I was just telling my grown daughter, Natalie, about the events of the other night and she said I should blog about it—that it is a perfect example of why the #MeToo movement got started. My thoughts about the matter tumble “like a restless wind inside a letter box” (thank you John Lennon) as they make their way “across the universe” and back into my open mind and heart with hurricane force. I know that the reason this episode hit me so hard is rooted in my personal history, but I’m pretty sure that most women can relate.

So, here’s the story:

I was at the Sweetwater in Mill Valley, one of my all-time favorite clubs—great sound system, clean, comfortable seating for the disabled, with a friendly staff—you get the picture. I was selling personalized, autographed copies of my new novel, A Light Rain of Grace, as the music surrounded us, lifted us higher and higher. My husband, Pete, was playing with “The Green Leaf Rustlers”, featuring Chris Robinson—it was the first time I’d heard them and I was just so happy to be there (Lupus severely limits my ability to rock out, but I was feeling it).

At the break between sets I went backstage to see Pete, leaving my friend, Ellen, to watch over my stuff. The club had given me a spot in the corner with a table for the books. I have a great tie dye tablecloth that catches the eye, but the big attention-grabber is Alexandra Fischer’s gorgeous book cover. I asked her to make it look like a 1960’s rock concert poster (because a lot of the book takes place in San Francisco during the heyday of the counter culture movement) and she certainly fulfilled my request, creating a stunning work of art in the process.

When it was time for the band to go back onstage I returned to my little literary corner to find things in a state of chaos. Ellen said that the air conditioner above our heads had broken, sending down a cascade of water that soaked all my personal items, but not my books—because Ellen had the good sense to throw my raincoat over them! Ellen and I shared an a-ha moment because I hadn’t wanted to bring my raincoat into the club and she had insisted that I might need it!

Ellen thought we should move across the club to the entrance, but I decided that rather than brave the packed out house we could just move our table over and set up again (without the soaked tie-dye, of course). So, I stood up and started trying to move the little table over. But there was a guy in the way. I asked him if he would please move over so I could maneuver my table into place. He ignored me. I thought maybe he just couldn’t hear me over the band, so I asked him again to move. He had to have seen the flood and had some inkling that we were going to have to set up in another place, so I asked him again to just move back a smidge and this time he answered me, “NO.” I was flabbergasted because I’ve lived with a man since 1973 who would have started helping a woman (or a man) move the table. I am also usually surrounded by similarly conscious men—my son, my son-in-law, all our friends, our children’s friends, and most of the guys at the shows, too, for that matter. I always try to be kind to people and am used to that energy coming back at me. But this guy didn’t want to budge, so I pushed the table over anyway, very carefully, just trying to get the table over.

Suddenly, the man turned to me. With his face a few inches from mine, he shouted repeatedly, “You’re a fucking crazy bitch, aren’t you!” I think he added some other choice words about how crazy it was for me to be moving the table, but it all became a blur. I found myself shaking uncontrollably and crying and mad at myself for feeling intimidated. It was the implied threat of violence in the tone of his voice, as well as his body language that was terrifying on a deep level. I couldn’t quit shaking. I am still, after all, after the white light of LSD, after the therapy, after the 12 years of dream work, after being in a safe, loving, amazing marriage for 43 years, a child of abuse and sexual molestation. That child occupies only a tiny fraction of my being, but all it took to awaken her was the same kind of energy her father and stepfather had embodied…and the misogyny of the word “bitch.”

Then suddenly my beautiful, powerful waitress was there, asking what had happened, consoling me with her energy. She turned and confronted the guy, who immediately denied using any foul language, but was quickly drowned out by the woman in front of him and the woman behind him who yelled, “Yes you did; I heard you!” I didn’t know these women who came to my defense, but I suddenly felt safer and stronger. The waitress said something to the guy that I wish I could remember—it was so perfect—a put-down based on his treatment of women—did I mention that there were only women around when this scene went down? The waitress called the manager (a guy) who questioned us about what had happened. Again, the guy protested that he hadn’t used profanity, but the unknown women spoke up and said they had seen and heard everything and that the jerk was definitely cussing me out. When it was my turn to speak, I said to the manager, “If this man is still here when my husband gets off stage, there will be trouble.” At that, the manager motioned to security and the guy was escorted out of the club.

Then, off my entourage of five women went through the crowd, outside, and over to the other side where the audience enters and exits. I was still shaking and fixating on the verbal violence of what felt like an assault. I kept thinking about how the scene would never have happened if there was a man involved. Those kinds of cowards are only menacing to women who are physically weaker than they are, which I, at seventy years old and disabled by Lupus, obviously am. If my husband, who was up on stage entertaining him, had been there, it would have been a whole other story, and that thought infuriated me. But in the midst of my ruminations, a gorgeous girl (the waitress) appeared bearing the gift of a chocolate doughnut. Countless other women surrounded me, lifting my spirits with their conversation and loving vibes.

My daughter thinks the #MeToo movement is partially responsible for the high energy level of support that the women (strangers to me) displayed. They have been encouraged to help other women combat sexism and misogyny, to make their voices heard. I’m sure my daughter is right. Usually, people don’t want to get involved in a stranger’s argument, especially when they’re out having a good time!

So, I’m sitting there at a table by the “merchandise people”, eating a doughnut, answering questions about my novel, when I had an epiphanous moment. I turned to Ellen and said, “I’ve been concentrating so much on the evil that man stirred up that I haven’t taken in the profound reality of all the angels surrounding me.” I finally quit shaking and was able to appreciate the light.