by Jim Klise
To be honest, it still blows my mind that I am one of the people who got this going. For the rest of my life, no matter what else I do, I can tell myself: How cool that you pulled that off. You changed that family’s life.
Wait, sorry. That sounds self-centered. Your story isn’t about us. Put it this way, maybe your story can be about what happens when people come together to help each other. Even people who don’t really know each other. It’s the power of teamwork, right?
Speaking of which, I should probably get onto the court. Otherwise, Coach P is gonna have me running drills until I puke.
Editorial: True art of people helping people
HIGH SCHOOL fundraisers typically don’t make the news. After all, schools routinely plan events to help pay for sports programs, classroom computers, even music equipment.
But the upcoming charity auction at the Highsmith School on Chicago’s Near North Side has made plenty of headlines this month. Among the items up for sale is a booklet of drawings by Chicago “outsider artist” Henry Darger (1892–1973). As numerous media sources have reported, the artwork was found in a discarded box left beside trash cans in a Lincoln Park alleyway. The drawings, which were authenticated this week, have been appraised at more than half a million dollars.
Darger’s posthumous reputation among collectors is “one of the great stories of 20th-century art,” according to Mr. Jean Delacroix, an art teacher at Highsmith.
The discovery has brought welcome public attention to a fundraiser that is more remarkable for a completely different reason: All the money raised will go to one specific student. Not to extracurricular activities, not to infrastructure, but to the family of one sophomore girl who recently lost her home in a fire.
Sensitive to privacy issues, Highsmith officials asked that the student’s name not be made public at this time. Besides, as Dr. Regina Stickman, the school’s principal of nearly twenty-five years, told a reporter, “One family’s tragic fire is not the story. The real story here is the inspiring response to the fire.”
Dr. Stickman stressed that students, not administration, are leading the effort. “What’s happening this month says something important about our school culture,” she said. “Our curriculum is designed to make ordinary students into extraordinary citizens—and we are succeeding!”
“We want to help,” said Kevin Spoon, a senior basketball player who has helped to organize the effort. “It’s the power of teamwork, right?”
His sister, Kendra, agreed. “This family needs help. We can make this story turn out okay.”
These Highsmith students deserve an A+. The Darger artwork may add a splash of colorful glamour to this fundraiser, but we should not lose sight of the bigger story: the simple, shining example of caring young people at Highsmith who came to the aid of a peer.
In a society that focuses too much on results and outcomes, it’s easy to get distracted by celebrity names and out-of-the-blue financial windfalls.
This Thanksgiving weekend, we give thanks for good intentions.
For those of us at the Tribune who are proud Highsmith alums—and there are quite a few—this act of altruism renews our faith that the sacred honor of Highsmith students still burns bright.
The auction is planned for Saturday, December 15. For information about bidding or donating, visit the Highsmith School website or contact the school directly.
Chicago Tribune, November 25
Late on Friday, NOVEMBER 30, curled up on a bed that feels several sizes too big,
Saba Khan, sophomore,
stares out the window at the vast, black lake.
I’ve already gotten used to this million-dollar view. For a while, it made the obstacles in my life seem almost manageable. But on a snowy night like tonight, I can’t see anything in the distance but darkness + ice. Maybe the lake will be beautiful in summer, but it looks scary now, miserable + cold.
When we 1st heard all the talk about an “art treasure” at school, I didn’t believe the paintings could be meant for my family to keep, or sell. I figured whoever owned them before would want them back—or the Spoons would want to keep them for themselves. But that didn’t happen. Ammi + Papa tell me not to worry about it or question it. “It’s God’s plan,” they say.
Is that so? Does that apply to everything? Because evidently it was also God’s plan to provide me with my own personal hottie giant who hangs around my locker + sends flirty texts + carries my empty tray to the nasty conveyer belt after lunch. (Psst, I owe you 1, God.) If Ammi + Papa knew about Steve + me, they would not jump on board with God’s plan. They would freak. Ammi wants to manage my life the way she manages her kitchen. She says, “You will understand, baby, someday.”
But I don’t understand. Just like she wouldn’t understand.
I didn’t even see the Darger watercolors until after I learned they were valuable. Someone had decided the artwork should be locked up safely until the auction, so they moved the album into the gym office, along with the theater club sound equipment, cash boxes from basketball games + the popcorn machine. Usually I like being in the gym office, any chance to visit the big can of tennis rackets Coach P keeps for us. I always check that my lucky pink Wilson hybrid is tucked in the back, waiting for spring. Waiting just for me.
Coach P put the Darger album on an easel, borrowed from the art annex. Mr. Delacroix added a box of rubber gloves so that any visitor who had gotten permission could look through the album without damaging it.
The first time I went, I expected the pictures to be the prettiest thing I ever saw. The pictures were not pretty. Maybe there was something sweet about the girls, how carefree they seemed at the beginning. The setting was dreamlike + beautiful, like illustrations from a children’s book.
But the fighting + the violence were shocking. I wouldn’t want Salman to see it.
As soon as I saw the paintings, I wished we could sell them as quickly as possible. Auction them as a set, or individually, it didn’t matter. We would use the money to invest in my family’s dreams + turn something traumatic into something good. Best of all, we would take control of our lives again—not sit waiting, like pathetic spiders on a window ledge, for the wind to come along + carry us somewhere new.
Every few days, I went back to the gym to look at the paintings. Each time I looked at those strange, violent images, I had 2 distinct thoughts: 1) I will never, ever understand the art world; + 2) this ugly story was the story of my beautiful future.
Then today everything changed. The moment I entered the gym, Coach P stopped me—literally stood in my way + blocked me from entering the office. She put her heavy arms around me. At 1st I thought she was only going through another of her bizarre crying fits. I’ve gotten used to it. “I’m so, so sorry, hon,” she said, pulling me close.
“I’m feeling OK today, Coach,” I said. “Really.”
“Gone,” she whispered into my ear. “All gone now.”
I felt smothered in the colossal expanse of her boobs. I had to crane my head back, away from her, in order to breathe. “Things are being replaced,” I said. “We have what we need. Don’t worry.”
“Saba, no,” she said, taking me by the shoulders. “Listen to me now. I am talking about the art.”
When I asked her what she meant, she let out a mournful little squeal, like air released slowly from the pinched mouth of a balloon. I couldn’t imagine what she was talking about.
“Someone . . . or some ones . . .” she said gently. “They took it.”
I pushed her arms away + ran into the office to see the easel for myself. It was empty.
Coach P followed me, saying, “It must have happened during one of the PE sections today. And now it’s gone . . . gone . . . gone.” The balloon began its slow sad squeal again.
I reached for the edge of her desk to steady myself. I didn’t know if I could make my feet move forward, 1 step at a time, out of that office. My hands slowly searched my body for my phone. I needed to talk to Steve, or Beti,
or Kendra. Anyone. I wondered if the school had called Ammi + Papa yet.
Gone—gone—gone.
The ordinary hallway suddenly seemed dangerous to me, full of strangers. My eyes scanned the passing faces, searching for—what? How was I supposed to know what the face of a thief looked like?
All at once, I stopped dreaming impossible dreams for my family + instead I began to pray. The shift was automatic, a comfort.
Maybe this is what Ammi + Papa mean by “God’s plan.” When someone else’s dream conflicts with my dream, God decides whose dream wins. I haven’t stopped praying since.
ACT II
Early on SATURDAY, DECEMBER 1, in a plush living room that overlooks the park,
Farooq Khan, U.S. citizen,
removes his eyeglasses before speaking to a Chicago police detective.
Yes, of course, I understand why you must interrogate me about this theft. Sit down, please. I will tell you all I know.
For me, yesterday was a very long day at the factory. Boss shouting nonsense from his stool. Plus, the snowstorm—thick snow that trapped all the cars in their parking spots—this made the driving difficult. When I finally got home, my wife, Khawla, told me that I should let neither work nor snow affect my mood. Easy for her. She does not deal with snow when she does not want to. I do not like when my wife tells me how to feel.
Even before I removed my coat, the phone rang. I answered, and when I heard the voice of the principal from the school, I was not pleased.
Detective, I will tell you something: I do not enjoy this woman. After the fire, when the school contacted us about offering this temporary residence, Principal Stickman had stressed what a “fortunate opportunity” it would be for us to stay here. How “lucky” we were—“people like you,” she said—to be able to live in these luxurious accommodations. “But only temporarily,” she stressed, again and again.
I feel “lucky” when I do not have to deal with people like this woman, the way Khawla does not have to deal with snow.
Still, I am a respectful man, you understand? I said, “Good evening, Dr. Stickman. How may I help you?”
She said, “This is not a good evening, I am afraid.” This woman’s tone was so stern, so scolding, that I first wondered if perhaps Saba had misbehaved in a class.
“What has happened?” I asked, and she told me plainly that the school had lost the Darger artwork. Or, not lost it, she made that clear—but it was missing. She told me, “It seems to have been removed from the gymnasium sometime this afternoon.”
“Removed,” I repeated.
“Taken. Gone,” she said, without purpose. “Naturally, we asked Wendy Pinch, our PE teacher, but she assures us that she did not see anyone remove the Darger album from the gymnasium.”
Detective, I felt such a shock. I let my eyes roam all around the kitchen, resting there at the gas stove, then climbing up to the ceiling molding, over to that elegant pendant light fixture, and then across the room to my wife’s concerned face, which surely mirrored mine.
“This is a mystery,” I told the principal.
She said, “Coach Pinch claims she did not see anyone looking at the artwork today. This is unusual, because, as you know, the art has generated a good amount of interest.”
I listened, letting the gravity of this news settle in my mind.
The principal said, very slowly, as if I were mentally impaired, “Mr. Khan, if we do not have the artwork, we cannot sell it at a big auction.”
“This seems logical,” I said. “Without this artwork, there would be no need for a big auction at all.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Of course, as soon as we have recovered the artwork, we may proceed with the event.”
I wondered, was this woman suggesting that I, or someone in my family, had taken the artwork? As if we were imbeciles who were too impatient to wait for it to be sold? Did she expect me now to return the artwork so the “big auction” could proceed?
To be polite, I simply agreed that yes, we looked forward to the return of the artwork, too, and the auction. I believed it was time to end the conversation.
Instead, this woman told me, “Mr. Khan, as you know, many people in our community have worked together to help you and your family in your time of need. We’ve all sacrificed.”
“And we are grateful to you,” I said, allowing this lie to escape my lips. I reminded her that the efforts had led to some very positive publicity for the school, and she admitted that it had. I said, “So it seems that everybody wins. . . .”
“Precisely,” she said. “And isn’t that nice?”
“Until now,” I added.
“Mr. Khan, this community has gone beyond the call of duty to help. Moving forward, I hope you will judge us based on the remarkable generosity of our intentions, rather than on today’s unfortunate turn of events . . . which, you must admit, hardly could have been expected.”
“Hardly,” I said. “I trust you will contact us with better news soon.”
We ended the call.
My wife stood at the countertop, preparing chicken curry and biryani rice. She stirred the food and said, without emotion, “The artwork is gone.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Stolen?” she said, looking at me.
“So it seems.”
Slowly, my wife’s lips spread into a confident smile. She stood straight on two feet and turned back to preparing our supper. “The police will find the person who stole it. The art will be returned. God will help us.”
“God always provides,” I said.
“Maybe not soon,” she said, “but it will be returned. Someday. God’s angels put that artwork into our lives, and it belongs to us. To our future.”
I nodded, but secretly I was fearful.
Detective, to be clear, I found the very notion of the Darger pictures to be ridiculous. This is the work of a troubled mind. But God and His angels have placed this opportunity in our path, so it was clear He approves of our using this art to recover from the fire. My wife is correct. That artwork now belongs to us—to our lives, and our future.
What do you mean, God also put the fire into our lives? That is not true! The fire was not the work of God, but the work of the enemy of God. There are dark forces in this world, surely you know that.
We are counting on you to solve this crime. You and your men must identify the thief, or thieves, and return the art in time for the auction. If we do not sell it, we cannot remain in this apartment. On the wages I earn at the factory, I could never afford this rent. Moreover, if we go and try to rent an apartment in the old community, a landlord might learn about the fire and deny us a lease. Landlords may say my family is too much of a risk. Neighbors may complain about the potential danger.
Arson. Someone intentionally set that fire, while my family was at Saba’s tennis match. We still do not understand how the fire started, or why someone would destroy our home. And if we do not understand why it happened once, how can we truthfully say it will not happen again?
America, this fabled land of opportunities. Tell me, what opportunities do we have now?
On MONDAY, DECEMBER 3, even before the first bell of the day,
Dr. Regina Stickman, Principal,
eagerly welcomes the Tribune reporter back to her office.
Good morning! Thanks for coming right over. I realize you must be busy covering much more important stories.
Oh, don’t worry about the silly rug. Just make yourself comfortable.
Now listen, as you cover this new development, I wanted us to touch base. While one unfortunate event has taken place on this property, we must agree that the matter is not “school related,” so to speak. This is one family’s private matter concerning a piece of art. And really I should use quotes around the word “art.” Mr. Delacroix, our art teacher, may beg to differ. The whole art world may disagree, but—good, you’re smiling. So we do see eye-to-eye on that matter. Not exactly something you’d like to see hanging above the family ro
om sofa either, ha!
We also agree, I hope, that the school is not responsible for what has happened. That can’t be your story angle. This problem does not concern academics or curriculum, nor is it in any way reflective of my administration. In this case—which is not really a case, of course—the school is merely the setting. The school is not a criminal. I mean, for goodness sake, when a bank gets robbed, the police don’t run off and arrest the mayor, do they?
Now don’t take this personally, but there is a tiny part of me that blames the media. Oh my gosh, you people sometimes blow things way the heck out of proportion. It happens all the time. You make lurid stereotypes out of ordinary students. Ordinary average students, if you want to know the truth.
The heroic Kevin and Kendra, the S’wonderful Spoons! And the poor Khans, the calamitous Khans, “born under a bad star.” How ridiculous to conclude that some people are heroes and others victims—that it’s ever that simple.
Besides, this is no longer a story about one or two students, or one family. This theft affects us all, the whole community. We’re all victims now.
Hey, maybe that’s your headline.
But is it even possible for you, or for anyone from the outside, to fully understand why things have happened as they have, when we struggle with the basic questions ourselves?
Let me tell you something. I am sometimes required to make difficult phone calls to parents. It is one of the least pleasant duties of my position. Cheating, plagiarism, fighting, these cases cross my desk all too often. In fact, take a look at this.
[She removes a leather-bound tome, the size of a telephone book, from a shelf.]
This manual provides guidelines for administrators to use when making such calls. Look, I mean, it’s unintentionally hilarious; one chapter includes actual telephone scripts to follow when sharing unpleasant news with parents.
There is, of course, no script in this whole book to use when telling an immigrant father, whose home has been lost in a fire, that valuable artwork, which is to be sold at auction to benefit him and his family, has gone missing.
