May 6th, on the surface, seems like quite an anniversary day for blacks:

In ‘94, Nelson M & his ANC are confirmed winners…in their electoral fight.

Same day, same year… Lennox Lewis TKO’s Phil Jackson (not the fake Zen basketball guru)…for a victory in his fight, taking the World Heavyweight Championship.

Eugene Antonio Marino settles into his new digs as the first African-American Roman Catholic bishop, having been installed as archbishop of the Atlanta, GA archdiocese the previous day. Atlanta, a place I frequented quite often as a kid, goes absolutely bananas on this 1988 festive, sunny day. President Ike signed the Civil Rights 1960 Act… and L’Ouverture revolts against France in Haiti. The Smithsonian Institution approves the creation of a National African American Museum… in 1991.

Well, look at South Africa today. Whites from there also invaded Angola on this day…and they’ve still got their filthy paws all over the place…where the moolah is. Why do blacks have to box their way out of their boxes, brains bashed…to make a living? And when they do…why do we all have to be subjected to the disgusting sight of them pathetically –as a rule– emulating the latest White Trash Capitalist Fashion? Why did it take sooooooooooooo long for Marino’s kind to make a mark within that religious context? What was there really to celebrate? Isn’t like all of those who “made it” going on Oprah for the High Five? Models for who? For what? Why won’t schoolchildren be talking about how long it took Marino to make such strides, how long it took the Smithsonian to acknowledge this and that? How disgusting it is, the state of awful affairs in Haiti today…after so much sacrifice, so much…so much? This is NOT a day for blacks to applaud. Not unless they’re the type that tunes into Oprah’s harmful schtick. Not unless this being the day that Michael Jackson got inducted into the Rock ‘N Roll Hall of Fame brings a smile to their face. In ‘97 that, with the Brothers Gibb. Gibberish, this fuss about black anniversaries. Red herrings for the blacks, I say.

Richard Oxman… wondering what his first black girlfriend, Geraldine (”Butch”) Fitzgerald, is doing these days. He trusts that life has treated her well. And still spits on this day that his family and friends dragged him out of her life…so violently…for such ignorant reasons.