by Nawaaz Ahmed
She leaves the parade, but instead of returning home, she wanders toward the assembly at the Civic Center. At Powell Square there is a small contingent of antigay protestors with megaphones. They boo, they chant, they bellow, as if to drown out the cheers from the parade, brandishing their banners and posters: God Hates Fags. Homosex Is Sin. Faggots Are Meant For Burning. Dykes Can Be Cured By Rape. America Is Doomed. A few paraders engage with them, and the two sides shout past each other, shaking fists and pumping placards in each other’s faces. One Brown protestor, in a white robe and lace cap—Turn To Islam (before it’s too late)—is harangued by both sides; Seema feels a bitter sympathy toward him.
Some gay couples deliberately provoke the protestors by sucking face in front of them. They remind Seema of her first kiss-in with Chloe. The memory stings: the old her from a decade ago would have joined them gleefully.
The crowd at the Civic Center is bigger than any Pride she’s seen. They seemed to have arrived from everywhere in the country, all sizes, all shapes, all colors, milling around, as if on a pilgrimage. There are the usual naked men and topless women, the wispy Radical Faeries and bearded Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, the glowing and glitter-studded muscular bodies, but she’s surprised by how tame the others look, as if the normal and the boring have all decided to come out finally. And unlike the earlier years, the area is overrun with couples. She’s never seen so many gay and lesbian couples before at Pride.
Everywhere she looks she sees dyke couples smiling, holding Just Married signs. The coming threat of Prop 8 isn’t stopping them.
The joke should be rewritten: What do lesbians bring to a second date? A marriage license.
There is actually a wedding in progress in one relatively empty corner of the lawn, away from the main stage: two dykes in short white dresses and long white flounces, one brunette and one blonde, a crown of daisies on each head, are being married by a pastor in a black robe and rainbow stole, surrounded by a small circle of friends. Seema wanders in their direction, stands watching for a while: the women are exchanging vows, turned laugh-crying toward each other, but she’s too far away to hear what’s being said over the music from the stage. She and Bill had decided to do without vows—at her insistence, of course—and were married only a short distance away.
Throughout the ceremony a South Asian woman in the circle keeps glancing at Seema. Someone from the old Trikone crowd, Seema thinks, pretending not to notice. But later, when their eyes accidentally meet again, the woman smiles and, excusing herself from her group, makes her way toward Seema.
It’s too late for Seema to draw back. She braces herself, turning over in her memory faces and names. Late twenties, she guesses, as the woman approaches—she must have been a teenager if Seema had met her at a Trikone potluck when she used to frequent them.
“Hi, I’m Divya. Remember me?” A graduated bob with red-brown highlights, expertly lined eyes and lips, not too much taller than Seema, dimples. An off-the-shoulder dress in silk, sapphire. “I attended one of your training camps in the South Bay last year?”
Seema is relieved, and ashamed to find herself excusing her presence here: she’d come with a gay friend who’d since abandoned her for a bunch of guys.
“Men would do that,” Divya says.
The conversation moves safely away, Divya voluble about the South Asians for Obama group she started last year. Divya’s had some success fundraising in the South Bay. Actually, she’s being modest—the response has been fabulous. She’s been recognized by the campaign as one of Obama’s top fundraisers in Silicon Valley. And Seema deserves some of the credit—Seema’s camp was one of the most instructive and inspiring trainings she’s been to.
Divya is chirpy, confident, upbeat. She flashes her dimples often, as if secure in presumed camaraderie. But her enthusiasm on meeting Seema doesn’t seem all an act. Seema thaws—at least Divya is not twenty-two, naive, and White.
What is Seema doing for the rest of the election season? Divya is clearly disappointed when Seema admits she’s not officially employed by the campaign in any capacity. Seema finds it even harder to add she has no fixed plans for the fall. She becomes defensive: “Work’s very busy, I’ve just been promoted. I may do something in Nevada on the weekends.”
Divya rallies: Would Seema consider coming down to the South Bay and doing a minisession at one of her fundraisers? Not really training volunteers, since most of the big-shot donors have no time for volunteering, but it would make them feel more involved in the campaign, and perhaps more generous. She is matter-of-fact: money doesn’t buy votes but does buy staff, organizers, airtime, office space, and equipment, in more states, so they can expand the electoral map. And while small donors are important, what she does—maximizing contributions of those capable of giving more—is what will make a difference. It’s the reason why Obama declined taxpayer financing, breaking his promise.
At least Divya, unlike Bill, is clear-eyed about the campaign’s gyrations. Seema says she’ll think about it, and Divya takes her number.
“I’ve got to get back. My ex just got married.” Divya rolls her eyes, as if she’d prefer to have stayed out here, then the dimple again, a look and smile held an instant too long, eyelashes lowered. Her voice drops into intimacy, conspiracy, as she turns to leave: “I’ll be calling you.”
Seema can’t help but admire the finesse. She’s not surprised Divya is successful. The girl is a smooth operator, the flattery and the flirting and the networking meshed so effortlessly, only a hardened cynic would think to call her out. And the information conveyed subtly at the end about her queer ex and the signaling of her interest and availability—does Divya know about Seema’s past?
It’s a bitter pill to swallow, to see Divya now and be reminded of her self from a decade ago. What happened to all that pride and promise? The belief that she had all the power, all the answers, and all the fire and beauty to pull it off? She’d taken a wrong turn somewhere.
Why had she once thought this day impossible? She’s missed being part of something momentous while she’d turned her attention elsewhere. And now she’s too late to the party and not even invited.
She’d been considering volunteering for the No-On-Prop-8 campaign, another reason for rejoining her firm in San Francisco. But now she feels she neither belongs nor is needed there. “Come in and get engaged!” the campaign’s tent screams, with a steady flow of Pride-goers bustling in and out.
Later, she doesn’t tell Bill where they met—he had sulked at the mere mention of her plan to attend Pride with Fiaz—only that she’d been introduced to Divya and is considering joining in her South Bay fundraising activities. Bill is encouraging, assuaged, she suspects, that she’s found something to get involved in other than No-On-Prop-8. If he’s curious about Divya, he hides it pretty well.
22
One major benefit of fundraising with Divya: Seema no longer has to deal with the Obamabots—the young, enthusiastic, mostly college-educated, mostly White Americans who’ve been jumping onto the bandwagon as summer progressed, all believing Obama to be their savior, a source of redemption.
The South Bay South Asian entrepreneurs, technocrats, and engineers that Seema encounters at Divya’s fundraising events, on the other hand, are primarily first-generation immigrants, like her. And like her, ambivalent about the candidate. Many are confounded by Obama’s upset over Clinton, having considered her predestined to be the Democratic nominee on account of her credentials. Many are skeptical that Americans would vote for a Black candidate, many question whether Obama has the necessary experience to govern, many are worried he may not be the best candidate for Silicon Valley, with taxes, immigration, regulations on the line. And many possess only green cards, so while they can make political donations, they can’t vote in the election and are not excessively invested in it.
And while quite a few are willing to be convinced otherwise, even willing to buy into the Obama fantasy, many still possess the immigrant’s reluctance t
o part with money, especially when there’s no tangible return to be had, when the odds of success hover near fifty-fifty, and political donations are not tax deductible.
Despite all this, Divya has been successful. But she’s set herself ambitious targets for fall, and Seema is lured in deeper. She is better than Divya at reading the facial and vocal cues of their prospects, Divya being second-generation. Also, Seema can affect rapport in Hindi and Urdu and Tamil, she can converse about current events in the Indian subcontinent and reminisce about “those days” with the long-immigrated, and her PR and publicity work with technology firms allows her to participate intelligently in the industry gossip that permeates the fundraising events.
The events—promoted as part technical, part political, and part networking—are held in the mansion of some new convert delighted to offer up his home and contacts as the price of initiation, the catering as in-kind contribution. All this keeps Seema occupied, and if she’s disappointed that winning the election may come down to money, she’s not surprised and is even a little relieved. It supports her hardening perception of Obama as too enmeshed in the existing power structure. Also, she doesn’t need to feel guilty for not joining Bill in Nevada, driving there Friday nights, returning drained late Sunday nights after mindless door-to-door canvassing, since many of the fundraisers she organizes with Divya happen on weekends.
There’s little doubt Divya is attracted to her, as she’d signaled the very day they’d met. Divya makes a game of it, flirting with her as if she believed Seema was straight and unavailable, although she must know—a casual web search would have revealed Seema’s past. Seema plays along, never contradicting Divya while never lying outright either. Divya’s interest in her is flattering, and equalizing, a counterbalance to playing second fiddle to someone a decade younger than her at the events. And playing a straight woman resisting seduction is amusing, even arousing at times.
The arrangement is mutually beneficial. She and Divya have a good working relationship, and their events frequently exceed their targets. Also, Seema’s new intimacy with the who’s who of the South Bay tech world raises her profile at her firm, adding to the success of her budding directorship.
She should have felt optimistic as summer turned to fall. Bill, too, has found his groove in Nevada, pressed into cleaning up and maintaining the state’s precinct lists, a data-mining skill he’d developed working with patchy patient records at his old start-up. Obama leads McCain in the national polls, and she needn’t pay much attention to the campaign itself. Even Prop 8 seems poised to fail. Support for the ban on gay marriage is polling in the low forties, according to Fiaz who’s begun volunteering for No-On-Prop-8.
And yet Seema can’t deny her own swelling malaise.
“I know there are differences on same-sex marriage,” Obama says, accepting his nomination at the Democratic convention at the end of August. “But surely we can agree that our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters deserve to visit the person they love in the hospital and to live lives free of discrimination.”
“No nominee has probably even dared to speak so openly in their acceptance speech before,” Bill says. “Why are you so upset?”
Only the previous day Del Martin had died at eighty-eight. The campaign issued a statement commending Del’s “lifelong commitment to promoting equality” and offering condolences to her “spouse,” and Fiaz had ignited a hope in her that Obama was perhaps ready to come out in favor of gay marriage. But clearly Obama is still too much of a cautious politician for that.
She’s agitated: If she’s so upset, why doesn’t she stop fundraising? If polls are to be believed, Obama is expected to trounce a hapless McCain anyway. Why can’t she join Fiaz in volunteering for No-On-Prop-8?
She’s railroaded, however, by unfolding events: McCain startles America by selecting the virtually unknown governor of Alaska as his running mate. At first it seems a desperate but futile choice, pandering to small-town America and the evangelical Right. Sarah Palin has clearly been chosen less for her credentials in governance or foreign policy and more for her anti-abortion and anti-gay-marriage stances and her rifle-toting hunting prowess.
But at the Republican Convention, Palin manages to single-handedly revive the comatose McCain campaign with an electrifying performance that leaves Seema openmouthed with disbelief. Dressed in a stylish beige jacket, pearls, and rimless glasses, her figure accentuated by her black pencil skirt and frilly peep-toe high heels—“Hot mama!” Seema murmurs—Palin plays the hockey mom and pit bull equally and exceptionally, reassuring with her folksy command and guileless delivery, while snapping and tearing at Obama with a smile and a sneer. America needs more than dramatic speeches before devoted followers, Palin swears, and more than promises to turn back the waters and heal the planet—America needs someone who can be counted on to serve and defend it, someone who can inspire with a lifetime of deeds and not just a season of speeches, and that person is not Obama.
The evangelical Republican base, which had until then rejected McCain’s tepid appeals, is galvanized. Overnight, the polls that had so far been trending toward Obama immediately swing in McCain’s favor, causing everyone around Seema to panic. Bill, too, is shaken, though he won’t admit it, maintaining an outwardly stubborn faith in Obama’s resilience, quoting campaign missives urging patience and perseverance, while his nights are restless, interrupted by bouts of sleep talking.
As she’d suspected all along, Obama’s strategy of appeasing White America isn’t working. She feels vindicated and shocked out of her vacillation. McCain and Palin cannot be allowed to win without a fight. Her previous doubts and misgivings now seem irrelevant.
She decides to join Bill on his trips to Nevada. In this climate of impending doom, fundraising feels too abstract and too remote from the actual work of getting voters to the polls. The advantage from all that money Obama has raised so far is illusory, easily nullified by an energized Republican base.
When Bill learns of her intention, he casts aside his impassivity gratefully, voluble now in discussing his fears, his hopes that the setback is somehow only temporary. This apprehensive Bill is new to her, needing her in a way he hasn’t before.
But Divya bursts into tears when Seema informs her of her decision. At the bar where they’re having drinks after work, all eyes are immediately drawn to them in sympathy: Is Seema dumping her? It doesn’t help that Divya is dressed with customary stylishness—a smoky emerald-green dress, her lips pale dusk rose, eyes lined—as if out on a date. Divya takes the tissue Seema extends her, but seems unable to control herself until Seema says in a gentle voice, “Divya, my decision has nothing to do with you.”
Seema waits until Divya’s sobs subside. She hadn’t expected such an overt display, since Divya has never given her any sign of wanting more than amusing flirtation. “This isn’t about fundraising, is it?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It’s just that—”
Seema decides to be direct. “You know I’m married. Besides, believe me, we won’t suit. We’re too alike.”
Divya smiles wanly. She is not yet out to her parents; it’s been hard dating women in the South Bay, living with her parents as she is. They’re liberal in many ways for Brahmins from Pune—they didn’t mind her dating boys in school and have even met a boyfriend or two, but it would be so much easier to come out if she had an eligible girlfriend to point to, in case they ask her how she’s sure.
“And you are very eligible!” Divya’s pouty smile and dimples are out again.
“No more flirting if we continue to work together,” Seema admonishes, though she is pleased and moved by Divya’s admissions. Perhaps Divya is right, but having Chloe hadn’t helped her, though that was a decade and a half ago. “I can’t do any more weekend events—I’ve promised Bill already—but I may still be able to squeeze in something on a weekday.”
“Do you mind if I ask—do you identify as bisexual now?”
“I do mind,” See
ma snaps. “Does it matter what I identify as? Do I even have to?”
She remembers the bitter arguments that led to estrangements when she began dating Bill. Thankfully, Divya apologizes immediately, profusely, and Seema can relax. She doesn’t want to have to forswear Divya too.
They work together even more closely than before, a new sense of shared endeavor and private intimacy taking root, especially as their fundraising turns more successful, the shocking possibility of Palin succeeding a seventy-two-year-old president considerably loosening the pocketbooks of their prospects. If Bill has concerns about her time spent with Divya, they seem allayed by her accounts of their fundraising triumphs.
On the weekends, Seema accompanies him on the four-hour drive to Nevada, leaving immediately after work on Friday. The days are long and tiring—she knocks on doors armed with the annotated lists that Bill has helped produce, urging supporters to vote early, and attempting to persuade the undecided—but there’s benefit to not having time to think except to follow directions, to not brood in exhausting circles. She’s making up for the months of doubts and distrust and disinterest, and bruised feet and exhausted trips back to San Francisco on Sunday evenings are a small penance.
She doesn’t slow down, not even after Sarah Palin crashes and burns as spectacularly as she’d risen, not even when the polls once again show Obama in the lead as he emerges victorious on the debate stage, and more presidential on the national stage with his cool-headed response to the banking crisis that rocks the country in the second half of September. Bill’s dread that some conspiracy could bring down Obama before election day has infected her too.
The intensity of anger and vitriol she observes on the right reaches new heights. Palin draws record crowds everywhere she goes, her supporters matching and even overtaking the loyalty and adoration that Obama inspires in his. With her trademark smiling sneer, Palin fires up her supporters, lending a benign face to the abuse and threats shouted at Obama at her rallies: Traitor! Terrorist! Bomb Obama! Kill him!