By Antisia King

Highland Park, a small city nestled right next to Detroit, was once known for its tree-lined streets, historic buildings, and a sense of community pride that radiated through its tightly woven neighborhoods. Founded in the early 1900s, it was a city with deep roots—home to the first paved mile of road in the country and the legendary Ford Model T assembly plant. But over time, that beauty faded, not because of its residents, but because of the greed that took root in its leaders.

As Detroit continued its steady resurgence, Highland Park, with its rich history, struggled to rise from the ashes. Corruption had wormed its way into every corner of the city’s government. City officials—elected to serve the people—were more interested in lining their own pockets. Mismanagement became the status quo as funds that should have been used to revitalize neighborhoods or repair the crumbling infrastructure instead disappeared into private accounts, fueling lavish lifestyles and self-serving projects.

The streets of Highland Park told the story of neglect. Seniors, many of whom had lived in the city their entire lives, now faced dire housing issues. The homes that once stood as pillars of the community were falling apart, with leaking roofs, broken windows, and peeling paint. Rent had become unaffordable for many, while affordable housing remained an unfulfilled promise. These were the elders who had worked, raised families, and contributed to the very fabric of the town, yet they were left without support.

The city had become a patchwork of darkness, both metaphorically and literally. The streetlights that should have illuminated the roads were often out, casting long shadows over neighborhoods and leaving residents in fear after dusk. Without functioning lights, crime festered, making the already scarce police presence more necessary than ever. But the police force, undermanned and underfunded, could do little more than respond to emergencies, their resources stretched thin. Meanwhile, city leaders made grand promises of safety and progress during elections, but those promises were forgotten as soon as they were sworn into office.

One of the most glaring absences in Highland Park was the lack of community-based resources. In a town where hope was hard to come by, people needed more than just infrastructure; they needed opportunities. Children needed parks, after-school programs, and safe places to play. Families needed job training and employment assistance. The elderly needed services that could help them live with dignity. Yet, the very people who could have made this possible—the officials in power—were too busy crafting backdoor deals to care.

Still, the people of Highland Park had heart. Despite the corruption swirling around them, they banded together when the city failed to step up. Neighbors helped one another with home repairs. Community groups organized food drives, and volunteers patrolled the streets when police could not. There was a quiet, unwavering resistance against the neglect.

But Highland Park wasn’t beyond saving. The people who lived there believed in its potential, even when their leaders did not. The city had survived the rise and fall of industry, the Great Depression, and the turmoil of economic downturns. It had history, culture, and, most importantly, residents who refused to give up on it.

One day, a new generation of activists, inspired by the resilience of the community, would rise to challenge the corruption head-on. They would demand accountability, transparency, and the return of Highland Park’s spirit. With their persistence and hope, they would shine light back on the city’s darkened streets, restoring it to its former glory—a place where history, pride, and community could thrive once more.

In the end, Highland Park’s story was not one of ruin but of survival. It was a city on the brink, caught in the grips of corrupt leadership, but saved by the people who believed that their town was worth fighting for.