The Accusation
MATTHEW BARON PLOPS HIS LONG, LEAN FRAME ONTO A COUCH AT NARWHAL STUDIOS IN WICKER Park and starts talking about death. “There’s this prayer I often think about, the St. Francis Prayer, that’s used a lot in AA,” says Baron, who has been sober since 2007. “There’s a line in it that goes, ‘It is in dying that we are born to eternal life.’
It’s June, and Baron is at the studio recording an album with his indie rock band, Young Man in a Hurry. He’s managed to sneak away for a few hours from the West Loop apartment he shares with his wife, Whitney, and their 2-month-old child, Jarvis. The band is a side gig. Baron, 40, is a Chicago Public Schools teacher and the frontman of Future Hits, a children’s educational rock group. He has kind eyes, a tuft of curly brown hair, and a laid-back, accepting mien that may explain why kids are drawn to him, whether he’s in a classroom giving instruction or at a library playing guitar and singing songs about eating healthy foods.
But three years ago, the contented life he had built suddenly fell to pieces. “I’ve witnessed what it is like to die,” he continues. “In a way, the old me did die. I lost all my plans. I lost my great reputation.”
THE TELEPHONE CALL THAT upended everything came late on Friday, May 3, 2019. Baron was in a hotel room in New York City, where he was scheduled to play a series of concerts with Future Hits. On the other end of the line was the familiar voice of Deborah Clark, then the longtime principal of Skinner West Elementary, the high-achieving West Loop school where Baron had taught social-emotional learning and English as a second language since 2015. Clark told him she needed to discuss a serious matter.
At first, Baron wondered if she was calling about his recent request for a yearlong sabbatical. Just two weeks before, he had sat across from Clark and nervously asked permission to join his then fiancée, Whitney, while she studied for a master’s degree in Norway. That day in her office, Clark told Baron that Skinner’s “superstars,” as she often called the students, would sorely miss his joyful presence.
Today, these students’ parents speak of Baron as more of a friend than a teacher, someone they would invite to perform at their children’s birthday parties. His Skinner colleagues share stories of how he would gladly give up his lunch break to lend an ear to a student going through a tough time and would hand out food to kids in need.
“THAT’S THE PARADOX OF ALL THIS,” BARON SAYS. “I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN THE BIGGEST ADVOCATE OF KIDS HAVING A VOICE. BUT WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THAT VOICE IS NOT SPEAKING THE TRUTH?”
Clark felt Baron had earned the time off. She smiled, hugged him, and said, “You’ve got to follow love, Mr. Baron.”
But now, over the phone, Baron noticed a quiver of concern in his boss’s voice.
“Mr. Baron, something you wouldn’t believe is happening here at Skinner,” he recalls Clark telling him, “and it involves you.”
At that moment, Baron says, his stomach dropped, “like I was at the top of a roller coaster.” He reflexively bit at a fingernail.
“Wow, Mrs. Clark, I’m really sorry to hear that,” he said. “What’s happening?”
“There’s this sixth-grade student … well, Mr. Baron, he’s saying that you touched him.”
“What?”
Baron’s breathing grew quick and shallow. His eyes
