Many men have made me cry, loose my footing, and send me screaming, running, clinging, or running in fear for my life. I’ve been married to men who make me cry. I’ve shed so many tears over lost men and the pain they’ve dealt out that I could start my own river.Bullies have made me cry. When I was in grade school, there was a flasher roaming the park. For several months (until the frost), I had to walk six blocks out of my way to go home. I’ve spent my life cataloging "tips" in my brain for navigating safely on this planet. Back when I was in high school, men starting grabbing women and throwing them in vans. So to this day, I never park side by side to a van; I walk with keys in your hand, the point sticking out of my knuckles; I know sensitive places to kick and poke and stomp; I walk with a mission. The list is now nameless in my thoughts. It sits now like the security file in a computer and boots up when called. it. It’s tiring.

A man (and I use that term loosely) is harassing women as they walk to and from work down our street. He likes to show off what he’s "got," so to speak, as if we’re all going to fall to the ground in great adoration and thank the heavens for this gift. His pattern is to select an empty lot and then pop up like a cobra sniffing out a mouse.One of the nannies that cares for Addison is terrified. This strong woman - a single mother raising her daughter on her own - is reduced to panic and fear. I know this too well. But no more! I said: call to action.

The morning after his "freestyle exhibition," I went looking for him. Though the fellow in question (and I use this term loosely) wasn’t around that day, I talked to security guards along the route; asked them to call the police or help a person in need. I asked the neighbor if she’d call the neighborhood police. I’m looking for pepper spray, and for a week or so, I drove my nanny to and from the bus stop.These are the wrong men to shed tears over or waste precious energy quivering in fear.

Who makes me cry now? Cesar Millan.Tears. Tingles in the tear ducts. Wow moments. I connect to his work, his energy for a moment, I’m all a-blubber.I first read about Cesar in the New Yorker and I thought: I want to have what he has: this focus and life passion that resonates with truth. Not the kind of truth we think people want to hear, no the kind of truth that makes people wiggle with discomfort because it challenges us all to grow and think a little bit.Cesar is called the Dog Whisperer. I’ve never seen his show, but it doesn’t matter. Just in his look, in his focus, I see what he’s all about. This guy helps really troubled dogs, and thus helps people, and thus makes me cry.The ragged guy around our street is gone, for now. My nanny is still terrified. I can see her cataloging in her brain that list, that file we learn as women so we can navigate the streets, parking lots, and schools safely. No more crying for the wrong guys.That reminds me. I’ve got this great move. If you step on the guy’s foot, you can poke his…………….