The morning after this calamitous election, as the sun rose over my jewel box of a city, I wondered how one nation could contain such multitudes.

In my hillside San Francisco neighborhood, dominated by mixed-race and same-sex households, not one home displayed a Trump sign. The ratio of Harris to Trump placards in the city was more or less infinite. But even Harris signs were rare. What was the point? San Francisco would turn out overwhelmingly for the vice president, who made her name in our city, and it wouldn’t make a jot of difference.