Graduation Season, Without the Cap and Gown

It’s graduation season—the time of year when social media fills with pictures of smiling students in caps and gowns, proud parents waving from the audience, and speeches reminding us that the tassel is worth the hassle. My graduate students from GWU walked the stage this week, excited for the next chapter in their lives, and my grandbabies sent off the school year with a Share Fair at their homeschool co-op. From kindergarten to college, it’s a season of ceremonies, of endings and beginnings, and of well-earned celebration.

But there’s another kind of graduation happening this time of year—one that won’t be posted on Instagram or announced in the family group chat.

I’m talking about the graduations behind the walls.

In correctional classrooms across the country, students are walking across very different stages. No music plays. No one hands them flowers. But the milestones are no less meaningful: passing the GED after three tries, reading a whole book for the first time, finishing a letter home without shame or anger in the closing paragraph. Learning how to multiply fractions. Sitting through an entire class without getting written up. Saying “I need help” out loud. Those are the caps and gowns of carceral education.

And if we’re honest, they often require more grit than any valedictorian speech can capture.

The students we serve in jails and prisons face barriers most people can’t see. Learning while navigating trauma, institutional rules, and decades of educational neglect isn’t easy. Add in limited access to materials, frequent disruptions, and the emotional weight of incarceration, and suddenly “just showing up” becomes a triumph all on its own.

Yet every day, they show up. Sometimes angry. Sometimes quiet. Often guarded. But they show up. And they keep showing up.

Correctional educators, you are the commencement speakers no one sees. Your classrooms may be locked, but you’re opening doors every day. You guide without fanfare. You celebrate quietly. You grade essays and math problems next to security checks and metal detectors. And when your students succeed—when they get that certificate, complete that course, or pass that test—you feel a pride deeper than any stadium could hold.

So today, as the world applauds its graduates, let’s raise a silent cheer for the ones behind the walls. The ones who didn’t quit. The ones who are trying again, maybe for the first time.

No cap. No gown. Just courage.

And if that’s not worth celebrating, I don’t know what is.

☕ Cheers until next Sunday!