Medicine: Psychiatry in Harlem

The big, stoop-shouldered doctor hurried down the steps to a dingy basement, borne of his Negro patients were already waiting for him. An ex-G.I. fidgeted in his chair, muttering: "Daid. . . . He's daid." A woman waited stonily, clutching her daughter with one hand and a note from school in the other. The doctor briskly pulled on a white coat and shot a rapid greeting at his youngest patient, a moon-faced ten-year-old: "Hello, Midgie, I hear you got a new football for your birthday." The boy grinned.

Dreams of Battles. The doctor put his arm around a patient's shoulder and ushered...

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