When I heard about the death of Whitney Houston last week, I was shocked. Now I'm bored. The funeral, the search for medical records, her money, Bobby Brown and their daughter--seriously, who cares anymore?
Judging by the turnout at her funeral, I would guess--a lot of people.
When we heard about the violence in Beit Shemesh, Builder and I were shocked. Now, Builder doesn't want to hear about it anymore. However, I do.
And this is what I realize. For Whitney Houston fans, her death meant something. It meant the end of a pop star and legend. It meant a favorite musician would no longer perform, no longer release new songs, no longer win a Grammy. It affected their lives. Since I really hadn't followed Whitney Houston's career, I didn't really care about the details. Similarly, the violence in Beit Shemesh is something I want to think about because it affects me. A lot of gender discrimination that originated in Israel has crossed the ocean and come to Brooklyn. How much longer before I have to duck a zealot's rocks? Before they get in my face and call me a slut? How much longer can I walk the streets in Brooklyn before every payot-sporting male declares war on me because of the way I dress? But, because Builder doesn't have to worry about gender segregation, or a dress code that grows more restrictive by the hour, it doesn't affect him. And so he's tired of it. But I can't ever be.