The Ones Who Made It: From the Streets of Chicago to the Cap and Gown
By Christopher Tru Hood | Photojournalist,
Tru Hood Studio LLC
“I didn’t know the bigger picture when I started. I just knew I had to make it.” — Adonte, Class of 2025
A high school diploma in Chicago isn’t just a document—it’s armor. In neighborhoods like Englewood, Auburn Gresham, and West Garfield Park, where homicide rates rival war zones, graduation isn’t guaranteed—it’s survival.
According to Chalkbeat, CPS reached a record 85% graduation rate in 2023. However, for Black male students, that number is 78.2%. The Illinois Policy Institute reports Black Chicagoans are 20 times more likely to be murdered than white residents. For many teens, the journey from freshman year to graduation isn’t just academic — it’s a personal war.
🎓 More Than a Gown, More Than a Goal
On Chicago’s South Side, a cap and gown isn’t fabric — it’s proof. Proof that you survived the system. The violence. The silence. The budget cuts and broken buildings. Proof that when the world tried to bury you, it forgot you were a seed.
These four students — and others like them — carry more than backpacks. They have generational weight, daily fear, and dreams they don’t always feel safe admitting out loud.
Meet the Ones Who Made It
Adonte: Seeing the Bigger Picture
“I would’ve told my freshman self to focus. To see that I had a future. I didn’t even think about what came after high school — until my dad and stepmom helped me see I could become a mechanical engineer.”
Adonte walks softly, but his vision is loud. He didn’t always have that vision. He says he started high school to get through it, not knowing why it even mattered. But something shifted — not in the school building, but at home.
It was his dad and stepmom who helped him zoom out. They showed him there was a bigger picture—one where he wasn’t just surviving but designing machines, solving problems, and building things. Now, he’s chasing mechanical engineering, focused and unfazed. He’s not just aiming for a diploma. He’s aiming for a legacy.
Larry: Survival Is Strategy
“Danger will always follow, regardless. But the neighborhood hindered us — and it made us.”
Larry has presence. He doesn’t speak much, but when he does, it sticks. His eyes move like someone used to watching exits, used to reading the room for threats before introductions.
He knows his zip code doesn’t give him many lifelines, so he built his own. Trades are his future—welding and HVAC—whether college works out. He’s not hoping for a miracle. He’s putting together a manual.
“If college don’t work out, I’m going into trades. Welding. HVAC. I got fallback plans. We’ve been trained by life to survive anything.”
That’s the difference here — these aren’t kids with just dreams. They’ve got blueprints.
Makaya & Rihanna: Strength in Sisterhood
Makaya is the class president, but her power isn’t in the title — it’s in her steadiness. Her voice doesn’t waver when she talks about how far they’ve come. She doesn’t sugarcoat what Hirsch was before leaders like Principal Moore and AP Evans stepped in.
“Our last principal? We barely saw him. Now we got faces in the hallway who care. That matters.”
She knows what investment looks like because she’s seen its absence. Hirsch didn’t have much for a long time—no sports, trades, cosmetology, or culinary arts. Students like Makaya and Rihanna had to imagine more with less.
“We had to make our own lanes. We had to lead ourselves,” Makaya says.
Rihanna — fierce and unfiltered — calls it how she sees it:
“Don’t be blind to what you see firsthand. Don’t let a blind person lead you.”
She’s talking about the streets. About the false leadership of peer pressure. About how easy it is to get caught following somebody who doesn’t even have a plan past tonight.
“People egg you on, but they ain’t got no future for themselves. You gotta stop following the blind — or you end up nowhere.”
These girls don’t speak from theory. They speak from scars. From side-eyes in the hallway. From loss. From hope.
What They Didn’t Have
These students hustled their futures from limited options: no AP programs, no cosmetology, culinary, or trade certifications, just one cheer team, and hope.
“We ain’t never seen that here. We got cheered. That’s it.” — Makaya…
And yet, they showed up. They rose. They graduated.
This Is What Resilience Looks Like
From 2016 to 2020, more than 13,546 young people were fatally shot in Chicago. In 2022 alone, 66 juveniles were killed. These four students — and their classmates — aren’t just survivors. A young Black man in West Garfield Park is more likely to be shot than a U.S. soldier deployed in Afghanistan.
And still, they show up. They take the test. Sit through the class. Work jobs. Care for siblings. They take their portraits in a gown they never thought they’d wear.
They’re blueprints.
“What’s the point of cap-and-gown pictures? I want the diploma,” one anonymous student said. It wasn’t about the photo—it was about proof.
That’s not just graduation. That’s defiance.
💬 What Do You Say to a Kid Who’s Tired of Trying?
You look them in the eye—not from pity, but power—and you say:
“You matter. You are not your trauma. You are not your zip code. You are not what they expect you to be — you’re greater than that.”
To the kid in the trenches of Lawndale, Englewood, out West, over East:
“They didn’t build this world for you — but you gon’ rebuild it with your grind.”
To the student who’s never seen anyone in their family graduate:
“Be the first. And then hold the door open for ten more behind you.”
To the one who says they don’t dream anymore:
“If you made it this far with no roadmap — just imagine what you’ll do when you find your fire.”
To the Next Ones
What do you say to a student still trying?
To the one in a house with no heat, still showing up for 8 a.m. math:
You are already winning.
To the kids walking through metal detectors every morning:
Your struggle is your strategy.
To those with no blueprint:
You made it this far with no roadmap. Imagine when you find your fire.
To those with no one who’s worn a cap and gown:
Be the first. Better yet, hold the door for the next ten.
Hirsch High: Not Just a School. A Statement.
At Hirsch, teachers don’t just educate—they translate hope. Staff like Principal Gore and AP Evans didn’t just manage the teaching; they mentored futures.
The final four—Adonte, Larry, Makaya, and Rihanna—stood tall for themselves and for those who didn’t make it.
Final Word
“You are not your zip code. You are not your trauma. You are not what they expect you to be. You’re greater than that.”
To every South Side senior who made it — this is your story. And to every freshman watching: You’re next.
They didn’t build this world for us
💡 Father to Teacher: A Dual Perspective
Sometimes I think like a father. Other times, like a teacher.
As a father, I see potential. I see a child who wants to win, even when the world stacks the deck.
As a teacher, I see responsibility. I see the gaps — not in effort, but in equity. I see a system demanding excellence from students who were never given the basics.
And both parts of me — father and teacher — agree:
Good isn’t good enough anymore. But that’s a blessing, not a burden. It means our bar just got higher. It means we believe they can reach it.
📣 Final Word
This story isn’t about pity. It’s about power. It’s about students who took their little and made it shine. It’s about the mentors who didn’t wait for more resources to show up before they showed up themselves. It’s about resilience that doesn’t ask for applause — just opportunity.
“You are not forgotten.
You are not worthless.
You are not lost.
You are loved.
You are powerful.
You are chosen for more than this world is showing you.”
This is a legacy piece. A time capsule. A mirror and a megaphone.
Let it be known: These are the ones who made it. And they’re just getting started.
“You are not your zip code. You are not your trauma. You are not what they expect you to be. You’re greater than that.”
Say it daily. Say it loud. Because in Chicago, some kids don’t just graduate — they survive, rise, and rewrite the future.
Image Credit: Words & Photography by Christopher Tru Hood