By BILL EFFINGER
Guest Columnist

He was a great athlete. He was humble. He was engaging. He was my friend.

He was black.

I met Bobby Daniels when we were both 12 years old. Bobby knew how to box. Boxing was something my dad wanted me to learn, so he encouraged me to join the local boxing gym. I was more interested in learning to dance, but this is how Bobby came into my life.

It turned out Bobby could dance as well as he could box, so he became my quasi-boxing tutor and dance instructor. And that’s how we became friends. Two small-town kids, oblivious to any differences in our social status — just boys, whiling away the summer of 1943. We played together and explored things together, laughing at my feeble attempts at making the punching bag speed-rattle as Bobby could, and stumbling a bit, as he showed me his quick-step dancing moves.

I watched Bobby in awe as we walked on the sidewalk. He would pick up the beat of the traffic noise and start a hand-clapping, foot-shuffling dance, all the time keeping up with my fast walk, laughing all the way. When school started that fall, Bobby played on all the sports teams Lincoln Junior High had. Bobby was popular with all the kids in school. He was our friend.

The fall of 1943 and the new school year also brought with it school dances for us ninth graders. Friday nights, the girls would line up on one side of the gym and the boys on the other, listening to recorded music under the watchful eyes of adult chaperones. Very few boys would venture to the girls’ side to ask for a dance. Quite often, a very brave girl would come to the boys’ side to ask for a dance. Many times, I was the lucky choice; Bobby had taught me a few steps and the word had gotten out. Now I became special, at least on Friday nights.

But I couldn’t get Bobby to come to the dances. I pleaded. I begged. I bribed. His answer was always the same — “I don’t want to.” Now, how could someone who danced as well as Bobby, who could make his own music and was very popular with his classmates, not want to come to a school dance? It just didn’t make sense. I continued to plead and beg, until finally, in desperation, Bobby gave in and agreed to come with me to the Friday night dance.

It was an experience that I will never forget. It resulted in my getting expelled from school for a short time.

It was early December. After agreeing to come to the dance with me, Bobby still tried to beg off. I wouldn’t hear of it. So, we walked to the dance together in the new falling snow. Bobby was nervous and I couldn’t understand why. “It’s all the same kids we go to school with every day, Bobby. What is wrong?” No answer.

We got our answer as we approached the door to the gym.

We were greeted with, “You can’t come in here,” from one of the chaperones.

“Why?” was my response.

“You can come in but your friend can’t,” the man in the doorway said.

“Why?” I asked again.

“Because he (Bobby) shouldn’t be dancing with the girls.”

“Why? He goes to school with all of us,” I protested.

Bobby, standing next to me, was distraught.

“I better go,” he said.

“Don’t go,” I told him. “Stay right here and don’t leave.”

Entering the building, I went down the steps to the gym floor and began to tell all the kids what was going on. They couldn’t believe it either. “When I give the signal, get your coat and walk out — pass it on,” I said. Ten minutes later, I waved and said, “Let’s go.” Like a well-trained squad of soldiers, the entire group ascended the steps, exited the building and turned to face the astonished chaperones, all chanting, “Let Bobby in. Let Bobby in.”

Bobby was, by this time, embarrassed but gratified for his friendships.

For over 30 minutes, we all stood in the cold, challenging our adult supervisors to let Bobby into the gym, only agreeing to return inside if they would.

Abruptly, two men arrived on the scene and identified themselves as truant officers. I was pointed out as the “ring leader” by the chaperones, and the officers began to negotiate a truce for the evening. First, I was told that I would be reported to the school principal for suitable punishment. Next, they agreed to let Bobby in, but only if he didn’t dance with the girls. This was deemed OK with us, because very few of the boys danced with any of the girls anyway. Satisfied, everyone returned to the gym dance floor as quick and orderly as we had left, mingling, listening to the music and pleased to have won the day.

The following day, I was summoned to the principal’s office to have “suitable punishment” meted out, resulting in my expulsion from school. The expulsion was reversed before the day was out, but that’s a whole different story.

Bobby soon became known as “Lightning Bobby Daniels” for his speed on the playing field, more popular than ever, and we remained friends until his family moved away in our sophomore year of high school.

The altercation of that December evening in the west end section of our little town of Duluth, Minnesota seemed so out of place in our small world that it was hard for us to understand. We had been exposed in our young lives to a prejudice we didn’t know existed.

Prejudice was forced into the open for us young people by the adult world that surrounded us, proving that older isn’t always wiser.

— Bill Effinger is an author and development consultant living in Poulsbo. He served in several public positions in California, including city council member and mayor of Buena Park from 1957-59.