My Solo Adventure that ended in fear and heartache

I want to write about this experience while it is still gripping me. What I want is forgiveness. What I want is assurance that we will one day deserve forgiveness. This planet that we take for granted, the living creatures that breathe and love and give birth like us, the resources that are a gift, but that are treated like plunder: all of it is overwhelming. Will the human race ever stop exploiting?
I took a trip today with no agenda, just my camera and my journal and myself. I have not had solitude in weeks, and I craved it. I found myself in Petaluma, and I knew there was a retired slaughterhouse there, so I tracked it down. I was asked why I would want to go to an old slaughterhouse, and the answer is this: It is near impossible for me to gain access to an active slaughterhouse, so I will settle for second best in an attempt to document and witness with my own eyes the things that people do not want to think about. The ironic thing is that there is now a hot dog joint located at one end of the old slaughterhouse. When I arrived, I discovered that there was a live animal auction taking place at that time. I wasn't sure if I would have access, so I moseyed as casually as I could manage, and joined a family outside the restaurant, next to the office. There were rows of slatted stalls on either side and in the nearest stall were approximately 20 calves. A woman was maneuvering between them, slapping numbered stickers on their fur. Some were a lot smaller than others, and I am no large animal expert, but they were all pretty young. They were dirty, so very skinny, and covered in feces. Some men herded goats behind them, slamming gates and kicking the walls, which startled the babies so that they were jumping every few minutes. One baby in particular kept mooing and bleating and I swear to you the bleating sounded like pleading. She kept nuzzling through the slats and licking the children's hands, crying loudly in between licks. And then she would pace, eyes bulging. Aside from the bleating and the skinniness and the dirty factor, I did not witness any outright abuse. I could hear the auctioneer inside the walls, and it was a woman's voice. I zoomed in with my camera on a number and that is when I encountered the man. The man was of average height and weight, and was wearing blue overalls and a faded ball cap. His moustache was grey and dark, but not as dark as his eyes. He yelled, “Hey! What are you doing! G**Damnit! No pictures!” I was startled at his anger. “What's your name? Go to the office right now, we need a picture of your driver's license. Go!” So I did.
When I rounded the corner and opened the office door, he was huffing his way in from another door. The emotions inside this tiny wooden room were mighty, and the main thing is that I could feel a key absence of goodness. I searched and could not find it, instead finding fear everywhere I turned. I felt it next to the stalls, and it was searingly obvious inside these walls with this angry man. That was what I kept thinking, when I felt my blood heat up and my mind race, that there was goodness missing and maybe I should remember that when dealing with this man.
So I politely asked him, “Why do you want a copy of my driver's license and may I ask why I cannot take photos?”
He clenched his face and fists and sputtered, “No pictures allowed! I don't know who you are, you may be a G**Damn animal rights activist for all I know and we need to check up on you.”
So I waited a minute, breathed in and out, and replied, “Well I am not an animal rights activist, but even if I was, why would I not be allowed to take photos?”
At this, his fists balled up even tighter and he lifted them, as if he could barely control them and any minute one or both would lash out. I am assured that had I been male and had we not had witnesses, he would have hit me right then and there. “I just told you!! Because there is no pictures allowed!! Get her license and get her out of here.” He raged and slammed the door.
So I turned to the woman behind the counter with her propriety and her copier and I asked her, “I was just wondering why there is no photography allowed. Do you know?”
“You'll have to ask him, miss.” This was meekness without graciousness.
“Um, I did just ask him and you heard the answer he gave me, so . . .”
“Sorry, miss. Here is your license.”
So I took it, and I trudged through the muddy and crowded parking lot with the man hovering behind me. When I pulled out to Stony Point Road, I made it maybe a quarter of a mile before I had to pull over. It isn't safe to drive when you are crying so hard your whole body is constricted. I felt as if I had been physically bombarded instead of just emotionally bombarded. There is so much power in fear, shame, rage, disgust, disgrace, and degradation. He demanded my name and license, and now how I wish I had gotten his name. Why did he rage at me like that? Was it just because I had broken a rule (a rule that was not posted, I might add)? Was he defensive because of wrongdoing? Was he ashamed? I feared him, you know. There was a moment when I braced myself, because he wanted to harm me and we both knew it. Why were they so anti me taking photos?
I had and have so many questions, so many feelings. Mostly I am hurt. I genuinely felt soul degradation, like rust, and it hurt. I am hurt because that man had hatred in his eyes, and I can't really take that. I am hurt because of the helplessness I feel. But mostly I am hurt because of the pain we, as a race, inflict upon others. I cried to God, asking for forgiveness for this shameful, shameful thing. Forgiveness for not only not taking caring of our wondrous planet and God's lovely creatures, but for purposefully, intentionally inflicting harm. Sadism.
I am exhausted in recounting this experience. I don't know what I will do with it, but I will do something. And I will keep praying.