There I was, in the Congo. Wild animals all around. I focused the camera, looked at the lens, and, let’s just say, the carnage wasn’t pretty.

Okay, I wasn’t in the Congo. But there were wild animals and I did focus the camera lens. And oh, the carnage.

Truth be told, there weren’t any wild animals, either. But the bulls were running. Men, dressed in white, wearing red sashes ran through the streets. The noise caught my attention first. Feet slapping on cobble stoned streets in Barrio Alto, Lisbon, Portugal. They approached without warning and with such speed I jumped from the sidewalk into a doorway.

The stars shone that night. The air, crisp and clear. Shopkeepers stood in front of their businesses beckoning for customers, gesturing toward their front entrances, handing out cards and coupons, “Try the fish.” “We have pizza.” “Come, join us.”

They smiled, the night was young. A bachelor party of men outfitted as mozos (runners from the bulls) chased a single man dressed as a cow through the narrow streets and skirted bistro tables that sat awkwardly along the steeply sloped alleyway.

My husband and I entered the establishment. The barkeep smiled and poured us a small draught of local brew while passing along insider tips about local restaurants and tourist attractions. “Don’t take the train up north if you value your wallets. Visit Pena Palace for spectacular views.”

We talked for a while as I swiveled nonchalantly on my barstool which had been screwed into the back edge of the platform from which it perched. My husband stood casually behind me.

“Smile,” I said as I pulled out my phone and held it above our heads. A picture to commemorate the evening.

“No, that’s no good. Let’s take another.” And another. Five or ten pictures later, frustrated at the poor photography, I precariously leaned against my husband for one last photo.

His boot heel slid off the platform as he momentarily lost his footing. In doing so, he grabbed my shoulders, only to have gravity overpower him and he slowly fell to the floor.

The chain of events could not be undone. I quickly grabbed for the bar top while my fingertips slid from the polished granite counter. Unable to maintain my upward position, I too, gradually tumbled from my seat. “I gotcha,” I heard my husband mumble as I landed squarely on top of him.

We laughed, dusted ourselves off, and stood back up. Down the street, the party raged on. The stars still twinkled, only our pride slightly shaken. A short while later, a colleague emailed us an article from the Ireland Journal of Medicine. The number of selfie injuries has quadrupled in recent months.

So, the next time you’re in the Congo, or the wilds of Barrio Alto, or the backwoods of Lakeland, please remember: Selfies are hazardous to your health.

I grip the hand of my son. His six-year-old fingers squeeze back as we walk a step behind his nine-year-old brother. The damp ground moistens the bottoms of my shoes as I shuffle to the sound of the cadence of the horses’ hooves 20 feet ahead of us as they pull the caisson carrying the remains of what was my Marine.

Arlington is otherwise still. The rain has kept tourists away, but the freshly manicured grass and spicy scent of autumn leaves drift through the air and fill the soul with peace.

It’s an irony that is not wasted on me. This noble place. It’s not one wishes to race for, but rather one strives to. Guarded by sentries long gone, their granite tombstones welcome its newest arrival. I smile as I remember the lyrics of the Marine Corps Hymn, If the Army and the Navy / Ever look on Heaven’s scenes, / They will find the streets are guarded / By United States Marines.

A cardinal flutters and lands on a branch above. It is not a sad day, but rather one of honor that few will ever know. I shiver and shove my empty hand into my pocket.

In the summer of 2006, my future husband and I found ourselves kid-less.  They were all at camp: band camp, basketball camp, sailing camp.  The idea of adult camp grew into a magnetic force we couldn’t contain.  We packed up his new Audi A4 and took her to the open road.

The five hour drive from Houston to New Orleans became four as we blasted our way around road construction and endless lines of eighteen-wheelers.  We timed our departure for late morning:  avoid rush hour at both ends and arrive on Bourbon Street while the three-for-one beer offers were still good.

I had never been to the French Quarter so my boyfriend decided to show me the sights.  We walked from one end to the other; we heard music from Zydeco to Doo-Wop.  The Quarter was a pocket of the city that survived Hurricane Katrina less than a year before; the city itself, still reeled from the destruction.  The next day, we hopped back in the car to see firsthand the wreckage.

We realized the devastation as we drove through town.  Blue plastic tarps covered roofs, plywood covered windows and doors; buildings, dilapidated, left to fend for themselves, lay vacant and abandoned.

We drove through areas where the waterline left marks taller than I, taller than my 6’1” boyfriend.   Houses with a giant X spray painted on them indicated the number of bodies found within.  Most had 0, some had more. We meandered, slowly, absorbing the damage.  Some people were out with shovels and brushes; laying concrete, painting houses.  Rebuilding had begun.

In search for the Lower Ninth Ward, the area of New Orleans hardest hit by the flooding, we continued to drive.  Hurricane Katrina left its biggest mark on the poorest in the city—stuck, helpless, homeless.  The little rebuilding we saw dwindled.  Foundations lay empty, evidence that someone’s life had once been there but was now gone.  Apartments resembled bombed out buildings in Bagdad or Beirut.

We found what we were looking for as we crept along the pothole riddled streets, and then they found us.  In the distance as we drove towards a dead-end street, kids with nowhere to go.  They started to gather and walk towards us with sticks and stones.  200 yards, 150 yards, 100 yards, “Back up, turn around, now!”

We left in a hurry, before the gang of twelve or fifteen could reach us.  We drove fast, no longer interested in the sights, no longer worried about the bumps in the road.  We found Bourbon Street in a hurry, visibly shaken by our almost encounter.

I’ve returned to New Orleans several times since then and have watched it come back to life.  But those hardest hit, those left for dead, children, not at summer camp but at a dead-end street, those are the ones etched most into my memory.

“Oh,” my mom says as she claps her hands together. “Don’t you look just like an airplane pilot!”

“You really think so?” I asked, as I button the blue polyester blazer. In 1976, it was the in-thing.

“Now just remember, the Johnsons will meet you in Dallas. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Okay.” My smile revealing my confidence.

I was about to embark on the journey of a lifetime. A ten-year-old, on her own, flying half way across the country to visit her grandmother. I was so excited I could hardly stand it. And my new navy blue bell-bottomed pant suit with the big gold buttons was the classy garb to get me there.I’d made this journey before with my family. Fly from Philadelphia to Dallas, change planes at the airport, and arrive in Oklahoma City a few short minutes later. As a big girl, I knew I could do it on my own.

The first flight landed in Dallas right on time. A flight attendant sat next to me. We chatted about swimming and the fun I would have going to Branson, Missouri with my cousins. And, just as my mom promised, the Johnsons were at the gate to greet me.

The Johnsons were my parents’ friends. They participated in each other’s weddings. They had sons. Cute sons. This I knew. We strolled through DFW easily. Mr. Johnson flew for the airline and wore his uniform as he shook hands with everyone and was treated like royalty. I wondered if he thought I, too, looked like a pilot, but I didn’t ask.

After a leisurely lunch, they pointed me to my gate and waved as I stood in line for security. On the other side was the same flight attendant I’d met earlier, waiting for me.

I put my small tote onto the scanner belt and moved to the metal detector. The man on the other side motioned for me to walk through. I did.

Buzzzzz.

A loud signal chimed. The man motioned for me to return through the security screen and try again.

Buzzzzz.

He stopped and looked at me. He scowled. He studied me as heat crept from my belly, into my chest, and up my neck.

“Hold out your arms,” he said sternly.

I watched. Arms outstretched, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks as teardrops hovered over my eye lashes. I bit my lips. I sucked in my cheeks. I wiggled.

“Stand still, Miss.”

He grabbed his electric wand and waved it in front of my face. Tears, falling in earnest now, slid from my eyes and onto the floor. He moved his machine above my right arm and around my head and across to the left. Down my back. Over my torso. Buzz. He stopped.

Buzzzzz.

He waved it again.

Buzzzzz.

Buzzzzzzzzzz.

The sound was deafening, echoing in my ears, shouting at me. A sob was about to break loose. I couldn’t hold it back.

“It’s your buttons, Miss.” He smiled at me. “It’s fine, you can go now.”

I stood still, shocked. I ran my sleeve across my face and dried my eyes as best I could before walking slowly to the conveyer belt and snatching my Barbie bag, tucking my chin in shame.

I don’t remember the rest of the flight or if I ever wore that navy blue bell-bottom pant suit with the big gold buttons again, but to this day, I can’t walk through a security gate without a flinch. And if it buzzes, heat rises in my belly and flutters slowly towards my cheeks. So while other people complain about full-body scanners, I silently smile and think, at least they don’t beep.