated with artisanal espresso and lined with reclaimed wood counters. Candy now comes from a gourmet market, where twelve-dollar licorice is sugar-free, and shelved between French mustard and organic wine—sold to out-of-towners trying to parallel park a Tesla.

The neighborhood, once gritty and unbothered, has been anointed by glossy magazines and NPR segments alike as one of L.A.'s “it” enclaves. Somewhere along the line, Highland Park stopped being a community and started feeling like a curated pop-up shop for millennials.

It’s disorienting. For years, I longed for a halfway decent cup of coffee. Now, there are ten within walking distance—each named after a Scandinavian word for fog. And yet, I find myself wanting to run. The irony isn't lost on me: I got what I wanted, but I lost the place I called home.

My parents, both raised in L.A.—my dad growing up in West L.A., my mom from South Central—chose Highland Park as their compromise. It was affordable, functional, and just wild enough. They bought a home with three kids in tow and built a life within their means.

Across the street from us was San Pascual Park—a scrappy little haven with a basketball court that sometimes had a net, a playground, and enough gopher holes to twist an ankle mid-picnic. On Saturday mornings, I’d wake to the sound of mariachi bands as pickup baseball teams took the field, families in tow, folding chairs and all.

Now? Shirtless hipsters sunbathe where mariachis once played. The picnics are still happening—but they’re curated, and never by the folks who once lived here. The cultural texture has faded. The new crowd? Enthusiastic, but not familiar.

I understand gentrification isn't a villain in a black cape. It brings safer streets, new businesses, better infrastructure. But it also extracts. It displaces. It edits the neighborhood’s story, often erasing the most essential chapters.

As a kid, I didn’t grasp how rough Highland Park could be. My parents shielded me. I didn’t go to the local Franklin High; I went to Eagle Rock. What I did see, though—some grit, some edge—felt like part of the landscape. It made the neighborhood feel real. There was a strange romance in its rawness. A diamond-in-the-rough quality that drew me in even when it unsettled me.

Figueroa used to have all the staples of an old-school Main Street—if you squinted. A movie theater, a pet shop, a slightly haunted shoe repair spot, a grocery store where the produce was a gamble. You could bike to get your errands done, which in L.A. felt like a miracle. I lived for the pupuseria and the pizza joint with fluorescent lighting so harsh it could interrogate you.

Those places are gone. Now it’s Triple Beam Pizza and boutique nail salons offering $180 Russian manicures. Yes, I have been there. My twin and I, on occasion, splurge. But sometimes we miss the flickering lights and cracked tiles.

Before it became a $60-an-hour boutique bowling alley, Highland Park Bowl was Mr. T’s—a divey punk sanctuary with $2 drinks and zero pretense. A few doors down, the Gutter Café served eggs and whiskey under one roof. Even the Dragon, the Chinese restaurant-turned-gastropub, used to have pleather booths and reliably mediocre chow mein.

Now I tell people where I live and they nod in recognition. “Oh, like, near Hancock Park?” they say, without a hint of sarcasm. The laughable comparison of the past now feels almost fair. The home I grew up in—my forever home—has skyrocketed in value to the point where buying it today would be out of reach.

And while I’m lucky to still live here, I often fantasize about leaving. Some days, when there’s no parking or I wake up to shirtless strangers tanning across the street, I find myself scrolling Redfin listings like a restless ex. Pasadena? Too sleepy. South Pasadena? Too quaint. El Sereno? I’m not ready to ride that roller coaster again.

Truth is, I don’t really want to live anywhere else—except maybe in the version of Highland Park that no longer exists.