Seema is also a little bitter. She’d moved to Boston two years ago to join her girlfriend Ann after four years of a long-distance relationship. Just months later, Al-Qaeda strikes on 9/11, and what starts as heated arguments—in response to Seema calling Ann’s and America’s reaction to the collapse of the Twin Towers “White hysteria at the loss of its privileged security”—ends in acrimonious fights and a breakup a year later. Seema had returned to San Francisco earlier this month, while Ann was now moving to a safe White suburb with her new, more suitable White lover.

An Iraqi duo begins an Arabic version of John Lennon’s “Imagine,” and the crowd accompanies the refrain lustily in English. Bill has a comforting baritone, and he sings with sweet conviction, swaying to the music, clearly a ploy to have their bodies touch. But she sways along with him, eyes closed, her head now and then resting on his chest as she leans back for support—she’s a foot shorter, barely making it to his shoulders. It’s a new experience, having a man stand this close to her.

It’s also weirdly exciting. Bill reminds her of her first girlfriend, Chloe, with the same tawny skin, the same frizzy close-cut hair, even the same lips, and only a little taller. With his glasses he looks more like an academic than the lawyer he claims to be.

What would her old friends think if they saw her like this? Few even know she’s returned to San Francisco, for that would be admitting failure. She should claim Ann made her straight! At least that is worth a laugh.

After the rally, Bill insists on dropping her off at her apartment in Bernal Heights.

“Can I see you again?” he stammers, as he helps her up the stairs.

“There should be another protest soon,” she replies, smiling.

“Well, call me if you need any help before then. I feel awful about your ankle.”

They exchange numbers, though she expects never to see him again.

4

My to-be mother Seema at twenty-one, twelve years earlier: Riding through the streets of London in a red double-decker bus, a banner emblazoned on its sides, Visibly Lesbian. The bus is packed with women, all dressed in black T-shirts, a bomb with a lit fuse printed on the front, with the name of their group inscribed around it: The Lesbian Avengers.

It’s a raucous bus, the women are whistling, clapping, stomping, hanging out of windows, flashing breasts, snogging, calling out through megaphones to pedestrians and drivers, to shoppers and tourists, even to the traffic police and bobbies: Hey you, in the brown coat, in the blue jacket, in the high heels, in the uniform, in that absurd hat, yes, you, we’re talking to you, hello, we’re lesbians, we’re dykes, we’re butch, we’re femme, we can smell your homophobia.