I was at Hopkins when Marion Anderson died and took a few moments to sit with one of my favorite patients, a retired WWII vet named Mr. S. He told me he had seen her when she was in France, “because you know Blacks like me weren’t allowed in theaters back then.”
I asked him if he ever regretted coming back to the US after the war. “You fought so hard and were treated so badly when you came home.”
“Many times, child, many times.” Then he very shyly put his hand on my arm. “But then I wouldn’t have had you as my doctor.” I nearly wept.
I was at Hopkins when Marion Anderson died and took a few moments to sit with one of my favorite patients, a retired WWII vet named Mr. S. He told me he had seen her when she was in France, “because you know Blacks like me weren’t allowed in theaters back then.”
I asked him if he ever regretted coming back to the US after the war. “You fought so hard and were treated so badly when you came home.”
“Many times, child, many times.” Then he very shyly put his hand on my arm. “But then I wouldn’t have had you as my doctor.” I nearly wept.