A few days after the death of the great Celia Cruz, I happened to be across the street from the funeral home where her body lay. Throngs of people lined the street, waiting to say a final farewell to the Queen of Salsa. Cuban flags and banners bearing Cruz's likeness were raised high in the street across from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and Cruz's powerful voice drifted through the air from a portable sound system.

A passerby asked "What's going on?" and a young woman crossing the street turned to her and said, with obvious impatience, "Some dead singer." The woman who had asked the question looked at me with curious eyes. I told her Celia Cruz had died. The younger woman shrugged. "She was the world's greatest salsa singer," I said. The young woman rolled her eyes and shrugged again.

This was not an adolescent, from whom we might expect contempt for that which isn't part of her narrow culture. This was a woman in her late 20's, who walked through waves of grief, only to metaphorically spit on the Queen of Salsa.

Some dead singer indeed.