I took the R train to Cortlandt Street and found my feet climbing stairs. And more stairs. It was a Sunday around 3 p.m. It was the 15th anniversary of 9/11.

15 years ago I was four years old, nearing five, eating a bowl of Fruit Loops while watching Looney Tunes. I was in afternoon sessions of kindergarten, so I had the whole morning to do whatever I pleased- which included sugary cereal and cartoons.

All of a sudden, my dad rushed past me, putting his tie on as fast as his fingers could slip through and under. He was never late. My dad was always on time and always out of the house by 5:30 a.m. and in Manhattan before 7 a.m. What is he doing home?

At four years old, I didn't pay attention much. And I was watching Looney Tunes and had no concept of the news, or current events, or why someone would want to harm others.

But in the other room, my mom was mere inches away from the television, that sat looking at our breakfast table in our kitchen, with pure horror on her face. The first plane had already hit the towers.

Despite knowing that there was a major catastrophe, not yet confirmed that it was a terrorist attack, my dad finished doing his tie, grabbed his keys and his tires swerved out of our driveway.

We didn't hear from my dad for the entire day. My mom tried to call his work and the phone line was dead. Cell service was down. Kids were sent back from school. But, for me, I didn't notice much, except that I saw my dad while eating my breakfast. I normally never saw my dad in the morning except on weekends.

That 4-year old cumbersome thought translated into a coherent 20-year-old thought: My dad was late on the one morning any individual wanted to be late. He was late on the day that everyone else who showed up on time died.

Later that night, he brought home several of his friends and their families that worked and lived near Manhattan. A lot of their apartments and homes were destroyed or unaccessible because of the damages caused by the collapse and destruction of the twin towers.

That was 15 years ago, but I still remember in 4-year-old images and thoughts about how traumatic it was. Now studying at New York University and living a mere subway ride away from the memorial, I felt obligated to go.

My dad came home from work that night. I see my dad for dinner a few nights a week. I can still pick up the phone and ask my dad about silly things like how to actually pay rent to my landlord or what's the difference between my savings and checking account. Most daughters who had fathers who worked in or around the twin towers 15 years ago can't say the same.

That's why after I got past the stairs and emerged to see the enormous memorial, with each name engraved with roses delicately placed or handwritten notes scribbled, I wanted to cry. I wanted to cry for everyone who woke up that morning and didn't know that would be their last. They were caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were not responsible for our country's politics. They merely were clocking in from 9 to 5 at least to pay the bills. Or looking to just get through the day to go home and have dinner with their families. But they weren't able to attend after-work drinks with friends or their sister's wedding in October. And that's why I wanted to cry.

It's heartbreaking. It's the type of grief that sits low in your stomach and gets heavier with each breath and step. That's why I was shocked that I saw people posing, in selfie fashion, with smiles plastered on their faces, at the steps of someone's grave.

People died where they are standing. People jumped from miles above ground to their deaths where they are posting a photo on Instagram. They are smiling where innocent people were met with an unfair moment of death. How does that make sense?

Why would you want a photo with someone's grave? Is it appropriate to snap a selfie at a funeral, while the casket is being buried into the ground? Is it respectful to hold a selfie stick, leaning against and covering the names of people you don't even quite frankly care about?

You don't need to cry; you don't need to start a fundraiser; you don't need to be an activist; you don't need to dedicate your being to remembering the lost Americans that tragically died in 9/11. But at the very minimum, you need to be respectful.

So, leave the selfie stick at home and remember where you are going. There's a time and place for everything. The 9/11 Memorial on the 15th anniversary of the event is not the time nor will ever be the place for a selfie to post on Instagram.